‘ASD Hunter will be in charge of the pickup team. Anyone who doesn’t do exactly what he tells them, when he tells them, will suddenly find themselves having a very bad day. Understood?’
Will barely heard the half-hearted chorus of, ‘Yes, ma’am.’ He was too busy trying not to throw up.
‘I can’t hear you!’
The steel walls reverberated with the deafening shouts of, ‘Ma’am, yes, ma’am!’
‘Better. We have an ETA of two minutes thirty. I suggest you make sure all weapons are locked and fully charged. Chitin will be worn! I see you out there without it and I’ll shoot you myself.’
All around him Whompers and Thrummers were buzzing into life, their targeting beams illuminating the dim interior with a sickly green glow.
Will reached for his throat-mike and asked as calmly as he could what the bloody hell Lieutenant Brand thought she was doing putting him in charge of the pickup team. Sending him out there.
‘It’ll be good for you.’
Will closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. Some very well-paid people with expensive leather couches and degrees in psychology had told him the same thing. If you don’t confront your fear it will always haunt you. He hadn’t believed them either.
‘ETA one minute, people. Smooth and clean. In and out. No drama. No problems.’
It was too late for Will to back out now and he knew it. It would make Lieutenant Brand look bad in front of her troops and it would make him look even worse.
Shit. Shitty…fucking…shit.
Thanks, Emily, thanks a heap.
He pulled his Zapper out from its shoulder holster and checked it was still fully charged. The small, pebbled disk sat in the palm of his hand, the dial on the top turned to a conservative ‘HEAVY STUN’.
Just because he was going back to Sherman House it didn’t mean history would repeat itself. And besides, this time he had a heavily armed assault team for backup. There was nothing to worry about. No one in their right mind would pick a fight with half a dozen of the Network’s finest. It would be suicide. Madness.
He shifted uncomfortably against his harness; the residents of Sherman House weren’t exactly known for their good mental health.
Sod it. Will grabbed a Whomper from the recharging rack. The assault rifle’s plastic casing was cool beneath his fingers as he ran a thumb over the power indicator. Telltales sparkled into life, indicating a full battery and the weapon’s readiness to blow a dirty big hole in anything it was pointed at. At least this way he could take a few of the bastards with him.
‘Heads up, people, we have visual.’
Monstrosity Square filled the small screen in front of him. Four massive connurb blocks with more than sixty thousand people shoehorned into each. And if that wasn’t bad enough, there were another eleven identical squares on this side of the river: half of them rebuilt in the aftermath of the riots.
God help Glasgow if their residents decided to go on the warpath.
Again.
Static crackled across the picture as the Dragonfly pitched into its final approach, dropping like a cannonball.
Lieutenant Brand stalked back into the drop bay, bracing herself as the gunship started twisting and turning—making itself a difficult target. She walked the length of the bay, checking everyone was chitined up before barking orders at them. ‘Nairn, Dickson, Wright, you’re on point. Floyd: rearguard. Beaton, you and Stein are on SOC. The rest of you form a defensive perimeter around the ship.’ There was a pause as Will’s escorts unbuckled themselves. ‘Stay focused, people, we’re not in Kansas any more.’
The engines slammed into full reverse. This was it: Sherman House, they’d arrived.
Oh God…
Before the landing legs had even touched the tarmac the rear ramp was open, letting in the harsh morning sun.
Emily nodded: game time.
‘Move it, people!’
The four-man defensive perimeter sprinted into place, body-wires spooling out behind them like armoured spiders. Sunlight glistened off their chitin as they scanned the crowded square, heavy weapons searching for possible targets. The blocks’ residents froze in place like waxworks: silent, staring. Hostile.
Then the advance team charged down the ramp; running for the nearest monolith, the crowds parting like a Red Sea of the unwashed and unwanted.
Will tightened his grip on the Whomper as the three Network troopers disappeared into Sherman House. The entrance had been grand and imposing once: a wall of plexi glass and chrome the size of a football pitch, moulded marble plinths and the most fashionable sculpture public money could buy. But the glass had lost its sparkle long ago.
There was no sign of the dancing figures in bronze, or the mottled-steel animals, or even the full-sized granite sperm whale. They’d all gone during the riots: blown apart by Shrikes, or Thrummed out of existence. Only ash-black shadows remained.
When the all-clear crackled in his earpiece, Will realized he’d been holding his breath.
This was a very bad idea.
‘Come on,’ he said, keeping his voice low so no one else could hear, ‘this is for your own good.’ He took the first step onto the ramp and stopped. His pulse thudded in his ears, chest tightening, stomach churning, mouth suddenly dry, the Whomper shaking in his hands.
Beaton and Stein stood behind him, wrestling with the ungainly scanning gear: a canister that looked disturbingly like Private Worrall’s coffin. They were expecting Will to take the lead.
Lieutenant Emily Brand’s voice sounded in his ear. ‘You waiting for an engraved invitation?’
He crossed the threshold into the harsh sunlight. It was like walking into an oven with a two-ton weight tied to his bowels. Sherman House…
Sweat pricked across his forehead.
The forecourt was crowded with angry, silent faces, staring at the armoured troopers. Most of the locals were dressed in the colourful eclectic rags that were all the rage the year before last; some wore the tight, formal clothes that had been in vogue the year before that. On this side of the river they only followed fashion from a distance.
There’d be more of them, glowering down from the floors above. Watching. Waiting for the blood and the darkness to start all over again.
Will tightened his grip on the Whomper and marched across the sun-bleached tarmac, eyes fixed dead ahead. The building getting bigger with every step, until it blocked out everything.
The crowd just stood there, gaily-coloured tatters fluttering in the downdraft from the Dragonfly’s engines.
Only ten feet to go. Eight. Six. Four…Will pushed through the cracked and grimy doors into the shrouded atrium.
The huge, glass front wall was now almost opaque, a jigsaw of splintered panes and cloudy plasticboard. Green mould coated the glazed panels, throwing the huge room into shadow.
It should have been cooler in here out of the sun, but it wasn’t.
All around him, hundreds of people stood in silence, just like the crowd outside. Staring.
Beaton and Stein burst through the door behind him, dragging their Scene of Crime equipment, Private Floyd bringing up the rear. Will keyed his throat-mike.
‘We’re in.’
‘Roger