Afterwar by Lilith Saintcrow

Author:Lilith Saintcrow
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: None
Publisher: Orbit
Published: 2018-05-08T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Forty-Six

Riot

July 22, ’98

Nobody was in any kind of a good mood when dawn came up and they drifted over a fugee site turned into a cauldron of smoke, screams, and flapping canvas. Spooky huddled in a seat, her hands clapped over her ears, even though the sled was high enough that the noise was only a faint scratching murmur through the radio. “—in progress.” The air controller’s voice crackled over the comm. “Do not, I repeat, do not land on the east side!”

“Get us over the base,” Swann said. His hat was back—clamped on his head like an old friend—but featherless. “God damn it. What the fuck they fighting over down there?”

“Want me to ask?” Hendrickson steadied the controls. “We need a recharge.”

“What’s the holdup?” Zampana called from the back of the sled. Even she was getting twitchy.

“Riot, looks like,” Swann said over his shoulder. “The base is only a half-klick from the fugee site; fugees are at the fuckin’ gates. We’ll be down soon.”

A general chorus of groans rose, with Simmons’s taking on words. “Then what are we doing hanging over the goddamn—”

“Simms.” Swann pinched the bridge of his nose. “Not helping.”

Hendrickson was close to losing his temper, finally. “It’s the only approach that wasn’t jammed.” A popping, whining zing, and the sled lurched. “Son of a fuck!” Hendrickson yelled. Red lights bloomed across the console, and Swann, tossed sideways, began cussing too.

The sled spun, something crunched, and Minjae, still buckled in, let out a yelp of furious irritation. “Lost a panel!” Hendrickson yelled, a mad edge of glee to the words. “Hold the fuck on!” Swann was tossed again, but he managed to fall sideways into the copilot hole and clutch at the sides for dear life. Gyros whined, something else cracked, and the Federal laughed, the high, insane sound of a man facing something he’d trained for but never realized he’d have to actually do. World turning over, Zampana’s cry transforming into a prayer at the end, Sal yowling as the seat harness pinched his balls unmercifully, Simmons and Spooky deadly quiet, Prink jolted awake from the floor and breathless-cursing.

Somehow Hendrickson got the sled level, but by then it had plunged dangerously close to the burning fugee temporaries. The sled spun on a vertical axis, canvas ripping outside the sled as it tore through the tops of large tents, guy wires snapping with musical twangs and smoke belching in through the vents, the whickering chaos filled with steam and thicker vapors.

Spooky shut her eyes, going limp. The straps were too big, so she jolted inside the chair’s indifferently padded cradle, bumped and bounced. Round and round, spinning, trapped, anything not tied down turned into a missile, safety glass breaking, more snapping impacts as Hendrickson fought the whirling. A kaleidoscope, and softer bumps were human bodies as the sled cut through the heart of the riot, scattering fear-maddened human beasts in every direction. Screams bubbled and boiled, oddly faint outside the sled’s hard carapace. More flame belched, the cells on the sled bottom whining.

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