He rose when she did, automatically holding out an elbow like a gentleman was supposed to, though he let her drive him into the wake of the people.

  All middle class, from their dress. He and Brianna fit in quite nicely, when one might expect to see more folks in jumpsuits or at least clothing worn and possibly stained from working with their hands.

  These people lived in offices, where they got their minds dirty instead.

  Couples, as well. Occasionally, a lone man or woman walking, but mostly couples.

  All walking with intent.

  That was it.

  This didn’t feel like a casual thing. Not like last night had been, when folks arriving at the revival had been relaxed and amiable.

  No, these people were scowling. There were no smiles visible.

  Constanz adjusted his mien accordingly and followed.

  Down a block, the group was congregating in a church built of red bricks and slabs of white marble. Money. Beautiful architecture, done in a subdued way that imposed order on your world rather than harmony.

  Constanz didn’t recognize the particular denomination, nor the sect, but he was also a thousand light-years from home. And in an Ergrove sector when those folks had split off their various understandings of religion many centuries ago, to develop their own exotic ways.

  Brianna directed him into the flow of people, all moving with solemn and silent grace. Into the building and then a great hall that sloped down to a vast stage at the far end.

  They shifted sideways quickly, moving into a row near the back, then all the way across to where they were near a side exit. Were they called pews? Constanz didn’t remember, having not been raised to any religion except intellectual rigor.

  Others were seated, closer in, so they did the same. A few faces turned to look their way, but Constanz kept his scowl intact, matching theirs, and folks gave way.

  Most of the populace involved had stayed closer to the central aisle, though they had not packed the front all that much.

  After a few minutes of muffled conversations, a man emerged from the right side of the backstage area. He moved silently, like Brother Cormac had, but was dressed in a manner closer to what Abigail had told them to expect. A suit worth as much as many of the folks in here might make in a month. A belly that strained against his girdle.

  At least he wasn’t wearing silk robes embroidered with obscure symbols. Constanz might have immediately started running for the exit at that point.

  “Friends and neighbors, thank you for coming,” the man boomed out in a voice filled with false bonhomie.

  Constanz recognized it from dealing with self-important surgeons, back on Falorea.

  Other ones, he supposed, but he had decided to change himself into someone else, when it became necessary to rescue his sister.

  “We are gathered here in kirk because heresy knocks at our door and threatens to undermine and destroy all the good works we have accomplished, here in Waverly City and on Wabrook itself,” the man continued, using vocal tricks Constanz had heard Abigail use, though she had done it to entertain.

  This man was harnessing his anger and spreading it out among the rest of his audience, that he might harvest it back tenfold. That was the image that stuck in Constanz’s mind.

  Around the room, folks grunted or spoke under their breath, multiplying the sound to a low moan like the angry growl of a dog.

  “This outsider has come to rouse the rabble,” the man continued. “We have a lovely town here because everybody knows their place and maintains that harmony. He threatens that. Threatens to seduce our children into his evil ways. To convince them to challenge their parents and their authority, like teenagers around the galaxy are famed for doing from time immemorial. It must be stopped.”

  He paused for a breath and the audience barked. Constanz had no word for the sound they made save that. Hurt, angered, resentful.

  Almost exactly the opposite of last night. Constanz wondered how many of these same folk had been to hear Brother Cormac yesterday and decided that he presented a threat to their way of life.

  But if your civilization is that unstable to begin with, doesn’t that show that a preacher like Cormac wasn’t the problem? Wasn’t he the symptom, instead?

  Constanz knew better than to challenge folks like this on religious grounds. Frequently, they embraced religion instead of thinking for themselves. And could get murderously ugly when you held up a mirror to their faces.

  “My friends, what is to be done?” the man thundered.

  Constanz glanced over at Brianna and caught her grin. Blakeslee Julian had an entire entry point to his philosophy that worked outwards from that exact question.

  He did, however, head in an entirely different direction, Constanz was willing to bet.

  “What can we do?” a woman demanded from somewhere down front.

  “Understand that he is here to threaten Waverly City’s morals with his heresies,” the man countered. “That he is trouble, come to ruin lives and upset folks that should know better.”

  “What do you suggest?” a man asked from another corner.

  “I lead this kirk, but we must act in kirk,” the man on stage said. “We must be united. Let us pray.”

  Heads up front bowed automatically. Constanz caught up a moment later, unwilling to be unmasked as any sort of outsider, when emotions were already raw down front and possibly growing worse.

  Back on Falorea, he had once stumbled onto the edges of a crowd just starting to turn itself into a mob, as part of a riot being born before his eyes. Constanz had run, knowing that violence was contagious and that the only way mobs ended was in greater violence, usually done to them sufficient to shock the component parts apart. Back into people, confused at the bloodlust they had been howling a moment before.

  This had that same flavor in the air. Fear, turning into rage.

  He listened to the preacher up on the stage invoke God, Law, Patriotism, and Family in capital letters. Heard him call upon that supreme power to grant them wisdom, though Constanz was already certain which wisdom would be gifted.

  And upon whom.

  He glanced over at Brianna.

  “Not yet,” she whispered, seemingly understanding his concern about making a break for it.

  Constanz nodded and held still, face down until the prayer concluded.

  The air had grown charged. Sharp, like lightning gathering.

  Was it a mob being born? He didn’t know. Brianna would. And she was armed, as she always was when she left the ship.

  Constanz had sworn an oath to save people, but this was one of those moments that Wyatt spoke about, when it might become necessary to triage eventual survivors.

  Pre-meditated self-defense, Wyatt called it.

  Constanz didn’t know the man on the stage well enough to judge killing him, but that might be the only thing stopping this mob from coalescing.

  And going after Brother Cormac.

  “What is to be done?” the preacher thundered when his prayer for guidance and power concluded. “Should he be allowed to remain among us, poisoning the minds of our neighbors and children?”

  “NO!” they thundered back, a thing starting to develop a nervous system.

  “Should this impostor be allowed to challenge our teachings? To pervert the Holy Word?”

  “NO!”

  Constanz flexed his hands in the way he had first learned, before walking into surgery and wrapping them around someone’s beating heart.

  “He is a false prophet, I say!” the man called in an ugly tone. “Come to lead all of you astray if you listen to him. HE MUST BE DEALT WITH!”

  Constanz assumed a lynching was in the offing. These folks might come to their senses at some point and settle for driving Brother Cormac out of town, possibly tarred and feathered in the process.

  And they might not wake up until the mob had torn Blakeslee Julian limb from limb.

  Falorea had been a week recovering from that riot. Presley Horowitz had spent that week in her hospital, treating patients and sleeping in the barracks with the interns, until the army had made the streets safe again.

  “My friends, let us rise,” the preacher called. “Let us go down there and challenge this fraud and drive him from our midst before it is too late!”

  Constanz rose with the others, but he was measuring the distance to the exit. Brianna had a hand on his arm, holding him in place and both of them ready to bolt.

  The preacher more waddled down those stairs to the aisle than walked. The mob turned inward as he passed, flooding in behind him, a low growl multiplied by several hundred angry people breathing heavy with anticipation.

  “We follow,” Brianna muttered in his ear. “Then split off when we get to darkness outside. Do you understand?”

  Constanz nodded. You could outrun a mob, as long as there were no blind alleys ahead of you.

  Or locked doors.

  The beast had awakened and carried this kirk into the night air.

  Constanz let Brianna lead him, trailing at the back with others that might not be as deeply committed to mayhem in the name of religious purity.

  But still willing to attend.

  Brianna got to an alley and pulled him sideways into it, the darkness swallowing them quickly.

  Nobody followed or called out, but they had been last by dint of walking slower than anyone.

  Constanz risked peeking an eye around the corner, but the group had continued on, a parade of destruction with a fuse lit.

  He dug into his pocket and located the handheld radio that Tessa insisted everyone carry any time they left the ship.

  Scene Fifteen

  Tessa put the comm down and did a quick inventory of who was on the ship with her at this moment. Laney and Auntie had gone out to dinner, as had Constanz and Brianna. She’d ordered Wyatt to spend the night in town.

  That left her, Fin, and Abigail.

  And a whole host of trouble coming.

  Tessa found the intercom and hit it to cover everything.

  “Abigail, could you join me on the bridge immediately?” she asked. “Fin, you too.”

  She was in her cabin, sitting and having a mug of tea while listening to the lack of noise a ship like Last Stand made when most of the folks were elsewhere. Abigail would be in her shuttle. Fin was probably aft.

  Tessa moved. Both came running.

  “We got trouble,” Tessa began. “Constanz and Brianna accidentally wandered into a city meeting where folks got themselves all riled up to go do something about the preacherman. Said it had turned into a mob.”

  “That’s not good,” Abigail whispered. “What do you need?”

  “We don’t have a lot of options, and none of them are good,” Tessa nodded. “I don’t know where the man is living, though I’m guessing Wyatt might by now. But even then, I don’t know where either is at this moment, though he should be at the fairgrounds or on his way there. Whichever it is, he’s walking into his death, from the way Constanz described it. I need to rouse everyone, then figure out how we can rescue him, grab everyone, and get gone.”

  “Just glad that guy picked up his cargo today,” Fin muttered, slipping around her into the pilot’s chair and starting to push buttons. “Hate to have to come back later to deliver it. Or pay someone else for the last mile. Do we look to land Last Stand near his tent?”

  “No,” Abigail interrupted. “We need you where the rest of the crew can get aboard without risk. Either here or outside of town.”

  “Or down in the central square,” Tessa said. “That’s probably the best place, as Auntie and Laney were headed that way. And the McLarens are not far from there, either.”

  “Who rescues Julian?” Fin looked up at her, pausing his pre-flight.

  Tessa turned to Abigail, got the woman’s nod.

  “She and I will take off in the shuttle immediately,” Tessa said. “I’ll call Wyatt and have him get to the preacherman, then we’ll find a place to touch and go. You find us a spot well outside of town where we can meet up again after you have the others.”

  “You got it, beautiful,” he said.

  Abigail was already in motion, having come across the top deck. Tessa followed her back and boarded the shuttle, joining her in the cockpit as the woman started prepping.

  Tessa had her comm in one hand and switched channels.

  “This is Wyatt.”

  “Trouble, inbound on your position,” Tessa replied. “Locate your target and prepare to extract him from hostile forces converging from downtown. Abigail and I will rendezvous with you and provide transport. Questions?”

  “How long do I have?” Wyatt asked.

  “Mob moving at a walk from a spot just east of the downtown square,” Tessa said. “That’s all the intelligence I have at present. Rest of the crew is being extracted separately. I need you to provide your coordinates when you are ready. Shuttle will hot drop on your position at that time.”

  “Understood and out.”

  Tessa turned to Abigail, then buckled herself in as the woman brought her engines live and lifted off Last Stand’s back. The night had fallen fully, but Waverly City had plenty of illumination below them as she got them up and circling.

  “I’m moving out beyond the fairgrounds for now,” Abigail said. “My guess is that it will all come to a head there before we’re done.”

  “Agreed,” Tessa replied.

  “Have you ever dealt with a mob before?” Abigail asked.

  “A time or two,” Tessa said.

  “Do you know what you’re doing?”

  “We’ll see,” Tessa said.

  You couldn’t reason with a mob.

  But you could communicate.

  Scene Sixteen

  Wyatt had considered circling back and flirting with that one waitress, what with the smiles and small talk, but decided that she was too young for him after all.

  And he had a mission to complete.

  Good thing he still had his boots on, then.

  Didn’t even bother finishing the lager he’d been sipping. Merely put it down and walked out the front door of the place. Close to the fairgrounds, and probably right about where Tessa’s mob would be expected to pass, on the main street running north and south.

  If he’d have brought Doomripper, a mob would be easy to stop and disperse.

  Long as you didn’t mind cleaning up a lot of dead bodies tomorrow morning.

  Probably just as well all he had with him was Brunhilde and two spare magazines. Hell of a lot more work, stopping a mob that way, though it could be done.

  Ugly, messy business.

  And he wondered, as he hit the night air, if Tessa had known this was coming. Or had some mystical premonition. Woman was more than she seemed, even when you understood how dangerous she really was.

  At least he’d updated all of his maps of Waverly City, though only in his head. He’d drop all the details on paper after they left, including the new ice cream shop that had opened since last time they’d been through.

  Wyatt checked his perimeter, then his horizon. Mob would be on his left. Brother Cormac might already be on his right at the pavilion. Or approaching from his flat.

  Wyatt crossed the street and moved to an alley where he might see the man. Felt like the sort of place where a fellow like that might maintain a low profile.

  Not Brother Cormac. Blakeslee Julian.

  Night had fallen enough that the alleys were knife cuts of darkness. Wyatt entered one, exited another, and crossed up and over.

  Nothing.

  He listened for the sounds of angry ugly coming, but the folks were either moving slow, or not chanting anything as they went.

  Wyatt wasn’t sure if the silence scared him more than noise would have. You might turn a corner and be facing ten thousand hungry killers. He doubted that there were that many in Waverly City, but a lot of folks had noted how much impact the guy had had on the town.

  Seemed like the local powers had decided to push back.

  This was that martyring part Julian talked about, where you killed the rebel, then absorbed his organization as another way to bleed off social stresses.

  Somewhere, there was probably an entire textbook on this sort of thing, but Wyatt had never wanted to become an officer, so he doubted that he’d ever come across it.

  Might have to steal a copy at some point, though.

  He circled a few more blocks but didn’t come across Julian’s trail. Not unexpected.

  Did he risk the flat now, and the possibility that the mob would find the man at the fairgrounds? Or did he get to the pavilion and hopefully find a way to distract the mob long enough for Tessa to extract him?

  No good call.

  Wyatt started to run.

  Scene Seventeen

  Wyatt pounded up the rickety staircase, not caring if anyone heard. Hell, better if Julian did, because then he’d be prepped for violence and the need to move like hell itself was on their tail.

  He got to the top and rapped on the wood.

  Waited.

  Rapped again.

  Nothing.

  Shit.

  Just to be sure, he kicked in the door.

  Nobody home.

  Some clothes. Some takeout.

  No guitar case.

  Shit.

  Guessed wrong, but that was why you flipped coins. Sometimes they came up tails.

  Wyatt took the steps down three at a time, one hand close to the rail but not on it, on account he didn’t want splinters if he had to shoot.

  Brunhilde hadn’t come out from under his jacket yet, but he presumed that it was just a matter of time tonight.

  Mobs. Ugly, snarly beasts with a lot of bloodlust.

  He hit the ground and turned back up the alley, tracing in his head the direction Brother Cormac was most likely to have taken, in his need to get quietly from Point A to Point B.

  No folks out walking tonight, which at least made it easy to not chase the wrong person.

  Fairgrounds had a cyclone fence all the way around, with a big field for ground vehicles and flitters outside that. Mostly to herd pedestrians a certain direction so you could charge them for entry during the big fairs.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9