In fact, such a call coming in from FfW folks disguised as bomb removal teams would work really well. They could go in, wire the place, then come back out and say it was badly compromised. It goes up, they light out, and the damage is done without anyone getting hurt. I liked that idea and would certain pass it on through Elle so Gypsy could employ it.

By early evening it became apparent that the site was not quite as badly situated as I had feared. While it was not close enough to the highway to let that be a fast escape route, Thirty-ninth Avenue had such light traffic that heading west into the city would be easy to do. While I did not like Catford as a person, his defense of the Emblyn Palace did show some tactical sense. If he timed the strike for sometime after midnight, things could work.

In fact, Catford had the attack go off at 12:06A .M.

While I watched.

My mind began to race as a trio of hoverbikes– military grade hoverbikes—came screaming up Thirty-ninth, cut south and bumped up over the curb. They came into the smaller parking lot and pointed their lasers at the building. In unison the pilots cut loose, sending coruscating beams of ruby energy into the switching station. The glass windows melted as if they were ice. Things inside the store combusted instantly, but did nothing to stop the beams.

The hoverbikes waggled back and forth, like children squirming. Their beams played side to side, working up and down. I couldn’t see how deeply they pierced the structure, but one lanced out through a side wall while the others touched off more fires. Secondary explosions shook the building and one or two alarms that began to wail shut off immediately as some vital equipment melted.

More important than what they were doing, however, was the sudden advent of Public Safety Department agents in Hauberk battle armor. In teams of three they ran from nearby buildings. The heavy armor, painted an urban gray that worked well to camouflage them in the night, gave them bulk and deadliness. Unlike the way such armor appears in Tri-Vids, no lights illuminated the agents’ faces. They remained dark and brooding—no less sinister even without the bulk of the LRM launcher packs they would have carried on a battlefield.

As two troop carriers appeared around the corner from Thirty-ninth and began disgorging troops, a voice boomed from one of the power-armor teams. Despite the distortion, I recognized it as Niemeyer’s voice. “Stop! Police! You’re under arrest. Don’t make us…”

Even before he could finish, two more hoverbikes raced north on the access road that paralleled the highway. Their forward-mounted Gatling cannons vomited fire and metal, scything through armored troops. One laser lanced scarlet fire through a troop carrier. The vehicle exploded, casting silhouetted figures in grand arcs through the night sky. When they landed, they crumpled and lay still.

Niemeyer’s troops returned fire. The unarmored officers had little effect, save to play bullets over the hoverbike hulls. One driver did shy, turning his vehicle, so a small laser beam from one Hauberk armor suit burned into his spine. That hoverbike jetted forward, then crashed into a hovercar parked on the side of the road.

More explosions shook the switching center and part of the building sagged. As the roof collapsed, jets of flame shot out the black scars in the front. Burning debris gushed out, then rained down in a hellish snow. Lasers flashed, burning red and green, bullets flew, striking sparks and spinning men to the street.

Then, from atop the highway, a dozen and a half LRMs arced down and sowed fire over the parking lot. The first hoverbike flew into the air, tumbling end over end. The pilot went one way, bits and pieces another, until the burning hull smashed down. The fans shredded themselves, spitting shrapnel into the air.

The second hoverbike just evaporated while the third went spinning out of control. It plowed into armored troops, which scattered like toys. A second gout of flame from the center washed over that vehicle. The pilot vanished and the hoverbike burned.

The launch of missiles from a Catapult had shattered the FfW assault. The ’Mech came running along the highway, closing almost to a range where his missiles would not work. I assume that was because he wasn’t going to launch again, but this assumption was misplaced. Fire blossomed in the left shoulder launcher and, at this range, he couldn’t miss what he was shooting at.

I hit the accelerator on the Cabochon and whipped the wheel around. The vehicle shot across the battle zone and edged around one of the burning hoverbikes. Turning right, I cut the back fan to drag the rear. Sparks shot from behind me as the hovercar slowed, then I killed the forward fan and ducked my head.

Had one of the LRMs hit me dead on, no matter the Cabochon’s safety record, I’d have been clean dead. The explosions playing toward me ripped up reinforced roadway, snapped light poles and blew fencing apart as if it were cheesecloth in a gale. The closest bounced the hovercar a meter in the air, and the landing left an imprint of the steering wheel on my forehead. The shrapnel took the roof off and shattered the windows, but the side panels were enough to deflect a lot. I felt a sting in my legs as some of the safety panels spalled off, but the pain told me my legs were still there, which I counted as a plus.

Most importantly, however, the Cabochon shielded Niemeyer and his crew. The only reason to shoot again was to kill him, and the only person who would want him dead would be Bernard. That put Bernard or his agent in the Catapult and that started all manner of things running around in my brain.

Niemeyer popped up on the passenger side and, though his face was hidden behind smoked glass, I could almost see his eyes widen when he saw me.

“Get your men in here, we’re going NOW!”

“No.”

“It’s your ass that thing wants dead. Leave and your people are safe.” I kicked both fans on. “Get in unless you want them to die.”

Snarling, he boosted a wounded man into the backseat, piled another on top, then tore the passenger door off the Cabochon. He knelt on the seat as I hit the accelerator and spun the hovercar around. I drove toward the Catapult, then under the highway overpass. We emerged going fast, cutting back and forth across lanes. I figured it was an even-odds shot that we’d get a couple of flights of missiles once we were in range, so I hit the first small cross street, and then another.

“If he’s going to shoot us, he’ll wipe a lot of real estate.”

Niemeyer grunted. “Bernard?”

“My guess. In the morning media he’ll have saved Public Service operatives from an Ff W ambush. Someone sold the FfW to him, and you to him.”

“And we were sold to Ff W. Set up.” His right arm swung and snapped the jagged roof post off. “Next right, then along Fiftieth to the hospital.”

“With all speed.”

“Yeah, with all speed.” A low growl sounded from him. “Just the way my world is going to hell.”