The crowd was pushed back despite their best efforts. Some of them flung bottles and other objects toward the funnels and were surprised when they shifted course right back at them. Apparently you don’t have to understand physics to protest.
When the last of the protesters were pushed back to the thirty-meter line the funnels ramped their output down to thirty kilometers an hour, and the low E dissipated. The crowd muttered and shouted, angry. The Kyiv police, no longer needed, filed into the administration building, where they went to the roof and were airlifted out.
And so it went. Over the next hour, occasionally one or two of the protesters would try to see if they could sprint to the barricade before the funnels could push them back. The answer: No.
“That kind of looks like fun, actually,” Lambert said, as the latest protester blew back across the plaza. His speaking voice was augmented in my ear by his BrainPal signal.
“Don’t be so sure.” Powell pointed to a streak of red on the plaza, where the protester’s head had connected with the concrete.
“Well, I don’t want to do that, obviously,” Lambert said. “The rest of it might be fun.”
“Hey, boss,” Salcido said, and pointed out into the crowd. “Something’s up.”
I looked out. In the distance the crowd was parting as a motor vehicle made its way up toward the front. I identified it with my BrainPal as a heavy truck of local manufacture, without the trailer that usually accompanied these types of haulers. As it moved closer to the front, the crowd started chanting and hollering.
“Why the hell didn’t the police stop that thing all the way at the back?” Lambert asked.
“We sent them home,” I said.
“We sent the ones up here home,” Lambert said. “I find it hard to believe at least some of the Kyiv police aren’t still on duty.”
“Sau,” I said. “Are these things going to stop that?”
“The funnels?”
“Yeah.”
“Lieutenant, these babies can blast out wind up to three hundred kilometers per hour,” Salcido said. “They won’t just stop the truck. They’ll pick it up and toss it.”
“Right back into the crowd,” Lambert noted.
“There is that,” Salcido agreed. “That is, the part of the crowd that is not also tossed straight up into the air, along with anything else that isn’t nailed down, and probably some stuff that is.” He pointed down the plaza at the sculpture. “If these things go top speed, I wouldn’t count on that staying put.”
“Maybe these things weren’t such a great idea after all,” Lambert said.
The truck, at the front of the crowd now, started blinking its lights, as if to threaten us. The crowd cheered.
“Standard electric engine for something that size, if it’s not modified,” Salcido said. He’d pulled up the same manufacturer ID I had. “It’s gonna take it a couple of seconds to get up to ramming speed.”
The driver of the truck let loose on his horn, issuing a blast almost as loud as the funnels.
“This will be interesting,” Lambert said.
The wheels of the truck squealed as the driver floored it.
“Powell,” I said and sent at the same time.
The front of the truck blossomed into flame as Powell’s rocket shoved itself into the truck’s engine compartment and erupted, shattering the truck’s battery banks and puffing out the hood with an explosive crump. The spinning wheels, robbed of momentum before they could completely grip, lurched forward slightly and then stopped, barely moving a few meters. The driver of the truck bailed out of the cab and took off running, one of many protesters who decided they’d had enough for the day.
A few still stood near the truck, uncertain of what they should be doing next. Powell shoved another rocket into the truck, this time into the empty cab. It went up like the proverbial Roman candle. More protesters decided it was time to go home.
“Thank you, Powell,” I said.
“Took you long enough to ask,” she said, cradling her Empee.
* * *
“Those things aren’t exactly a long-term solution, now, are they?” Lambert asked. He nodded to the hurricane funnels, now five stories below us. The four of us were in a conference room that had been turned over as a rest area for the CDF recruited for guard work.
“It’s local midnight and that crowd out there’s not going anywhere,” Powell said. “I think the funnels might be a feature for a while.”
“It’s going to make going to work difficult for the Colonial Union folks who work in this building.”
“Maybe they’ll all telecommute,” Salcido said.
Lambert looked back out at the crowd. “Yeah. I would.”
“How much longer are we here?” Powell asked me.
“The technicians are training the Kyiv police on operating the things,” I said. “So a couple more days.”
“And then what? Off to the next planet to squash another protest or stomp on another building?”