Anthem's Fall

Chapter Sixty Five

Vengelis had specifically told them no theatrics, so Darien flew north up the span of the eastern river loosening cables and ripping out load bearing rivets on the several bridges. He turned and watched each monumental bridge waver and buckle before unceremoniously collapsing with a mighty splash into the river to an orchestra of shrieks—both man and steel. The span of choppy water steadily narrowed as he made his way north, and as he knocked out several smaller bridges, Darien soon recognized the conspicuous form of the Lord General flying above the rooftops to his west. With a last glance down the now unobstructed, albeit trouncing waterway, Darien veered up to meet his fellow Imperial First Class.

"All set?" Hoff called as he came into earshot.

"Yeah," Darien said. "Should we head back to Vengelis?"

"Please," Hoff glared at him contemptuously as they came to a halt, "I'm sure he won't have difficulty handling himself, and if he does all he has to do is call for us on the remotes. I spent way too much time stuffed in that goddamn Harbinger I. I'm enjoying the open air."

Hoff brushed some crumbled cement from his shoulder and soared past him, and Darien hastened alongside. "For the life of me I don't understand what we're doing."

The Lord General said nothing, but looked back and forth across the enormous now secluded city that sat imperial and proud under a crown of navy skies. A colorful park blotted in autumn hues spread out before them, its colorful stands of trees and paths enclosed on all sides by dense buildings. On its south end, the park gave way to the tremendous skyscrapers in the center of the city. Yet below the impressive spires and broad impassive facades, the teeming avenues and streets were seething with anarchy. The sounds of the felled bridges had carried like a herald of carnage across the rooftops. There was an enormous exodus northward, and countless heads and shoulders of the rushing stampede hid the very asphalt of the streets and sidewalks. It appeared as though the denizens of New York believed their city to be next on the list of destruction, and a riot seemingly five million strong was permeating through the city, a blood curdling mutiny upon civilization.

In the crowding blocks and intersections, anything that could be picked up was being lugged and heaved through glass panes of storefronts. Men and women were running out of retail shops with armfuls of electronics boxes and lumpy heaps of new clothing. On other street corners, people were congregating and shouting at regiments of police officers armed with broad plastic shields. The rioters were flinging debris at the organized lines of pushing police. The paltry riot squads were overtly fighting a losing battle. Despite the faint pops of rubber bullet rounds and the whooshing hisses of cloudy tear gas, they were incapable of pacifying the sheer scale of havoc that was growing exponentially around them.

"What are they doing?" Darien asked.

"Their system is breaking down. They're panicking," Hoff said as he ran the back of his hand over his nose. A wafting smell of pungent tear gas had lifted in the breeze and rose to greet them, proving only a mere annoyance against their resoluteness.

"When the Felixes attacked, we fought them to the last man—to the last child. Now we're attacking these people and they seem to only want to fight each other." Darien was watching the revolution below in wonder.

"Our race was founded on discipline. Theirs . . ." The Lord General watched a group of men overtake an armored police officer and begin to beat him to the pavement, kicking and beating at his outstretched arms. "Who can say?"

Darien began to grow ill at ease, sickened, as of one watching livestock in a butcher house struggling desperate and dumb against the sudden awareness of the inescapability of their plight.