Kit smacked his forehead, belatedly recalling his promise to Ianira that he’d participate in the festival. “Damn! I was supposed to be there!”
“All the down-timers on station are participating,” Robert said with a curious glance at Kit.
Ann’s voice wobbled a little as she added, “Ianira was supposed to officiate, you know. They’re holding the festival anyway. The way I hear it, they plan on asking the gods of war to strike down whoever’s responsible for kidnapping Ianira and her family.”
A chill touched Kit’s spine. “With all the crazies we’ve got on station, that could get ugly, fast.” Before he’d even finished voicing the thought, shouts and the unmistakable sounds of a scuffle broke out close by. Startled tourists in front of them scrambled in every direction. A corridor of uninhabited space opened up. Two angry groups abruptly faced one another down. Kit recognized trouble when he saw it—and this was Trouble.
Capital “T” that rhymed with “C” and that stood for Crazies.
Ann gasped. A group of women in black uniforms and honest-to-God jackboots formed an impenetrable wall along one flank, blocking any escape in that direction. Angels of Grace Militia . . . And opposing the Angels ranged a line of burly construction workers, the very same construction workers who’d been involved in the last station riot.
“Unchaste whores!”
“Medieval monsters!”
“Feminazis!”
“Get out of our station, bitches!”
“You’re not my goddamned brothers!”
“Go back to the desert and beat up your own women, you rag-headed bastards! Leave ours alone!”