Kernaldi regarded him for half a minute before asking, in the same level tone: “Isn’t that against your orders?”
“I’ve received no direct orders.” Panthos felt he had better speak openly; and he wanted to. “When we’ve left this spot, we can’t turn back. That’d certainly mean a fight. When we get to the compound, they can’t refuse you water, food, and shelter.” As for himself, he should suffer no worse than a reprimand, and maybe nothing more than a tongue-lashing from the summarian. After all, he commanded a special force, dispatched by the Executive, whose grandnephew he was.
Kernaldi raised hand to brow. Though he had had nothing to do with Kithfolk, Panthos recognized the starfarer salute. “Thank you, sir. You are a man.”
Wheeling about, Kernaldi went among his followers, to and fro, in and out, talking, touching, being what he was. Panthos caught fragmentary phrases. He saw what assurance and order they wrought.
“I think we can overawe the mob and pass through,” he told Bokta. “Regardless of what happens, shoot to wound or kill only if there’s absolutely no other choice, and only at those directly up against us. When in any doubt whatsoever, hold your fire. Is that clear, Paceman?”
“Yes, sir,” Bokta replied. “I wish it wasn’t,” he muttered. A veteran could get away with such remarks.
Kernaldi herded the Seladorians into line. Bokta deployed the platoon forward, behind, and on either side. The flitters lifted. “Let’s go,” Panthos said, and led the way.
Up the stairs, where formation got tricky. Over the terrace above. As he expected, the rioters shrank back, right and left. They snarled, some of them screamed, a few threw objects, but they made way for the constables. Smoke reeked. Pale under the sun, flames danced over piles of household treasures. Whirlyblades whickered.
People and platoon surmounted the last level, crossed its defiled greenery, and went up a deserted street. Walls brimmed it with shadow, though heat still sucked on skin. Boots slammed stone. Doorways and windows stood shut. Nobody called from lean-to shops or hovels built out of shards.
The top of Panthos’s mind crouched watchful. Underneath, he thought how he longed for a cold beer. And when he got back to Sanusco, there was a girl. . . and then furlough, home. . . .
A rifle barked. He never heard it, nor felt the slug crash through his skull.
Weapons swiveled about. “Hold fire!” the paceman bawled. No telling exactly where behind this crumbling concrete the sniper lurked, or what women and children might be shivering nearby. The optionary had issued his orders.
“O Ultimate —” Kernaldi knelt down by the sprawled body. He closed the eyes.
No further shot came. Probably the killer had laughed and run. “Take him up,” Bokta bade after a short while. A Warrior gathered what was left of Panthos and cradled it against his chest. Kernaldi had been calming his flock. The march proceeded.
“Now,” Kernaldi said, “the Governance will have to keep us protected.”