"The dremecks, sir," cried the defense minister, thrusting his way past the guard into the bathroom. "They're revolting."

"I know that," Love-Kirkov said testily.

"I mean, sir, they're in rebellion. Armies of them are marching through the streets. They're carrying guns, sir. There've been reports of humans being shota""

"Freedom, eh?" Love-Kirkov looked grim. "I'll give them freedom. I'll free them from this life, if they don't like it. Put me through to General Karnack."

"We've been trying to raise the general, sir. Something must be wrong with the commlinks because we keep getting base Payroll Sectiona"" The defense minister broke off, glanced at the slumbering Kirkov-Love. "What's wrong with Mr. Love, sir?"

"How the h.e.l.l should I know?" Love-Kirkov glanced at the vid star in disgust. "Drunk or drugged or both. He's a vid star. Send for my limo. We must return to the palace!"

"Yes, sir. We've done that. Excuse me, sir, but we can't just leave Mr. Love in the restroom. Think of the negative publicity if he should happen to diea""

"Call for his bodyguards, then! Have them take him back to his hotel."

"Revolution!" Chef Fox went pale. "G.o.d help us! The streets are not safe! Mr. Love must be transported to his private barge! Immediately!"

"Do what you want with the b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" Love-Kirkov thundered. "I have a G.o.ddam revolution on my hands!"

He charged out the bathroom. The guards and the defense minister trotted after. None of them gave a backward look at the true dictator of Del Sol, snoring and drooling on the couch.

The Little One opened the door to the restroom a crack. Sounds of voices and screams came from the restaurant, where people had brought out portable vid sets and were watching the first broadcast of Vid Free Dremeck.

"We are live from the corner of Main and Broad streets," came the voice of the excited newscaster. "You can see behind me thousandsa"literally thousands of dremecksa"charging down the street...."

"Mr. Love?" His two bodyguards nearly took the door off its hinges.

"There. On the couch," said Raoul, waving a languid hand. "It was the red pills. I told him, 'Don't swallow the red along with the blue and certainly not within an hour of downing the orange.' But does he listen? My friend and I will accompany him. He'll need me by his side when he awakens. Use the back door. We don't want the press seeing him in this condition."

He winked. Love's bodyguards winked back.

The two men picked up the unconscious dictator-turned-vid-star and carried him out of the restroom. The Little One led the way, showing the prearranged route to the back door.

"Is this the captain of Mr. Love's barge?" Raoul asked, speaking into the comm, as the unconscious Kirkov-Love and his entourage departed the restaurant. "There's a riot going on. Mr. Love is fine. We are on our way to the s.p.a.ceport. Please be prepared to blast off immediately upon our arrival. It would never do for these bloodthirsty dremecks to take Rusty Lovea"beloved of billionsa"hostage."

CHAPTER 39.

Dust as we are, the immortal spirit grows Like harmony in music; there is a dark Inscrutable workmanship that reconciles Discordant elements, makes them cling together In one society.

William Wordsworth, The Prelude, Book 1.

It was 0400, the night of the Revolution. Contrary to the triumphant reports being broadcast or Vid Free Dremeck, the streets of Del Sol were relatively quiet. Driving the truck, Jamil floated over the occasional curious and confused onlooker, who had come out to witness the revolution but couldn't find it.

Just follow me, Jamil would tell them silently. I'm heading right for it.

This "a.s.sault" had not been part of the original plan. But Darlene and Agent Rizzoli were adamant that one building in Del Sol must be sealed off, no one permitted inside. That building was not the Royal Palace, where, according to one of his bodyguards, Rusty Love-Kirkov was now meeting with a delegation of dremecks and reporters. The building was not military headquarters, which wasa" Jamil fervently hopeda"in a state of confusion due to Darlene's sabotage of their communications system. The building they were going to guard with their lives was a bank.

Guard with their lives. With their lives and toy guns.

"G.o.d help us," Jamil muttered. "Rizzoli, how does everything look?"

"Fine. There's an apartment building next door and some of the occupants are out on the sidewalk looking around, but they're not paying any attention to the bank. No one's paying attention to the bank. I suppose that's not surprising. Kirkov would have realized the danger, but Raoul reports that the Dictator is currently sleeping soundly aboard Rusty Love's private barge."

"Good. Let's hope everything stays quiet. Our ETA is fifteen minutes."

In fifteen minutes, Jamil drove the truck up to the front of a large, imposing-looking burrowa"make that building; he was even starting to think like a dremecka"located in the heart of Del Sol's financial district. He found the apartment building; hard to miss. Every light in every window was turned on. The street was brightly lit as well, the street lamps illuminated a crowd of people milling about in front of the building. Every resident in that building must have been out on the front lawn, talking to his or her neighbor. Occasionally, the people would cast nervous glances in the direction of two wire-heads, who stood apart from the crowd, listening intently to all that was being said and taking notes on who said it.

Jamil shut down the air-jets. The truck settled to the curb. Rizzoli emerged from the shadows and waved. Jamil nodded to her as he stepped down from the truck cab. The apartment house residents had fallen silent, were watching in curiosity and some alarm.

Jamil opened the doors at the back of the truck. At his command, the dremecksa"who were now quiet and subdueda"jumped out. He'd brought as many as he could; they were practically stacked on top of each other, and looked extremely relieved to be out in the open air.

"You know what to do," he said to Trella, who was the first one off the truck. "But leave the guns in the truck."

"Sir?" She stared at him in astonishment.

"I was wrong to try to change you. I'm sorry."

"I don't understand, Mr. Jamil." Trella's face-folds gathered in a troubled bunch above her eyes.

"Leave the guns."

"If you say so, sir," she said. She tossed her useless weapon in the truck, ordered the other dremecks to do the same.

Jamil's heart ached. "Good luck," he said.

"You, too, sir," she replied.

Marshaling her forces, she bullied them into columns, marched them to the bank building.

Jamil watched them take up their position on the steps of the building, blocking the front door. Trella sent her troops around to guard the side and back entrances as well. Guarding the sides and back with nothing but their blue-skinned bodies. Sighing, Jamil walked over to the apartment building, where Rizzoli was attempting to quell the fears of the residents.

"They don't mean anyone any harm," Petronella was saying.

"Then why are they here?" cried one of the women.

Jamil faced the group of citizensa"humans, Uglies. The two wire-heads were talking rapidly and excitedly over their comms. Nothing he could do about that short of shooting them, and his own gun was in the off position.

"I'm going to tell you people what's going on," Jamil said loudly, ignoring the wire-heads. "The dremecks have broken their chains. They've struck a blow for freedom. Why don't you people join us?"

"Chains?" said an older man in a bathrobe. "We're not wearing any chains."

"Aren't you?" Jamil cast a significant glance at the wire-heads. "Your chains may not be made of steel, like those of the dremecks. Your chains may not cut into your flesh when you walk. You may not have ever been prodded by stun-sticks if you stumbled and fell. But you are slaves. Slaves just like the dremecks. You're slaves to fear."

The wire-heads, their report made, drew the weapons which they kept concealed behind their backsa"bolt guns, Jamil noticed. A bolt gun can fire in an instant. His gun would take thirty seconds to charge.

"The rest of you go back into your homes," the wire-head ordered. "The military will be here soon to deal with the situation. In the meantime, sir, you and the woman are under arrest."

As the wire-heads came to take them into custody, Jamil glanced around for help, spotted a large and heavy stone flower urn that decorated the front steps of the apartment complex. He was reminded of the urn in front of Xris's house.

"Rizzoli," Jamil said casually, "have you been keeping up with your medication?"

She followed the direction of his gaze, smiled. "No, as a matter of fact, I haven't."

The huge stone urn leaped into the air, sailed over the heads of the astonished spectators, and smashed into the backs of the two unsuspecting wire-heads, knocking them flat. One of them dropped his bolt gun. Jamil put his foot on the hand of the other, retrieved his weapon. Rizzoli wiped dirt from the smashed urn off their heads as she disconnected the wires linking them to their comms.

"He was right about one thing," said Jamil, speaking to the apartment residents. "Go back into your homes. There's probably going to be trouble."

The people stared at the unconscious bodies of the wire-heads, stared at Jamil and Petronella, and stared at the dremecks, who had taken up position in front of the bank.

"What are they doing?" the man in the bathrobe demanded. "Are they going to kill us?"

"You know the dremecks," Petronella said. "You've lived with them all your lives. Do you think it's possible that they could hurt anyone?"

"But the wire-heads said that the dremecks were marching though the streets, murdering people," said a woman, holding a child in her arms.

"Listen," said Jamil. "Do you hear explosions? Laser blasts? Do you hear sirens and alarms? No, you don't. This is a peaceful revolution. We've come this far without a single shot being fired."

"I've worked with dremecks," offered another woman. "G.o.d help me, I used to be an overseer once. I couldn't stomach it and I quit. This man is right. They're gentle people, gentle and kind. The way we've treated them is shameful."

"I hope the revolution succeeds," said another man boldly.

"You better watch what you say," warned one of his neighbors, frowning.

The man looked at Jamil and smiled faintly. "Chains. I see what you mean."

"Jamil," said Petronella, touching him on the arm. "You were right. Here comes trouble."

An armored personnel carrier soared around the corner, dropped down rapidly and heavily onto the street. Armor-plated doors flew open. Men and women in uniform jumped out and began deploying on the sidewalk in front of the bank.

"Call it a hunch," said Jamil, "but I have a feeling their beam rifles work. Go stand over there with the onlookers." He was on the comm, back to the vid station. "Delta Three, how close are we to Kirkov's surrender?"

"According to our reporter on the scene, the dictator and the dremecks are still in negotiation," said Quong, adding testily, "Rusty Love says that he must make his surrender appear convincing and I suppose that is true, but if you ask me, he is enjoying his role and is loath to relinquish the part."

"He may be upstaged. The Army's apparently solved their communication problems. They just made an entrance here and are undoubtedly on their way to the Royal Palace bow, if they're not there already. See if you can hurry him along."

"You dremecks!" shouted a lieutenant, the platoon leader. "You have three minutes to surrender or we'll fire."

"That's him, sir," said another soldier, pointing at Jamil. "That's the leader. I recognize him from the vids."

Two soldiers approached, their rifles aimed at Jamil.

"Raise your hands."

Jamil did as he was told. "I'm not armed," he said, which wasn't exactly true, but these amateurs would never find it. "This is a peaceful demonstration."

"Search him," said the lieutenant. "Keep him covered."

One soldier searched him, patting him down. The other held his beam rifle on him.

"He's clean," said the soldier. "Keep your hands in the air, just in case."

Jamil did as he was told.

"It's not worth it, Jamil," said Petronella over her comm. The soldiers were taking cover, aiming their beam rifles at the dremecks. "Nothing's worth this! It will be a slaughter! Tell them to surrender."

Jamil looked at the dremecks. They stood together, facing the Uglies, facing the guns. Their eyes were large and gleamed in the white light of the street lamps. They weren't afraid and they weren't backing down.

I'd rather die than be a slave! Trella had said.

Because of him. She had learned that from him. What would she learn from him now, if he backed down? That he was a phony, a hypocrite, a liar, a coward. That he could talk glibly enough about his beliefs but he didn't have the guts to die for them.

"Two minutes!" the lieutenant shouted. "Two minutes and I will order my men toa""

"Hold your fire!" Jamil called. He walked forward, hands in the air. "Let me talk to them," he said. "I'm not armed. And neither are they. Let me talk to them."

"Go ahead," the lieutenant said. "I don't want to gun down unarmed people. But I will if I have to."

Jamil looked at the man intently. "They are people," he said. "Like us, only different. Remember that."

He could feel the beam rifles aimed at his back as he moved down a broad sidewalk toward the dremecks, who were now watching him doubtfully, uncertainly. "We won't surrender, Mr. Jamil," Trella announced, before he'd even opened his mouth. "We've talked it over. They can shoot us if they want to. Maybe..." her chin quivered; she was trying very hard to be brave, "maybe our people will learn from our deaths...."

"No one's going to die," said Jamil, and added mentally, From my mouth to G.o.d's ear.

Jamil reached the stairs, climbed them until he stood on the building's portico with the dremecks. He turned to face the soldiers. Holding out his hands, Jamil took Trella's hand in his right hand. He took hold of the hand of the dremeck Remer on his left.

"Link hands, all of you," he ordered, "and form a line."

The dremecks did as they were told. Holding hands, they stood tall and straight, facing the soldiers.

"We won't be slaves anymore," Jamil announced. "I guess you're going to have to shoot us."

"One minute," said the lieutenant grimly.

"Will any of you join us?" Jamil cried.

"I will!" Petronella shouted. "I know what it means to be persecuted because of who you are and where you're born." Walking in front of the soldiers, she took her place beside Jamil. "I guess you'll just have to shoot me, too."

"You can shoot me, as well," called the man in the bathrobe. He was short and balding, his feet in thongs that flapped on the sidewalk, but his courage gave him dignity and it was with dignity that he joined the end of the line. He smiled tentatively at one of the young dremecks and took hold of the blue-skinned hand.

"Me, too," said the woman who had once been an overseer.

One by one, then two or three at a time, the residents of the apartment building walked over to stand side by side with the dremecks. The only one who didn't was the man who had warned the others to watch what they saida"along with the wire-heads, who were still flat on their faces in the middle of stone shards.