He turned to look at his friends and family huddled behind him, all wrapped in cloaks and jackets, with makeshift masks and goggles to offer them meager protection from the inevitable suppressive gas. Jharro's thumb released the safety on the pistol, and he pulled a stained, tattered white cloth over his mouth. But the flag had waved, and could not be unseen now. The flag waved frantically, desperately signalling all their compatriots, before a quick shot from an Arbites rifle dropped the bearer in a lump of lifeless rebellion. Jharro had grown old living in fear.Ī flash of red caught his eye: a flickering cloth held aloft by some brave soul leaning out of their window. In the Gallus underhive, life was little more than fear and hiding meager fortresses. It was last used against a hive ganger three weeks ago, and Jharro knew it was the loud bang of the shot rather than any sort of aim which had driven the looters away. It was a terrible weapon, slow to fire and quick to foul. His fingers closed around the hilt of his grandfather's ancient autopistol. "I don't know." He didn't want to say he was afraid. There were drainage ditches which still held the bones of those who had tried.
Every previous riot, every protest, for as long as they had been dwellers of Gallus Hive had been exterminated with no apparent effort from the hive's government. He wasn't sure if it was his wife who had spoken, or one of the children, but he had no good answer for them. The alley was deathly silent, even given the armed Arbites patrolling the disgusting streets. Jharro shook his head as he stared out of the shattered window, fixing his eyes on the empty, swinging walkway at the end of the street.
"Do you think it'll be different this time?"
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