Peter Hamilton - Misspent Youth

ROB LACEY ARRIVED at the Marshall Centre by EuroAir Defence Force helicopter at half past five that afternoon. He was due to make the key welcoming speech at the opening ceremony. When he alighted, the numbers of the Million Citizen Voices laying siege to the Centre had begun to grow to alarming levels. The first eight columns of marchers had wound their way through central London from mainline and tube stations to bolster the mass of protestors who were already there. By four o’clock the police squads on the security cordon enforcement duty were having trouble holding the line at the end of the Connaught Bridge circle. The senior district officer gave the order to fall back, and form a new line on the middle of the bridge itself. The concrete dual carriageway was narrow enough for his officers to hold indefinitely.

With estimates of the number of protestors already at Docklands now nudging the eighty thousand mark, the Metropolitan Police Chief ordered the remaining eleven marches currently converging on the Marshall Centre to halt and disperse. Police on escort duty weren’t prepared to enforce that kind of order, even if they’d had enough officers to implement it successfully. When they tried to stop the marchers, scuffles broke out, quickly evolving into fights. Most of the marchers were able to break through and rampage along their route. Shop windows were smashed. Looting distracted large gangs, who then set about beating up camera crews and local bystanders. Police retreated quickly from a barrage of missiles. Parked vehicles were overturned and set on fire. The lines of conflict began to snake their way across the city, converging on Docklands.

News of the attempted restrictions against the marchers flashed through the protestors already swarming through the university campus, and they began to get angry. Smoke bombs were fired from homemade launchers, arching out over the calm dark water. The entire length of the Albert Dock was soon smothered in a haze of red smog. Real fireworks were set off, big rockets angled low to burst against the Marshall Centre’s sturdy glass cliff face. None actually penetrated, but the vividly colorful explosions writhing against the reinforced windows frightened the hell out of the delegates inside.

Wavelike surges among the agitated crowds sent people tumbling over the side of the dock to splash into the water, where they started frantically yelling for help. Inflatable dinghies were quickly lowered, although the small crews ignored those thrashing about in distress, and eagerly paddled their way toward the Centre. Fast police launches raced in from the Thames to intercept them.

That was when Rob Lacey’s helicopter drifted down out of the cloudless sky to settle on the Marshall Centre’s rooftop landing pad just above the layers of red smoke. The protestors knew exactly who it was carrying. His arrival was the final act of provocation. What until then had been a perilously wild demonstration detonated into a full-blown riot.

London became the principal topic on all of the primary European news streams, and a majority of the big internationals. For Jeff and Annabelle, sitting up in their hotel room, it didn’t matter which company they called up from the datasphere, every grid on every news stream had a different camera shot of the same thing. Helicopters hovered over the Royal Albert Docks, showing cloying strands of smoke and tear gas mingling before flowing like mercury around the roads and buildings on either side of the water. Every now and then Jeff would sneak over to the window and get a different perspective on the same scene, almost as if he didn’t believe the camera coverage. It was very strange having such an event unfolding a few hundred meters away, yet remain totally insulated from it. Half the time he imagined he actually did catch sight of Tim down there amid the chaos.

The marches that had turned to pandemonium and violence were covered by camera crews on the tops of buildings, who focused on the people rampaging along the streets below. Balaclava-clad anarchists flung Molotovs, creating avenues of fire down the city’s broader thoroughfares. Meandering contrails of black smoke began to rise above the rooftops, marking their progress. On-the-ground reporters tried to follow the fire engines, but the police were dangerously overstretched and unable to guarantee the safety of the emergency crews. Fires were left to burn unchecked in several areas as the engines waited impotently in side roads hundreds of meters back from the roaring flames.

Blurred, shaky camera shots from inside the packs of marchers showed canisters of tear gas twirling through the air toward them, bouncing and spinning off the roads and pavements. Equally erratic views from behind police lines showed a deluge of stones and smashed timbers descending on riot shields.

“My God,” Annabelle murmured. “It’s like watching the fall of Rome.”

“Not quite that bad,” Jeff said. He wished he could sound more convincing.

An aerial shot of Trafalgar Square exposed people flowing into it from western and northern streets, before merging together to flood along the Strand. The camera zoomed in to reveal a gang of men armed with scaffolding poles attacking one of the fountains. Hundreds more stood around watching and cheering. Then a group waving Union Jack flags approached the fountain. A violent fight started. The water in the fountain’s pool swiftly turned red.

“They’re turning on each other,” she said.

“There’s a lot of different groups down there. They don’t all share the same views.”

Annabelle was flinching as the screen displayed the violence in high-resolution detail. “It’s awful.”

Jeff ordered the screen to go back to a news studio. The anchorwoman was busy receiving updates from police and government sources. Prime Minister Lacey had left the Marshall Centre after barely ten minutes; his presence had been deemed counterproductive by his security team. The police guarding the summit area exclusion zone absolutely refuted the allegation that they were in danger of losing control of the docks to the protestors.

An official estimate of the number of protestors in London was a hundred fifty thousand, although the reporters were hinting it was actually closer to a quarter of a million. Other, more localized trouble spots were flaring as people realized there were no police left on the beat to enforce law and order. The Metropolitan Police chief had officially requested reinforcements from Europol. Even with the express Eurostar link from Paris and Brussels direct into St. Pancras, it would take the new troops several hours to arrive, and then they had to deploy. Full order would be enforced by the next morning, the chief promised.

“Ye gods, they must mean the Europol Riot Suppression Force,” Jeff said in dismay. “They’ve never been deployed in England before. People aren’t going to like that.” He glanced anxiously toward the window.

An unconfirmed report from Downing Street suggested that when the scale of the protest was assessed last week the Metropolitan Police chief had asked for Europol reserves to be moved to standby positions in England. He’d been turned down by Brussels on Central Treasury orders.

The marchers that the police had wanted to halt earlier were now arriving, moving through Canning Town and East Ham to swell the ranks of the existing protestors in the university campus. Beacon lines of fires marked their sporadic progress out of central London. Halls of residence and faculty buildings had also been broken into, with large-scale looting now in progress. Up on the Connaught Bridge, the police line was holding, though it was almost invisible to cameras beneath a pall of smoke and tear gas. Dark military-style vehicles with water cannon were rumored to be moving along roads in Beckton, Silvertown, and North Wollwich, though the camera crews seemed unable to track them down.