"Take my ring, David Valentine", the Ready Reader said in his head. Valentine found his hand moving up, passing through the glowing pane at the bottom of the blister.
His hand came back, suffused with light. Drops of rainbow fell from his hands.
Or was it just illusion?
The ring felt real enough, heavy, a little piece of a far-off planet weighing on his hand. He turned, was vaguely aware of cheering, and stepped toward the microphones.
Is a man just a big, talking bag of chemicals? A reputation? An aura?
No skirmish lines of men broke from the surrounding buildings. No trucks roared up the wide avenue from Mercer Island. The Resistance Network had failed, or Pacific Command had, no telling.
Valentine took a deep breath.
"I stand here, an ordinary man with extraordinary purpose. Today I've been honored with the highest award our saviors can give. But in the end..."
Did he catch a glimpse of light on one of the columns at the other end of the plaza?
"But in the end, all Kur offers us is death", Valentine said.
A Reaper at the base of the stairs twitched.
Ka-rack - Valentine heard the shot a split second later.
Another shot, and a Reaper at the base of the right stairs began to run up. It didn't make it a third of the way before it stiffened.
The crowd spread into chaos. Valentine saw men lifting weapons from beneath their heavy coats and ponchos.
It appeared LeHavre had gone one step beyond the plan for guiding the insertion of Pacific Command's forces into Seattle, and had decided to occupy the plaza before seizing it. But, then, his old captain had always been an improviser.
The Bears bellowed and shot into the air, driving the crowd toward the tower with noise and confusion. What it must have looked like to the Kurians above, he could guess - a mass attempt to storm their collective Bastille.
One Reaper stood at the base of the stairs stupidly; perhaps its Kurian had panicked and forgot what it was supposed to be doing. It jerked as a bullet struck, and immediately stiffened.
Score three for the Miskatonic armorer.
Gide missed with the fourth bullet as the Reaper ran for the stairs. Valentine backpedaled, expecting a final, brief struggle, but the Reaper threw itself inside the organic door, which opened and closed like a toad grabbing at a fly.
Below, the riot continued. Police whistles blew, but to little effect, as the Bears fell into teams, pushing panicked spectators out of the way as they streamed for the tower.
Valentine ran down the stairs, heading for Silas, who had hiked his coat up like an old lady lifting her dress to hop a puddle, and was running across the plaza.
Valentine gave chase, heard explosions from outside the column, a scattering of gunfire.
Miss L. separated herself from the crowd, flung herself on Silas as a police detail opened up with shotguns. As Valentine ran up she drew her pistol from its holster, but instead of aiming for Valentine, she pressed its muzzle to the back of Silas' head.
"Stay down, Sly".
"I need him at the base of the tower", Valentine said.
"Get up, Sly", she ordered.
"You doing this for his own good?" Valentine asked.
They hurried into the center of the four pillars, where the Bears, dressed in variegated civilian attire, now with camouflage vests and
hats thrown over them, were prying up cobblestones to make barricades to lie behind.
Valentine saw Thunderbird giving orders, as Bears and PeaBee troops emptied backpack after satchel after bag of dynamite sticks and plastic explosive through holes being made in the concrete with power drills and portable masonry saws.