The Annihilation Score by Charles Stross Page B

Etonian. Beneath him, that damned TV camera is presumably getting the lead item for tonight’s news channels.
    â€œPublic safety comes first. I need to get a couple of squads ready to rush in air bags,” Josephine decides. “Then someone to disable him, on my word.” She takes a deep breath, then her eyes flicker towards the Mayor: “I don’t want to authorize lethal force, but I may have to, if he escalates further. All of that’s going to take time and I’d rather not go there. Can you distract him, at least? Or immobilize him?”
    I look around the square. It’s actually busier, if anything, except for the area immediately around the plinth that the police have got cordoned off. “I can distract him and I can probably disable him.” Unlike Jo I don’t need to go up a level to authorize force: I answer to my oath, my conscience, and the Auditors. “Give me a minute to report in, then I’ll go and make a song and dance under his nose. If he gives me grief, I’ll take him down; you could help by having somebodies standing by to bag him. Starting in, uh”—I check my watch—“five minutes?”
    â€œYou’ve got three. If we don’t nail him fast, someone’s going to get hurt.” She heads for the steps of the mobile incident room.
    *   *   *
    I walk across the crowded plaza, gaze downcast to avoid eye contact with the people I’m using for cover. Anything to keep from standing out until I’m in position. The police are clearing the northwest corner of the square by forming a line, elbow to elbow, and expanding it: Josephine’s obviously told them to keep it low-key and friendly because there’s a marked lack of jostling and riot shields. They are having to work at it, though, because if there is one thing guaranteed to attract the attention of tourists and locals alike, it’s the sight of a levitating semi-naked Mayor. The square is stippled with the diamante glitter of camera fill-in flashes.
    I have to shimmy to avoid the elbows and backpacks of oblivious non-natives stopping dead to peer at their tourist guides. My line of sight on George the Fourth is tenuous, and in any case I can’t be too obvious about keeping an eye on him and remain invisible. Rather than heading directly towards the joker, I stroll in a wide curve around the outside of the square, violin at my shoulder and bow poised. Finally I find a reasonable pitch. It’s nothing special, just a patch of flagstones beside a low wall that isn’t already occupied by a tour group or another musical hopeful. But it’s about fifty meters away from Georgie and his unseen passenger, and I’ve got a sight-line on the police around the Fourth Plinth and, past them, the mobile incident command vehicle.
    I unsling the empty violin case and lay it open at my feet, just like every other busker. Then I flex my fingers.
    Lecter is sleepy and reluctant to rise to full awareness.
Good.
While he’s in this state he’s little more than a regular instrument. I check the pickups and switch off the small pre-amp built into his lower bout.
    ***What are you doing?***
    I ignore him and start to tune up. The strings are just about right: the damp sea air didn’t have a chance to affect them.
Excellent.
I check my watch: it’s time. I launch into the Ciaccona from Bach’s Partita in D minor because I can do it in my sleep while reserving 90 percent of my attention for keeping track of developments and, more importantly, Lecter is used to me using it as a basic exercise rather than the prelude to an attack.
    ***What are you
doing
?*** he whines. I let him see the statue through my eyes, complete with the disturbing blind spot between the front legs of the horse. ***Ah.***
    I turn slowly to gaze in the direction of the plinth. The Mayor twirls slowly, stripped back to a pair of polka-dotted navy boxers. As I watch, they