The Unionists were rioting again. Gafden, captain of Louvrebern’s Custodian Police Force, sighed as he drove his motorbike to the Trenibad Market, the site of this latest protest. It was the third time this week, the thirteenth this month. The Planetary government had grown tired of the riots and authorized him to use deadly force. Gafden desperately hoped he wouldn't have to use it, but if the Unionists fired on his officers, as they had in the last riot, he might have to.

The Market was a scene of barely contained chaos. The Unionists, base laborers organizing for better working conditions, had looted and smashed the merchant stalls. Lines of riot-shield armed Custodians were blocking the exits, containing the riot and preventing it from spilling into the streets. They stared impassively as the manufactorum workers bellowed into their faces, moving only to throw back those workers daring enough to actually beat at their riot shields. Gafden parked his motorbike on the side of the road.

Is this how they protest their plight? With destruction? What makes them think they deserve to disrupt the Emperor's peace! He spotted a two officers standing back, one shouting orders into the vox set on the others back.

“Lieutenant Dresden,” he said, spotting the shouting man’s rank insignia,” what is the situation?” Dresden turned,

“Bad, sir. We estimate several hundred people are gathered in the Market. We can’t disperse them. Most of the merchants got out, several merchants are dead and the Unionists are beginning to break into the homes of others.” Gafden looked into the crowd. Sure enough, workers were hammering on the doors of some of the habs, bloodying their fists on the wooden doors.

“Have we been authorized to use deadly force?” Dresden said, almost eagerly. Gafden scowled. Dresden was a hothead, far too eager to avenge the deaths of their three officers from the last riot.

“Yes, lieutenant, we have. But I will not kill Imperial citizens unnecessarily.”

“But they have defied Imperial authority! Surely that is reason enough!”

“No, lieutenant,” said Gafden, emphasizing Dresden’s lesser rank. “We will fire when, and only if I give the order.” He turned to the officer with the vox array.

“Officer Fredo, give me your vox horn. Quickly.” Fredo handed it over to him. Gafden turned to the crowd, drawing his auto-pistol. He fired off three shots. The Unionists paused, momentarily stunned into silence. “Citizens! Disperse to your homes immediately!” There was silence for a moment. Then someone shouted out defiantly,

“The Emperor is just!” The crowd exploded, heaving against the shield wall. The officers lashed out with stun batons, breaking bones and cracking skulls. The workers storming the merchant’s homes resumed beating on the doors. Gafden turned to Dresden.

“How many merchants are left?”

“Three, with their families.” Dresden replied. Gafden turned back to the Market.

“Assemble three teams of ten, our strongest men. And have ornithopters ready to extract the merchants families.”

“Sir, we only have two ‘thopters on hand.”

“Then the third team will have to wait!”

Dresden turned, then paused, “I presume you’ll want to lead the third team, sir?” “Of course.”

Within five minutes the teams were ready, geared up in full body amour, stun batons and riot shields. Team three had combat shotguns strapped to their backs. Gafden was taking no chances if the ornithopters were held up. He took his place at the head of the team and slipped a copy of the Infantryman’s Primer under his armor. “All teams, go!” He said into his earpiece. The teams launched into the crowd, bludgeoning aside the workers unfortunate enough to be in their path. The crowd swarmed around them, grabbing at their clothing. Officer Solon, at the back of team one, was dragged down by the crowd. He screamed as they tore at his stomach, tearing it open and dragging his organs onto the ground.

The teams made it to their doors, slamming aside the assaulting workers and facing outwards towards the crowd. A frightened and disheveled merchant opened Team Ones door, and they backed into the house. Sergeant Trames, commanding the team, saw the merchant’s frightened wife and two small sons.

“Open the roof latch. A ‘thopter’s on it’s way.” The merchant nodded, and led his family upstairs.

Team two made it to their door without incident, but no one opened the door.

“Oh, bloody hell.” said Sergeant Hyborg, and kicked down the door. And was promptly shot in the chest, he grunted. The shot was absorbed by his armor.

“What the bloody hell did you do that for?” he shouted. The man was shaking.

“S-Sorry.” He stuttered

“Don’t apologize, let us in!” Hyborg said, pulling officers into the house. One fell over and was set upon by two workers. Hyborg kicked one in the face, feeling the cartilage splinter and break in his nose. He slammed the other with the edge of his riot shield, throwing him back. He dragged the officer in and turned to the merchant. “Get your family on the roof, there’s a ‘thopter.”

“Alright.” But he didn't move.

“Don’t just stand there, get a move on!” Hyborg bellowed. The merchant jumped and ran hurriedly up the stairs.

Captain Gafden blocked a thrown piece of brick with his riot shield. He kicked down the door and the team hustled inside. Gafden climbed the stairs as his men formed up to defend the house. He climbed to the second floor and saw several doors. He picked the rightmost one, empty, the bed sheets unmade, belongings scattered everywhere, the signs of a desperate person. He tried the next one, still empty. He found them in the master bedroom, huddled together, the merchant holding his sobbing daughter, his wife on his shoulder. Gafden took off his black helmet, knowing the blank faceplate would only frighten them. The merchant stood.

“What is to happen to us?” he said

“You will be…evacuated by ornithopter as soon as possible. We will have to wait until they drop off the others, though.”

“How long will that be?” said the man, his voice wavering at the prospect of staying here any longer.

“Minutes, as long as it takes for them to find a place to land and come back.” Said Gafden. He could already see the ornithopters landing on the roofs of the other houses, the merchant families waiting, protected by officers with riot shields. The first two teams formed up and began to bludgeon a path out of the Market once they were all safely on board. Gafden looked at the merchant’s daughter, no more than sixteen years old, knew if he somehow failed, she would suffer the most, he swore to himself it would not happen under his watch.

For four agonizing minutes, Team three held the house, beating the workers away, so many that their stun batons became sticky with blood and brain matter. Broken bodies piled up at the doorstep. Once, the Unionists forced their way in by dint of sheer numbers. It took the entire squad to bludgeon, beat and kick the mob back into the Market. Finally, the ‘thopter came. Gafden took three men with him to protect the merchant and his family. Gafden loaded them in personally. The daughter went in last. Gafden smiled at her,

“It’s going to be alright.” He closed the door and turned around as the ‘thopter took off.

Then a shot rang out from the crowd. The bullet hit Gafden in a crease between his pectoral and abdominal plates, penetrating and drawing blood. Gafden sank to the ground. “The Captain is down! Captain Gafden is down!” screamed the sergeant.

Dresden was shocked. The Captain, dead? He shook himself, now was not the time for mourning.

“All units, return fire!” He bellowed into the vox horn.

The Custodians opened fire with their combat shotguns, killing dozens of the densely packed workers. The workers panicked, desperately trying to hide, or do anything to save themselves. By the time the Custodians ceased firing, nearly seventy lay dead or dying on the blood stained street.