What should have been a simple protest turned into a riot. And thirty masters-at-arms just aren't enough for riot control. The alarms were old news by now, of course, but there wasn't any way to turn them off. The command post had been gutted by a Molotov cocktail. Not that there were many survivors to hear it. The masters-at-arms were overwhelmed, police were on the other side of the riot, and scientific staff were quickly beaten to death. A few were dragged off and raped. But now the only sounds in Observation Lab B were the klaxons, and the stumbling, dragging footsteps of a half-dead master-at-arms. He was bruised and bleeding, his right arm hung useless, and his left leg had three extra bends, but he slowly, carefully made his way to the observers' control station. He knew perfectly well he wasn't likely to live out the night, but maybe, just maybe, his siblings would survive. Seaman Joseph Grimes, ID code CM331/LF, had just enough time to hit the emergency override for the isolation cells before blackness overcame him. He didn't feel a thing as he bonelessly slumped to the ground.