“I want him found and brought directly to me!” yelled Villinkash. “I want the troops called out. Mobilize the city. Bring in the secret guard. Arm them to the teeth and round up people until someone squeals. Go to the brothels. Beat those whores until they talk.”
He went on like that for a long time, pointing at first one Overseer and then another until they all cowered.
“And,” he said, lowering his voice so they sat forward to hear, “I want that girl.” He spat out the word “girl,” as if something rotten had settled on his tongue. “I want to deal with her personally.”
He whispered the last word, and they all took note. The Premier’s appetites were well documented. Even Huston had lost count of the women who had been brought to him over the years.
One of those women Huston had brought had become Villinkash’s wife. Wealthy and from a powerful old-guard family, his wife had accepted his proposal only to save her father when Villinkash took over Infinius. Villinkash had wanted her money under his control. And to get it legally, he wooed her at the same time he was building a case against her father that would have had him tried for treason and executed. The only limitation on accomplishing this goal was that the family wealth would go to his daughter when her father died. To save him, she said yes to Villinkash. That was the beginning of his takeover from the old guard and the installation of the Overseers as his cabinet.
It was clear from the start of their marriage that Villinkash kept women on the side and would not stop. His wife lived in obscurity, keeping her father nearby, rarely showing herself in public unless her husband demanded that she be at his side in a ceremonial role.
She was an intelligent, kind, and generous woman who devoted herself to the sick and the abandoned. Without her husband realizing it, she had supported the Sisters of Mercy and others. And over the years, she had made clandestine contact with Father Ignatius, even before he had left the church for the streets. Even Huston, with his far-flung spy network, was at first unaware of her efforts, which she directed through a maze of secret intermediaries.
Gruen hated Villinkash. After what had happened with his eye during one particularly brutal beating delivered by the Protectors on the specific orders of the Premier, Gruen, who had been a good-looking and powerful youth, was reduced to accepting sexual exchanges from the lowest caste of street women. Before the beating he’d been desired by the ladies and always successful with them, but afterwards, he was even barred from the brothels.
When Gruen dreamed at night, after a day of scrounging and bartering and making deals, it was always of retribution for what had been done to him. Always his dreams were filled with violence and bloody outcomes, with him running away in some dreams, toward an unknown in others.
The first skirmishes after The Race happened outside The Hovels and far from Gruen’s rickety housing “unit,” which wasn’t much more than a shed. Nothing so thrown together could ever be considered a unit. Its mildly protective panels had been slapped together, and they turned to mush after a storm. He was constantly patching and replacing elements, and the whole assemblage relied on power stolen from wherever he could find it. But this was common in The Hovels.
His one prized possession, just acquired, he kept chained to a cement block with a large iron ring on top. He’d traded for the chain and had poured the concrete block himself. It was still setting but already strong enough to do what he needed.
Gruen let it be known that he would happily kill anyone who fucked with his bike.
In the middle of one of his chase-or-be-chased dreams, he had been awakened by the sound of a crash or a boom. His first instinct was to jump out of bed and check his bike. He pushed aside the tattered covers under which he slept and ran to the doorway. But something stopped him. Another crash, which lasted longer and ended with a loud thud. It was too far away to be right outside his door, so he stopped and listened.
He heard another, unusual noise, as if something heavy was being ripped apart. This was too tantalizing to ignore, so he pulled on wrinkled pants and went to peer out into the dark night.
Nothing. No sound at all. It was still hot, and the humidity felt as heavy as a blanket against his skin. He thought he must have imagined it. Thought his mind was playing tricks. That his dream had invaded his waking. He turned to go back to bed and then . . .
A crash nearby. And after the crash, a pounding sound. It came from the direction of one of the InComs. And then came repeated bashing noises. Now he had to find out what was going on out there.
He threw on a T-shirt and some shoes and headed out toward the noise, rubbing the sleep from his good eye and sliding his hunting knife into the sheath strapped to his leg. He crept along the walls of the other hovels and soon came upon a sight he could not believe.
An InCom was completely ripped from its stand. This was no small feat. These screens had been welded to their stands, and the stands were embedded deep into concrete. The screens themselves were protected by an outer layer of thick plastic, and the speakers were located high above. Whoever or whatever had done this had some mechanical help. Or perhaps some explosive had been used to weaken the base? He wondered how that could be.
Sirens, loud and insistent, told Gruen he must get away. But he lingered, thinking it might be useful to overhear what the Detainers would say. Or they would send troops for this. No, not a big enough problem to rouse troops. It was well known that all InCom machines were tied to a grid the Watchers monitored at all times in case of malfunction. So of course, they would already know about this one going down.
But then Gruen heard more sirens, these seeming to go in the other direction. And with the first group almost upon him, he hid behind a nearby pile of rubble. Crouching down, he heard the first vans pull up. Out came a number of Detainers.
“Another one, for shit’s sake,” the first Detector out of the van grumbled. “What’s going on?” He wasn’t trying to keep it quiet, either. “Why does this have to happen in the middle of the night anyway?”
“What’re you grousing about, Stanyard? You haven’t been called out in over a month. What, d’you have some in with the captain that he lets you sleep all the time?”
“I heard he’s screwing the captain’s wife, and she won’t let him get called.”
They all laughed and Stanyard said, “Have you seen that bitch? I wouldn’t screw her if the captain paid me.”
Gruen heard scuffling and then . . .
“Looks like there’s been an explosion.” It was Stanyard’s voice. Gruen could tell them apart already.
“Yeah, electrical I bet,” one of the others said. “But it also looks like something dragged it off its base. Look here. Tracks.”
They shined powerful flashlights around the area, and Gruen crouched down lower. If they found him, he’d pretend to be sleeping off a drunk.
Then Stanyard was talking to The Globe. Telling the Watchers what they saw. And then . . . more sirens far off, coming their way, followed by loud shouts of “Niko, Niko, Niko” that faded as quickly as they’d begun.
Before they piled back into the van, Stanyard said to the Tower, “Really? That many? Well, they can’t all be electrical.” He stopped talking for a few minutes and then told the Tower, “Hey, there’s no way a bot could fix this. Get a crew out here with a replacement. But the wiring’s all mangled, so they’ll have to fix that too. And we can’t tell what it looks like underground. It’s dark out here, you know.” He listened again and then said, “Yeah, yeah. We’re doing the best we can.”
Talking to the Tower stopped, and Stanyard said to the others, “Something’s going on. They don’t know what. Nothing we can do here. Might as well go back to screwing the captain’s wife.”
They all laughed, and Gruen heard the van motor start.
Gruen had never thought of himself as particularly smart. Cagey and tough, but not all that bright. He knew he’d have to ask Niko about this. He’d go back to that warehouse to look for Niko early in the morning before
anyone else was up. Niko would know what it was all about. Unless he’d already escaped. But no, Gruen thought, there was no way he’d have gotten out so fast.
He set his old wind-up clock to four and fell asleep quickly, wearing his pants with the knife still strapped to his leg.
“It’s started on its own,” Father Ignatius explained to Niko. “I hadn’t expected that, but it’s good because the Regime didn’t expect it, either. It will take time for them to figure out what’s happening and how.”
As they spoke, they could hear faint shouts outside of “Niko, Niko, Niko.”
“Let me show you what’s been prepared.”
They went to the model of Infinius, and as they skirted its perimeter, Father Ignatius pointed to tiny color-coded pins strategically placed here and there.
“The red ones are ammunition stores. Orange for fires to be set. Green for InCom screens to topple. Blue are hiding places with quick access. Plain silver denotes relatively safe gathering spots, and black where to put graffiti or signs.”
Niko followed the Father’s pointing finger. He nodded, taking it all in. “Even right outside The Compound?” he asked. “Isn’t that too risky?”
“We have someone who knows how to take scraps of technology and repurpose them. He’s made some remote-controlled devices to set off explosions once they’ve been hidden. The bigger challenge was recruiting someone with access to The Compound to place the explosives. They’re small, so once placed, they’re undetectable. And the Regime doesn’t sweep The Compound for devices because they’re arrogant enough to think no one could get inside. Once the signal goes out to set off the charges, The Compound wall will have gaping holes all around it.”
“What about The Perimeters?” Niko asked.
“That’s more difficult because of the Watchers in The Globe, the guards at stations all along The Perimeters, the fact that there are multiple layers, and that it’s all out in the open.” Father Ignatius shook his head. “Now that you’re here, we have to come up with a plan to get you through there. And there’s El. We have to get both of you as far beyond Infinius as possible so they can’t track you.”
“The smugglers get through all the time. They have tunnels, I’ve heard.”
“That’s true. But guards know all about the tunnels. They’re all on the take. No one gets out or back in that way without paying a fee.” Father Ignatius studied the model intently, seeming to look for an answer in its miniature streets and buildings. “We’ll have to get you out fast.”
“Maybe I should stay and help you fight. I know the street. Its people. The gangs. I’ve done business with everyone.”
Father Ignatius shook his head. “As long as the Regime can’t catch you, they can’t parade you around to show the people how you capitulated, how you support them. No, you’re more valuable as a rallying cry. As a symbol for people. No, you’ve got to get out. And the same for El. Her name will appear soon, too. And her picture will be copied from the InCom screens and plastered all over the walls and hovels and fences of the city. To make your names and images stronger, both of you have to disappear. In many ways a myth can be more potent than a man.”
“Do you know where El is?”
Father Ignatius nodded. “She’s safe for now.”
“I gave her something, Father. Before all this happened. She promised to hide it for me. Something valuable that you could use.”
Gruen awoke to his alarm buzzing and the loud hum of motorcycles outside as they circled the edge of The Hovels. The hum turned into roaring and shifting gears. Behind their roar, shouts of “Niko” broke the predawn.
He slid his feet into an old pair of sneakers with deep treads, the pair he always wore on marauding forays. He unchained his bike and stowed the chain and lock behind the seat and took off, blending with the other cycles. He’d never heard so many Detainers out on bikes at the same time. He figured they must have called up all the off-duties and reserves. All this to catch one kid. Fuck them, he breathed, and headed for the warehouse.
Gruen was no revolutionary. Nor was he some altruist out to save his buddy. No, he remembered something he heard once: In confusion, there is opportunity. He figured with all the turmoil, there was money to be made. Maybe I can turn in Niko for the reward, he thought, but then immediately disregarded it. He had his own set of principles. Turning on Niko would mean capitulating to the system he hated. He’d sooner die fighting than give in to that cheating, lying, scumbag crowd of thieves who’d disfigured him.
With all the motorcycles roaring through The Hovels, no one took any notice of him as he escaped into the backstreets toward The Ring. It was still dark, and he noticed that some streetlamps had already been toppled. This worked to his advantage also, and soon he pulled up in the alley where Niko had hidden. Gruen walked his bike behind the very same crumbling dumpster. Then, scouring the street with his one good eye, he crept toward the boarded-up warehouse. Seeing no entry point, he found the fence and the hole and figured this must be the way they came and went.
Gripping the handle of his hunting knife, Gruen squatted down and crawled through the hole, following the building wall to the padlocked half door. Seeing it was unlocked, he pushed it open and walked into the small vestibule between the two doors.
This one was solid . . . and locked. Should he knock? Wait? No use trying to break it down or pick the lock. He heard muffled voices. One sounded like Niko. But was he sure? He rapped quickly on the door, and the voices ceased. Standing as far to the side of the door as he could in the cramped space, he pulled out the knife and held it in striking mode.
The door opened inward but no one appeared. Gruen held his breath. He could feel his pulse thumping against his temples, feel the stagnant heat of the space, and then cooler air coming from the other side of the open door. One movement, one signal that he was in trouble, one sound. The knife was poised to strike.
Then Father Ignatius stepped forward and turned to see Gruen.
“Yes?” he said. “Who are you?”
“Where’s Niko?” Gruen spoke in a harsh voice. “I gotta find Niko.”
“Are you a friend?”
Niko appeared at the Father’s side.
“Gruen. What’re you doing here, man? It’s dangerous. You can’t be seen with me.”
“Let me in.”
They led him inside and locked the door.
“You know what’s going on out there?” Gruen turned from one to the other. “The whole city’s going crazy. They want you bad, man. And they’ll find you, too.”
“You planning on that reward?” Niko asked.
Gruen sheathed his knife and took in the model of Infinius. He poked his chin toward it.
“What the hell’s that?”
But Niko was wary. “How about it? You takin’ me in for the money?”
Gruen shook his head and walked over to the model. “That’s some juiced thing right there,” he said. “Naw, I ain’t wanna take you in. I wanna help you. But also I got an idea.”
Father Ignatius started to speak, but Niko held out his arm to stop him.
“What idea’s that?”
Gruen wandered around the model. From the other side he looked up and turned his head to see better with his good eye.
“You remember that guy, Fuller? The one who got sick and told you about them papers?”
“Yeah.”
“He sent his Scrounger over my place yesterday looking for a score. We traded a couple things, and then I got to thinking about how useful he might be. I’m thinking he could fuck up the InCom. And even the Watchers’ machines? Wouldn’t he be? I mean, suppose somebody other than Villinkash”—Gruen whispered the name—“could get a message out on the InCom? Huh?”
Again, Father Ignatius started to speak, and again, Niko cut him off.
“How would he get inside?” Niko asked. He was calm, very quiet, like he knew Gruen had something.
Gruen showed a sly smile as he came all the way around the model.
“See, this here tells me you got a plan. Plus there’s them papers you showed me that one night. Remember?”
Niko nodded slowly, sizing up Gruen.
“Well, I got something could be used to help your plan along.”
“What’s that?” Niko asked.
“First, what’s in it for me?”
“I can make it worth your while, depending on what you’ve got to offer.”
“Someone who can get into the systems,” said Gruen. “And once inside, Fuller can do his number.”
Niko looked at Father Ignatius. “This is what I meant before,” he said. “I have plans that show what your model here leaves out. And if Gruen can get Fuller inside the tech systems . . .”
Father Ignatius nodded, looking from Niko to Gruen. “Are you sure you can get someone inside? That part of the city is really well guarded. Even more than The Compound.”
“I have this guy . . .”
Father Ignatius held up one hand. “No, don’t tell me. If I’m captured, the less I know, the better. I’d rather lie than know. They’d stop at nothing to torture it out of me. That’s why we’ve kept each operation walled off from the others. No one knows the whole plan.”
“Except you,” Niko said. “You came up with it, no?”
“Not entirely. Anyway, I’ll die before I endanger anyone else. I decided that long ago.”
“Then we have to get those plans of the underground and tech systems,” Niko said. “We should go before it gets light, which is soon.”
“I can ride you wherever they are,” Gruen offered. “Where did you hide them anyways?”
“It’s better if you get Fuller and whoever this infiltrator is. Tell them to be ready. When?” Niko looked at Father Ignatius.
He looked at his watch and counted with his fingers. “Tomorrow night, midnight it will begin. Is that enough time?”
Gruen shrugged. “It’ll have to be. But they’ll want payment.”
Niko moved toward the door. “The Father and I will get the plans and the payment. Meet us back here at ten tonight when it’s dark. I’ll have plenty of money for you then.”
A Place Called Zamora Page 16