by Liam Clay
A man gets out of the jeep. Even from afar, his oiled hair and contrived bearing are instantly recognizable. The sight of him dislodges a slew of memories and - holy shit, this guy killed the Constant. Like, killed her dead. A storm of conflicting emotions rises inside me, each fighting tooth and nail for supremacy. Their resulting compromise is a sensation of numb shock. She always just seemed so indestructible, you know? Like a classical marble bust of a human, impervious to age and shifting cultural tastes. Oh, how the mighty fall. Recollections of my own battlefield behavior threaten to surface as well, but I shove these back down. (I can’t afford to be hamstrung by guilt just now.)
Returning my attention to the gate, I see Slick’s henchpeople exit the jeep after him. Fatigues and short brimmed caps prevail. They pull back the rear flaps of the three transports, allowing dozens of soldiers to jump down into the dust. All are yawning, spitting and armed.
But only one has licorice red hair peeking out from under her cap.
Some of my fellow captives have begun to stir, and the rest are roused by the squeal of metal as Slick blinks the gate open. The Topsiders enter the compound and fan out around us. This entire procedure has a choreographed air to it, like the opening act of a well-rehearsed play. Slick taps a small device on his lapel, and uses an amplified cough to gain our attention.
“West Enders! I regret to report that you have been found guilty of treason against Opacity - a crime that carries a death sentence with it, unfortunately. Some of you will have seen that sentence carried out on your leader, the woman formerly known as the Form Constant. For those of you who did not, I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news.”
There are wails from the crowd at this, but Slick rides right over them, warming to his topic now.
“You will notice, however, that we have chosen to stay your own punishments. That is because we are giving you the chance to atone for your transgressions through service.” He sweeps an arm around to take in the camp. “Here you will be instructed in the fine art of combat. And once your training is complete, you will be charged with advancing the interests of the very people you tried to destroy: Topsiders like us, your new instructors. Emerge victorious, and you may consider yourselves pardoned.” He produces a boyish grin. “So, what do you say?”
“I say go fuck yourself!” Someone shouts. For a horrible instant I think it was Kalana, but the captive who stands up is (or was) one of the Constant’s most trusted Fractals. A dour rake of a woman with iron gray ponytails, word has it her anger issues have their own anger issues. Hard not to respect her nerve, though. “You really expect us to believe that if we fight for you, Korezon will let us go afterward?” She says scornfully. “You’ll just kill the lot of us as soon as the job’s done.” She turns to face the crowd. “So I say we fight back, right here and now! Come on you bunch of limp dicks, what have we got to lose?”
Slick laughs, clearly pleased. “Quite a lot, actually. You see, my superiors were all for implanting you with tracking chips or neural detonators. But unlike them, I respect you people - admire you, even. I knew the threat of death wouldn’t be enough to guarantee your cooperation. And so I insisted that we hold your children as collateral instead.”
I ain’t got no kids.” The rake retorts.
“Maybe not, but I’ll bet some of your friends do.”
A hollow grows in my belly as the realization sinks in: there are no children here. The rake - so ready to go down swinging a second ago - falls back to the dirt with a thud.
“I am glad that you grasp the gravity of the situation.” Slick says pleasantly. “And before anyone asks, we have arranged to provide assurance that your offspring are alive and well. Now, in light of your recent exertions, I am giving you the rest of the day off to rest.” He gestures to his team. “When one of my sergeants calls your name, I want you to form up in a line behind them. They will escort you to your tents.”
A bulky man (who I recognize as Red’s urine tossing colleague) steps forward and calls out a name. Everyone looks around, waiting to see who will answer the call. After a significant delay, a young woman stands up and shuffles over to join the Topsider.
By this point, you may be wondering how I am taking all of this. Well, part of me is just thankful to be alive at all. (The Threshers must have fished me out of the water after I lost consciousness, otherwise I’d be a bloated piñata right now.) And sure, using our children as insurance is diabolical, but they could just as easily have killed them all out of hand. This is actually about as good an outcome as we could have hoped for. Theoretically I know this to be true, anyway. In practice, I want to beat Slick to death with his own inflated sense of self-worth, the posh twat. That’s my daughter he’s stolen.
Red is the next sergeant to take attendance. Kalana’s name is the first she calls out; mine is the fourth. I try to catch the cop’s eye as I pass her, but she ignores me, as does my ex a moment later. Kalana I can understand, though - she is lost in her own private world. Comforting the Sophie who lives in her mind, maybe.
When everyone has been assigned a place, Slick addresses us again.
“Thank you for your co-operation. My name is Captain Porter, by the way. And these,” he indicates his henchpeople, “are lieutenants Menta and Voranez. You can think of us as your parents. We are here to take care of you, but if you misbehave there will be repercussions. Your sergeant, on the other hand, will be more like an older sibling. Follow their lead and you can expect to be treated well. Causing trouble, however, may end in a much different outcome.”
A light wind picks up, stirring the trees beyond the fence without doing anything to cut the heat, which is growing worse as the sun rises in the terrible sky. Apparently satisfied that we have absorbed his message, Porter executes a half assed salute.
“Dismissed.”
Turning on their heels, the officers saunter back to the command jeep. Red watches them go without expression, and then leads us toward a tent in one corner of the grounds. On the way, we pass a lofty steel tripod with a reflective sphere mounted to its top. A quick check reveals more than a dozen of these devices scattered about the enclosure.
We reach our tent’s strip plastic door, and Red stands back to let us enter. Inside, we find two rows of cots divided by a wide aisle, with sinks and basic showers at the far end. To anyone who has ridden in on a war movie or two (so basically everyone here) the whole setup looks very familiar. The question, it occurs to me as I walk down the aisle, is this: has our new home been modeled on a true military camp, or are these people just imitating the same drivel I’ve been watching? I wonder if all eight Underworld districts have been set up in similar environs.
None of it really matters, though. The bottom line is, we have to jump through whatever hoops Porter holds out for us, because no one here is going to risk endangering the children. Or would they? Most of the people in this tent are criminals of some flavor, myself included. And as much as I’d like to paint us as benevolent Robin Hood types, that’s not quite the case. Some of these bastards might have no problem selling other people’s kids down the river for personal gain.
The woman in front of me veers toward a cot on the left. I take the one across from her on the right. It’s even hotter in here, but I can feel myself relaxing anyway. It’s the sun and the sky I’m having trouble adapting to. Red is still standing near the entrance, surveying her new conscripts. She looks pissed off.
“Listen up!” She shouts once everyone has chosen a bed. “My name is Tikal. The first thing we need to get clear is, I don’t want to be here any more than you do. But that doesn’t mean I’m on your side. The sooner I get you trained up and off dying, the sooner I get to go home.” She carves chunks out of us with her eyes. “You hear that, Underworlders? I don’t give half a shit about you, but I do have a vested interest in teaching you to fight. And for anyone who thinks they already can, I want you to remember how you got here. Not by winning, was it? A thug and a soldier are two very different things. So here’s
how you get through this. Do as you’re told, keep your heads low, and for christ’s sake don’t ask questions. Our good Captain Porter likes to talk, not listen. Run your mouth and he’ll put a bullet in it. Understood?”
Crickets. Only the expression though - I can’t imagine any wildlife surviving in this wasteland we’ve been brought to.
“Good. Now get some rest, your training starts early tomorrow.” As she stalks out the door, I find myself wondering if she’s single. Which is fucking ridiculous. How can I be thinking about sex at a time like this? Having a dick is the worst sometimes.
“Hey buddy, glad to see you made it through.”
I turn to find Delez settling onto the cot next to mine.
“Likewise.” I reply. Any familiar face is welcome right now.
“So what happened to you?” He asks. “Last we saw, you were about to take a swan dive off those freight containers. Then some fucker opened up on Girders with a rocket launcher and we had to cut a retreat. By the time we found another way out, it was pretty much surrendering time.”
I provide him with a bare bones recounting of my Kaleidoscope escapades. “What about my friend.” I finish. “Was he captured with you?”
The Fractal looks pained. “Afraid not. He started coughing pretty bad after you left - too long without a mask, I guess. That muddy broad hustled him off in a hurry. They seemed like decent people though, so assuming he pulled through, your boy is probably better off than we are.”
He’s right of course, but that does nothing to check the guilt. “Here’s hoping.” I say under my breath.
“So,” he continues in a lighter tone, “any guesses on where we are or who these shit stains are lining us up to fight?”
“That would be a no. Heights or foundations, none of us are taught to give a damn about the outside world, are we? Most of my geography comes from movies. Kung fu flicks set in Darwinist China, gangster epics in the EU fragmentation zone, etcetera. And who knows how much of that shit is real?”
Delez nods. “That’s a pretty big knowledge gap, huh?”
“Hey, what are you princesses whispering about over there?”
Looking past Delez, I see a girl eyeing us up from the next cot over. She is petite and agile looking, with elfin features that are all but hidden behind overlapping sheaths of electric blonde hair.
“None of your damn business.” Delez fires back amiably. Then he turns to see who he’s just insulted, and recoils noticeably.
“I mean, that is to say... well -”
I try to keep a straight face as the Fractal composes a poem in ums and ahs. Either cupid has just skewered him (which seems unlikely) or he thinks this girl is some kind of dangerous lunatic. When he shows no signs of producing coherent speech, she magics a file into existence and starts trimming her nails.
“What’s his problem?” She asks me. Since I have no idea, I decide to answer her original question.
“We were trying to guess where we are.”
“Smashing. And what have you geniuses come up with?”
“So far? Nada.”
“Oh, bravo. Although you deserve kudos for honesty, I suppose. Not many people are so comfortable with their own stupidity.”
Now don’t get me wrong, I’m all for sarcastic chicks - but this seems a little excessive given the circumstances.
“Why thank you.” I reply coolly. “How about you: got any searing revelations, transcendent epiphanies?”
“Well what do you know, a fucking wordsmith. What do you do, wank off to the dictionary?”
“Only if it’s got pictures. And I’ll bet you have no idea where we are either.”
The nail file stops. Her eyes - a crystallized green - find mine, and I break out in a sweat all over again. Girl could stare down a panther in heat. Then, out of nowhere, she cracks a broad smile. Bouncing to her feet, she plunks herself down beside Delez, ignoring his squawk of surprise.
“Oh, but I do.” She whispers. “Want me to tell you?” I’m wary of a trick, but she seems genuinely excited now.
“Yes please?”
“Alright, but keep this quiet. It’s better if these Topside fucks think we’re clueless.”
“Fine, now tell us already.”
Another grin, and then: “The Gulf Islands.”
Bomb delivered, she lies back on the cot, hair parting to reveal an old but insanely high end retcom tattoo. Delez is the first to reply.
“But if these are the Gulf Islands, then where are the farms, the greenhouses? Korezon’s reclamation should be in full bloody swing by now, whereas this place looks more like the surface of Mars.”
“But what if the reclamation isn’t what we think it is?” She replies. “Have you ever seen proof that the islands are actually being agriculturalized? Because I sure as hell haven’t.”
I’m starting to catch her up, but I don’t like where she’s going.
“So you’re saying the reclamation is a cover up, and that this,” I indicate the camp, “is Korezon’s true project out here. But if that’s true...” I trail off, unwilling to work through the logic. She finishes the thought for me.
“Then Korezon never intended to solve the Opacian food crisis through Gulf Island farming.”
“Which loads of experts called bullshit on anyway.” Delez adds.
“Right.” She says. “Meaning he must be angling to feed everyone some other way.”
“Some other way that requires an army.” I conclude. The three of us stare at each other - Delez and I horrified, the girl vaguely amused - waiting to see who will be the first to say it.
“Oh balls.” The Fractal mutters finally. “He wants us to invade the Hive, doesn’t he?”
“And that’s not even the half of it.” I say, and proceed to explain my theory about Korezon and the terrorist attacks. By the time I’m done, Delez is looking distinctly green.
“So dismantling the Underworld was all part of some master plan to attack the Designer?”
“Yeah, and so far I’d say it’s going pretty well. I mean, not for us, obviously. But from an operational perspective.”
“I think I’m going to hurl.” Delez says.
“Try to refrain.” The mystery girl replies. “And keep this under your hats, will you? Some of our new bunkmates might not be cool heads like you two - we wouldn’t want to start a panic.” Then she gives me a cursory shove and heads off to the toilets.
“Who the hell was that?” I say when she’s out of earshot. Delez looks at me in amazement.
“Do you seriously not recognize her?”
“Uh, no.”
He laughs uneasily. “That explains why you weren’t pissing yourself. But just look at the hair, man, and the eyes. I know this sounds crazy, but I think that was Peace.”
A scream births itself in my gut and pushes up through my esophagus, trying to claw its way into the world as sound. The end result is a sort of shrill squeak.
“As in the Peace?”
“Yeah.”
“Shit. I mean, just... shit.”
Peace, in case you haven’t heard of her, is one of the Underworld’s most notorious urban legends. The story goes something like this...
CHAPTER 14
Once upon a time there was an affluent, ever so well-heeled Topside family. Majority shareholders in one of the big indie studios, they were genuine media royalty, bankroll unassailable. But this particular family was cursed with that most terrible of afflictions: philanthropic ambition.
On the first day of every month, the reigning matriarch used to descend into the Underworld, husband in tow, to personally feed the huddled masses. And when they had themselves a daughter, she got brought along too. For years the family did this, just the three of them, trusting the Underworlders to open their doors, their mouths and their hearts. And they did, too - the family was beloved. Until the day a lone Underworlder chose to open fire instead.
The family was handing out canned peas from the side of a loaded skiff when it happe
ned. There were hundreds of people around, but no one tried to stop the murderer as he rifled through the dead couple’s clothing. No one, that is, except for the daughter herself. The story goes that she walked up to the man, pulled his gun out of his waistband, and executed him with his own weapon, point blank.
Accounts vary as to what happened next. One version says she hijacked a skiff and took off, another that she dove into the canal and disappeared. But every tale agrees on one point, because someone recorded audio of it.
Before she vanished, her last words to the crowd were, “Enjoy the peas, assholes.”
The tale spread through Opacity faster than a new strain of VD. And so, like King Arthur and the female orgasm before her, our girl joined a vaunted canon of semi-mythical entities. Her real name faded away. She was usually depicted as a rag-clad sprite glimpsed down alleys and darkened hallways, always walking away, head half turned, one emerald eye shining out of the shadows.
She became a symbolic warning against standing idly by in the presence of evil. The Topsiders made a movie about her. And then a reboot of that movie. The story was so powerful that the Underworld actually cleaned up its act for a while. (A little bit, anyway.) And that was where the legend ended. Or so everyone thought until five years later, when a string of Underworld murders began to capture media attention. Yellow line homicides have always been common as the cold, of course, but this case was something different.
First of all, there were a lot of victims. Like, a shit ton of them. Second, each was killed from distance in public spaces with a single bullet to the head. Third, it emerged that every single victim had been present on the day the girl’s parents were murdered. And finally, there was the matter of the calling card.
It took a while for someone to find the first one. (In the absence of a police force, there was no one to search for the sniper’s various shooting positions.) But once the first was discovered and a hunt begun, they just kept turning up.