by Brad C Scott
“How ‘bout the meaning of death?” says Evans. She mad-dogs the madam as she passes by, marksman rifle gripped tight.
The madam dares not reply.
It’s a damn fine collection of flesh, though not the reception I was expecting. After the run-in with Los Solicitantes, the locals we encountered on the rest of our walk scattered at our approach. This’s a hell of a lot better than fight or flight, but still disconcerting. With the city besieged by disease and federal forces, the streetwalkers’ ardent presence seems a macabre masquerade in the midst of death.
“Where are the men?” mutters Murphy.
“Inside,” says Anderson. “They don’t want to provoke the enforcers.”
An LED display on the building behind them confirms they’ve already chosen their side: Welcome Enforcers! Half price for our Special Liberators! Peering up at the fissured and faded exterior of the dozen-story building, its cornice crowned by pink neon flames, it’s easy to imagine it filled by off-duty enforcers tonight. Bedding the conquerors will ensure business, no question, but survival? A lot of nerves show with the skin, the whores skittish despite their smiles and posing. Their eagerness is nothing but tinsel. Seems they know the score, too.
“Why do the enforcers get all the good deals?” says Murphy.
“Why don’t you shut up?” snaps Evans.
“What’s the matter, Red,” says Murphy, “miss your calling?”
“I will so end you,” says Evans.
“Stow it,” says Worthy. “Eyes sharp, stay focused – this isn’t neutral ground.”
Visors retracted and weapons down, we continue past the whores’ welcome onto the main strip. With the power restored, all the lights are lit up, a surreal spectacle in the bleak gray of early morning. LED signs, plasma tracery, and glow bulbs grace or cheapen the decaying brownstones and concrete multi-stories flanking the broad avenue. Neon signs luminesce above vendor stalls islanding the old asphalt, most displaying Korean or Japanese characters. Service drones cruise the airspace overhead, maneuvering past streamers of glow bulbs crisscrossing the street and holoprojected ads cast by emitter pylons. Their humming propulsion and projected sound bites get swallowed up in the clamor of the crowd.
The District should be a ghost town this time of day, yet it’s packed with locals, the throng forcing us to close ranks and slow our pace. It’s also not the usual crowd of pleasure-seekers and desperados. Whole families mill about in stunned huddles, slow to make way and looking like they got here in a hurry. I step past a woman rocking a child in each arm, girls no older than five, both still in their PJs. As she moves away, I note the revolver stuffed into the back of her jeans. Most of the adults carry, many with antiquated rifles slung from straps or gripped tight. All eyeball us with suspicion and smoldering hostility. Only the vendors jabbering at us in foreign tongues seem happy to see us. Reminds me of my teens, when I was one of them, refugees looking for a safe place and someone to blame.
“Poor bastards,” says Murphy. “They’re scared shitless.”
“Scared people do stupid things,” says Worthy. “Keep your guards up.”
From the conversations we overhear, there’s only one topic of interest: the invasion. That’s how the locals see our coming. I wish to hell they were wrong.
◊ ◊ ◊
“Redeemer!” calls a man, detaching himself from the railing fronting a saloon built into an old brownstone. Extending his arms wide, he approaches with a barker’s grin. “Might I have a word?”
I raise a hand to call a halt and face my interlocutor. He has the look of an influential vice peddler with his burgundy checkered vest and greased-back hair. And that brush mustache screams disrepute. The dead black eyes and face scarred by hard living and radiation confirm it: a real pillar of the community, this one.
“JD Walsh,” he intones, voice like honeyed smoke, “owner of this fine establishment.”
The saloon is straight from an old western – wood-railed porch shaded by a slanted awning, swinging wood-slat doors, a large signboard proclaiming, The Gem. An eerie blend of cowboy guitar and electric fiddle streams from the cutouts in the entrance, both inspirational and dirge, like a funeral at dawn. Hoarse laughter and drunken curses follow it out, made by the dim shapes of revelers seen through the smoky glass flanking the entrance. A way station for the wretched to weather the storm.
“Redeemer Adams,” I reply, nodding.
“Please forgive me – I can see you’re eager to be elsewhere – but perhaps you can explain what’s going on in my city today?”
“Did you miss the announcements?”
“Oh, no, they were quite straightforward,” he says, hooking his thumbs in his belt, “but sadly, lacking in details about the future. For interest: will I be able to keep my doors open? Or will the feds, in all their glorious wisdom, be shutting down my operation?”
I exchange looks with three men in cowboy getups lounging on the saloon’s porch, hands hanging within easy reach of the modded revolvers at their belts. All exude the lethal ease of gunslingers ready to draw. A glance to either side confirms that the squad has redeployed into a perimeter around me, eyes out, a sensible move since Patton and our tactical drones aren’t with us – their presence would be too provocative. I catch Evans’ eye and she nods, her eyes cutting back to watch the men on the porch.
I turn my attention back to JD Walsh. “That’s not my call.”
“Oh, of course not, Redeemer, of course not. Not you. You and yours have always afforded us respect. But you’re not in charge anymore, are you?”
I raise an eyebrow at him. To admit we were ever in charge would be to say we’re responsible for the community’s character. We’re not. At best, we’re caretakers here, the locals thriving within our protective sphere of influence. Businessmen like this piece of work know that DRR isn’t concerned with stopping prostitution, gambling, or drugs. That’s the constabulary’s job to ignore since they’re funded by dirty money like his. Or does he think that DRR is dirty, too, corrupted by federal funding to support an op we don’t condone? It’s a disturbing parallel.
“Well,” says JD, eyes narrowed in speculation, “how the wind changes direction. Condolences all around, it seems.”
“Mister Walsh, I can’t tell you what I don’t know. I do know that DRR will do everything in its power to protect the citizenry.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt that. Why else would so many of our fine citizens be gathered here? The promise of your protection is the glue that binds us together. And, it’s the one thing keeping so many of us from doing something… foolish.”
“Like joining the protests?”
“Perhaps,” he replies, eyes unblinking. “Or abandoning the city and leaving everything behind. Foolish ideas – don’t you agree?”
I sweep my gaze over the eavesdroppers loitering beyond the squad’s perimeter. Some are dressed as extravagantly as JD Walsh, other business leaders. None meet my gaze, though, maintaining a façade of indifference, but I know my answer will grow wings.
“You’ve got time,” I say. “The enforcers won’t shut down everything overnight. If you don’t cause trouble, they’ll leave you alone. For a week, maybe more. After that, it will depend on how willing you are to work with them. Business may change, human nature won’t.”
He dirties me with a wide grin. “Thank you, Redeemer. A straight answer is so hard to come by in these… uncertain times.”
“If you’ll excuse me.” I turn and signal the squad to fall in.
As we continue on our way, JD Walsh shouts out, “When you’re off duty, come on by my place! The Gem is open for business! Booze and pussy half price for our noble reclaimers!”
Wonderful.
◊ ◊ ◊
We arrive at our local station, the Jewel. The place was a jewelry exchange before the war, abandoned like most places after the nuclear strike. DRR occupied it twenty years back, choosing it for its proximity to ground zero – close to downtown, but not too close –
and its intact condition. The only indication that remains of its original function is a large sign on the outside spelling “JEWEL” – the “RY” fell off long ago. Hence the name.
Passing along the long line of agitated people seeking entry into the station, we pretend not to hear the pleas for help cast our way. Nodding at the reclaimers manning the entrance, we head inside, passing from chaos to order in a few measured strides. The waiting and admin areas are filled with anxious people, but it’s no madhouse, the locals composed under the scrutiny of the reclaimers assisting them and the sentry drones in the corners. The residents know that disrespect will get them shown the door – we’re not at their beck and call like the constabulary.
We enter the eye of the storm, the command center. A vast display panel covers one wall, its surface gridded with hundreds of real-time feeds from around the zone. Many of the images show active conflicts – protests, rioting, standoffs, and firefights – the shifting scenes of a city in crisis. Three rows of consoles line the floor before it, the workstations manned by tech specialists manipulating holoscreens and speaking into commsets. By all the activity, they have their hands full, yet there’s no desperation in evidence. Good: the center still holds.
“Worthy, you’re with me,” I say. “The rest of you: ask around, see what’s what.”
Worthy and I make our way to the glorified conference room dubbed the shark tank, its transparisteel walls tinted black. Nodding to the reclaimers standing guard, we push through the doors into the midst of a different but predictable conflict. We’re often at odds with the zone constabularies – jurisdiction issues, mostly. We try to cooperate, but it’s hard with so much corruption infecting the relationship. The LA constabulary is hobbled by it, bound as they are to organized crime. We step aside when we can, but when we don’t… conflict. Like now.
“First Redeemer – with all due respect – that is not on the table,” seethes a man dressed in the light-blue uniform of an LA constable, a sheriff’s star on his chest. “My men –”
“Your men!” interrupts First Redeemer Kathryn Jace, plated neck to toe in a reinforced hard suit, a curved sword hilt jutting up over one shoulder. “Your men are either stepping aside or joining the protests. Look there!” She extends a gauntleted hand at one of the transparisteel walls where holoprojected screens display real-time feeds of a protest in progress. Some of the protesters appear to be wearing familiar, light-blue uniforms.
“Isolated incidents, Kathryn. If you’d just –”
Jace holds up a hand and, just like that, the chief constable shuts up. There aren’t many that can stand up to her when she’s in a temper. Or when she’s not. Kathryn Jace, my senior by five years and one of my personal heroes, is more loyal to the oaths and the mission than anyone, a paladin in her devotion. She’s stationed in Los Angeles because she doesn’t let politics or personalities get in the way of results. Her men call her the Juggernaut.
She snaps her head in my direction, the controlled burn in her eyes damping down as hers meet mine. Taking that as our cue, Worthy and I step forward into the gathering of underlings caught in her gravity. These include two reclaimer chiefs, a couple of tech specialists, and a pair of deputies accompanying the chief constable. No one looks happy.
“Malcolm,” says Jace, extending a hand. “James. Finally, someone who’s here to help me and not stab me in the back.”
“First Redeemer,” I say, receiving an iron shake.
“I’m glad you made it back for this. We need you. I need you. This is only day one, and it’s already devolved into a mangle.”
“The mood is pretty dark outside,” says Worthy.
“This is just the start. We’ve some long nights ahead.” She glances sidelong at the constables, eyes sharp with speculation as she reaches back a hand to check the tie on her long tail of raven hair. “I’ve been doing my best to explain to Chief Constable Henry just how Chinese this entire situation is. Trying to get him to back off and let me do my job, which, as of this morning and the start of this operation, is keeping people alive. He won’t listen, though.”
“I’m standing right here,” says the chief constable, arms crossed tight.
Jace ignores him. “No, the chief constable seems to think his precious prerogatives are more important than saving lives. I shouldn’t blame him, though – he’s ignorant. He doesn’t realize the hammer has fallen.”
“As you say,” I reply. I can’t help but cut glances toward the chief constable, his face ugly with suppressed anger. I’ve met Henry before and haven’t come away with much of a favorable opinion. He’s the sort to keep his head down and let others do the fighting.
“I repeat: the hammer has fallen,” she continues, slamming a fist down into her cupped hand. “The Department of Safety and Security has come in full force to occupy the city. Within two days, they will control ninety percent of downtown, everything but the underground. Any dissent, peaceful or otherwise, will be quashed. Armed protesters may be shot on sight. No one can prevent this: not the constabulary, not the cartels, not the gangs, not the NDL. All we can do is try to maintain order and save as many lives as possible.”
“I’m in agreement on every point,” I say.
“So. DRR can accomplish this, but only if a certain chief constable will stop kissing cartel ass and help us save the city.”
“Kathryn!” barks the chief constable. “You’re out of line!”
Jace’s anger is legitimate. His isn’t. One or more of the cartels are probably pressuring him to aid them in salvaging as much of their operations as possible. Not to save lives, but to protect their miserable infrastructures of poison and profit.
Jace spins and steps into the chief constable’s grill. “This is the end of business as usual, you damned fool! The cartels, the gangs, the terror cells: they’re all going to be wiped out! You’ve got nothing to fear from them anymore, Henry. But if they still have you by the balls?”
Henry works his jaws, outraged, and turns to go. “Have a good day, First Redeemer.”
“Only with your help,” she says to his back. “You’re not leaving until I get it.”
He stops at the doors, hand outstretched, before turning back. “You have no authority –”
“To detain you? I do. Interfering with reclamation operations carries a severe penalty.”
“You wouldn’t dare.” He looks to his deputies for help, but none’s on offer.
“I would.” Jace closes the distance between them, piercing Henry with her eyes. “I take no pleasure in this, but hurt feelings are the least of the casualties that concern me now. The city is on the verge. Whichever way things fall will depend on us. Stop getting in my way and help me. I need your men on the front lines with my reclaimers – keeping the peace, maintaining curfew, arresting malcontents – not enabling protests that will end up getting people killed. Help me, Henry. For God’s sake, quit thinking about yourself! The enforcers will show no mercy, but we will. Work with me, or I’ll damn well roll right over you!”
The chief constable stood jaw clenched and wide-eyed through all that, not backing down. It appears he’s about to explode and fire back. Something in Jace makes him reconsider, though, and it’s more than the words. It’s her. Jace doesn’t talk about saving lives like some damn politico with ulterior motives. She means it. And she doesn’t make empty threats.
He looks away. “All right, Kathryn. Alright.”
“What, Henry? What?”
“You’ll have my full support,” he says, grimacing and meeting her eyes. “I’ll have my men work with yours until the crisis is past.”
“Good,” she says, holding out a hand. He takes it. “I’m glad we’re eye to eye on this, Henry. Drinks will be on me when the dust settles.” She releases him and turns toward the reclaimers standing nearby. “Martel, Thomson, coordinate with deputies Cortez and King. Specialists Vance and James will assist. Move! Henry, thanks again, but I need some privacy.”
In short order, the sha
rk tank is vacated save for Jace, Worthy, and myself. We gather around the holomap console dominating the center of the room as Jace activates it to display the geophysical topography of the downtown area, a translucent 3D representation of the city center in miniature. Hovering red and orange glyphs indicate current or former sites of urban warfare between enforcers and armed dissidents. Too many.
“How’s Athena?” I ask. “Any pups yet?” Athena’s Jace’s version of family, a husky she adopted some years back while on vacation in Alaska. Her idea of “vacation” being the Iditarod, a thousand-mile dog-sledding race.
That strikes the bell, drawing a smile. “I’m a grandmother now. Kept two out of five – Selene and Helios. They’ll be good fighters, like their mother.”
“You going next year?”
Her smile evaporates. “If I make it until March. How was your walk in?”
“Uncomfortable,” I reply.
“Impressions?”
“DSS wants to marginalize us. We’re nonessential: window dressing.”
“They don’t want us at their party,” adds Worthy.
“Not entirely.” Jace leans on her fists, peering across the console at us like a raptor assessing its next meal. “I need your help.”
“You’ve got it,” I say.
“This is top shelf, Malcolm. I’d go myself, but I’m needed here in the District. Besides, for this mission, a soft touch is needed.”
“You calling me soft?” I ask.
“Never.” She begins pointing out locations on the holomap. “Take your squad to Union Station, where DSS has their command center. They’re having some ongoing issues with the locals there, so be careful on your approach. After you check in, you’ll proceed via metro tunnel to Red Line Station, here. A group of constables will rendezvous with you and provide escort to the City Hall Bunker, located underground here. That’s where the council is at.”