Machine State

by Brad C Scott

  Worthy clears his throat, the self-righteous bastard. He was right after all – we are heading into the tunnels. I ask Jace, “I thought Redeemer Mathews was serving as liaison.”

  “Plans change,” she says. “Mathews was injured. Gunshot wound – he’s on the table but is expected to survive it. An ambush by Sureños – two of his men weren’t so lucky.”

  “We had a run-in of our own with Los Solicitantes. They wouldn’t back down.”

  “I saw that,” says Jace, nodding down at the holomap and the icon above our encounter’s location. “The Solicitantes are usually hands-off. I’ll review it when there’s time, see if there’s a connection with the other attacks.”

  “How many?” asks Worthy.

  Jace stares steel. “Too many. Gang, militia, and cartel forces have mobilized across the zone. Blending in with the populace, inciting riots, and ambushing anyone in a hard suit. Green hard suits, too. Not fighting each other – fighting us.”

  “What do your informants say?” I ask.

  “Most have gone dark. Some report unusual infighting.”

  “Damn,” mutters Worthy.

  “Yes,” says Jace. “Some of the same groups attacking our patrols today were our allies yesterday. The relationships we’ve built up aren’t stopping them. The leaders I spoke to this morning were frustrated they couldn’t control their men. One complained about a knife wound.”

  “Someone is poisoning the well,” I speculate, “stirring up the local groups and killing off our informants to cover their tracks. Some of the bosses, too, chewed up by power struggles.”

  “The ones I couldn’t reach may be dead,” confirms Jace.

  “New Dawn?” asks Worthy.

  Yeah, that was my thought. The New Dawn of Liberty likes to stir up trouble in the zones west of the Mississippi. As the foremost domestic terrorist group in the nation, with agents inside most zone power groups, NDL would have the resources to oppose federal forces here in LA. Motive, too – they harbor a real hatred toward the enforcers, no surprise given New Dawn’s mission to overthrow the federal government. Strangely, NDL operatives usually don’t target DRR personnel even though the reverse is true. Not that we’ve had much success in reckoning with them – they’re skilled in subterfuge and enjoy popular support. Most zone residents see NDL agents as saints compared to the enforcers. Everything’s subjective on the fringes.

  “Could be,” admits Jace. “All my NDL assets are dark. We’ll sift through the ashes when this is done. For now, we soldier on despite the snakes underfoot.”

  “We’ll get it done,” I say. “How soon do we need to be at the rendezvous?”

  “One hour. Here,” she says, tapping her holobracer to send me the data. “Eleven of the fifteen aldermen have taken shelter in the bunker, enough for a quorum. We need the council’s backing, Malcolm. Without it, we lose most of our local support.”

  “Will they cooperate?”

  “They’d better. Mayor Martinez called for federal assistance on his own prerogative, but the council has to approve the details. They’ll need to sign off on the measures DSS has enacted, retroactively in some cases.” Jace frowns and works her jaws. “Not that I agree with many of those measures, but the alternative is worse. Without the council’s support, anyone with a grudge and enough guns will entrench with whatever power they can grab. Maxwell will respond with more enforcers. More innocents will get chewed up in the crossfire. You have to persuade them.”

  “Count on it.”

  Jace steps back from the holomap, eyes focused inward. “Another five years and LA would be ready to rejoin the country. But not like this – this is so damned unnecessary. And for what – the Shanghai flu?”

  “It’s a manufactured crisis,” says Worthy.

  Her gaze refocuses on us. “The disease is real enough – the death toll passed into triple digits yesterday. Make sure your team has plenty of vaccine and –”

  The building trembles and the lights flicker as an explosion booms nearby. Shattering glass and shouting resound from the command center. The holomap console and displays wink out as the facility duress alarm blares its clarion call.

  “Mother of hell!” growls Jace, hustling from the shark tank as we follow on her heels.

  The center no longer holds.

  The overheads still work, running on backup generators, but nothing else – whatever that explosion was, it took out main power to the station. The giant display and all the workstations are dark, the tech specialists who were manning them now crunching over broken glass as they rush about checking connections and speaking into commsets. In vain, it seems: communications with our men in the field may also have been compromised.

  Jace strides to the room’s center to organize a response as armored reclaimers hustle toward the entrance.

  “Worthy, gather them up,” I say.

  “On it, boss.”

  I join my brethren assembled to guard the entrance, taking command of the checkpoint. Station personnel rush back and forth past us, some pausing long enough to shout out pieces of the puzzle. We’ve got men down – some injured, some unaccounted – though no word on any attackers. The sounds of shouting drift in from outside, but no nearby gunfire.

  By the time Worthy has the squad rounded up a few tense minutes later, it’s clear that no ground assault is forthcoming. Not much for a silver lining, but it seems the explosion was an act of sabotage and not the prelude to an attack. Our telecom array and electrical substation, both located nearby, were hit with precision demolitions. Jace issued recall orders for our patrols – having reclaimers in the field without logistical support is unacceptable given current conditions. And they may be needed here.

  “Someone’s trying to sideline us,” says Worthy.

  “Yeah.” My thought exactly.

  We approach Jace, her brow furrowed as she studies a holopad. “Casualties?” I ask.

  She looks over, eyes clouded with fury. “One confirmed dead, six injured.”

  “Are we still clear to depart, First Redeemer?”

  “Go, your mission stands. I can’t offer much help, so watch yourselves.” As we turn to go, she calls out: “Malcolm! Mathews was shot in the back. Don’t let anyone see yours.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Heavy rain cascades down my visor and pings off the hard suit. I wish to hell I could lose myself in it, the drops striking a rhythmic patter on polymer-coated carbon composite. Wishful bloody thinking, that. The hard suit can protect against most anything – bullets, radiation, this bloody rain – but not against the horrors of human nature.

  “What are your orders, Redeemer?” asks Worthy.

  I defy the urge to look up. Between my hands, the metal railing glistens in the gloom, a microcosm of rusted iron seas and greenish paint-flake continents. Old paint, from before the war, eroded layer after layer by acidic rain, the indifference of men, and other unfortunate circumstances. Pale green flakes stick to the graphene weave over my palm when I pull a hand away. Seems I’ve dented the rail, too. Why am I here again?

  “Redeemer?”

  I shake my head. We shouldn’t be. The sentinel in charge of the enforcers down below tried to warn us off, said they had the situation under control. We could have fallen back, but instead, I fell prey to my own suspicious nature and led the squad to higher ground for a better vantage. It’s better, all right – three floors up, a wide setback terrace surrounded by a waist-high parapet, excellent cover and position relative to the impending site of calamity.

  “ATTENTION, CITIZENS!” blares the amplified asshole over the sounds of rain, rumbling thunder, and a thousand angry voices. “YOU MUST DISPERSE AT ONCE! THE FACILITY KNOWN AS ‘THE MALL’ HAS BEEN DESIGNATED A VACCINATION DISTRIBUTION CENTER AND MUST BE CLEARED! ANYONE INTERFERING WITH THIS OPERATION WILL BE REMOVED BY FORCE! LEAVE THE AREA AT ONCE!”

  I raise my head to take in the tragedy in its opening act.

  A milling sea of agitated people, close to a thousand, occupies the
vast plaza of concrete and ruined landscaping fronting Union Station. All appear to be civilians, unarmored and armed only with conventional small arms, though it’s hard to tell given the prevalence of ponchos and hooded jackets in the crowd. Lots of beards straining water down there, but no shortage of women and older boys, either. Ominously, there are no umbrellas. Instead, many in the crowd hold up rifles, shaking them at the targets of their shouted chants and curses.

  A company of armored enforcers confronts them in a double line formation on the drenched and fissured asphalt of Alameda Street. Formed up thirty paces opposite the crowd’s ragged edge, their front rank maintains a wall of riot shields while the back stands ready with stun batons and coil rifles. The injured locals crawling about in no-man’s-land explain part of the crowd’s desire to keep their distance. Enforcement’s tactical drones justify the rest, tooling through the shifting curtains of rain above. Plenty of deterrence, but will it be enough?

  “Should we render assistance?” prompts Anderson.

  “Hold up,” I say, holding the railing as if hanging from a cliff.

  “Sir?” he prods. “Shouldn’t we be doing something?”

  I bite down on a curse. Anderson knows better than to jump in without preparation. Yeah, we should be doing something. Wish I knew the hell what.

  This isn’t some protest over fuel prices or a confrontation with rioters – the locals have gathered to defend a site the enforcers intend to claim. A place worth protecting, the former metro rail station, an ancient alabaster-white structure roofed in wet red tile and inset with multi-story arched windows. Golden block letters over the entrance spell out its current manifestation, Union Station Mall, the biggest trade hub in downtown. The clock tower beside it thrusts a glimmering spire into the suffocating gray, the glowing dials in its sides forever showing 9:12, the exact moment of nuclear detonation, a reminder that things can always be worse.

  I sure as hell hope not.

  “Dispatch two and three to recon the plaza perimeter,” I order. “Patton, high station.”

  Patton ascends above the crowd as our two tactical drones veer off in opposite directions around it. Looking around, I note the rest of the squad stretched out along the parapet to either side, all eyes on the tableau below.

  Worthy sees me looking. He sends two of our rooks to guard the terrace entrance before asking again, “Orders?”

  “We wait.”

  Updated tactical data from the drones reveals a nearby group of civilians segregated from the rest. Striding down the terrace to peer over its edge, I see them bunched up near the side of the station beneath an old parking awning, sheltering from the rain. At last, a sign of rationality. Zooming in with telescopics, I note some of them standing only with help, others in wheelchairs or on makeshift stretchers. Women and children are among them, whole families. The red blotches of the Shanghai flu mark many faces.

  “Bloody hell,” I mutter.

  They must have responded to the announcements. When the operation began, service drones were dispatched across the zone to proclaim the locations of vaccination centers, Union Station the biggest. The broadcasts also instructed people not to venture out until the centers were established, but what did they expect from desperate, sick people?

  “Anderson, Rollins,” I say, “go keep those people under the awning contained. We can’t have them getting mixed up with the others. And be nice about it. Move!”

  They trot off toward the terrace entrance as I turn my attention back to the standoff, the crowd’s agitation only seeming to grow. My anxiety deepens as I zoom in on one individual after another, noting tight-lipped irritation to wide-mouthed rage on every face, anger the common denominator binding them together. I can’t make out any leaders yet, but every mob has them. If this is a mob – it will be worse if a gang or terrorist group is prompting this.

  “ATTENTION, CITIZENS!” comes the broadcast again. There he is, the sentinel in charge of the enforcer company, standing behind the ranks in his black hard suit. “YOU MUST DISPERSE AT ONCE! IF YOU DON’T, ALL NECESSARY FORCE WILL BE USED TO REMOVE YOU! YOU HAVE FIVE MINUTES TO COMPLY!”

  “What an asshole,” says Murphy.

  “Squad channel only,” cautions Worthy.

  Tactical data continues to roll in. At the station entrance, an older man in urban camos stands behind a sandbag barricade, his hand braced on the stock of a pre-war light machine gun. It’s enough to earn him a red bracket square on my visor. More bracket squares appear as the carriers of advanced weaponry get highlighted within the crowd, close to a dozen signatures. And someone with an activated coil rifle perches up in the clock tower.

  “Evans,” I order, “position for solution on the clock tower.”

  “I’m on it.” She trots off toward a ladder leading up to the roof one level up.

  A deep-throated chant from the crowd gains momentum as hundreds of voices join in. “This is our home! Leave here now! This is our home! Leave here now! THIS IS OUR HOME! LEAVE HERE NOW!” It continues to build, the crowd levering their raised fists and rifle barrels forward and back in aggressive synchronicity toward the enforcers in the street.

  Their defiance is wasted here, they can’t win this fight. The enforcers won’t back down, not to anyone, a reputation they’re ever eager to protect. If the locals don’t disperse, it’s going to get bloody. Mostly on one side.

  “Patton,” I send, “Analysis.”

  “The crowd constitutes a mob of nine-hundred-plus civilians,” he transmits. “Eighty-plus percent are armed with conventional small arms. There is no indication of coordinated military tactics among its members, though the probability of impending violence is high. Most are in a volatile emotional state and will likely act according to the prevalent mob mentality.”

  “What about the enforcers? There’s nothing on the open channel.”

  “One moment.” It takes Patton a few seconds to hack into the proprietary channels used by Enforcement. “The enforcers are waiting for another company to arrive – ETA five minutes – to reinforce them before taking action.” Another pause. “The order to engage has been given.”

  Bloody goddamn hell.

  “We can’t let this happen,” says one of the rooks over Murphy swearing.

  “Should another violent clash occur,” adds Patton, “there will be multiple fatalities.”

  We aren’t dealing with gang members or terrorists here, though some are likely present. These aren’t violent degenerates or out-of-control rioters. No, just angry, ignorant people. Innocent, needless deaths are about to happen. On my watch. Again.

  “Houston all over,” mutters Worthy.

  Yeah, Houston, where we met little Mary Swanson. Six years running, and I still hear her screaming some nights. Shrill screams of horror and pain, weaving among the corpses and after-battle smoke, leading me into the glass-littered liquor store to their source, the girl with nothing left to lose. Blonde hair, deathly pale skin, struggling to get out from beneath the ineffective shelter of her father’s body. Screams turned to sobs when I freed her, bulging eyes locked on mine and little hands smearing blood over my hard suit as I checked her over. But it was too late – the coil round that killed her father did the same to her. I held Mary’s hands as she died. Ten people dead there, all in the name of restoring order. Of bringing peace. Is death so peaceful?

  Afterward, I hid in the bottle for three days. But I couldn’t hide from Rachel.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  I’d told her not to wait up, but when I slipped through the back door in the dead of night, there she was, sitting at the kitchen table in her white bathrobe. I dropped my duffel and stood there searching her eyes for the revulsion I’d earned. Rachel just stared back, mask fixed in place – hazel eyes steady, blonde hair tied back, mouth a straight line. No happiness to see me, and none returned. That was during the bleak years after our daughter Rosalie’s death, both of us working so hard to conceal our pain that we hid everything else with it, love included.r />
  She sipped her tea and said: “I saw it on the news.”

  I opened the refrigerator and peered inside for answers. Squinting into the glare, I rummaged through the bottles, my portion of the fridge filled with them. By unspoken agreement, Rachel never spoke of them, just like I never spoke of her pills.

  “It wasn’t your fault, Mal.”

  I paused, green-bottled lager in hand, resisting the urge to hurl it, to sweep them all out onto the floor and into the walls. Straightening, I uncapped the bottle and joined her at the table, sitting opposite in the dim circle of light, fully expecting the chair to collapse beneath me.

  She set her tea aside and reached a hand across the table. “You want to talk about it?”

  I squeezed her hand, hard, but avoided her eyes to swig from the bottle.

  “I know something’s eating you. Tell me.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  She was wrong, I didn’t. But she knew which buttons to push. I withdrew my hand and stood, stepping over to lean against the counter away from her. I took another long swallow and set it aside. It tasted appalling, like everything else the last three days. Not that it’d stopped me.

  “I got a new kid yesterday,” she said. “A little Malaysian girl, from one of the asylum families. Doesn’t speak a word of English.”

  I pressed my fists into the counter and remained silent.

  “She’s a real sweetheart, Mal. Been through hell getting here. So many of them do.”

  “There were kids…” My voice was unsteady.

  She said nothing. Looking sidelong, I saw the surprise in her eyes before she hid it away.

  “A boy, fifteen. A girl…” I choked and bit my lip, hard.

  “Tell me, Mal.”

  “It was madness… Rioters were everywhere, the order came down, but…”