by Brad C Scott
The healers administering to the sick do so with enforcers at their elbows. Curious, I watch a transaction at one of the aid stations. A feeble woman in a wheelchair bows her head as a healer presses a cylindrical object to her neck. The tattooed young man holding the chair handles behind her yanks the healer’s arm away and asks, “What the hell are you giving her?” In the becalmed space, his raised voice echoes among the high-ceilinged rafters.
“Is that a field installer?” I ask.
“Looks that way,” says Worthy. “Damn. I’ve seen some two-for-one specials before.”
“They’re giving these people IDs?” asks Murphy.
An enforcer grabs the young man by the arm and says something to him. At him. The outrage evaporates, devolves into naked fear. The healer again places the field installer to the back of the woman’s neck and activates it, evoking a shudder from her, before another healer administers an injection into her arm. So, first the ID, then the vaccine or antiviral. The young man receives treatment in his turn, face twisted in bitter impotence.
“They’re not wasting any time,” I say.
“The President’s executive order,” says Worthy.
“If they’re doing ID implantations in all the zones…”
“The beginning of the beginning. Strange days, Redeemer.”
“Ask around,” I say. “See if you can find out what ID models they’re using.”
“Will do.” Worthy gestures at the aid stations. “We’ll help out here while you’re gone.”
“Keep it friendly. And stay off the comms,” I say, tapping my helmet to remind them we’re being monitored. "I shouldn’t be long.”
Unlike the enforcers, the healers will welcome reclaimer support. We’re both trying to salvage lives during this operation. Still, it’s disturbing to see them holding help over these people’s heads. Maybe not their call, but it’s no surprise they’re going along. So few of us in federal service make the effort to do the right thing when commanded otherwise. That old saw – just following orders: the mantra of the machine state.
◊ ◊ ◊
In the vaulted chamber where the Mall earns its name, after-battle smoke taints the air, a thin layer drifting beneath the chandeliered ceiling of ribbed wood. With the overheads out, dreary storm light streaming through the tinted windows keeps the horrors on display dim. Shell casings scatter at my feet. Blood spatters crisscross my path.
Enforcers prowl among the shadowy shapes of merchant’s stalls, barrel lights sweeping over shelved displays and rust-red floor tiles. They’re not alone. About twenty locals sit on the floor in cuffs, some with bloodied clothing and faces. Most ignore the enforcers guarding them to stare across at the bone pile: a half dozen corpses stacked neatly in front of a stall stocked with survival gear. The bodies aren’t even covered. Another pair of enforcers flanks the pile, stiff-backed, like hunters posing over their kills.
At the rear of the chamber, four enforcers gathered near the stall of a weapon’s dealer stop blowing each other long enough to give me the eyeball. The stall’s sign, its glow bulbs still powered despite the pockmarks surrounding it, pulses red as a whore’s heart to cast a garish pall over the blood pools splotching the floor. Some of those on the pile died here. Maybe to these bastards. I walk on by without so much as a nod.
Continuing down the long corridor on the far side, I follow a blood trail past abandoned food carts and dark openings that lead to defunct train platforms. The blood trail ends at a pair of pushed-together, pockmarked carts where a trio of enforcers gesticulates with their cigarettes. In the flickering overheads, shell casings and blood tell the story’s end.
Further on, the corridor terminates at the entrance to the East Portal, the site chosen for Enforcement’s FOB. Two enforcers track my approach.
“State your business, Redeemer,” says one.
“Sentinel Monroe would like a word,” I say.
“First Sentinel Monroe,” emphasizes the one on the left.
“He’s upstairs?”
“He is,” says right.
“We’ll take your weapons,” says left.
“Good luck with that,” I say, moving to walk between them.
One steps into my path, barring the way. I stop and stare. I can’t read their expressions – their opaque faceplates are sealed – but the maneuver makes it pretty bloody clear someone’s itching for the bullet-in-the-face award.
“DRR has long-standing jurisdiction in the Los Angeles Reclamation Zone,” I state. “Operation Lost Angel may have vested concurrent jurisdiction to DSS, but it does not negate mine. Anyone interfering with a redeemer operating in a zone is in violation of the Reclamation Enforcement Act. And I am at liberty to dispense justice for any such violations. So…” I tap the side of my holstered sidearm. “Are you interfering with me?”
They look at each other and step aside as I walk between them.
Assholes.
Staring up at the East Portal’s dome of etched glass and steel some ninety feet up, I smile with satisfaction despite the tension. About five years back, Reclamation assisted some private investors with the renovations, necessary after having its glass blown out by the nuke and getting ill-used for years by gangsters. After we ran them off, the dome got repaired, the graffiti painted over, and the old mural replaced with an updated rendition. I crane my head up at Our Lady of the Angels in her new blue dress, smiling down on me.
I scowl up at her in commiseration. She can’t be enjoying the new tenants.
Head on swivel, I stride through the hornet’s nest. Tech specialists in gray button-downs bustle about, manning workstations while talking with their men in the field. I swing wide of the large holomap console in the chamber’s center and the four black-uniformed sentinels inspecting it through crimson eyeblades. Climbing the stairs to the ground floor, I quick-step past the entrance, two sets of glass double doors guarded by a squad of enforcers. A company of their fellows mills about outside on the wet asphalt near a trio of armored personnel carriers.
I take the lift to the third-floor landing and the man I came to meet. With any luck, he’ll be too busy to see me.
◊ ◊ ◊
He always did like making me wait.
I recheck my neural interface – going on ten minutes. Sighing, I resume my restless vigil outside the command sphere, four enforcers and two turrets tracking me. It’s nice to be respected, though John appears not to even notice me, isolated within the seamless globe of translucent photons where he monitors and directs the enforcers throughout the zone. His gauntleted hands shuffle holoscreens and manipulate tactical glyphs across the sphere’s interior, his intense face aglow with its predominant cyan coloration. He always did like being at the center of everything yet detached from it all.
Good old Johnny. John the Don – his moniker at the Academy. A part of me is still glad to see him, for nostalgia’s sake if nothing else. I crush that part, close my fist around it. He was my brother, once; now, he’s the Capital’s killer. A world separates us, always did, though I was too naïve to believe it back when we served together.
He finally looks over and smiles. Bastard makes it look genuine, too, pale teeth shining between bloodless lips, gray eyes turned silver in the photonic glow, a facsimile of warmth. All a lie, of course. Oh, he’s happy enough to see me, of that I’m sure, but not for any reason approaching benevolence. A shark baring its teeth in preparation for the kill.
He deactivates the command sphere and crosses the short distance to me.
“Malcolm,” he says, pausing a moment to savor. “What’s it been, two years?”
“John.”
His smile vanishes, replaced by what appears to be real compassion. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to attend the funeral. My condolences on Rachel’s passing.”
Breathe, Malcolm. Just breathe.
I remember a day many years back when a young reclaimer wearing Monroe’s face stood before the Tribunal. Like a man discussing the weather, he explained t
he rationale behind his unsanctioned killing of forty-three civilians. An entire residential building annihilated, just to take out a single terror cell. I remember the smoking bodies. Some of them were small. I wish to hell I’d done more than knock him in his perfect teeth that day.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Nasty business, that. An impossible situation, anyone would agree. Yet here you stand, ready to serve.” He places a gauntleted hand on my shoulder. “Very commendable.”
My right hand rises to rest on my pistol grip. It’s purely reflexive, but I won’t take it back. Monroe removes his hand from my shoulder, face now devoid of anything.
“So,” he says, “still fresh, I see. Walk with me.”
He pivots and walks away. I let my right hand drop and follow. The four enforcers lower their coil rifles and heel after us, ready to drop me from behind if I draw. Family squabbles are always the bloodiest.
“You haven’t changed,” he says.
“Yeah?”
“Still nursing old grudges. You have to let the past go, Malcolm.”
“Like you did?” After the incident, he switched green for gray. Enforcement recruits and promotes the ruthless. He was perfect. “I don’t have your talent for abandonment.”
He doesn’t respond, just plods ahead, each step impacting with a thoom. He wears a heavy suit, the military-grade series used by our special operators fighting in Asia and Africa versus China’s puppet regimes. It’s a modified version, the black-enameled power suits that first sentinels use in combat theaters, heavily shielded versus EMP, environmental, and small-arms attacks. Technologically inferior enemies with any brains will run when confronted by such a beast. And they should – it’s a monstrous suit, easily three hundred kilos. Monroe moves as if it’s an annoyance.
“Are we going to have all the old arguments again?” he asks.
“I’m not here to argue with you.”
“I know. But you want to.”
“True,” I admit. “Your security measures are a bit extreme.”
We exit the interior, stepping out onto a wide exterior balcony that runs the length of the third-floor landing. At a gesture from Monroe, our enforcer escort stays inside, closing the door behind us. Thunder prowls through the leaden clouds overhead, though the rain’s let up.
“It was necessary,” he says. “Given the circumstances, there wasn’t time for proper screening procedures.”
“So unarmed civilians are a security threat?”
“Of course. Everyone is. You know that better than most.”
A not-so-subtle reference to Detroit. Heartless bastard still thinks he was right.
◊ ◊ ◊
We were new to the reclamation business when it happened, some twelve years back. Our squad encountered a group of missionaries taking shelter in the ruins of a church, a massive place with concrete-reinforced walls in the middle of what used to be Motor City. How it survived the nuke that leveled the rest of downtown was a mystery. A miracle, some claimed. This group – about thirty men, women, even a few youngsters – was on a pilgrimage to see the place, and not the first bunch to do so, the church’s survival making it something of a draw for the religious-minded. They were also sheltering, like we were, from a hostile local militia.
After we had hunkered down there for a few hours, even getting so comfortable that our redeemer allowed some shut-eye, one of those kids turned out to be a plant for a regional terror group, Jund al-Islam. She blew herself up along with two of my squad and ten others. Her face was all pale innocence. Blank blue eyes. Bruised left cheek. No more than fourteen years old.
Afterward, we eliminated four terrorists on site. At least, so our mission reports said. Two men, a catatonic teenaged girl – the child’s sister – and a screaming, crying wreck of a woman – the child’s mother – were apprehended nearby. Field interrogations were performed in the church sanctuary. I wasn’t a witness to that, but Monroe was. To this day, I suspect that the mother was forced by the men to choose: one daughter, or both. No choice at all, really, but it didn’t matter. Our redeemer had us assemble the four outside next to the church wall and execute them. We left the bodies there, still bleeding out, as we turned and marched away.
I’ll never forget the look on the mother’s face, the concentrated horror and desperation. How she begged – on her knees, tears running dirty tracks down her cheeks – for us to spare her other daughter. Maybe it was the merciful thing, killing them, I’ll never know, but it sure as hell wasn’t justice. Strange how often that word gets used to justify its opposite.
◊ ◊ ◊
“The interrogation was never documented,” I say, “our actions never investigated.”
“It was unnecessary. Our administration of justice was.”
“Necessary. Right. That’s always your answer, isn’t it?”
“I’m supposed to be reprimanding you, Malcolm.”
“Go ahead, then.”
Monroe sighs as if it matters.
Night and day, black and white. I turn away and rest my hands on the railing, looking down at the train graveyard, the collection of rail cars that have sat abandoned since the war. Monroe believes that a better tomorrow can be built on a foundation of corpses. Neatly stacked, of course. He’s not alone in that belief, so prevalent in the Capital. For that reason, and out of respect for what we’ve endured together, a small part of me, a very small part, forgives him. The greater part of me wants to put him into the body pile. Right where we both belong.
“You disobeyed my command not to engage,” he says.
I remain silent.
“This isn’t the first time you’ve crossed the line. Orders must be followed without question – you know this. Our oaths demand it. Reason also demands it, for who are we to determine right and wrong? That’s for our superiors to work out.” He pauses, seeing my lack of interest. “How many times have we done this?”
“Since you switched colors?” I hold up three fingers.
“Fortunately, your intervention yielded positive results. For that reason, and out of respect for our past association, I won’t seek sanction against you.”
“Alright,” I say, glad for that bullshit to be over.
“Besides, your part in the operation is deemed vital. It wouldn’t do for me to sideline you now. But I want your word it won’t happen again.”
“How soon until your boys start going door-to-door to tag the populace?”
It’s his turn to rest his hands on the railing and look away into the distance. He’s good at keeping it bottled up, but I’ve known him long enough to see he’s bothered by my question. As he should be. Expecting Monroe to sidestep it, my hackles rise when he responds, “The schedules for ID implantations are classified.”
“You’re serious?”
He looks over. Something like pain passes across his features.
Crossing my arms, I say, “Just following orders, right?”
“As we all must,” he says, pushing off the rail. “Agree or not, federal authority has been reestablished in the reclamation zones. We will enforce interface device compliance.”
“John, people will lose their lives over this.”
“We know. Projections have already been disseminated.”
I stare at him, speechless, though it’s like staring at an ice sculpture, his expression once more composed and uncompromising. Bloody goddamn hell. He’s just confirmed what Worthy and I only conjectured, that our federal government, the beast guarding the gate, is now set to enter in and devour its own. And then it hits me, crack-of-thunder time: Operation Lost Angel is about more than establishing precedent – Los Angeles is the trial run for how federal authority will be re-established in the other zones. We’re part of the beta test. Unbelievable…
“You still haven’t given me your word,” he says, intruding on my outraged silence.
“True.” No chance of that now. “Any updated intel?”
“We’ve got two aldermen sympathetic to o
ur operation – Ferraro and Bolivar.” He manipulates his heavy suit’s holobracer to project their 3D busts above his wrist. Not much to look at, but most politicians aren’t. “They’ve agreed to work with us.”
“How much were the bribes?”
He ignores the question. “They’ve arranged your constabulary escort, one of their conditions for letting you into the bunker. The escort will meet your squad at Red Line Station and take you from there. Enforcers have already cleared the area.”
“Do you expect me to lie and tell them it’ll all work out so long as they cooperate?”
“I expect you to do your job. You’re Reclamation’s ambassador for this mission. If you have reservations, I’ll contact First Redeemer Jace and ask –”
“No,” I interrupt, “that won’t be necessary.” I won’t be sidelined, not while the chance remains that some good can be salvaged from all this. And letting Jace down is not an option. “I’ll handle the mission. Anything else?”
He gives me a long, searching look, though he won’t find what he’s looking for. A look meant to convey something vital as well, though I’m too pissed off to care about what. Finally, staring me straight in the eyes, he says, “Don’t get yourself killed, Malcolm.”
That raises the red flag. He knows something, something he chooses not to divulge but instead alludes to in oblique sentinel fashion. But what?
A dark premonition settles in the pit of my stomach. Not what.
Who.
CHAPTER 8
“Can his eminence still take a punch?” asks Worthy, boots crunching over the small stones bedded beside the rails of the old red line. There’s not enough room for both of us to walk the crossties abreast. I’d tell him to fall back, but he already senses something’s up.
“I can keep myself in check, you know.”
“Looks like you’re regretting it.”
“Add it to the list.”
Marching down a metro tunnel that hasn’t served its original purpose since the war, our shoulder and barrel lights glint sullenly off the old steel track ahead. Water seeps from cracks in the curving concrete walls or drips from crumbled openings overhead, puddling among the castoffs of other travelers – food wrappers, cigarette butts, a blood-stained hoodie, broken glass, you-name-it. Other than the crunch of footfalls from the squad and the purring hum of lift fans from Patton and our remaining tactical drone, all’s quiet. This being a well-traveled tunnel near the surface, we don’t expect booby traps or raiders, though we remain vigilant just the same.