Skyway Angel

by James K. Douglas

Years ago, the city seemed to be on a quest for endless expansion, but then the Skyway was built, reminding the elite that nothing shows off wealth and power like a castle reaching to the sky. The heart of the city grew taller, each tower becoming its own concrete ecosystem, needing educated employees for the offices and laborers for the factories that occupied the lower levels. Apartment buildings grew taller to accommodate Uppers and Lowers, and when commuting to the outer edges and suburbs finally became infeasible, entire communities were abandoned and forgotten. And yet, every once in a while, one of the old buildings was torn down to make room for a new one, a bigger and better one.

  Our sweeper truck came to a stop next to the bus on an empty road in front of one of these new constructions. Rough looking men and women in hard hats went about their tasks, ignoring us as we pulled up. The old hippie’s brow raised, his mouth dropping open in a smile as we climbed out.

  “Nice ride,” he said. “That’s a damn good way to get around without getting seen.”

  “Thanks,” I said, “and you got my message, I see.”

  “Absolutely,” he said, pointing a thumb at a new broadcasting dish mounted to the back end of the bus. “We’re set up and ready to transmit. Have you really got a hacker that can do what you said we’re going to do?”

  Cassdan answered. “Hell yes, we have. FIRN’s about to be bigger than you could have ever hoped.”

  “I don’t know, man,” Tom-Tom said with a smile. “I’ve got some big hopes.”

  Cassdan was a good hacker, but he and I knew he didn’t have the skills to hack every major news network simultaneously. He did, however, know someone who did, someone who wasn’t happy about being tricked into helping a killer. So, while the Zombie Queen readied her army from the comfort of her anachronistic diner, we loaded up onto an armored bus to head to the front lines of this war.

  The engine revved. I took hold of the luggage rack as we lurched forward. Cassdan took a seat, attached his eyepiece, and brought up the telephone program on his computer.

  “April?” he asked, “Are you ready?” I couldn’t hear the other side of the call, but his smile seemed to say that she was good to go. A few more taps on his computer, and he said, “Rey? Everything in place?” He listened for a moment. “Good. Stand by.”

  Toward the back of the bus, the FIRN team had erected a black paper backdrop and a camera on a motion stabilizing tripod. Tom-Tom took his place in front of the camera, straightening his military jacket while a young woman adjusted the lights clamped to the luggage racks and a red headed young man adjusted the focus of the camera. The bouncing of the bus caused a sledge hammer sitting in the back corner to vibrate, its handle rapidly tapping the steel wall.

  I opened the metal shutters covering the nearest window as we moved deeper into the city. Outside, pedestrians gawked up at a digital billboard displaying one of the news networks. It was showing live coverage of Angela’s memorial service, already in progress. As we passed by, the billboard moving out of view, I pulled out my phone and brought up the same news feed.

  From the view of drone cameras, I watched members of Marshall Engineering’s security team in dress uniform escorting a closed casket through the Skyway. According to the scroll across the bottom of the screen, Angela’s remains were making their way to the city’s crematorium to be disposed of in accordance with family tradition. In honor of a beloved public figure, most of the Skyway’s lanes had been shut down so Uppers could stand and watch her pass. A few even laid roses on the single moving lane as she came near. I had no doubts that if Lowers had been allowed to attend the service, the mountain of flowers would have reached the height of Angela’s penthouse apartment.

  I took a moment to call Det. Lannemir, to confirm that she was all set for her portion of the plan. Due to protocol, she wasn’t going to be able to move until after our broadcast, but she confirmed that she understood her part to play, and was ready to go when we were. I still wasn’t certain we could trust her, but necessity was what it was.

  “Hit it,” I heard Cassdan say.

  The live feed of the service cut to static for only a second before a graphic appeared on screen, displaying the name of the Free Information Resistance Network. As the brief introduction graphic came to an end, the first letter of each word collected in the lower left corner of the screen, allowing the remainder of the words to fade away. A second later, the image of Tom-Tom faded in.

  “This is Thomas Tomlinson of the Free Information Resistance Network,” he said, as I turned the volume on my phone down, “coming to you live from the front lines of our generation’s most important battle, the battle for freedom, the fight for basic human decency.” He paused briefly. In a professional news program, this would be when the camera angle changed. “For weeks, now, FIRN has been bringing to you reports and rumors of the slave trade being orchestrated by Ultramarine Tech. For those of you new to the network, the city is actually paying this company to violate the rights of imprisoned citizens, and allowing forced labor in unsafe conditions. This has resulted in not only injuries, but also several deaths. So far, a lack of solid evidence has prevented us from bringing these stories to light, but that all changed when we finally got an investigative agent inside the building.” He swallowed and forced himself to maintain eye contact with the camera. “We’ll let her tell the story in her own words.”

  Outside the metal blinds, a passing screen cut to an image of Angela Vidales, standing in front of a black background. Her eye was bruised and her lip was cut. Four stitches held the skin above her right brow closed. Her big brown eyes stared directly into the camera, as the jaws of pedestrians dropped open and an old man in a rusted back brace worked his way to his feet to get a better look. The image, so perfectly real and three dimensional, would be enough to convince anyone of its authenticity, or at least anyone who wasn’t in on our plan.

  I turned the volume on my phone back up. “This is Angela Vidales,” said April, mimicking Angela’s voice perfectly, “at home, recuperating from an attempt on my life. To all the people watching, I just want to say that I’m sorry for the deception. It was necessary for my own protection, and for the work that I’ve been doing. You see, a few weeks ago I started looking into the reports about what is happening in the Ultramarine Tech building. It took a lot of time and effort, but I was able to get inside, to the lower levels where I witnessed with my own eyes the horrors that are going on there, the same ones that are still happening this very minute. I saw people starved, beaten, and forced to work in deeply inhumane conditions.”

  As she continued, her image disappeared, replaced by a collage of the side by side images we had collected of mugshots and pictures of the deceased. “I collected evidence of this company’s crimes, its abuses and human rights violations, its unceremonious dumping of these people into the streets when they were done with them. I prepared my evidence and sent it out on the Free Information Resistance Network.” As Angela’s image returned, she paused, faking a swallow. “That’s when I was attacked, in my own home. A killer came after me to shut me up, a killer I can prove is connected to Ultramarine Tech. So to Ultramarine I say, my full and detailed testimony will be going public. All of my evidence will be going public.” The holographic image leaned close to the camera. “And to the one who tried to kill me I say, you’re not as clever as you think. I know who you are.”

  The screen cut to black briefly before returning to Thomas Tomlinson. “There you have it, folks, eyewitness testimony, live on the Free Information Resistance Network. We here at FIRN have yet to confirm whether or not elected officials in the city government were in on this whole plot or not, but we do know that action must be taken. Right now, on the lower levels of Ultramarine Tech, people are being tortured, starved, and beaten to death.” He picked up the sledge hammer, holding it across his front like a rifle on display. “We must take action. The city council refuses to help, and the police are under contract not to investigate the corporation.” His grip tightened. “We ha
ve to free these people ourselves. We can’t trust anyone to do it for us. So, please, join us down at the Ultramarine building. Help us end this atrocity! Help us free the slaves!”

  I slipped my phone back in my pocket as Tom-Tom’s cohorts switched off the camera and began unplugging it. I took a deep breath to alleviate some of my adrenaline. This whole thing was far too grandiose for my tastes. In my line of work, drawing attention to yourself was just about the worst thing you could do, but this job didn’t seem like it was going to get done any other way.

  The driver kept us at an even pace as we moved toward the city center. We were in no hurry to get there. A movement takes time to grow, and from the look of the streets outside the window, it was doing just that.

  As we moved, people began to step out of the crowded sidewalks. Through the shutters, I saw faces young and old recognize the bus and begin to follow behind it. Some walked out of their apartment buildings with hammers and crowbars. Others picked up weapons and tools where they could. A few readied spray paint cans.

  A dozen bodies doubled and redoubled. Bionic limbs were among them, more than the usual amount, wielding heavy weapons or easily jogging in front of the bus on plastic and steel legs, yelling at the other cars to move out of the way. I began to see familiar faces join in, regulars from the bionic hangout known as the Battlegrounds. A short, thick man sporting an AlterBionics Heavy Loader 3 arm caught sight of me through the window and gave me a firm nod.

  The hundred or so men and women that had joined with us were not the only protestors that came out. As we neared the Ultramarine building, we found the streets there thick with people, hundreds of bodies crowding the lanes, all carrying weapons and tools of destruction. Some even wore makeshift armor, slabs of steel strapped to their chests and backs, or bolted onto leather jackets. As they saw us coming, they pressed themselves to the sides, making way.

  We came to a stop directly in front of the building. Tom-Tom slapped me on the shoulder as he made his way past, moving toward the front of the bus. Sledge hammer still in hand, he was the first off the bus.

  “You interested in being a part of this?” I asked Cassdan. “April and the apartment should be covered. By now, Det. Lannemir should have half a dozen power armored officers on the way to take down anybody that shows up there uninvited.”

  “Yeah,” he said, shoving himself up off the seat. “Let’s go be a part of history.”

  Chapter 21

  There were more cops than there had been before. They stood shoulder to shoulder around the outside of the building, each one in a full suit of ME-Slim and holding an assault rifle at the ready. Thankfully, none of the barrels were pointed at the crowd, and the crowd was keeping its distance. A single officer stood out from the rest, a white stripe across each shoulder.

  The mob we had brought stood tense, implements of destruction ready in hand. Anger was painted in red hues across their faces. The men and women that turned out to help only made up a small fraction of the city’s population, but they still outnumbered the cops five times over. I could only hope that would be enough.

  Tom-Tom stepped out in front. He wore no armor and had no weapon other than his hammer, but he stood tall, eyes locked on the faceplate of the lead officer. I took a position a half step behind him to his right. I wanted everyone on both sides to see me, to remind them of the choices that were made the last time protestors gathered here.

  “You know why we’re here?” Tom-Tom asked the black mask of the striped officer.

  “This group needs to disperse,” came the response, in that artificial sounding voice.

  “What’s happening in there is illegal.” The old hippie spoke with a calm authority. “Directly behind you is a door, walled up and cemented over to keep the world from knowing what they’re doing inside. Please, let us through.”

  “This is an unlawful assembly,” the striped officer said, weapon barrel still pointing at the pavement. “Disperse, or I will have to order my officers to open fire.”

  “Come on,” the newsman said, taking a half step forward. “You see how bad this could get. You’re outnumbered. We’re outgunned. Are you really prepared to let this get bloody?” The officer’s helmet made a slight turn toward me, before returning back to Tom-Tom. “If we’re wrong about this, or if somehow the evidence we have has been faked, it’s just a little property damage. You’ll arrest me, and I’ll serve my time knowing it was all my own decision.” He took another step closer to the officer. “But if we’re right,” he continued, a snarl growing in his voice, “you’re standing ten feet from the biggest human rights violation in the last decade, and you’ve got your back turned on it. Your superiors have assigned you to protect a company profiting off of slave labor.” He regained his calm, as if he had practiced this speech. “So, what’ll it be? Step aside, or shoot me?”

  Tom-Tom remained still, hammer at the ready. The crowd shuffled and murmured, but he didn’t even twitch. A few hours before, I had written this man off as nothing but an airheaded joiner, but at that moment he seemed the very image of focused determination.

  The officer remained still, an immovable mountain of plastic armor and amplified muscle. Not a word came from the black mask’s voicebox.

  After a long moment, the other officers started getting twitchy. One officer shifted his footing by an inch. Another moved his finger a millimeter closer to his weapon’s trigger. Everyone seemed to be waiting for the standoff to break, for the violence to erupt. I waited, too, trying not to tense up, trying my best to avoid any overreaction.

  A sharp, short hiss broke the quiet. I jumped slightly, my bionic arm flexing an inch upward, instinctively moving to protect my face. The armored officers had jumped, too, weapons lifting but not firing.

  We all watched silently as the striped officer’s hand separated from the assault rifle and removed the slick helmet, revealing the high cheekbones and round chin it had been protecting. Without turning away from us, she shoved her helmet and then her rifle into the arms of the officer to her right, and scrubbed a hand in articulated armor back and forth over her tightly buzzed hair.

  She looked to her officers on one side, then the other, and sighed. She stepped closer to Tom-Tom and held out a hand. “Give it to me,” she said. “You don’t have the strength to get through that wall.”

  Tom-Tom eyed her, his brow furrowing. He briefly glanced over to me. I didn’t particularly trust her, either, but Officer Stripe was taking a hell of a risk, and we had little to lose. I gave him a nod.

  Tom-Tom shoved the hammer into the officer’s hands and stepped back. “Officers,” she said, turning to face the Ultramarine building, “you’re all officially dismissed. You’re welcome to go home. Anyone who stays may be at risk of catching criminal charges.”

  Expressionless masks looked at one another as weapons lowered in relaxing arms. One officer shrugged at another. None of them seemed to be moving to leave.

  Stripe didn’t wait for them to make their decision. She stepped up to the wall, drew back the hammer, and swung.

  The impact sounded like thunder and sent cracks in every direction. Flecks of blue colored concrete fell to the ground. Officers and protestors stepped back.

  A second swing slammed the wall, fracturing the face of it. Chunks thudded to the ground. The split in the wall rose higher, cracking the facade ten feet above Stripe.

  The wooden handle of the sledgehammer split with the third swing. The heavy head rebounded off the crumbling wall, hitting the sidewalk and coming to rest in front of me. One of the armored police darted toward the commanding officer. I barely had a chance to be concerned before the strength of armored arms caught a concrete slab that could have crushed the woman’s buzzed head. She took only a second to thank the officer before going back to her work.

  She reached into the hole with both hands, pulling off chunks of the wall. I stepped up to help. With only an artificial arm, I didn’t have the leverage she did, but I had enough strength to help, and I w
asn’t the only one ready to pitch in.

  Another officer helped to tear away bits and pass them back to others. Two young people with bionic legs began lifting pieces from the ground to get them out of our way. Soon, a six foot wide and eight foot tall section of the outer wall was stripped away, revealing a steel door frame sealed up with red brick, just as Tom-Tom had said. I stepped away as Stripe pressed her lips tight and drew back her fist.

  She leaned into the swing and aimed for the other side of the wall. If I had tried the same, I would have bounced off and landed on my back. My arm might be fifty times stronger than a normal meat and bone arm, but her full body suit allowed her force to be braced against the ground.

  With one heavy swing, two layers of brick wall came crumbling down. A cloud of dust welled up from the rubble, blocking my view. I considered pulling my mask out again, but opted just to cover my nose and mouth with my hand for the moment until the air cleared.

  As the dust settled, the senior officer retrieved her weapon. Switching on the flashlight attached to the end of the rifle, she stepped through the hole into the blackness beyond. Two other officers followed closely behind, tailed by Tom-Tom and myself.

  Moving from the cold exterior to the disturbingly warm interior was a shock to my system. I considered stripping off my jacket. A smell filled the air, as well, apparently some foul combination of layers of sweat and week old boiled chicken. My stomach lurched, but I managed to fight it back, refocusing my mind on the task at hand.

  I reached for my flashlight, but before I could draw it out, I heard the heavy pop of a breaker switch from somewhere beyond the blackness. Fluorescent lights fifteen feet above us flickered to life, dimly at first but brightening quickly. I didn’t much like what they revealed.

  Thick, square columns were spread out around the room, each one at least eight feet wide, supporting the building above us. On each side of the columns was mounted a security camera, recording from behind a protective dome. Each of the cameras was aimed at one of the long work tables covered in tools and half constructed bits of power armor, or at one of the massive fabrication machines attached to the far ends of these tables. I’ve seen plenty of cameras used in factories before, but I wasn’t getting the impression that these were installed for the workers’ safety. I would have loved to have had a closer look at what those machines were producing, but another situation seemed more pressing.