V_The 2nd Generation

by Kenneth Johnson

  The other scientist shook her head in frustration. "It's terrible. Did you hear about that latest dust storm down in the Amazon Basin?"

  Charles trod on up the street toward the tenement where his family lived. He felt deeply fatigued. Not merely from his long days at the plant or the three hours it took him every day to make the round trip by bus and trolley, but from the weight of surety he felt that things were never going to change. Except probably for the worse.

  NEAR THE MOUTH OF THE CHINATOWN ALLEY, RUBY WAS GETTING stiff from being so scrunched up in hiding. She shifted her position slightly as she glanced down at Nathan. He hadn't moved for the last hour. He was huddled against the grocery Dumpster, trying to stay out of the cold night breeze. Then Ruby heard a pair of raucous voices drawing near.

  On the rooftop above, Kayta also heard them. She saw two men stumble into the alley below, walking awkwardly as they leaned heavily against each other. They were apparently very drunk and singing boozily. They walked right past Nathan who sized them up, then he drew his arms closer around himself for warmth and shut his eyes. In that split second a heavy cloth bag dropped over his head and the two men, whose awkward drunkenness had vanished, began to bludgeon him.

  Ruby shouted from her distant vantage point, "Hey! Hey! Leave him the hell alone!" She scrambled to her feet, looking around for something to use as a weapon. Then she saw an old step van swerve into the far end of the alley.

  On the rooftop, Kayta also watched as she spoke calmly but quickly into her pin, "Bryke. We have a situation."

  In the alley below, the two men shoved Nathan into the side door of the van, which then screeched right toward Ruby. The girl had to dive out of the way to avoid being hit. She leaped back up furiously. "God damn it!" She watched with great frustration as the van sped away from her into the night.

  6

  DANNY STEIN'S FAMILY LIVED ON MORAGA STREET NEAR THIRTY-first, five blocks south of Golden Gate Park. The modest old house was slightly too small for them. It was decorated in Sears/Wal-Mart Traditional. All the furniture was sturdy and serviceable if lacking in much style. The small menorah that sat on a side shelf was pretty much ignored except on Hanukkah.

  Their plasma TV was showing news coverage of the bus that the pulse cannon bursts from Gina's fighter had exploded that afternoon. There were also visuals of the smoking devastation on the street and the many people who'd been wounded, maimed, or killed by Gina and the Patrollers who'd shot at Nathan.

  A newsman's voice was describing the scene and relating the Visitor version of what had happened: "Six people were killed, thirty-seven others severely injured today by renegade Nathan Avery, a mentally unbalanced Teammate deserter. He was responsible for the bombing of the city bus seen here and then he went on a rampage, firing a pulse weapon at many innocent bystanders."

  Nathan's photo appeared, covering half the screen as the newsman continued portentously: "He is armed, extremely dangerous, and is likely a part of the criminal faction calling themselves the Resistance. All Teammate and SFPD officers have been authorized to shoot to kill. Anyone with any information about him should call—" The newscast was muted by Debra, the chunky, short-haired, teenage Teammate who, among her other activities that day, had accosted an old homeless man at Cordelia and Broadway. She was still in her uniform, minus her baseball cap, curled on their small couch working a crossword puzzle. She called out to her younger brother, "Danny? Three-letter word for untrustworthy?" Before he could answer she figured it out herself, "Oh. Duh: S-c-i."

  Danny was doing his homework at the knotty pine dinner table when his father Sidney entered from the bathroom, nervously pulling the belt of his blue Teammate uniform around his middle-aged spread. He was a pasty-faced man with a growing bald spot on the back of his graying head. Danny heard the toilet empty but not refill, which meant the water had been shut off again. He also knew his father must have had another bout of irritable bowel syndrome that even Visitor medicines had yet to cure. "Where's my cap?" Sidney was asking anyone who could hear him. "I'm gonna be late."

  Debra didn't look up from her puzzle. "Your roll call's not till seven, Dad."

  "But I'm riding the bike over to save gas."

  His stocky, matronly wife, Stella, was just coming in the front door from her job at the chemical plant. There was a coy light in her eyes. "We'll do okay"—she was pulling her coat off—"Connie Leonetti got arrested today. So I got promoted."

  Debra reached up and high-fived her mother. "Aw-right, Mom!" Stella smiled haughtily at her daughter. Just then the doorbell rang and Stella turned back to answer it.

  Sidney had paused and was looking at his wife curiously. "Someone denounced the Leonetti woman?"

  "Mmm"—Stella felt some private pride—"someone did." Then she opened the front door and was startled to see two SFPD uniformed officers. They were backing up a Visitor Patroller who spoke immediately, "We're here for Daniel Stein."

  The entire family reacted as the helmeted Patroller stepped boldly in, focusing on young Danny whose blood suddenly turned to ice.

  Stella was nonplussed. "Well, Danny's our son, but—"

  The Patroller waved the police officers over to Danny who was getting up shakily. "Daniel Stein, you're under arrest for possessing an illegal vid."

  His confused father stammered, "Wait a minute, what?"

  "Search his room," the Patroller directed one of the cops, who headed off as the other cuffed Danny.

  "Wait, wait," the frightened boy said, "I don't know what you're talking about."

  Debra had already convicted him and was glowering. "Danny! How could you?"

  Danny protested, "I didn't!"

  Stella tried to maintain a calm tone as she spoke to the stony Patroller, "It can't be true. Really, I'm sure that—"

  The Patroller took Danny's arm firmly. "You were denounced by two eyewitnesses."

  Sidney was completely flustered. "But wait, wait . . . I've been a loyal Teammate for over nineteen years—"

  The Patroller cut him off, "Then you know the law." He pulled the fearful boy out the front door as the other cop went deeper into the house to join the search.

  Danny was calling back tearfully now, "Dad? Dad!"

  "It's got to be a mistake!" his father called out to the Patroller.

  Debra was spitting nails, but mindful of the police. "The stupid little shit!"

  Stella glared fearfully at her husband. "We've got to do something! Sid!"

  "I know, I know"—his eyes were searching around—"I'm going down there. Where's my damn cap?"

  Debra was continuing on her own rant, "They'll be watching us all now. Tapping our phone and—God!" She stabbed her hands up into the air. "I hate him!"

  Stella found the uniform cap and thrust it into Sidney's hands. He rushed out to pursue the Patroller as the police emerged from Danny's room holding the illegal vid.

  "Listen," Debra said hurriedly to the officers, "I had absolutely nothing to do with that, you understand? If I had known it was here I would have denounced him myself." They barely glanced at her as they walked out into the night. Debra watched them go for a moment, then turned away irately to stare at the TV news that was now showing U.N. Secretary-General Mendez and his aides disembarking a shuttle with an entourage of Patrollers.

  STALE, MOIST, HEAVY AIR MADE ITS WAY INTO THE DIRTY CLOTH BAG that was over Nathan's head. He could smell cigarette smoke and alcohol fumes that had been exhaled by the noisy crowd through which he was being muscled. Then he was suddenly lifted off of his feet and thrown forward onto a wet and gritty stone floor.

  Realizing his hands had been freed, Nathan jerked the bag off of his head. His sandy hair was soaked with sweat. He saw that he was on the floor of a very smoky cellar. He was in a grimy circular arena of sorts some twelve feet in diameter, surrounded by the rowdy crowd he'd heard. He stood and tried to push his way out, but was shoved roughly back by the juiced-up mob that encircled him. He saw that among them were men and women, some wearing Te
ammate uniforms, and also a few Visitors. Through their jostling shoulders Nathan also saw behind them the sleazy, unwashed man whom he and Ruby had passed earlier in the alley. The unsavory man was being paid in cash, obviously for delivering Nathan.

  Then the crowd reacted with a shout of greeting. A brutish, muscle-bound female wrestler who outweighed Nathan by at least a hundred pounds was pushed into the arena from the other side. She had an ugly, jagged gouge where her left eye used to be. She wore tight ratty shorts, and an ancient sweatshirt over her voluminous breasts. The shirt was stained with blood, sweat, and likely the tears of her previous victims. She snarled at Nathan, waving her fat hands that had fingers like swollen sausages. An unsavory Master of Ceremonies shouted with delight to the assemblage, "The contest begins! To the Death!"

  Nathan's one-eyed opponent roared furiously, showing sharp teeth, some missing and broken. She began to slowly circle toward him as the crowd of enthusiastic gamblers shouted encouragement. Among the loudest was the portly chemical factory owner, J. D. Oliver. He was sweating heavily in his business suit, but unmindful of it as he cheered heartily. One-Eye circled closer to Nathan, who was countering in the opposite direction.

  "Hey, hey." Nathan's hands were out, fingers spread, trying to calm the snarling behemoth. His foot slipped on the wet stone floor and glancing down he realized that there were pools of blood smeared across it. He looked back at the grisly woman. "I'm not here to fight you. Okay?"

  But One-Eye leaped at him and the battle was on. The crowd roared excitedly. Hands waved money. Bets were taken. The odds were three-to-one on the big woman.

  With the crowd's attention focused on the combat, Bryke and Kayta easily edged in through the battered steel door that opened onto the alley. Their strange beauty turned a few heads of those nearby, but most eyes were on the fight. The mysterious women could see that Nathan was already bloodied and had been wrestled down by the vicious One-Eye. Kayta held back strategically as Bryke maneuvered closer to the arena, where One-Eye was now a juggernaut, pummeling Nathan mercilessly. Nathan managed to duck beneath one of her massive, reeking, flabby arms. He swung a furious roundhouse, slugging One-Eye very hard and spinning her bulky body against the crowd, which shouted their mass approval.

  The Master of Ceremonies was right in front of One-Eye at ringside and slipped her a butane lighter. The bestial woman smiled with dangerous pleasure. She wheeled and ignited a ten-inch flame. Some in the crowd booed, shouting angrily about the altered odds. But the majority loved the new wrinkle and cheered louder. One-Eye brandished the fire dangerously, like a dagger, toward Nathan. He was bleeding, angry, and steeling himself for what he now understood would be mortal combat.

  Then Bryke suddenly vaulted gracefully into the arena, her fisherman's vest catching some air. Nathan was as startled as were the crowd and One-Eye. Bryke dealt One-Eye a single, powerful kick in the stomach, folding the big woman over. The amazed crowd cheered.

  Standing at the oily bar in the back, Kayta was watching carefully. A very short, round, and greasy man with a scruffy beard sidled up eyeing her shapely figure. "Hey, baby"—he grinned lasciviously—"what would you say to a little fuck?" He reached his hand around the back of her neck, then jerked it back with a yelp. He saw that his hand was bleeding.

  Kayta eyed him sadly. "Good-bye, Little Fuck."

  The man suddenly choked. One hand grabbed spasmodically for the bar but he missed and dropped to the floor gasping and twisting, unnoticed by the cheering people who were entirely focused on the arena.

  Bryke had laid hold of One-Eye's ears with both hands and pulled the porcine, repulsive woman into a kiss! Everyone was stunned and amazed. One-Eye was pounding against Bryke, but the blows had no consequence. There was no breaking Bryke's powerful hold, no unsealing of her lips on the woman's.

  The crowd was aroused, shouting with one voice, "GO, GO, GO!" One-Eye suddenly convulsed violently several times. Then when Bryke released her from the kiss, the big woman went limp and dropped like a rag doll, facedown on the grimy arena floor.

  Bryke swung around, addressing the cheering crowd, "Fire is cowardly! Kill with hands!" Then before Nathan could speak, she leaped onto him, driving him down onto the floor, but by holding tightly to his collar, she prevented the back of his head from cracking on the bloody stone. Her face was inches from his own; he noticed her breath smelled like carnations and saw that her eyes were a startling bright pink. She whispered to him with calm but firm direction, "Prepare to run.—Now, strike me."

  Nathan was totally befuddled. "What—!"

  "Strike me!" she hissed emphatically. "Do it!"

  Nathan hauled off and slugged her. But her reaction made his blow seem much more powerful than he knew it had been. It was as though Bryke were using his blow as a mere excuse to spin back against the cheering crowd.

  Nathan was gaining his feet and felt his eyes must be deceiving him. He thought he saw Bryke's arm seem to hinge backward as her hand grabbed a bottle of liquor from someone behind her. She took a big mouthful as the juiced-up crowd shouted encouragement.

  Then, with the easy grace of a ballet dancer, she swept her hand across the floor picking up the butane lighter that was still aflame. She held it in front of her mouth and spewed her mouthful of liquor, which the lighter ignited. She had created a fountain of flame that set fire to a dozen nearby spectators—including the Master of Ceremonies.

  The mob's shouts of encouragement instantly became shrieks of pain. People around those afire climbed over each other to get away. And at that moment the wall behind Kayta suddenly exploded outward. Everyone was startled, except Kayta who slipped a small pistol-like device back under her suede vest. Water sprayed from broken pipes as dirt and debris rained from the low rafters. Panic was spreading, many were screaming in pain, and all were desperately trying to shove their way out of the growing chaos.

  Nathan was momentarily as stupefied as everyone else. He lost sight of Bryke in the pandemonium, but realized the opportunity she'd given him to escape and he took it. He clambered over several fallen people, including Oliver, and bolted out into the alley where a misty rain was hanging in the dark air.

  He ran breathlessly down the alley and around a corner, the sounds of the fleeing crowd gradually diminishing behind him. He looked about, but there was no sign of the strange woman who had saved his life. Whoever she was, he felt grateful. He flexed his hand; it was sore from hitting her. He started to wipe what he thought was her blood off of his fist, but quickly realized that the liquid on his hand was not red. It was a pale yellow.

  He studied it for a moment, greatly confused, his head still throbbing from the fight. Then angry shouts from the alley encouraged him to hurry on through Chinatown and into the foggy night.

  CHARLES ELGIN LEANED OVER THE SECONDHAND KITCHEN TABLE IN his family's exceedingly small, run-down tenement in the Sci ghetto. His head bumped against the cracked, faux Tiffany plastic lamp that hung over the scratched Formica surface of the table.

  "We'll get a few bucks for this." He was unwrapping the electric drill he had found at the plant. It was small but heavy and as it rolled from the newspaper wrapping it made a dent in the tabletop.

  His wife Mary flinched slightly. "Careful."

  Charles emitted a dark chuckle. "Oh, yeah, like it really matters with this priceless piece of furniture." He reached down into his sock. "Blue helped me sneak out some bits for it, too." He retrieved the drill bits and was lining them up on the table when he noticed Mary's sad eyes. He often saw that expression on her face and he was never sure if it was better to just let it pass or whether talking about what was troubling her might help. This time he decided to engage, speaking gently, "What is it, honey?"

  She was staring down at the stained and faded green Formica, but her eyes were looking beyond it into the past. "I always wonder where they took our table"—she crossed her arms in front of her, closing her fingers around her thumbs protectively—"where they took all our beautiful furniture, al
l those years ago." Charles touched her cheek gently; he knew how emotionally fragile she was. He knew that she was near tears as she murmured, "I loved that table."

  Charlotte had just come in and immediately discerned her mother's melancholia. She eased closer and slipped her arm around Mary's waist. "Well, I like this table, Momma. Because we can all still sit around it together. And look," she said. A pleased smile danced across her pretty face and caught in her cheerful eyes as she opened the plastic bag from the Chinese grocery. She took out the three bruised apples. Mary frowned with worry, but Charlotte calmed her concern. "Mrs. Soon let me have them. These are for you two and Poppy."

  Her mother looked from the three apples to Charlotte. "But what about you?"

  Charlotte shrugged it off. "Oh, I ate mine on the way home." Then she leaned closer, squeezing her mother's arm. "We're really very lucky, Momma." Charlotte kissed her on the cheek. "I'll check on Poppy."

  She moved across the thin Persian rug with threadbare patches that covered part of the uneven wooden floor of their cramped flat. She drew back a makeshift curtain along the rope from which it hung. Her grandfather, Charles Senior, was reclining on a lumpy, brown corduroy sofa. He was seventy-three but looked easily ten years older. His mottled face was wrinkled and careworn, but it brightened considerably when he saw Charlotte's optimistic face.

  Across the room Charles and Mary were still standing beside the kitchen table. Mary spoke quietly, "I'm sorry, Charles. Some days it just . . ." Her voice trailed off.

  But he completed the thought, "It just all closes in. I know."

  "It's like the world's gone mad"—Mary's eyes searched the middle distance—"I feel so helpless. If it weren't for you, we'd—"