Dark as Angels: We are the Enemy

by Dominic Adler

  A brawny anarchist appeared at Ignacio’s shoulder. Crop-headed and bearded, dressed for war. His accent was English. “The leagues always send the Pups in the first wave. Young kids, looking to blood themselves.”

  “Paolo, meet Caleb of Enfield,” said Ignacio. “One of my best soldiers. He grew up in London.”

  “I was a pup in the Reapers,” Caleb replied. “Escaped when I was sixteen. These kids want to move up the ranks so badly, they’ll do anything.”

  Paolo offered his hand. “What next? After these children?”

  Caleb studied Paolo with dark, hooded eyes. “The next tier are called ProperPersons. They just call ‘em Propers. Pups are cannon-fodder, Propers are blooded shock troops. Most leagues are fifty percent pups, but the Loyal Croydonia are stronger. I reckon five-thousand Propers. After the Propers come Yeomen, then finally Generals.”

  Paolo studied the omni. The leaguers on the southern perimeter were being harassed by anarchist rifle fire. Many had stolen riot shields, made of armorglass capable of deflecting bullets. “How many soldiers do you have, Ignacio?”

  “Just over a hundred trusted guns from my Black Rifles,” the General replied proudly. “There are three hundred fighters available from other groups. But we have over a thousand non-combatants in the Commune.”

  Paolo shook his head. “No such thing as a non-combatant. Not now.”

  Ignacio snatched up his fob. “Give the order for our marksmen to kill the fascists. I will offer a bounty for the first confirmed kill of one of their so-called generals. Wait for them to form emergency RVPs for casualty clearance, then detonate the secondary devices.”

  “How do you feel about that, Caleb?” said Paolo. Testing. Probing. He didn’t like new people, wanted to know what made them tick. “You might have kin out there?”

  “Fascists,” the Englishman replied. “Fuck them. I recognise no nation, and the only flag I owe fealty to is Red.”

  Right answer.

  “There’s a call on the open fob,” the girl in black reported. “The pigs want to talk, General.”

  “Patch them through,” Ignacio replied. “Caleb, get up on the walkways. Supervise the snipers. Kill fascists!”

  “Yes, General,” the Englishman replied, plucking a rifle from a crate.

  A weary voice crackled through speakers dotted around the bunker’s walls. “This is Chief Superintendent Bruno Banazewski of the Municipal Police. We need to speak about the explosions on your perimeter.”

  The General hit the fob’s privacy button. “Banazewski is reasonable enough, for a pig.”

  Paolo raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to speak with him?”

  “Yes. Do you disagree?”

  “No, but it might help to feed him misinformation. It might buy time,” Paolo replied.

  Ignacio nodded and cleared his throat. “We have internal elements outside my control, Chief Superintendent. The explosions are nothing to do with me, in fact I’m trying to calm the situation.”

  “We’ve got upwards of a hundred casualties outside your perimeter,” the policeman replied. “You must ceasefire and allow casualty evacuation.”

  “This is self-defence, Chief Superintendent. Why not get the street leagues to ceasefire instead?”

  “I’m negotiating with all parties,” the policeman replied.

  “I’m sure you are,” Ignacio spat, nostrils flaring. “I saw that fascist puta Zachary Fry’s speech. You suck league cock! When Fry’s men withdraw from our perimeter, I will order a ceasefire. Until then, we have nothing to discuss, except to put our innocence on the record.”

  “I’m duty-bound to remind you it’s not your perimeter,” Banazewski sighed. “It’s an illegal squat. You’re being evicted. We have military support, which we’ll use if necessary.”

  The General’s laugh was a hearty boom. “If you have the army out there, order them to tame the fascists, not us. They are the aggressors.”

  “You were warned. Ignacio Azarola, I’m informing you there’s an international arrest order against you for war crimes in Libya, Tunisia and Morocco. You’ll stand trial, if you’re lucky. If not, you’ll die in there like mice in a trap.”

  “I’m not sure I’d have played that card,” said Paolo, lighting a fresh Marlboro. The girl in black gifted him a smile. “Not yet, anyway.”

  “Chief Superintendent, I am terrified,” Ignacio laughed. “Now fuck off. Tell NatSec and the Americans they can suck my huge Andalusian dick when we meet in hell!”

  The anarchists in the command bunker whooped and cheered. Paolo, despite himself, smiled. “You crazy bastard.”

  “From you? I’ll take that as a compliment,” the big Spaniard replied. He cleared his fob, voice booming. “Hear this, Comrades! Black Rifles – report to the western perimeter. Wait for their ambulances, then open fire. Give the fascists no opportunities to evacuate their wounded.”

  More explosions rocked the bunker, sending up clouds of dust. “Are those ours?” said someone. The omni feed from a circling news copter showed fiery mushroom clouds rising above rooftops, a rag-tag convoy of ambulances trundling through the estate.

  Paolo checked the gun at his belt. “I have preparations to make, but if you need me…”

  The anarchist general clapped Paolo on the shoulder. “I’ll call you when we do. I’m sure your mission, whatever it is, will cause this bastard country even more pain.”

  “I guarantee it. Our crimson banner will fly over their Parliament. I have sworn it, and it will be so.”

  General Ignacio readied his Kalashnikov and turned to his soldiers. “Then let’s give Comrade Paolo enough time to complete his dark work. To the barricades!”

  Seventeen

  Hooker stood in the carpark under Millbank tower. “Take that look off your face,” said Bailey. “You made the right decision.”

  Chisholm slapped something wet on Hooker’s wrist. “This looks like a shitty old graft-fob, but it ain’t. You can’t remove it without the right chems.” Hooker felt a burning sensation, adhesive bonding to skin. Tiny fish-eye lenses dotted the device, along with a screen and a rubberized push-to-talk button.

  Chisholm tapped the fob, which buzzed gently. “Good bit of kit, this. We can monitor everything you see and hear, plus geolocate you to within three metres. Here, take this.”

  Hooker examined a small grey tube. It looked vaguely medical, a small globule of hardened liquid suspended from the end. “What do I do with it?”

  “Put the globe against your ear and squeeze. It’s a nano-bot, it’ll graft onto your auditory canal. You’ll be able to talk to us independently of the fob.”

  Hooker pulled a face. “Fuck off. I’m not putting that in my ear.”

  “Relax. It’s only an organic polymer. The grub degrades naturally after forty-eight hours.”

  Hooker slid the tube into his ear and felt something pop. Warm liquid, followed by a slight wriggling. Then he heard a low, clear tone.

  “It’s working pretty good,” said Chisholm, checking his earpiece. “Seeing as we’re underground an’ all.”

  “Hooker, I’ve gotta warn you. If you remove either device, the techs start working on Leah,” Bailey warned.

  Hooker’s eyes swept the two OCS men. “This is the sorta shit that comes back to haunt a man.”

  “Save it for the soap-dodgers,” said Chisholm. “I don’t like what’s happening to her any more than you do.”

  “We are where we are,” Bailey added, studying his shoe.

  They drove in silence, back to the Goons. On the newsfeed, a senior leaguer declared his support for the march on the Crosland. The head of The Loyal Croydonia Brethren, promising an army to crush the rioting.

  “Zachary-fucking-Fry. Lunatic,” said Bailey.

  “Yeah, but a useful lunatic,” Chisholm replied, accelerating into the priority lane, the BMW’s speedo hitting a hundred-twenty. Turning on the automated steering, he lit a cigarette.

  “Ten-cent Hitler, that’s what he is,�
� Bailey grumbled.

  “Croydonia’s not safe, not since he took over,” said Hooker. “Zachary Fry’s a race-separatist.”

  “Couldn’t care less, I live by the Heathrow Gate,” Chisholm shrugged.

  Hooker smiled. “Heathrow? That’ll make it easier to find you, come the time.”

  “Fuck off, Hooker.”

  They passed the Lagoon City checkpoint, parking in the shadows of a deserted office block. Bailey led Hooker to the trunk. “Help yourself.”

  Hooker unzipped a black ballistic bag. Inside was a holstered assault pistol, as long as his forearm. “You’ve got all the toys at OCS, ain’t you?” he said. “New Hanyang Tactical Pro? Suppressor, recoil mitigation, nano-munitions and integrated optics. I usually work with a .38, a shotgun and a blade.”

  Chisholm made a face “Well, now you’ve been upgraded to the premium-fucking- package. This is Apex Team stuff, not medieval No-Zone bollocks.”

  “Yeah, even we don’t get issued this kind of gear,” Bailey sniffed.

  Hooker shrugged on a ceramoweave plate carrier over his armorgel vest. Clipping the Hanyang’s holster to his belt, he added distraction grenades, fighting knife, a coil of nylon rope, karabiner and slap charges for door-breaching. Finally, he pulled on his leather coat, hydration packs stuffed in the pockets. “You forgot the most important bit of kit,” said Hooker.

  “What?” said Chisholm.

  “Gold.”

  “In the zip-up compartment,” Bailey replied, pointing at the bag.

  Hooker found bundles of shiny RDs and the pouch containing Vassa Hyatt’s guineas. There was also an autojet, the size of a marker pen. The needle was covered with a thick rubber cap. “Combat drugs, straight out of Porton Down’s Advanced Warfare facility,” said Bailey proudly. “That’s a dose of super-juice.”

  “Respirocite?” said Hooker, examining the autojet.

  “Yeah,” Bailey replied, “that shit’ll make you archangel-scary for twenty minutes. After that you’ll be fucked for forty-eight hours. Last resort stuff.”

  “That sharp cost more than our lovely German car,” Chisholm added. “I’d rather sign it back in when we’re done.”

  Hooker shrugged. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

  Bailey watched a maroon arc into the sky, trailing fiery smoke. “What’s your plan?”

  Hooker held up the fob fused to his wrist. “Listen and find out.”

  They drove deeper into the estate, the occasional NatSec patrol holding street corners. Beyond the cordon, munis stood in riot-shielded huddles. “We’re almost there,” said Chisholm. “I’m getting a feed in my earpiece. The leagues have marched on the Commune.”

  They passed a burnt-out pub, blackened timbers pointing skywards. “Drop me here,” said Hooker.

  Chisholm stopped the car. “One last thing,” he said. “Don’t contact Gordy Rice. We’ll know if you call him, and if you do our deal’s off.”

  “Think about Leah,” said Bailey.

  Hooker readied the assault pistol, slide snapping into place. “Think about what I’ll do if she’s hurt.”

  Chisholm pulled a face. “We’re listening, Hooker. To every-fucking-word.”

  Boots crunching on gravel, Hooker navigated trash-strewn pavements and boulevards, hand on his gun. Finally, he found the familiar maisonette, walls sprayed with obscene graffiti. Checking the street for watchers, Hooker pressed a buzzer set next to an armoured door. A voice bled through the intercom. “Fuck off.”

  “It’s Rufus Hooker.”

  “Then double-fuck off.”

  “Let me in, Logan. I’ve got coin.”

  “Coin?”

  “A shit-load of gold.”

  The door opened an inch, releasing the stench of fried food and body odour. “Come in,” said a fat man. “Quick, ‘fore some fucker sees you.”

  “Doubt anyone remembers me,” Hooker replied.

  “You ain’t easily forgotten, you murdering shit,” said the fat man, blubbery lips fringed with a greasy beard. A mauve light-stud twinkled in each nostril.

  “Neither are you, Logan,” Hooker replied. He peeled a wad of dollars from his pocket and tossed them on a sofa. “There’s some dough, so y’know where I’m coming from.”

  Logan’s tongue flickered while he counted the banknotes. “What is it you need, Sergeant Hooker?”

  “You know I’m not a Taskforcer anymore.” Hooker walked to the window and nudged open the armour-mesh blinds. The street was empty. “As if you didn’t know.”

  Logan smirked. “I loved seein’ you get banged-up at that Tribunal. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t.”

  “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t thinking of punching your teeth out.”

  Logan flopped on a sofa, grinning. Littered with pizza crusts and crunched-up tissues, the omni projecting an urgent gang-bang in three fleshy dimensions. The fat man lit a skanj joint, blowing a plume of dirty-sweet smoke. “What do you want?”

  “The Commune International. I need to get inside.”

  “The anarchist dump?” Logan shook his head, jowls wobbling. “It’s full of tooled-up Reds. I had you down for a lot of things, Hooker, but never stupid.”

  “A thousand guineas. Get me inside the Commune and it’s yours. I know you can do it, Logan.”

  “Gold? Show me,”

  Hooker threw Vassa Hyatt’s bag on the table-top. “Look inside.”

  Logan unzipped the pouch, picked up a guinea and bit it. “Okay, but I need to make a call,” he said, pointing a sausage-finger at his fob.

  “Do it.”

  Logan spoke in Tois, a fast-moving mixture of Creole, Slav and Romany slang. Different from No-Zone Babble, but Hooker understood it well enough. Logan told someone to come over. Fast. “Who’s your contact?” he asked.

  Logan smiled, grease glistening on his beard. “A local girl. One of her boyfriends is a rope-head from the Commune. Reckon he might help, if the price is right.”

  Hooker looked for somewhere clean to sit, but thought better of it, “how long?”

  Logan flicked the Omni to a news feed. Leaguers swarmed across the Goons, followed by camera drones from a dozen news stations. “Not long. Do you think they’ll let those bastards in?”

  “They already have.”

  Logan harrumphed. “The Crosland won’t take a liberty like that lying down.”

  Hooker shrugged. “Croydonia’s marching. There’s thousands of ‘em. This ain’t like the old days, when the Goons had its own league.”

  “Thanks to you dirty bastards,” Logan spat. “Now, wait here.”

  Watching the door, gun ready, Hooker waited. Logan finally reappeared with a skinny, white-haired girl. She wore a dress made of spiky grey rubber. “This is Desire,” said Logan. “She can help you.”

  Desire studied Hooker with a hollow-eyed stare, silver-painted lips drawn into a scowl. Light-studs fringed her jawline, glowing pink. She smiled. “This is him? Handsome. I do like me a bit of black.”

  Logan popped open a can of beer. “Meet Rufus Hooker. Used to be a Taskforcer.”

  The girl screwed up her face. “Taskforcer? Why would I help one of those cunts?”

  Hooker smiled, weapons visible as his coat gaped open. “How old were you in those days? Or where you still swimmin’ ‘round daddy’s ball-sack?”

  “My mum told me ‘bout it.” The girl attempted a coy smile, tracing a pattern on the carpet with her toe. “She said Taskforcers’d kill people just for lookin’ at ‘em the wrong way.”

  Hooker took a step closer, making Desire flinch. He smiled, and it was cruel. “I’d love to talk about the rights and wrongs of the Hate War, but I’m in a hurry. I need to get inside the Commune International.”

  “There’s gold,” said Logan. The girl went to touch a guinea, but Logan shooed her away.

  “Yeah,” said Desire, licking her lips. “I can do that.”

  “How?”

  “My last boyfriend? He was a rope-head, German fella. He takes stuff
in and out of the Commune. Ciggies and ‘cotics.” Desire lowered her voice. “They’ve got a tunnel. A secret tunnel. Police don’t know nuffin’ ‘bout it.”

  “Your German friend can get me inside?”

  Desire nodded. “We were fobbin’ earlier. He wants to get out, before the leaguers burn the place down.”

  “OK, let’s do it.”

  Desire’s eyes narrowed. “How much? He’ll want paying proper. Not mugged off.”

  “There’s a thousand guineas. You and Logan sort it out between yourselves.”

  “Sixty-forty to me,” said Logan.

  “Fuck off,” Desire snapped. “What risks you takin’ lardy-boy?”

  Hooker held up a hand. “I said work it out between yourselves. Now fob your man.”

  Desire crossed her bony arms. “My fobs at my sister’s. You ain’t going there, I’d get skinned if they knew I was helpin’ a Taskforcer.”

  Hooker checked his watch. He saw the gold-fever in Destiny’s eyes – she’d be back. “Be quick.”

  Desire nodded. “Y’know the alleyway, off the Linton Mead?”

  “Sure.”

  “There’s some garages, ‘cross from the lagoon. They got blue doors. Meet me there in twenty minutes.”

  The girl reached for the gold. Hooker grabbed her hand and squeezed it, just enough to hurt. “You get paid once I’m inside. Wanna find out if your old lady was right about Taskforcers?”

  The girl looked at Logan, light studs blinking in his nostrils. Logan nodded. Smirking, the girl slipped out of the door. “She’s a good girl,” the fat man said, licking his lips.

  Hooker watched the girl go. “Don’t fuck me over, Logan.”

  Logan drained another beer. “Why would I? I’m getting paid to send you somewhere you’re likely to get killed. It’s like Christmas ‘far as I’m concerned.”

  Hooker left Logan’s place, sticking to the shadows as he made for the river. The Thames glittered, reflecting moonlight and fire. The strange monastery sat mid-river, lit by yellowish torchlight. Hooker magnified his goggles, watching robed monks studying the estate through binoculars. He thought the Answerers were crazy bastards, then chuckled. I’m the one trying to break inside a war-zone.