“Does it have much charge?” I asked, turning back to Conner. “The pod, I mean.” Hover-pods need charging, which in Dark City is easier in the saying than the doing. Hiding and recharging a pod is no easy task. Conner grinned, “We got three quarters of a tank.” Nobody knew why we spoke of a lithium C- cell holding a charge as if it were a tank, but we did.
“We set off at ten tomorrow,” Bill said. “The money exchange should be full of credits and half-bars, and they should still be in situ.” He picked up an empty teacup, sniffed the rim, searched for his cigs and continued. “There should be three district Johnnies making a drop that day, so be warned there will be extra Skree.” We knew already. “Me, Paul, and you James, should, with luck, get missed in the heavy presence...” Bill lifted his eyes; an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips… “mingle with the added security and whatnot.”
God knows how, but we managed to get three uniforms made up in the workshops scattered about the city. They looked the same as the Skree’s, but would not pass close inspection. They wore black with a flash of white piping at the epaulettes. The motif of a snarling dog was on the brim of their caps, just below the peak. They weren’t difficult to copy, but getting the right material was the problem. It was valuable and strictly accounted for.
Bill docked his fag with the others, stood up, finger to his lips, and tiptoed to his paint-chipped door. He opened it fully with a flourish. Maureen stood there. “Maureen, bring the tea, dear,” he said with deadpan condescension, as if she were his slave.
“Make your own fucking tea,” she replied very un-slave-like.
Bill laughed and the heavier of the lines across his forehead lost some of their melancholic shadow.
Maureen was Bill’s woman, she knew as much about the robbery as the rest of us. She was a street cleaner and had legitimate reasons for travelling through two sectors, and even loitering there. The Lucks didn’t want typhoid fever spreading - not after that last episode that propagated, albeit thinly, into the realm of the Vanguard themselves - so they made concessions to certain workers, to ensure that we had clean water. It was in their interests after all - who would do all the work if we all died, or worse, they died. Rotting debris, including corpses, weren’t allowed to stand for long. Maureen was to be our fence in the happy event one of us got out of the exchange alive. Bill trusted her implicitly. She was a great spy too, proof against betraying ears that might pry for information that could be sold for the price of a loaf of bread. Mind you, if our organisation found a traitor, he didn’t live long enough to eat it.
“After this gig,” Connor said, using the trendy word gig in the hope that it conveyed his apparent insouciance, at the very real prospect of his own sudden and violent death, “you won’t have to worry for a while. We’ll have enough food for once.” He waved a hand across the space in front of him, “and get to kick back at the Vanguards.” Simply put, Connor was already spending the credits we were to steal. With his share of the bird in the bush, he’d told us he planned to buy new pulse blasters that were coming fresh onto the market from overseas, “plus a few luxuries.”
Bill went back to the windowsill and squashed out another cigarette. He turned to his wardrobe and opening it, brought out three Skree uniforms. Even the sight of them made me shiver. “Try these on boys. Unfortunately, there are only two sets of boots, so the one of yous with the crappy shoes, stays in the middle.”
It might have been funny, trying on Skree uniforms, but for the knowledge of their brutal inhuman tactics. Baggy trousers over thin legs didn’t even raise a snicker. We fiddled about a bit, changing items here and there for a better fit, and then, reasonably satisfied after an inspection by Maureen, Bill went to the cupboard again.
“Here’s the pièce de résistance: Skree radios!” He passed them to us in an armful of tangled curly black cables. James and I unravelled one each, in the circumspect manner of a man disarming an unexploded bomb, and gave the rest back. “The Skree work off channel nine. I only got these yesterday, so here’s what I’ve worked out. Tomorrow, two of you will use channel seven, which is not monitored. That way we can keep one step ahead of the Skree.” Bill pressed upon Conner a newly disentangled radio and kept the last for himself. “You,” he said meeting Conner’s eyes, “will monitor channel nine as well as seven. Paul, you keep hold of channel seven. Talk to Conner. Make sure we don’t get any unpleasant surprises. Me and James will be on channel nine, checking for Skree. We take two guns along for the ride, Connor won’t need one. Paul, you stay in the middle. James and myself will carry.” He searched the ceiling for words appropriate to address the responsibility, “Let’s be careful with them.” He passed James a gun, pulled from the back of his waistband. It was a small, shiny black, snub nose affair. For some reason - lost in the mists of time - we called these pop-guns, Saturday night specials. Maybe people did a lot of killing on a Saturday, once upon a time.
“Anybody who asks for it can have it,” James said, clicking back the gun’s hammer. He turned the well-oiled gun over in his hands. “I’d love to kill a few of those bastards.”
Bill frowned, “What did I just say? I said be careful. If they ask for it, then we’ve already failed. Make sure they don’t ask James… James, you got me?” The guns were the old-fashioned type, six bullets in the cylinder that revolved when the trigger was pulled. They were perhaps a hundred years old, most definitely antique. But they had been well cared for, lovingly maintained. Cleaned and well-oiled, they would kill as easily as any blaster. “Keep them out of sight of the Skree. With such odd weapons, we’ll be obvious.”
Bill, by the impression the downward curl of his lips made, was not altogether satisfied with his choice of James to carry a gun. Maybe he was having second thoughts? In any event he let it pass and continued with his instructions. “Turn on the radios.” As we did, the staccato of the Skree burst through on channel nine, barking like the dogs of war that they were. Even their mundane words about refreshment breaks and stop checks, goosed my flesh. Bill saw the look on my face. “Get used to it. I need calm, confident faces!”
I tried a smile but failed. There was nothing more to be said. We parcelled our uniforms to appear as food rations and left the room at five-minute intervals. This was to allay any suspicion of a meeting having just finished, but as I left, I felt several eyes, real or imagined, watching my back as it ducked for what I considered, for want of a better word - home.
Chapter Three. Sleep of Dreams.
I arrived back safely by skirting the walls and doorways I knew so well. I sat on my attic-bed and looked at my shoes. After making a pathetic attempt to shine them up to resemble the boots of a Skree - my toe-holes blacked up with burnt slush lamp oil - I felt hopeless. They wouldn’t pass muster for a second. I tried to squeeze this negative thought and a myriad of others from my mind.
The exchange we were going to rob was near Checkpoint Nirvana. It served as a halfway house between Pangropolis and Dark City. Commerce was still required between the two sides because we, the workers, supplied the luxuries Pangropolis gluttonously devoured. In return, us Scrits’ received plastic government bonds of various decimal denominations. These could be used to buy the essentials needed for basic subsistence from government run shops. We might take a few of these bonds, but they were essentially worthless in large quantities since they were traceable. What we were really after was the half-bars, which were solid gold and used as money to pay the wages of the venal Skree. Skree, quite rightly, didn’t deal with plastic credits, that could only buy stuff like porridge peas or scratchy blankets.
You may ask why we Scrits went along with this, until you come to realise how complete and overbearing was the brutality of the regime. The strongest survived and were given enough food to live on. The weak were crushed under the boot of a command economy that felt nothing for the death of a Discreet.
During the night I kept an unnecessary vigil, for want of something to do, and craned my neck through the ceiling light until it was fit to crack.
Then I lay down on what passed for my bed, only to toss and turn. I must have dozed because suddenly Bill was there, demonstrating the physiology of running. He was scissoring his legs in an exaggerated manner and smiling, “Look! It’s easy.”
I began to run, but only in a nightmare of slow motion, bogged down by some invisible force the texture of treacle. I found myself in random back alleyways, all of which were blocked off at the end by some foul imaginings of my own unconsciousness. Turning, I feverishly avoided drones, until a Skree finally cornered me and was about to blow my head off. Ears swashing with a blood rush, I sat bolt upright. A blob of orange shadow adorned the blanket at my feet. I was breathing and sweating hard. The blob told me it was roughly eight o’clock. I looked around the sparse room in a frenzy of fear, and only slowly did my heart-rate and breathing return to normal; my senses finally concluding that I was safe… for now! I wiped the sweat from my forehead onto my musty blanket, that only served to smear my fear, not absorb it.
Though the climate of dark City was capricious, and only occasionally matched the seasons, the sun still rose and set at the same time it always had. For most Scrits, this was the best way of telling time when at work. Just like our forebears I suppose, we all watched shadows. Harlow Bell rang a few moments later to confirm my guess of eight o’clock. I tried to ignore the bell as a rule, living so close to the proximity of it, but today it rang loud with pregnant dread. I’d been chosen to go on this job, simply because I wasn’t useful for anything else. I was a drain on the Fifths meagre resources and as such, expendable.
I’d taken the face-fit of the old man off when I’d arrived home yesterday evening. From now on I would wear my own and die as a man. It didn’t matter anymore. I had been promised by the Fifth a secure place in the Badlands when this was over, a place where I could, maybe, live out the rest of my life in peace. Perhaps one day I would return to Dark City, when the proceeds of our robbery, along with other capital, allowed for an arsenal large enough to mount a full-blown assault on the Vanguard. I was under no illusion however: my lack of usefulness was a worrisome peg on which to pin a large target.
With that happy thought bouncing around my head, I boiled a flask of water over a tripod set to the greasy flame of the slush. The water never actually boiled, but got hot enough to mash something that resembled tea leaves. My hands shook as I picked the cup up to my lips. A trail of hot liquid ran down my chin, reminding me to shave. Skree never grew beards.
I cut myself twice in the slow process, due to a combination of rusty blade and shaky fingers. I greased the cuts to stop the bleeding, not that the cuts would be a problem, Skree were hired thugs, cuts and bruises went with the job.
We killed Skree every chance we got, but it wasn’t easy. Sniper rifles were a rarity now that biometrics had everybody more or less pinned down as soon as they stepped out the door. I combed my hair, paced the room till the Harlow Bell rang nine, sat down, stood up, and paced some more. Just when I thought the Harlow bell must have stopped working, it chimed the half hour.
I put on the Skree uniform, feeling very conspicuous. I over-tightened the belt around my middle and fixed the radio there. The flex passed over my shoulder through the silver braid, allowing me to fasten it to my collar. I turned on the radio and swallowed air whilst listening to Skree chatter.
“Suspect walking Tenement 7B. Medium build, wearing black cloth cap...”
“Ten-four. Unit 11-6 attending. What’s he done again?”
“Failed a breath test at junction Simon Street and Buck Row.”
“Ten-four, E.T.A. five minutes, over.”
“Received, over.”
These were chilling words in the context of my current situation. I turned the dial to position seven and was glad to hear radio silence. It helped steady me. I pulled on my dilapidated shoes, a lace snapping as I tightened the left. “Fucking great,” I whispered. Quickly taking the longer length of the two broken ends I made a loop that just about fastened the bridge.
Oversized raincoat and scarf tucked deep into my collar, my Skree uniform was covered. I felt like an alcoholic out of work scarecrow, but hoped I would pass as a late-coming, itinerant worker on the way to the labour market.
I set off along the grime-riddled street made shiny by last night’s rain. A hazy and unnatural light seeped its way into my path, giving every object a sinister glowing hue. Alongside the perimeter of Bradley Court, I caught up with James and Bill who were loafing suspiciously by some dilapidated railings. Bill ground a cigarette butt on a wall and nodded.
Wordlessly, they fell into step on either side of me. I studied their boots. They shone with a parade gloss finish, whilst mine looked like they used to belong to a dead tramp. I thought about telling Bill that I should return home, the mission was hopeless and I would fuck everything up, but the words didn’t come.
We carried on, without talking, and fell in line with a man pulling a cart, for cover. The small artisan factories of the surrounding area were building up a head of steam. The monotonous boom of a metal press had us all marching in time. We entered what could be described as the commercial centre of Dark City. The old Pavilion Hotel, all brick built, still stood as a monument to times past. Cracks in the walls allowed a steady stream of rainwater to trickle down. Sooner or later it would lead to collapse, not that any Vanguard cared. Buildings, like people, were of no consequence. Another would be erected with prefabricated material, if it was thought necessary for the smooth running of the government.
Glimpses of the security wall came into view along the alleyways we passed. As we neared the labour market, not far from our destination, the money exchange loomed large. The wings of the exchange itself were subordinate to the security wall. Smooth and featureless to the midpoint, they shone with a dull glaze. I’d seen it a thousand times, yet still my eyes sought out the part of the structure where it changed from smooth to the red flashing steel beacons and barbs, which in turn became part of a great mesh of humming wire. Drones or mines lay beyond the place, seen as a weak link in the overall Vanguard defence. Even tunnels had been defeated by electrified nets underneath the old cellars of the exchange. They acted like an antisubmarine boom that caught out unsuspecting diggers, like a bolt from the blue, literally.
Empty plinths fronted neat squares, devoid of statues. We approached the large municipal quadrant set before the labour market and the money exchange. To one side, a great factory chimney belched black, plastic smoke. When it rained, great gobbets of soot landed on the ground, on clothing, or on skin, where it burnt if left to idle.
I was edging toward panic when, at last, I saw Connor in a hover-cat, a sleek version of the hover-pod. It was all decked out in the livery and decals of a Skree patrol outside the money exchange. Connor pretended to speak on his radio. He looked so fucking obvious despite himself. I hoped he hadn’t been there long. Without watches it was difficult to synchronise arrival. We went to the rear of the patrol pod, took off our overcoats, and threw them quickly into the holding cage. Turning on our radios, we headed for the money exchange. Connor looked at us and gave us a faint wink.
Chapter Four. All that Glitters.
That bastard, the Harlow Bell, was ringing ten as we ducked inside the money exchange with a purpose. All business now, we passed a couple of Skree on the door who nodded, appraised our uniform, and let us go without enquiry. They were probably pulling overtime after a night shift and were too fucked to care much about three irregulars. Nevertheless, I was sure that in a moment they would realize their mistake, turn, and shoot us down. Seconds elapsed and no shots were fired.
We walked down a long corridor, decked in blocks of polished wood. It was regularly waxed judging by the slippery feel underfoot. Bill took the lead. I was the second man and James followed. We passed a guard wearing one of those new style silver suits. He sniffed the air as if he’d just smelt dog shit.
As we got close to the money exchange, I noticed a janitor cleaning a spillage of some sort off the fl
oor. A smartly dressed man stepped over the spill whilst carrying a cup of coffee and another shuffled a bundle of papers, one eye watching where he trod.
The massive double doors, plate glass and old wood, opened automatically. Bill rushed through, pulling his gun. “All right, mutha-fuckers. Stop working and move over there!” Bill motioned his gun in the direction of the far wall.
The room froze for a moment and then somebody laughed. Bill pointed his gun at the fat face of the culprit. I saw his eyes flash a warning as they considering shooting the smirk off the now worried looking face, just to make a point. He calmed, changed his mind, and instead, smashed the butt end of the pistol into the bridge of the man’s overblown nose. He bellowed, “Get over there! I won’t say it again.” Arms voluntarily raised themselves. Slowly, a furtive group of clerks shuffled their way to the far wall.
It was obvious where the money and half-bars were being stored. A tall, gangly man was left standing in front of a pile of it. Above the sound of my own beating heart, I heard James’s radio as he stood next to me, chattering stuff my ears didn’t register. Coughing back panic, I guided the gangly man to a padded chair and pushed him into it. The chair was on wheels and together they glided away from me like a row boat on a lake.
One man who had thus far escaped our attentions was knocking silently on the glass partition between the exchange and the corridor beyond, attempting to raise the alarm. James cracked him on the head with a metal table lamp he’d found to hand. I didn’t think he hit the sop too hard, but the man went down like a boxer who’d thrown a fight. Maybe he thought playing possum was in his best interests. Pretending to be unconscious is a good way of avoiding further trouble.
Swallowing a tide of saliva, I checked my stance and watched Bill sort through the pile of money, throwing aside most of it to get to four or five half-bars that shone beneath. I radioed Connor on channel seven. “How’s it looking out there?”
Beyond the Rubicon Page 2