by Ginger Booth
He scowled, but stepped in to sound ta-dump.
“ThingSpace, play dance music!” I attempted. No response. “Alexa, play music!”
“What music would you like?” replied the ThingSpace, in a woman’s sultry alto voice.
“It wants to dance with us!” I said in delight.
“Alexa?” Emmett demanded. “How’d you know that?”
I shrugged. “It’s like Siri. Just a name.”
“My partner is a machine whisperer,” Emmett groused.
“I love cool tech,” I agreed. “I really do. Alexa, play music. Walk on By, by Dionne Warwick.” I don’t know why I picked that song. Pathos, perhaps. Sure enough, the song started to play.
If you see me walking down the street
And I start to cry each time we meet
Walk on by, walk on by
I took Emmett’s hand and sashayed him down the corridor, one step facing half-together, next step facing half-away. This was nearly guaranteed to make him dance – Emmett was far too dominant to let me lead. He was a good dancer, too, especially swing. His mother had tended bar at a country-western club in Branson Missouri when he was a kid. After a few reluctant steps, Emmett took over, and spun me around. Step together, step apart, turn in place with me stepping backward to him stepping forward, then tossed away in a spin again, and pulled back into his arms. Half of me enjoyed his touch, and the accelerations as he pulled me around, and the sway of my own hips, to the slow sultry beat.
Foolish pride
Is all that I have left
So let me hide
The tears and the sadness you gave me
When you said goodbye
The other half of me tracked the sensors in the walls. A glissando, a bass, a chime, all tuned to complement and exaggerate the music at that exact moment. I told the music to replay twice, as we got the hang of what effects were available. I broke from him to stomp on a double foot-print painted on the sidewalk. That gave a deep drumbeat and a lasing light, gold and magenta. I found a spot that yielded cymbals with a right hip-jut, and a drum to the left. I danced with the man and the machines, hung between Emmett and the ThingSpace, grinning from ear to ear.
As the song ended for the last time, I doubled over laughing out loud. Emmett gathered me up in his arms and kissed me. I resumed chuckling as he rested his forehead on mine.
“You’re kinda crazy,” he observed.
“It’s the end of the world as we know it, Emmett,” I countered. “Live a little. That’s a song, isn’t it? Perfect! Alexa, play music, It’s the End of the World as We Know It!”
Too rowdy a song for country swing steps, we bopped all over the corridor, playing with the ThingSpace and playing off each other. The squares around the painted footprints played a great sequence when I jumped hopscotch on them.
Uh-oh, overflow, population, common group
But it’ll do, save yourself, serve yourself
World serves its own needs, listen to your heart bleed
Tell me with the Rapture and the reverent in the right, right
You vitriolic, patriotic, slam fight, bright light
Feeling pretty psyched
It's the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine!
This time, at the end, Emmett doubled over laughing along with me, eyes watering in mirth. I stood up straight first, and laid an arm around his waist. As my eyes rose, I spotted a passerby out on the street. He stood frozen, grey plaid wool jacket over grey pants, grey hair, hunched forward, bent by the weight of the world. All that stood out from his greyness was threads of red in the plaid, and murderous hatred in his eyes.
“Emmett,” I murmured. “On the street.”
“Guards!” Emmett called out. He pointed. “I need to talk to him!” The guy took off in a running shamble. Our fit young guards had no trouble catching him at all.
Chapter 8
Interesting fact: When the U.S.A. was officially abolished in March, during a Project Reunion news broadcast, Major Cam Cameron suggested that each super-state adopt a simple constitution to declare itself a nation. His military governor, Sean Cullen of New York–New Jersey, dragged his feet, hoping another super-state would go first. None did.
The IBIS agents, Kalnietis and Gianetti, along with all the guards, gathered around as Emmett attempted to chat with our grey visitor.
“When ye therefore shall see the abomination of desolation, stand in the holy place!” he admonished us. “Flee into the mountains!”
I wondered if a nut-case homeless man would be any use to us at all. But Emmett apparently recognized the gibberish. “Whole lot of Matthew today,” he commented. “Sir, did you happen to see the abomination here, three days ago? A rally?”
“She is the whore of Babylon!” the grey man accused, pointing at me.
“What does that even mean?” I asked Emmett sourly. He touched my elbow and gestured for me to go stand with the IBIS agents and stay out of this. Kalnietis swapped places with me, placing his body between the man and us women.
“Sir, do not insult my wife again,” Emmett rebuked the man sternly. I didn’t object to the promotion to wife. Clearly we weren’t communicating well enough for fine distinctions. Emmett introduced himself and our group, and managed to pry out a name in return: Brian Altmann. In between superfluous creepy Bible quotes, sadly it became evident that Altmann attended the rally here three days ago, that led to Dane Beaufort’s death. Emmett and Kalnietis were too polite to say so, or at least wanted to wring more information out of him first. But Brian Altmann was likely a dead man, as a member of that mob.
They made a good team. Kalnietis gently tugged at any threads of sense. Emmett knew more Bible than I ever suspected, and turned Altmann’s quotes back on him. Being understood, sort of, helped Altmann be more forthcoming. But progress was slow and half-nonsensical, and the clouds were darkening again.
I wandered off with Gianetti to help pick up her blood samples. I offered her a trash bag from the locally produced package I picked up in Beaufort’s kitchen. I was gratified that she, from Maryland, appreciated my prize as much as I did. Trash wasn’t so bad out in the suburbs, where homes these days tended to have compost heaps nearby. In New York City, the ‘Apple Core’ as we called it, life without trash bags was a real misery. I wanted these bags back in the Core.
The rain started spitting again, and the afternoon was growing late. We deposited Altmann at the hotel for further questioning, and continued on to the coroner’s office. We hoped that Emmett could definitively identify the body as Dane’s. I only went along to hold him afterward.
Yes, it was Dane. And as of today, the coroner had another body. Dwight Davison, Dane’s second in command, had washed up on the bank of the Ohio River, just a couple miles downstream. She believed that the two men died within hours of each other.
Both men were badly beaten. The coroner concluded that the eventual cause of death for Dane was brain swelling from his head injuries. Gianetti showed her the crime scene photos on her phone. The coroner agreed that the fatal weapon was likely the archaic blast furnace beyond the fountain in Station Square. Someone bashed the back of Dane’s head into it.
If Dane hadn’t been a Resco, the homicide might be involuntary manslaughter, a much lesser offense. The perpetrators hadn’t even killed him – he died later of his wounds. Because of Dane’s position, this distinction was irrelevant.
The coroner theorized that Davison tried to swim for safety, lost too much blood in the water, passed out, and drowned. That is, assuming Dwight Davison was a victim at the same rally. But she didn’t have any conclusive evidence of that. The blood loss in his case was dominated by several knife injuries, and internal bleeding, probably from kicks to his ribs and kidney.
She promised to get back to us the next day with the blood DNA match tests, which might place Davison at the same scene.
But at this point, it was pretty clear we knew how, where, and when Dane Beaufort had died. And possibly his missing
second in command as well.
-o-
“Don’t,” I said to Emmett, tugging his hand. When we arrived back at the hotel, he automatically headed for the prisoner interrogation. “Let Tibbs deal with Altmann, Emmett. You need a break.”
Emmett looked indecisive, but Kalnietis surprised us. “Yes, let’s regroup.” He led us into the dining room to ‘our’ booth. It’s funny how territorial people are. We’d claimed that table, the soldiers held the side of the dining room behind the buffet from us, and that was that. The kitchen staff was setting up for dinner, but our troops weren’t eating yet. Apparently supper was set for 6:00, and we had some time yet. We nabbed fruit off the dessert buffet to tide us over, and a waiter served us water glasses and a pitcher.
I finally got to deliver my prize trash bags to Emmett. He and Kalnietis made appreciative noises. Emmett promised to get to the bottom of this, how we could make or import these for the Apple Core.
“You were fantastic today, Dee,” Gianetti praised me. “Ever consider a career in law enforcement?”
I smiled, and said, “I play for the other team.”
“Uh-huh,” Emmett said wryly. “Be good, Dee. She’s on my team,” he added to the IBIS agents. Fortunately, they elected to leave this be.
“So,” said Kalnietis, getting back to business. “At this point, we want to identify who was at the rally. And why they killed Dane Beaufort?”
“Uh-huh,” said Emmett. “Who, anyway. Mobs…might not find a ‘why.’” Kalnietis prompted him to expand on this. “A mob is just angry. Why it’s angry isn’t why it kills. A mob kills because it’s angry and out of control.”
“A mob mentality?” Gianetti asked doubtfully.
“That’s practically why martial law exists,” said Emmett. “When people are out of control, job one is to get them back under control. Dissolve the mob. Turn them back into people, with a conscience. A mob doesn’t have a conscience, doesn’t reason, doesn’t behave. Just lashes out.”
“So you’re not concerned with why?” Kalnietis asked.
“Oh, I’m concerned plenty,” Emmett insisted. He tapped the box of plastic trash bags. “I need to recommend what to do with Pittsburgh.” He frowned. “Seems like a pretty nice place.”
“This mob was different,” I suggested. “Looter mobs in Connecticut, mobs in the Apple Zone, they were scared and hungry.”
“We’ve had religious mobs too,” Emmett said softly. “We censor them out of the news.”
“You can’t censor them out of Amenac,” I objected. How could he manage that?
“Uh-huh,” Emmett replied. “My priority now is the community leaders of Pittsburgh.”
“Not to prosecute the mob murderers?” Kalnietis pressed.
“I’d appreciate it if you identify them for me,” Emmett said. “Bet I’ll find them before you do, though.”
Sergeant Tibbs approached Emmett deferentially, a computer under his arm. He delivered this, and said, “Sir. Beaufort’s computer reconstruction. I need to ask if you authorize enhanced interrogation. For the prisoner, Altmann. He is not cooperative.”
Emmett stared at him, and answered slowly. “No, Sergeant.” Tibbs nodded and turned to leave. Emmett continued, “Sergeant? Torture is a war crime. It’s also ineffective.”
“Sir,” Tibbs acknowledged stiffly.
Emmett contemplated him unhappily. “You’re a good man, Tibbs. Stay that way. Thank you for the computer. Dismissed.” Emmett made a to-do note on his phone. Niedermeyer – torture. Tibbs had come to us from Coast Guard Captain John Niedermeyer, the highest ranking Resco in New England.
“I’m relieved,” Kalnietis said guardedly.
“Don’t be too relieved,” Emmett murmured. “Everyone you identify in that mob is going to die. They just won’t be tortured first.” A brief flash of outrage managed to escape Kalnietis’ control. Emmett pursed his lips. “And anyone outside the mob who incited mob violence. We don’t have another solution, Special Agent.”
“A better life,” I suggested.
Emmett looked pointedly at the buffet. “Already got a better life than the whole Apple Zone.” That was true. The Apple Zone – New York City, its New York and New Jersey suburbs, Long Island, the whole area once cordoned off by the epidemic borders – was still destitute, eating meagerly off charity.
Emmett continued, frowning in puzzlement. “No reason they don’t have Internet and power, so far as I can see. Have them here in the hotel. Cables are easy to fix. So why didn’t Dane fix them?” He shook his head, clearing that thought. “No, they don’t need a better life. Someone’s firing them up to be angry instead of grateful. Lash out instead of pull together. We need to find out who, and stop them. Instill gratitude if we can. I don’t get that, either. Pittsburgh wasn’t a pissy kind of town. Newark, Baltimore, you expect this kind of crap. Not here.”
Kalnietis and Gianetti exchanged glances. “You’ll excuse us, Colonel,” Kalnietis said stiffly. “IBIS is only a few months old now. This is new to us. Our business was law enforcement.”
“Uh-huh.” Emmett smiled back at him crookedly. “Think you’ll find there aren’t many laws these days, Agent Kalnietis. Oh, speaking of which, we need to catch a broadcast tonight, darlin’. Cam’s presenting his new constitution for New York–New Jersey. Hudson,” he corrected himself. “Seven o’clock. You’re welcome to join us,” he invited the IBIS agents.
“Oh, wow!” I cried, and pounced on my phone. “So they must have published it by now.”
Emmett had seen the drafts, of course, but they were classified. He refused to discuss it with me, the rat. No one was allowed to see the new constitution until the big presentation via Project Reunion News over the Internet. PR News planned to post the text a couple hours early, for people to read and think about before the broadcast if they wanted. This was the major news event of the month in the Northeast. Hudson would be the first official new nation to emerge from the ashes of the United States. I eagerly pulled up the document to read it at last.
Kalnietis and Gianetti quickly followed my lead, to read on their own devices. The scuttlebutt was that the other northeastern super-states planned to let New York–New Jersey – Hudson – go first, to watch and learn from our mistakes. The IBIS agents’ own Greater Virginia Constitution could well be based on ours soon. Or Virginia–Del–Mar, or whatever they ended up calling it.
Emmett dug into Beaufort’s computer instead. Tibbs left him a crib sheet of the contents, where Beaufort had stored what.
On the Constitution, my eyes immediately jumped to the number one question in my mind. “You’re on the succession!” I breathed. “Emmett?” I gazed at him stunned.
“Uh-huh.”
“You could have told me that!”
“Wasn’t final until today,” Emmett said, subdued. “Sean was still playing with the order.”
Naturally, the Hudson line of succession wasn’t the top concern of our IBIS agents from Virginia–Del–Mar. “This Bill of Rights is bizarre,” Kalnietis commented.
We settled in to read the shiny new Constitution from the top.
Provisional Constitution of Hudson
We the People of Hudson, in order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Order, provide for the common Defense, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for our State.
(1) Hudson is a nation-state. We claim the right and responsibility to establish a currency, defend our borders, and enter into binding treaties as a sovereign nation. Hudson is coterminous with the previous States of New York and New Jersey, and supersedes them.
(2) Our form of government is martial law. We deem this necessary due to extreme natural threats and domestic chaos resulting from the actions of a prior government. Our head of state is Governor-General Sean Patrick Cullen. The military and all civilian governments in Hudson are ultimately answerable to this Commander-in-Chief.
1. Asher Vered Margolis
2. Chandy Anthony (Tony) Nasser
3. Peter Michael Hoffman
4. Emmett Christopher MacLaren
(4) Our rate of taxation shall be 25% of all agricultural production, paid to Hudson, to support national defense personnel, infrastructure objectives, and as resources permit, contribute to the livelihood of those not employed in agriculture. This tax rate does not include local taxation, which cannot exceed an additional 25% of agricultural production. All levels of Hudson government are required to publish the budget, that being the tax rates, gross proceeds, spoilage rate, and dispensation of these taxes, in aggregate form, on an annual basis.
(5) Our currency is the hudson dollar, a digital currency. Hudson dollars represent food, and expire two years after creation. When a citizen dies, his dollar balance transfers to his spouse if any, or dependents if any, or to his local government. All hudson dollars revert to the national treasury upon expiration.
(6) Hudson hereby grants certain Rights and Privileges, within limits, to its citizens.
(a) All current human inhabitants of Hudson, and their descendants born in Hudson, are hereby granted citizenship. Emigration and immigration between Hudson and other states is a matter of national agreements, not a right of citizens.
(b) Citizens aged 16 or over, including the incarcerated, may apply for the right to vote. Voters must pass a literacy and numeracy test, and prove fluency in English.
(c) Citizens enjoy private freedom of religion, private sexual conduct, and marriage and dissolution of marriage between any two citizens. To preach or promulgate a religion in public requires successful completion of a regulatory training program, and a license.