by Sikes, AJ
“A— a bomb just fell nearby. That’s what you heard, Ladies and Gentlemen. A bomb. Not a gas line. Gas lines don’t whistle before they blow up.” Conroy let off the mic and the channel went silent for half a second before Suttleby came back on.
“Franklin Suttleby here, Ladies and Gentlemen. Again, please disregard the interruptions this evening. Mitchell Brand is a known fugitive wanted for sabotage and assaulting a public official. He also appears to have convinced others to help him. Be assured, Mitchell Brand is a danger to society and a menace. He’s—”
Brand felt his chest swell with pride and admiration when Conroy cut the fat man off.
“Mr. Brand is still here, Ladies and Gentlemen. Down here on the street. With me. I’m his newsboy, Aiden Conroy. I used to work with a couple of fellas named Ross Jenkins and Digs Gordon. They’re dead now because, well, I don’t know why, but I know they didn’t die by any accident. Just like the folks in this neighborhood ain’t dead by accident. We saw the soldiers just now, and them new gearboxes, too. Just bumping folks off left and right and burning up houses. It’s war, Ladies and Gentlemen. The Governor brought war to our city.”
Conroy let go of the mic and turned to Brand like he was waiting for orders. Brand had the photo viewer in his hands and dialed in the images he got just before the last shells came in. He’d seen the soldiers tossing firebombs into the house and staying around to watch it catch flame. He’d held the crab out to get pictures of the crime.
Brand whooped and snapped his fingers when the first image came into focus on the viewer’s screen.
“Get back on the mic, Conroy. Tell the people we’ve got proof!”
Chapter 54
While Conroy told the story, Brand dropped the crab in the street and smashed its lens under his heel. He knew the pictures he got would do the job. A final stomp and the crab was down for the count. The kid’s face dropped as the little machine sparked and buzzed and went still.
Brand put a hand on Conroy’s shoulder. “Crane can’t use that one anymore, hey?”
“Oh, yeah. But what now, Mr. Brand? We’re down here, but— Brand reached a hand up by his head and dug into the fabric of the night, feeling a tension like jelly that slipped around his fingers. He pulled and opened a path behind the city, bringing Conroy with him. The kid stiffened and startled, so Brand got them moving, flipping through his memories for an image of his old office at the Daily Record.
They reached the building, went into the lobby, and climbed the stairs to the fourth floor. At the broadcast booth, Brand stopped and lifted the curtain, letting Aiden step into the hallway first.
“We’ll get you on the mic, Conroy. The people need to be told to look for the pictures, otherwise this’ll be a wash.”
The kid nodded and slid the booth open. Flicking on the light, Brand took in the new equipment. Crane had brought in a wireless Tesla system, like the one the kid had on his belt.
“I’ll be busy with the viewer upstairs. Keep that mic rig around you in case you need to skip out of here. We need to keep the story on the air for as long as we can.” Brand felt the essence of the god stirring inside him, buzzing beneath his skin. He had to get the pictures out to the people quickly.
Stepping out and into the sound engineer’s cabinet, Brand fired up the board and set the levels. Conroy gave him a thumbs up through the glass, standing and holding his coat open to reveal the mic rig around his waist. Brand gave the sign back before whipping back into the booth.
“Take a minute and get some notes together. There’s paper and a pencil in that drawer there,” he said, pointing.
“What should I say, Mr. Brand?”
“Put out the story, like you did on the street just now. Tell the people what happened. I’ll be upstairs in Crane’s office. He’s got to have something up there that’s putting those images on the Governor’s pigs.” Brand reached for the viewer and felt the pull of the god inside him, unbearable now. His feet left the floor and his body stretched into the space behind the city, flowing out and up and up.
#
Mr. Brand vanished, just winked out of sight as soon as his hand touched the photo viewer. He said he’d be going upstairs, so maybe he just went. He could do that now, just disappear. Aiden shook off the spell of wonder and got a steno pad and pencil out of the desk. He scribbled a few lines, notes about what he’d seen, what Mr. Brand had paid attention to. Then he flicked on the mic.
“Good, um. . .Good evening. Ladies and Gentlemen. This— this is Aiden Conroy at the Chicago Daily Record.”
#
Brand’s feet touched carpet in Chief’s old office. He stood still for a moment, getting his bearings. The room had been rearranged and filled with all manner of equipment. Every wall was covered with gear Brand couldn’t identify. The equipment partially covered the windows, too. Brand went to the glass and stared out into the night. He caught the muffled echo of Conroy’s voice coming through the window from the bullhorns on the Governor’s ships outside. Brand smiled and went to work.
Chief’s old desk had been removed and a new one brought in. Crane’s desk was metal and covered in dials and levers, like a miniature soundboard. A thick collection of black cables connected a box set into the desk to a switchboard assembly on a cart next to the wall. Above that a small view screen, like the one on Brand’s viewer, was set into the wall beside a panel with two dials in it. The screen showed a cycle of the images appearing on the airships. The people shown as aggressors, firing guns, using tools as weapons, and killing soldiers or destroying auto-men in almost every image. Some images showed burning houses and storefronts, always with citizens running away, as if they were vandals and arsonists.
It took him full cycle before Brand realized that most of the images were just the same instant shown from a different angle. Multiple crabs had captured the same incident, and Crane was using them to paint as ghastly a picture as possible. Brand followed the cables back from the switchboard to where they plugged into the desk. Beside each plug was an illuminated numbered switch. One switch was dark.
Brand took the plug from that switch and connected it to the viewer, then set to unplugging all of the other cables. He had the first row of four disconnected when the images he’d collected showed up in the rotation. He went for the next row and stopped cold when Crane’s voice startled him.
“Returning to the scene of the crime, Brand? How convenient. How convenient, indeed.”
Brand turned to face Crane and felt his face go slack. The G-man held a Tesla rifle and walked forward, forcing him away from the desk.
“I should kill you now, Brand, but I could still use a guy like you on my team. What do you say? Want to do the news in Chicago City again? We’ve got all new Tesla equipment, as you can see.”
“That’s real nice for you, Crane.”
“I really wish you’d remember to address me with some respect. I have a problem with disrespect, Mr. Brand. It gets me right here,” Crane said, stabbing a finger at his chest. “How can I encourage you to be more respectful, Mr. Brand? Maybe hold your feet to the fire?”
The words hit Brand in the gut. Then he felt them across his face, and pushing against the back of his head, forcing him face first into a burning crimson well of memories that he’d spent the past week struggling to forget.
“So you’d be the other one. Hubris, right?”
Even though the god wasn’t wearing Nitti’s face this time, Brand knew into whose eyes he stared. And with that knowledge came a sudden desire to fight back, to punish the offender by refusing to be cowed. The god inside Brand pushed the stifling resentment outward and filled him with a conviction to succeed. He kept up an outward appearance of strain, but felt the ease wash through him, softening his joints and leaving his muscles flexible, ready to act.
“You always were a quick one, Brand. Let’s see how you handle th
is.” Crane reached to a draw cord hanging next to the switchboard and pulled down a map of the city. The major neighborhoods were outlined in various colors, and Brand saw clearly that the devastated areas were all outlined in black.
“We’ll be rebuilding, of course. It was my idea to call it New Camptown.” Brand saw the name printed at the top of the map. He felt his jaw tighten and fought the urge to spit at Crane when the G-man chuckled. “Now, Brand. . .we’re prepared to set you up with your own private mansion, right in the middle. All we need is for you to keep the people in line, keep them from doing anything foolish. Like rising up in revolt. Or protesting their treatment. You know, tell them a good story about what’s happening in Chicago City.”
“Or?”
“Or, well. . .We’d hate to have to kill all the negroes. The Dagos and gypsies. The Micks. Those damn kikes, too. Really. Can you imagine trying to explain that kind of bloodbath to the real people of Chicago City? My mind shudders at the thought of writing that story.”
“That’s your problem, Crane. You’ve forgotten. The negroes, the gypsies. Everyone else you’re treating like livestock. They are real people!”
Crane snickered and shook his head. “Look, Brand. I don’t have to ask for your help. I just need to make it so you’ll want to help me.”
Crane thumbed a button on his desk and an intercom link crackled open.
“Suttleby? Will you bring the Conroy youth in here please?”
Suttleby’s flabby voice mumbled something that sounded affirmative, but could just as well have been nuts. The door opened behind Brand, and he heard the kid’s worried breathing along with Suttleby’s lip-smacking toady routine. Brand turned halfway around as they came in. Conroy stepped into the room and Suttleby shuffled over to stand a few paces behind him. He held a revolver aimed at Conroy’s back.
“You get the story out okay, Conroy?”
“Yeah. The channel’s open.”
Brand nearly gave the game away, but caught himself in time when he saw the kid’s hand doing a slow dance by his hip. Crane snapped at them to clam up and Brand gave the G-man his attention.
“Like I was saying, I just need you to get the story to the people, Brand. Fair reporting is what we want here at the Ministry. A story that’s balanced with all the important perspectives, and without those trifling details you liked to include so often.”
Hoping to keep the G-man talking, Brand asked, “Which would those be?”
“Oh, you know, Brand. I believe you called it the truth. Well, the people don’t need the truth really. They only need information, and as you know, I am the Minister of Public Information, so—” Crane cut off when he heard his own voice echoing his name back at him from outside. He kept the Tesla gun on Brand as he moved to the window.
“What have you done, Brand?” Crane said and then reeled away from the glass as his voice cascaded down from the bullhorns in the Governor’s airships. Brand couldn’t lunge for him because Crane still had the hellish weapon up and level with Brand’s gut, but he had to keep the G-man’s attention somehow, anything to stop him from gunning the kid down or sparing a thought to order Suttleby to do the same. Just when Brand was ready to chance it and grab for the Tesla gun, Crane yelled at his plushy pal. “Suttleby, he’s got a mic on him.”
#
Aiden heard the G-man’s words echo through the window glass, like he’d been talking into a drum. The fat guy came around and pointed the gun at Aiden’s face.
“Just get the mic,” Crane yelled, coming around his desk. Mr. Brand lunged and knocked the G-man’s rifle to the side. It fired, sending a bolt of electricity into the ceiling. That’s all Aiden saw because Suttleby shuffled forward, faster than Aiden thought a fat guy should be able to move.
Aiden lifted a hand to fend the big man off, but the guy was too much. He swarmed Aiden with his fat paws, using both hands to search for the mic. He still held the gun, but it dangled on his thick finger now while he dug into Aiden’s coat pockets.
Mr. Brand’s shouts mixed with Crane’s behind Suttleby’s bulk. Aiden wanted to see that his boss was okay, but he had to keep his attention on Suttleby’s attack. Aiden used a hand to hold his coat closed and tried to grab the gun with the other. The fat man was in a frenzy, sliding his hands all over and poking into Aiden’s collar, lifting the coat flaps and finally grabbing at the mic that hung on his belt underneath.
Suttleby tore at the belt, trying to rip it off. Aiden tried to close his coat with his left hand while he swatted at the revolver with his right, but Suttleby had a hold of his belt. Aiden batted at the gun once more and it slipped off the fat man’s finger. The weapon hit the floor just as Suttleby ripped the mic off its cable. He spun around, showing Aiden his back, and shouted to Crane.
“I got it, Minister Crane. I got it.”
Aiden heard the G-man yell back. “He’s got your gun you—”
Suttleby turned back surprised and then dropped the mic and put both hands on the pistol. Aiden held on and grappled with the fat guy’s thick fingers, trying to pry them loose. Suttleby was too strong for him and held tight to the gun. He pushed forward, trying to knock Aiden off balance as the gun waved left and right in between them. Aiden stepped backwards and Suttleby forced him off his feet. He came down on top of Aiden as his finger tightened on the trigger.
#
Brand had both hands on Crane’s rifle, keeping it aimed away from him and from Conroy, too. The two men struggled in a dance across the office, coming up against the door. Crane pushed Brand away with a knee, but Brand side-stepped and sent a kick at the G-man’s ankle, trying to hobble him. Crane kept his feet, but Brand knew he’d connected enough to hurt, and that gave Crane more reason to kill him.
They kept up their violent dance until Crane got the better hand and sent Brand reeling backwards with an elbow across his face. Brand came up against the desk and watched, horrified, as Conroy lifted Suttleby’s gun off the floor. He wanted to shout No or Stop, but his tongue wouldn’t work. He felt his will to speak and to act dissipate inside, and he knew it was the god, forcing him to remain silent, clamping his jaws shut around the words he felt rising from his throat and fixing his feet to the floor. So Brand stood mute and immobile, and terrified for Conroy’s life.
The fat sonofabitch Suttleby spun around to show the mic to his boss. Crane roared back about the gun and Suttleby’s face went from freakish grin to freakish grimace as he turned and saw the pistol in the kid’s mitt. Brand’s heart ached as he stood there, unable to do anything, powerless just like he always had been when young men went off to die. Brand felt the familiar agony watching Conroy fight with the heavier stronger man, but he didn’t feel the sadness or the guilt. Then he did feel something, a lifting lightness that pushed against his chest from the inside.
This wasn’t his fight, and it had never been his fight before. It had only been his job to tell the story about what happened. So he watched, and he wished that the story he would tell about Aiden Conroy would have a happy ending. When Suttleby pushed the kid off his pins and went down with him, Brand felt his gorge rising. Then a gunshot froze the scene in place. Brand’s tongue came free, and his feet. No movement came from the pile that was Suttleby’s fat body or the wiry limbs that stuck out underneath.
#
Aiden felt the gun fire in his hand and he saw the fat man’s face twist up in shock. His thick lips and heavy cheeks wobbled and spit formed at the corners of his mouth as he jerked once and went limp on top of Aiden, pinning him to the floor. Mr. Brand’s voice broke the silence first, asking if Aiden was okay. He wanted to reply, but he could barely take in enough air to keep breathing and he began to feel light-headed.
Somewhere in the room a cackling started. Was it Crane? Aiden didn’t recognize the laugh, but he hadn’t heard Crane laugh before had he? He couldn’t remember and all he want
ed was to take a breath, to just fill his lungs with air and free himself from the prison he’d made underneath the dead fat sonofabitch. Aiden’s vision dimmed and he felt the light going out of the world as a heaviness began to fill his throat, weighing him down even more.
The laughter rolled across the floor to Aiden’s ears as he passed out. The last thing he heard was the dull static-like blast of the Tesla gun followed by an angry roar and an electric crashing that filled the room with blazing light.
#
Brand let Crane’s laughter go as he watched the bodies on the floor. He shouted the kid’s name again, but nothing came back from the still figures. Crane kept up his chortling, gloating like he’d won the big hand, and that was the end of Brand’s patience. He dove at the G-man, dodging to his left so Crane would have to swing the barrel across his body to hit Brand. As the Tesla gun let out a burst, Brand hollered and spun away from the weapon, pivoting on his heel so he stayed close to Crane. The G-man had to step back to get the gun lined up again, but Brand was already on him, his hands clamped down on Crane’s shoulders and every bit of rage he’d ever felt at being stymied, shut down, silenced, forced to report less than the whole story, all of it surged out of him and into his fingertips that gouged into the G-man’s flesh, nearly puncturing his skin through his shirt.
A blazing glow filled the room as they fought, and the air crackled with static and a violent thunder. Brand felt the presence of Hubris inside Crane, he saw the god flickering in and out of the world, struggling against the essence of Integrity within Brand’s own being. He wrestled with Crane, shoved him to one side and brought a leg up to knock the Tesla rifle aside as Crane tried to bring it up between them. Brand felt himself roaring, loud and potent, straight into the G-man’s face. Crane began to go slack in his grip and Brand let the sense of victory swell in his chest.