by Frank Rich
"The angry woman?"
"Yeah. She's an upper-level Party bureaucrat. She argues because she doesn't want to pay the same price as everybody else. So secure in her power trip she can barely stand to breathe the same air as the workers."
"How do you know so much about people?"
"I hunted them."
More workers staggered out of their tall hovels to eat their lunches under the warm midday sun. A battered one-eyed gull dropped clumsily among the pigeons, a refugee from the garbage pits.
"Why'd you stop being a bogeyman?"
I regarded her over my stim-cola. "Would you believe that I didn't want to kill anymore? Or that I found the job morally repugnant?"
"No. Not for a second."
I watched the birds fight for the scraps the businessmen threw them. The one-eyed gull played the roughest but ended up with the least.
"I lost my edge," I said.
"What edge?"
"My killing edge." I bit into my kelp burger. "From the moment you ID your target and squeeze the trigger, there's an interval of microseconds. The difference between living and dying lies within that interval. When I first became a bogeyman, there was no hesitation. I was fresh out of the Rangers, and it was as if the war never ended, it just moved to the streets of the City."
"What happened?"
"I started hesitating."
"You started becoming human again."
I shrugged. "Whatever the reason, the interval became longer and longer. I started talking to my victims. I knew I wouldn't last much longer. I knew it was time to get out."
"How many had you killed by then?"
I shook my head. "I don't know. When I first started, I'd put notches in the grip of my pistol." I laughed. "Like a gunfighter. In time it had so many notches I couldn't use it anymore. In more ways than one."
"But you still think it's right to kill people."
"Bad people, yes."
"Who are the bad people, Jake?"
"I used to know." I threw my last piece of kelp burger to the gull. He caught it in midair. "Let's go for a walk," I said.
We walked slowly down Sixteenth Street, browsing at shops, uncertain of our direction or purpose until we found ourselves at Colfax and Lincoln, standing in the cold shadow of Remi's tower. We tilted our heads back and looked up at eighty stories of glass and steel stabbing skyward like a monstrous knife, rising from a thick, two-story base of windowless black marble. Black as the abyss, the huge column seemed to absorb all light, refracting nothing.
"Quite a statement," I said.
"It was Remi's first project when he took over twelve years ago," Monique said, her voice small and daunted. "He demolished the capitol building and built this monster. Looks impregnable, doesn't it?"
A phalanx of armored troopers grimly guarded the heavy electronic doors, and a battery of laser turrets poked from the marble base, making a mockery of the delicate ornamental garden surrounding the tower.
"From the bottom, yes." I shielded my eyes and stared at the top of the tower, lost in the glare of the midday sun. "From the top, maybe not."
As we walked back to the motel, I found myself constantly glancing back at the tower, made uneasy by its proximity. Something else gnawed at the edge of my subconscious. Something seemed to be missing; it was like walking through a ghetto without seeing any pawnshops or liquor stores.
"Where's all the churches?" I asked.
"Remi doesn't like churches," Monique explained. "He tore them all down. He thinks they steal valuable time and mental energy. Why ponder the weight of angels when you could be working on a new way of processing soy?"
"Yeah," I said, looking to the sky. "But it takes something away from the skyline. When I'd look up and see all those tall crosses, it made me feel that if so many people believed, maybe there was something to it. That there was a grander design."
She laughed. "There isn't. We're just maggots devouring the corpse of the earth. Religion is just egotistical self-delusion. We're here to be miserable, then die. That's all there is. What are you smirking about?"
"I think it sad someone so young should have such a cynical view of life."
"Oh, I'm not completely without hope. I believe things will get better."
"In the face of everything? How?"
"Well, it won't be because some god intervenes." She looked at me. "Love. Human love will eventually rise to the surface and conquer all the evil and hate. I think love is the strongest emotion, don't you?"
I glanced at her and smiled. "Love? Love is a fickle fop. It's hate that lasts. Hate is a patient old man. He outlasts them all."
Back at the motel, Monique watched TV while I exercised.
"You're doing those again?" she said. "Why are you so wild about fitness. To impress people with your body?"
"You noticed. Yeah, I guess that has a little to do with it. But mostly I exercise to stay strong. Strength is an important element of survival."
She made a face. "You don't have to be a muscleman to survive."
"I don't just want to survive. I want to be captain aboard the big ship Destiny. To accomplish that end, I have to dominate others."
She laughed. "I suppose you put a hammerlock on anyone who disagrees with you."
"It rarely comes to that. But when you're dealing with someone and you both know you would win a fistfight, you automatically have a subconscious edge. Even under civilized conditions when fighting is unthinkable. It's an innate trait carried from the caves. Dominate people, and you dominate events. Domination of events is how you win." I got a finger hold on the upper ledge of the bedroom's doorjamb, bent my knees and began doing pull-ups.
"And winning is everything," she added, not without sarcasm.
"That's right." I did twenty-five pull-ups, then began warming down with lunges.
"Here he is," Monique said, pointing at the TV.
On the screen a smiling figure sat in a white chair before a background of a high-tech factory working at breakneck speed.
"Citizens of Denver," Remi said in a grave voice. "I have just been informed that factory production is down three percent from last month." He leaned toward the camera. "So, good citizens, just what is going on?" He looked left and right, then raised his hands in an I-don't-know gesture. "Nobody seems to know! Or…" he gave the camera a sly look "…maybe we all know. Maybe we're not focused, maybe we're not taking our jobs seriously enough." He leaned back and folded his arms. "There will be a thirty percent price hike on all entertainment-oriented goods, including alcohol and recreational drugs, until we show, let's say, a five percent increase above last month's production levels." Remi smiled. "Sound fair?" He waved. "Bye."
A deep, authoritative voice took over. "This has been an important announcement by your illustrious leader, Remi Jonson."
"What do you think?" Monique asked.
"He looks taller than in his photo."
"No, I mean about his mental state. Do you think he's crazy?"
"Maybe. I hope not."
"Why?"
"The crazy ones are always the hardest to kill."
14
It was well past noon, and the crowd was getting ugly. The roadies sweated and cursed under the sporadic hail of obscenities and debris raining down on the stage beneath a huge acoustic shell. The mixed crowd milled on the park's grass, near the verge of open rebellion, when a thin man with a long white beard glided to the mike stand, his flowing yellow robe fluttering behind him. After adjusting the wreath of flowers atop his long white hair, he began cooing into the mike.
"Calm, people! Let peace and serenity flow into your souls. Change through nonviolence is the only truly righteous path." He broke into a fit of ohming.
"Who's the guru?" I asked.
"That's Babbit," Monique revealed. "He heads the Children of the Yellow Rose, Denver's largest pacifist group."
There were many people in flowing robes in the audience, and they ohmed with him. "He seems to have a following."
"He has a h
uge following. He's been resisting the Party for more than ten years, since Remi came to power."
"Not very good at his job, is he?"
"What do you mean?"
"If a man has been trying to do something for ten years and hasn't done it yet, he must not be trying very hard. Ten to one he's working for Remi."
A shocked expression crossed Monique's face. "I think you're wrong."
"We'll see."
A heavy woman wearing a robe ohmed by, handing out yellow fliers. Despite the uniformed spifs ringing the crowd, the woman didn't seem the least bit apprehensive. Below a flattering picture of Babbit it read:
A multireligious seminar featuring Daddi Babbit and representatives of other faiths will be held at Cheesman Park this Sunday, September 27th, commencing at 2:30 p.m.
A ragged cheer went up as a quartet of revrockers took the stage, brandishing old-fashioned digital guitars and the kind of drums you actually had to hit with a stick. Babbit finished his chant and floated away.
"We're End of Story," said the front man, who sported a Mohawk haircut. "And I've a story to tell you. It's about this faraway kingdom called Revned. An evil king ruled Revned. His name was Imer, a very hard cat. If anybody dinked him, he sent his evil fairies out to kill them. Until one day…" his voice got louder "…some of the goddamn people got tired of this king's lame shit and tore his mongo frigging tower down and killed all his evil fairies and hung the king by his balls and everybody lived happily ever after. End of story."
Mild applause and a few shouts of "right on!" answered the tale, soon drowned out by a wave of chanting from the robed element.
"This song's called 'Welcome to Hell, I Hope You Like It Here,'" the front man said, and the band launched into a searing revrock number. A slam-dance pit began to churn in front of the stage.
"Let's move closer," I said.
"You're not going to slam-dance, are you?" Monique asked.
"Do I seem like the type?"
"Yes."
"I guess I will, then."
We pushed through the crowd toward the pit, my blood rising. We weren't the only ones converging on the slam. Rowing yellow robes from every direction moved in columns toward the stage, chanting as they went.
It was over before I got there. With parade-field discipline, columns of Babbit's disciples drove like knives into the sides of the pit, linking in the center. Locking arms, they formed immovable walls in the shape of a starfish, fracturing the violent swirl.
The front man leapt into the air, and the band rocketed into an even harder number. The revrockers in the pit launched themselves at the walls of yellow with rude fury. The Children of the Yellow Rose held on, chanting with a vengeance. The slammers countered by forming a pit to the right of the original, but the starfish shifted into them. As the formation collided with chaos, anarchy dissolved into order.
The band turned up their amps and played faster and harder, bombing the starfish with pounding bass, strafing it with charging guitars, whipping it with howling vocals. Babbit raised his hands like a conductor, and his children began chanting louder, drowning out the band. The band cranked up their amps to full distortion. A blitzkrieg of gray noise thundered off the stage, and the robes raised their voices until they were screaming at the top of their lungs.
"Is it always like this?" I shouted.
"Pretty much," Monique yelled back.
"I'm starting to understand why there hasn't been a rebellion. The only people who seem willing to take action is the band."
"Kerry and the boys? They're just a bunch of kids posing."
"You know them?"
"I've hung out with them."
The battle raged at higher and higher decibels, and I could sense something was about to give, vocal chords or circuitry. Then, with a huge pop, the guitar and bass died, and the chants crescendoed to victory.
"They blew the amps," Monique announced.
"Introduce me to the band," I said, pushing her toward the stage.
"Why?"
"I want an autograph."
"The security won't let us backstage."
"Sure they will. I have a plan."
We shoved our way to the rear of the big shell. Two ramps fifteen yards apart led up to entrances in the rear of the shell, each guarded by a steroid addict. I strolled up to the first.
"Who's running security here?" I asked.
"Who wants to know?"
"Me. I'm throwing a big party next week and I want top-rate muscle."
"You'd want to talk to Ramone, then." He held up his hand to block my path. "But he's not here. You can look him up in the book under Ballbuster Security."
"Thanks a million. Who should I say referred me?"
"Billy Rathman."
"Thanks again."
We started walking toward the other ramp.
"So much for your plan," Monique said.
"That was just the warm-up. C'mon," I said, and started jogging.
I rushed the other guard and took position beside him. "Go ahead, I'll cover you."
He looked at me. "What?"
"Billy didn't tell you?"
"Tell me what?"
"Jesus! Ramone just blew in, and the bastard is in a bloody kill frenzy. I just saw him rip the ears off some poor sound man. He's chewing on people's necks, raving like a goddamn lunatic!"
"What's wrong with Ramone?" he asked nervously, visibly shaken.
"I don't know, but I do know he's been screaming your goddamn name. Billy was supposed to tell you, but I think he's too busy covering his own ass."
"What the hell does Ramone want with me?" he whimpered fretfully. "I haven't done anything!"
"You better go tell him that before he finds out you're ducking him."
"I'm not ducking him! Who the hell are you, anyway?"
"I'm the new guy."
"Oh." He started up the ramp at a nervous jog. "What the hell could Ramone want with me?"
"Something to do with letting groupies backstage." I said to his back. I turned to Monique and gestured up the ramp. "Shall we?"
"You dominated him."
"Exactly."
We found the band storming around backstage, furiously packing equipment while Babbit chanted pacifist poetry to the crowd.
"Goddamn sabotage is what it is!" the front man cried, grabbing up cables. "It's the same thing every time. One song and, boom! Out go the lights."
"We overloaded the amps," the hatchet-faced bass player said. "They were bound to go."
"I don't believe that," the front man said. "In fact, I know it was sabotage."
Monique moved over to him. "Hey, Kerry."
Kerry looked up from the cables he was gathering. "Hi, Mony. What's shaking?"
"Nothing."
I cleared my throat.
"Oh," Monique said. "I'd like you to meet a friend of mine. This is Jake. He wants an autograph."
Kerry regarded me. "Really?"
"No, not really, but I need to talk to you."
"About what?"
"I want to make you a career offer."
"You mean a gig?"
"You could say that. The biggest gig of your life."
There was the sound of a live mike being dropped, and Babbit's soft melody was crushed beneath a wall of garbled shouts. A new, obviously deranged voice came over the PA, ranting against the feedback. "Rise up! Rush the bastards! Storm the palace! Crush the tyranny! Hang the tyrant!"
I looked toward the stage with a bad feeling in my gut. It was instantly apparent a lunatic had captured the stage. Dressed in the garb of a color-blind Gypsy, he paced before the crowd like a caged polar bear, waving the hand not holding the mike as if beleaguered by invisible hornets. The worse thing was, I knew him.
"No more peace and harmony!" George bellowed. "Out with the old, in with the new! Murder the stooges of hypocrisy! Pillage! Attack! Riot!"
Babbit leapt behind George and began his chanting dance. George looked back at him and paused only for a second
. "Shoot the traitorous swine!" George cried. "All backsliders against the wall!"
Babbit slid forward to steal the mike, but he'd met his match. George grabbed him by the nape of his scrawny neck and pitched him into the crowd. "To the wolves with the cowards!"
A gang of robes jumped onstage like firemen and swarmed George, but he wouldn't surrender the mike. "Traitors!" he cried. "Infiltrators! Betrayal! Sabotage! Leggo!"
"That's George!" Monique revealed.
"It just looks like him," I countered.
"Nobody looks like that. That's George."
"You know him?" Kerry asked uneasily.
"He was our driver," Monique explained. "Why do you ask?"
"He's been rabble-rousing all over town," Kerry said. "Everybody thinks he's crazy."
I disguised my face with a hand, but George spotted me as they dragged him backstage. "Jake! Jake! Help! The backsliders have got me!"
"Aren't you going to help him?" Monique cried.
"Do I have to?"
"Of course! He's your friend."
"You're right." I stepped forward and held up a hand. "I'll take charge of the patient."
The struggling robes frowned at me. "Who are you?" one asked.
"His doctor. I've been looking all over for him. He suffers from a rare chemical imbalance that rendered him bald and extremely silly. I have his medicine. He'll be okay."
"He's a troublemaker."
"He's also contagious."
They let him go, wiping their hands on their robes.
"I advise you to immediately submerge all points of contact in vats of boiling fish oil," I said. "Or you'll end up just like him."
George composed himself and watched them rush away. "Infidel disciples of tyranny!" he snarled at their backs.
"Exploring a new career, George?" I asked.
"I was trying to rouse the less motivated elements of the movement into productive action. I almost had a riot going when those counterrevolutionary swine jumped me like a pack of rabid weasels."
"Maybe it's your delivery. Who writes your speeches?"
George adjusted his colorful garments. "It's time for harsh words and harsher action. I've tried reasoning with people for days, but they've been whipped like dogs so long the only thing they understand is animal howls at maximum volume." He looked at me. "How've you been, anyway?"