“You’re a Guardian,” he said flatly. But he took her hand.
“You disapprove?”
He shrugged. “Let’s say the concept scares me a little.”
“I think it’s supposed to, Captain. They feel it adds to our effectiveness.”
“Call me Jake. Or Bowman, if you like.”
“All right. I’m Cassandra.” Her smile lost its officious edge. “Now if there’s someplace we can talk …”
Bowman shook his head. “Right here is fine. It’s not too crowded, and most everybody’s stoned anyway. You know Corrigan’s.”
“Frankly, I don’t.”
Bowman rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He needed a shave.
“No, I guess you wouldn’t,” he said. “But don’t worry. No bugs here. Nobody’s interested in anything but themselves.” He looked around quickly. “Unless the lunks bother you.”
She lowered her eyes. “I’d prefer that you didn’t use that expression, Cap—I mean, Jake …”
“Oh. Sure. I didn’t mean anything. Hell, the bastards use it about themselves. You know.”
Damn his head, soaked through with a week’s worth of bourbon and dust and bad dreams! If he could just sleep for a while, maybe the pounding would stop—
“Are you feeling all right?”
He gauged the concern in her eyes.
“Yeah. Well, no …” He tried on a grin. “I had this old Commander once … he woulda said peacetime just doesn’t agree with me.”
“Perhaps.” She smiled at him. He had the annoying thought that she’d probably never been drunk a day in her life. Or stoned.
No, not this one. She’s a Guardian, he reminded himself somberly. Pure in mind and body. And she’s waiting.
He let out his breath. “Okay, Cassandra. What does the big man want?”
“There were three deaths yesterday, right here in Chicago,” she said quietly. “Media carried it a few hours ago. You might have seen …”
He shook his head.
She went on: “Anyway, they were cobalt cones, fired into the middle of crowds. Point of origin unknown.”
“From what I know of those energy cones, the range could be as much as two thousand miles. Who’s on top of the suspect list?”
“New York and Washington. It may have been another, smaller city, but it seems unlikely.”
“I see. And Gilcrest wants an answer?”
“As soon as possible.” Her eyes widened almost imperceptively. “I don’t know if I’m violating any confidences, but there’s one man who’s pushing very hard for retaliation. Hadrian, from Weapons Division.”
Bowman showed his teeth. “Amos Hadrian. Yeah, I remember that guy. Dealt with him a few times in Tactics. Kinda gung-ho, if you know what I mean. He was a great believer in forearmed is forewarned,’ that kind of thing.”
Cassandra said, “In this case, he may have been right. Media’s already making a lot of noise about this. The citizens aren’t going to take the news of these attacks lightly.”
“That’s for damn sure, Cass. Territorial imperative runs high among Urbans, especially since the War.”
“Then you see the need for urgency.” Cassandra rose. “Please, Jake. Minister Gilcrest requests that you begin at once.”
Jake didn’t get up. “Wait a minute, lady. I’m retired, remember?”
“What does that mean?”
“For one thing, it means I don’t have to do anything but order another bottle of hooch and get stupid.”
“But I thought—”
“Besides, I don’t know if I’m up for saving Civilization As We Know It.” He drew her down to the booth. “I’ve blown a lot of very expensive dust, lady. I figure I’m entitled to all those miserable side-effects they warn you about.”
Cassandra folded her arms. “I see.”
Bowman said, “Look, I’m not tryin’ to be a prick about this, but …” He spread his hands. “You know what I’m saying? Gilcrest can get somebody else.”
“He specifically asked for you, Captain. I’ll be damned if I know why, though.”
Bowman leaned back in the booth. “Jesus H. Christ. I didn’t know your type was allowed to get pissed off.”
“You’d be surprised.”
He took a long pause, eying her carefully.
“I’m makin’ a goddam fool of myself, aren’t I?”
“I think I know what it’s about,” she said, not unkindly.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, well …” He nodded, looked at the few remaining drops in his glass. Then, putting the glass down, he took a last look around the bar and followed Cassandra out into the afternoon sun.
The day was cool and bright, but the noise of the streets irritated him. Or maybe it was just the sudden light of day.
Cassandra took his arm.
“I know a side street,” she said. “Less crowded.”
Bowman nodded absently. She led him across a circular patio to another stretch of pavement, flanked on both sides by the squat bases of what had once been towering buildings.
Through half-lidded eyes, Bowman surveyed the refuse piled along the charred building face. Little knolls of rubble dotted the pavement. Above, blackened windows were blind eyes staring at the sun.
The War had made alleys of every street.
A dilapidated overhang of stretched fabric and wrought-iron supports extended from the building ahead. A posted sign warned against passing underneath.
Cassandra pointed.
There was another street running parallel to Third, this a ribbon of unbroken asphalt leading to a small cluster of temporary garages.
“I have a car there,” she said.
They’d just started across the asphalt when the attack came.
5
There were five or six of them, Bowman figured, though with the condition his head was in he couldn’t be sure. They looked like lunks, at least from the size of them. But that didn’t always mean anything.
Two of them took Bowman from behind, and he went down hard, but not before connecting with a wildly thrown punch. He heard a yelp, and as he hit the pavement he saw the smudge of blood on his knuckles.
Another man joined the fight, but Bowman was on his back, booted foot up to meet the charge. The next moment, his attacker was sailing overhead, hands clutching the air.
Bowman rolled over and threw up.
He turned away, head thundering, and struggled to rise. He only made it to his haunches.
It was from this position that he saw Cassandra, though what he witnessed seemed unconnected to reality, dreamlike.
A veil came over his eyes. Pain pulsed in his temples. He tried to make out images.
He saw Cassandra.
He saw their assailants.
And then it was over.
In less than seven seconds.
Later, he would recall that it had looked like nothing so much as a dance.
There had been a flurry of arms and legs, the repeated sound of flesh in contact with flesh.
And there were cries, some soft and hopeless and tinged with disbelief, some outraged and filled with terror.
Seven seconds.
Less time than it took Bowman to survey the damage.
Less time than it took to count the bodies.
Bowman leaned back against the building face, panting, his mouth dry.
Cassandra walked up to him.
On the bloodied pavement behind her lay the broken bodies of the men who’d assaulted them.
She brushed the hair back from his eyes.
“Are you all right?” she said.
Bowman could only look at her. Could only watch the steady rise and fall of her breasts beneath the thin tunic; could detect only the merest trace of white under the color of her cheeks. He was aware at the same time of the coolness of her hand on his forehead.
He’d known from personal experience what Guardians could do. Yet he’d never actually seen— He tried to sp
eak. Her fingers went to his lips.
“It’s instinctive, Jake,” she said softly. “Part of what I am. As natural as walking, as involuntary as breathing. The need arises, I respond. That is all.” She smiled. “Now, please. We must go. Quickly.”
“But—”
She tugged at his torn sleeve.
“Please, Jake. I have to get away from here. Away from … the debris. And the death. If I think about it, I go a little crazy, you know?”
He searched her face and found her.
“Let’s go,” he said at last.
A hundred miles away, the group of buildings that had comprised the outer boundary of Chicago on the east, E Sector, lay in rabble. The twisted and charred bodies of men and machines lay strewn atop the ash. Only recently had the air finally been stilled, when the last of the screams had faded.
Just an hour before, the children of those assigned to scanner duty had gone swimming in the domed pool. They wore brief swimsuits and the bright, knowing smiles of the specially favored. They splashed in the water, bathed in the bowl of warmth the dome provided. They laughed and cried out when dunked beneath the surface by the lanky arms of their friends. They thought of nothing, but instead reveled in the unconscious exhilaration that was the child’s gift to himself.
Their parents looked up from their scanners in the main buildings and were pleased. The sounds from the pool made them happy. E Sector was surrounded by a vast expanse of nothingness, and the parents had worried about their children’s welfare and happiness upon learning of their assignments. It was good that they’d made the alterations, added the playdome, selected the tutors with care.
Perhaps they would join the children later, when they were relieved by the second shift. They could use the break, the luxury of lounging by a pool of heated water. Men and women could shed their Service uniforms, be as children for just a little while, not thinking about why they were here, the reason their machines scanned the sky.
Yet still they were Urbans, with Urban sensibilities. They knew the necessity of their vigil. They valued the wisdom of preparedness above all others.
So they sat at their scanners, eyes affixed, while the monotony of duty played out about them. The signal was transmitted at its designated hour. E Sector was secure.
Until suddenly, without warning, the clouds spread as before great parting hands and it began to rain fire.
Scanner captains leaped to their consoles. Gamma indicators pulsed, went black. Someone hit a transmit key, tried to signal back to— Buildings dissolved in the storm.
The playdome collapsed into the pool. Steam billowed, scalded.
Parents clutched their children’s hands. Fell together.
The rain continued for many minutes, until the clouds had rolled back and hidden the sky once more.
He’d needed the shower to wash away the last vestiges of dirt and blood and fatigue from his body, to douse the final effects of the booze and the crazydust from his brain.
He stood now, basking in ultraviolet, and felt his energy returning. The face and body he saw in the full-length mirror held no disappointments for him. He was lean and hard, a byproduct of the War, and his eyes cast a look that would never go away.
Cassandra stood in the doorway, arms folded. Her gaze traveled the length of his naked body.
“I’m impressed,” she said, smiling. She wore only a floor-length robe, translucent and pale. Her nipples were dark.
Bowman wrapped a towel around his waist and followed Cassandra into her study. He watched with mounting interest the strong, subtle grace of her body as she walked. He wondered what it was going to be like to fuck a Guardian.
She sat on one end of a wide couch, her bare feet drawn up under her. Her hand rested on an inlaid module in the arm of the couch.
Across the room, a floor-to-ceiling screen flickered on. The image crystallized to reveal scenes of a funeral, attended by hundreds of grim-faced citizens. A few people held up signs and placards, calling for retaliation.
The commentator’s voice was reasonable and well-modulated.
“—bringing the total of deaths to five. Government sources indicate that all five victims met their deaths in the same manner. While spokesmen assure us that—”
Bowman stood over Cassandra. “I thought you said three people were killed?”
She switched off the volume. “I did.”
“Then that means …” Bowman began to pace. “Cass, you better get a line to Gilcrest.”
“I already signaled. He should be transmitting any minute now.”
“Media will call for action now, Cass. You can be goddam sure of that.”
Cassandra looked into space. “Hadrian will be happy, I suppose.” Then, after a pause: “Jake, what do you make of the attack on us?”
“I don’t know. At first, I thought they might have been lunks. They were sure as hell big enough.”
“They weren’t, though. Just men.” She bit her lip. “I didn’t know you could pay someone enough to attack a Guardian.”
Bowman stopped pacing. From where he stood he could see out her wide study window. He looked out on the blackened roofs of old multidwelling buildings that crouched in the long shadows of afternoon. He realized obliquely that he hadn’t really looked at his city for a long time, hadn’t considered his feelings for it. Maybe, soon, he would do just that. Soon …
“Cassandra,” he said suddenly, “are you thinking what I am? That we were followed?”
“That you were,” she replied. “That someone wanted to prevent you from carrying out Minister Gilcrest’s orders.”
Bowman looked across at the thoughtful, womanly Guardian, the lines of her body so soft and warm under the translucent robe. Then he remembered the carnage she’d left behind her on the street just an hour before.
She seemed to sense his thoughts. “Whoever it was, they should have sent more men. Even drunk and tired, you looked like a tough man to bring down.”
He turned back toward the window, toward the expanse of cityscape beyond.
“Me? I’m just a brawler, Cass. But I guess it’s gotten me this far.”
Cassandra’s appraisal was silent, as was her custom.
The transmission signal came while Bowman was dressing. Gilcrest’s weathered face, paler than he’d remembered it, even against the purple hue of the Minister’s cloak, appeared on the screen.
“Jake? Thank God she found you.”
“We saw the report on Media, sir,” Bowman said. “Two more deaths.”
“I wish that were all,” Gilcrest said. “We’ve just received a transmission from E Sector. Media hasn’t picked up on it yet, but—Jake, I want you and Cassandra down here immediately.”
Bowman and the Guardian exchanged looks.
“What about E Sector, sir?” Bowman asked.
“Not over transmission,” the Senior Minister replied with a tired smile. “Just get down here. Out.”
The screen went black.
Bowman took a step toward the screen, as though to speak, then motioned to Cassandra. She got up from the couch and reached for the light blue tunic.
6
There were perhaps thirty in all, gathered now, their heads bent, arms dangling at their sides. Not one among them spoke above a whisper.
There was no light in this room, and the wind pushing the chill down the street just outside moaned through the rough timbers. Occasionally, the old building would shake, and scurrying rats would show their coats to the dim light, then disappear into the dark places once more.
Giles would come soon, one of the lunks said. To this place, to this old place.
In times long past this building had stood with others like it, pale vaults where the poor and the dull were stored. It had been part of an old neighborhood, a ghetto, an urban wound.
Now it lay abandoned, dead, a place where small creatures huddled and spawned anew.
Now also it was a place of hiding.
Two more lunks came into the dim r
oom, lowering their heads as they passed through the doorway.
Giles was coming, one of them said.
The lunks moved slowly in the shadows, forming a half circle. Dust clung to their worn shoes, to the cuffs of their trousers.
Their arms swung wide as they moved into position. The dullness left their blinking eyes; they lifted their voices.
Whispers came together in the gloom, and found cadence.
They began to chant.
Heads must raise,
Our heads must raise—
Eyes have life,
Our eyes have life—
Voices lift,
Our voices lift—
Lunks will no more welcome death!
Lunks will no more welcome death!
Lunks will no more welcome death!
The chanting grew louder, and with each chorus the lunks found their bodies swaying to the cadence, found their long arms swinging, and the fists at the ends of those long arms were clenched.
And the whole room quivered, as though a living thing chilled by the wind. But it was not the wind.
Heads must raise,
Our heads must raise—
Eyes have life,
Our eyes have life—
Giles stood now in their midst and the chanting ceased. Dust swirled, settled. The room was still.
Giles raised his great lunk arms. His coat was long, woolen, many-colored: a marvel. He stood in high black boots.
“Lunks will no more welcome death!” he cried, turning his head to look at each of them squarely.
The lunks stared, transfixed.
Giles lowered his arms, relaxed his stance. His eyes held the room.
“Only fools pray for death, brothers and sisters,” he said. “And we are not fools. Except when we are the fools of fools.”
They watched him, watched his lips as he formed words. As always, the ease with which he spoke filled them with awe.
Giles was a young man, and his skin flushed pink under the lunk-gray of his cheeks. He was different from his brothers. They’d known it at once. From the very first, when Giles had come to them, angry and unafraid.
Giles had been unafraid, and so became their leader.
City Wars Page 4