City Wars

by Dennis Palumbo

  Gilcrest was gesturing at Minister Weitzel, who’d just entered the room. His Guardian Lynch was right at his heels, his face even more stoic than usual.

  Gilcrest called for attention.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please.” He drew the folds of his cloak about him. “I’m aware of your concern and confusion at this point, but it’s important that we begin reasonable and considered discussion as soon as possible.”

  Minister Weitzel was the last to take his seat. He nodded at Gilcrest, the assembly; clasped his hands before him on the table.

  “Thank you.” Gilcrest put his hand on Bowman’s shoulder. “I presume you all know Jake Bowman, at least by reputation. Now, in view of this present crisis, I have raised Captain Bowman’s rank to Colonel, and his position to that of Chief Tactics Coordinator. I’m sure you all recall his contribution in the latter days of the War and join me in—”

  “Details of Captain—excuse me—Colonel Bowman’s flamboyant activities during the War are public knowledge,” said a voice from across the room.

  Bowman and Hadrian took a moment to stare at each other across the table, the latter man smiling. Beside him, as though an extension of Hadrian himself, was his assistant Wilkins, head bent as he pored over a column of figures.

  Gilcrest raised his brows.

  “Mr. Hadrian, I’ll expect you to cooperate fully with Colonel Bowman in the days ahead.”

  Cassandra had to smile at the old man’s suddenly officious tone. She became aware, perhaps for the first time, of how skillfully the Senior Minister played to his audience.

  Hadrian’s manner was repentant. “My cooperation in the service of Chicago is assured, Minister.” He turned in his seat to address the other Government members. “Now I can only hope that the retaliation which I proposed before can be carried out without further delay.”

  “What we all want,” Gilcrest said quickly, “is to ensure the safety of Chicago. At this very moment, defense measures are being taken in the event of another attack like the one at E Sector.”

  “An attack that need never have occurred had we struck first, as I proposed.”

  There was a low murmuring of agreement from those assembled at the table. Cassandra realized with a start that what had begun as a meeting of all important members of Government had, in a matter of minutes, been reduced to a dialogue between Gilcrest and Amos Hadrian. And, apparently, the ministers of Government were content for the moment to merely sit and judge the outcome of that dialogue. She could not even consider the disquieting ramifications of this.

  Bowman broke into her reverie as he spoke for the first time. “We don’t know E Sector would not have been destroyed, Hadrian. Just as we’re not positive that any of these attacks have been launched from New York.”

  “That’s right,” said Minister Weitzel. “We don’t know that.”

  Bowman went on: “As soon as the analysis from E Sector is completed, we’ll have a clearer picture of whom—and what—we’re dealing with.”

  “And until then, Colonel Bowman, we just sit back and watch our city reduced to rubble, sector by sector?”

  Hadrian’s last remark was greeted by shouts of approval by more than a few Government members. The Minister of Police, whose prior interests had always been assumed to be domestic, stood and made an emotional demand for action. This demand was echoed by others.

  Cassandra noticed that only now did Wilkins lift his head. He was cleaning his glasses with a tissue.

  Gilcrest called for order. Everyone appeared to be talking at once. Then someone made a motion to vote officially on the matter of retaliation. The motion was seconded.

  “Our defenses are sound,” Gilcrest argued, leaning across the table. “We’re ready for any attack. To mount an offensive without knowing our enemy—”

  “We know that well enough,” said the Minister of Police. “The politics of this are clear—”

  “Nothing is clear, goddam it! Nothing but this madness for retaliation. The same madness that prolonged the first War—!”

  “The city demands it,” Hadrian said. “Urbans are no longer content with your policies, Gilcrest!”

  The assembly fell silent.

  Bowman’s gaze went from Hadrian to Gilcrest and back along the circle of stunned faces. Minister Weitzel was hunched forward, eyes blinking.

  No one had noticed that Wilkins was now standing. He cleared his throat.

  “This is true, Minister Gilcrest,” he said quietly. “With all due respect, your strategic posture these last few months has been too weak.”

  Gilcrest leveled the fullness of his voice on Amos Hadrian’s assistant.

  “When your insight is desired, Mr. Wilkins, this body will ask for it.”

  Wilkins opened a brown folder on the tabletop.

  “I only meant to point out, sir, that since Washington severed diplomatic relations with us four months ago, popular opinion has favored Mr. Hadrian’s theory that New York forced Washington to such an action. Further polling among Urbans indicates a deep concern over New York’s reported military growth. As I’m confident your own lab analysis will show, E Sector was probably leveled with a long-range gamma shower, a weapon that New York has reportedly had in development for some time.”

  Wilkins looked up, closing the folder.

  Gilcrest’s anger drew the blood to his temples. But before he could speak, Hadrian motioned to his assistant to sit down.

  “My apologies to the assembly for Mr. Wilkins’ rather forthright behavior,” he said. “I’m sure it was not his intention to alarm either Minister Gilcrest or any other member of this body.”

  Bowman and Cassandra exchanged looks. Hadrian had scored soundly, and he knew it.

  Meanwhile, Gilcrest had withdrawn his pipe and was making a show of lighting it. His look was strangely reflective as he took his first puffs.

  “Mr. Hadrian’s apologies are accepted,” he said at last. “Though I would appreciate it if, in the future, Government were made aware of any new functions of Weapons Division, such as the conducting of opinion polls.”

  Hadrian bristled at the old man’s ironic tone, but managed to smile.

  “Now, as to the matter of the vote,” Gilcrest went on, taking his seat. “While I must regretfully agree with Mr. Hadrian as to the identity of our enemy, I cannot, in good conscience, sanction any retaliation against the city of New York without positive proof.

  “And since every unit of the Chicago Service has been called up and put on alert, and all defensive procedures have been set in motion, I am totally confident that Chicago is secure from another attack at the moment.”

  Voices began rising in disagreement. A few members rose and joined Hadrian at the end of the table.

  Gilcrest held up a hand. “Please. I understand how you feel. And no matter what you may think of my strategic philosophy, believe me when I say this: if and when Colonel Bowman’s analysis proves that New York in indeed responsible for these acts of war against our city, I will vote for massive retaliation. Until that time, however, I ask that you remain patient a little longer.”

  The sheer presence and considered eloquence of the old man seemed to stabilize the assembly. The Minister of Police got to his feet and addressed Bowman.

  “How much time do you need?”

  “Give me five hours, sir. That’s all.”

  Bowman looked at Gilcrest expectantly. The Senior Minister shrugged and drew a long puff on his pipe.

  The matter went to a vote.

  It was very close.

  The decision to retaliate was postponed, to be reconsidered at the end of five hours.

  “Until that time,” Gilcrest said afterward, “Government must maintain strictest security. And be advised against venturing outside the labyrinth. Many of our citizens have been outraged by the picture Media has presented to them. There have already been reports of violence.”

  The Minister of Police acknowledged this last remark and went over to the portable com module to
begin relaying instructions to his men.

  Bowman watched as various Government members exchanged harsh whispers before rising from their seats. One or two glanced in Hadrian’s direction as they exited.

  Hadrian himself pushed back his chair then. He bowed stiffly to Gilcrest, then strode out of the room. His assistant Wilkins followed, a stack of folders under his arm.

  Gilcrest sighed heavily. The flame in his pipe sputtered and went out.

  8

  Meyerson’s leg always hurt worse at night, when the wind could wrap around it and shake it like the near-useless thing it was. And he figured he’d stood around long enough, watching as Media screens replayed scenes of the destruction of E Sector, and detailed biographies of those slain there flashed in holography against the sky.

  Meyerson was not a wise man, but he knew about the world, about the ending of things. And he knew that for the Urbans—frustrated with rhetoric, filled up with memories of the Great War—for them, the waiting had finally ended.

  He tried to feel their excitement, standing in the middle of the dark street, amid people running to gather in halls and offices, running to Government Access Centers to press for action, to volunteer.

  But it was not his time. Not Meyerson, with his drawn face and steely beard and withered leg. He’d grown fat and sloppy, and too easily warmed by a few beers and a casual smile. He was old.

  Not old for a man. Old for a soldier.

  A bright bright soldier.

  Meyerson started humming that song Clemmie had sung in the diner only a short time before and remembered that she hadn’t followed him out to the streets. She’d probably be long gone by now, he thought.

  He decided to find her.

  He tried to think. Scholars moved around a lot. Maybe they took sectors. He couldn’t remember, Clemmie could conceivably be anywhere. Some bar, an arcade, even a residence, if the citizen had enough clout.

  Maybe she’d just gone home. He recalled having taken her home one night a year or two back. Her Government residence was near the Loop. Nice, if you didn’t mind the hanging algae pods.

  Meyerson decided he could find the place again.

  He searched his pockets for a few bills. Nothing. Just some change. He’d blown the rest on dinner for himself and Clemmie, and on the half-finished flask in his jacket pocket. Certainly not enough left for a cab.

  A soreness came over him. What if he walked a third of the way across town for nothing? What if Clemmie weren’t home anyway?

  Screw it, he thought.

  Meyerson started to walk.

  He’d gone a few blocks, his good leg already feeling the strain, when a movement in the shadows at the end of a deep cleft in the buildings to his right caught his eye. He heard some kind of scuffling sound.

  Crouching, Meyerson moved along the side of the black building until he was most of the way down the alley. Up ahead, in the uncertain light, he saw queerly shaped shadows springing along the walls.

  Getting in closer, unmindful of the thumping in his leg, Meyerson peered into the darkness. He saw two men—no, bigger, gangling—they were lunks. They were hoisting some kind of sack from the trunk of an old sedan into a large mobile trash dumpster. Another lunk was with them, gesturing. The sedan was sagging at an angle in the rear, looked to have a flat.

  The lunks had finished stuffing the sack into the dumpster and were sealing the lid. Meyerson took another couple steps toward the open area. His bad leg struck a hanging section of drain pipe. The pipe clanged loudly against the side of the building.

  The lunk giving the orders looked up, shouted. The other two came lumbering toward Meyerson.

  He pushed away from the wall, forearms up.

  The lunks lowered their heads and caught him with their shoulders. He went up and back, was slammed hard against the wall. The air was pushed from his lungs.

  Meyerson cried out, kicking with his good leg. He found a target. The lunk yelped and hobbled back a step.

  Meyerson grappled with the second lunk, trying to get inside the huge arms. He felt himself hoisted in the air again.

  His mouth filled with blood. He spat at his assailant in the darkness and rolled to the pavement. He was winded, and his leg ached, but he was thinking hard, and he knew he had to get out of this corner they had him in.

  He was up on one knee, well behind the second lunk, when the one he took to be their leader came out of the shadows.

  Something glinted in this lunk’s hands. He stopped, raised his arms.

  Meyerson’s jaw tightened. A good soldier, he could tell the stance of a man who was aiming a weapon.

  The lunk’s snub-rifle flamed.

  Meyerson took it full in the face, his beard igniting in the blackness. He crumpled then, falling forward.

  His good leg jerked once. Again.

  Giles stepped over him and sheathed the rifle in his shoulder holster. He looked questioningly from one of his confederates to the other. They nodded.

  He turned and led them back to where the dumpster stood in the shadows. Each taking a corner of the old metallic tub, they put their shoulders to the cold steel and soon the dumpster was rolling back along the alley, back into the concrete silence of night.

  Bowman swiveled in his chair and rested his fingers on the keys. He punched two of them and waited for the module lights to change hue.

  Confirmation.

  He took a last bite of his sandwich, then balled up the waxed paper and tossed it into a corner.

  He leaned back, hands clasped behind his head. Christ, would he welcome a nice half-tilt right about now. But he knew he had to stay straight. He was always straight when working. It was one of his rules.

  Bowman smiled at himself in the darkness. Okay, so it was his only rule.

  The chamber was cool and black. At the far end, just above eye level, the sphere projector slowly rotated. Multicolored images moved like phantoms about the chamber in alignment with the sphere’s rotation.

  Bowman studied each diagram carefully. Since the War, even great areas of land mass had been altered. Ridges had been created where flatland had been. Valleys gorged out of solid rock splintered mountain ranges. Some scientists even theorized a radical continental shift.

  And that’s all they could do, Bowman thought grimly. Theorize. There just wasn’t the hardware, the technology of pre-War times to collect and categorize data.

  He went over in his mind what little information he had, flipping pages of the recently filed lab report from E Sector.

  Topographical extrapolation had projected a course back along that from which the gamma stream had probably come. Known atmospheric and meteorological data had also been correlated. Given the intensity of the gamma radiation, the extent of the destruction at E Sector, and the scanner-projected path along which the stream must have traveled, analysis had arrived at only one conclusion.

  E Sector had been destroyed by a gamma shower whose origin was New York City. It could further be supposed that the cobalt cones fired into the heart of Chicago the day before were also from New York.

  Bowman scowled. Hadrian had been right all along. And worse, everyone in that Tactics Room had known it. Including Gilcrest.

  What no one knew for sure was New York’s gamma potential. Given the extraordinary amount of energy necessary to project a gamma stream of sufficient intensity to level an area the size of E Sector, who could say how long New York need wait to strike again? If indeed they weren’t setting new strike coordinates at this very moment.

  Jesus! Bowman shook his head; remembered that paranoia was the most common post-tilt symptom.

  He deactivated the sphere projector and turned on the lights. Cassandra was sitting three seats away.

  He stood up and stretched. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “I move rather quietly when I want to.” She sounded tired.

  Bowman came over and sat beside her. “Where’s Gilcrest? Aren’t you supposed to be with him?”

  “He was
feeling ill, so he retired to his quarters. His nurse is with him. He’ll be all right.” She put her hands on her lap. Bowman was surprised at how small they were.

  “Jake, he looked terrible.”

  “Yeah,” Bowman said. “It was close back there. I think he knows he’s losing power every day.”

  Cassandra nodded. “It’s funny. I never cared one way or the other about him. It was just a job. Guarding him, attending the meetings. But now—I don’t know. Today—seeing him on the defensive in that room …” She looked down at her hands. “I guess I realize what he’s trying to do. Or what he’s trying to preserve.”

  “Yeah. Preserve is exactly right. This city, Cass. The whole concept of it …” He smiled. “I know how he can get sometimes. I had a fill of it when I came over to Tactics during the War. I would be trying to locate a lost air cruiser over Lake Erie, and Gilcrest’d be right beside me, chewing on that damn pipe and recalling some quaint piece of history from Chicago’s past.” He gave her a sidelong look. “Hey, did he ever tell you about these tribal warlords, used to run the city?”

  “Tribes? In Chicago? No …”

  “He said they used to have boundary disputes right on the streets. Shot at each other from moving cars.”

  Cassandra laughed. “Now you’re making fun of me … or him.”

  “No, no. Not him. I always figured, at least the old guy had something, you know? To care about. There was something at stake for him. I understand people with something at stake.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He shrugged. “Let’s just say I know how the old man’s mind works. The thought of another war has got to be killing him.”

  Her glance was searching.

  “And may I ask … what do you feel? About war, I mean?”

  He smiled narrowly. “Oh. You want the career man’s viewpoint?”

  “I was hoping for Jake Bowman’s.”

  “I don’t know if he has one. Other than that war is something that’s bound to happen. Maybe not now, maybe not next time. So the time after that—”

  He looked at her. She seemed to be waiting. She always seemed to be waiting for him to go on, to say more, to reveal parts of himself. Bowman tried to gauge how he felt about that, came up with nothing …