City Wars

by Dennis Palumbo

  “Why, of course, Hadrian. Urban growth is—”

  “Chicago must grow in spirit, Weitzel. Grow to match its destiny. The destiny not of a mere city, a burgeoning metropolis … but the destiny of an empire.”

  His gaze found Weitzel. The Minister of Commerce grew cold as he looked at Hadrian’s face.

  Hadrian said, “History tells us that in times of chaos, empires are formed. Empires whose center is one strong, impregnable fortress, from which its government can send forth armies to secure other cities, other peoples.”

  He regarded Weitzel as though a teacher to a student. “It is more than merely kill or be killed. It is rule or be ruled. That is what is at stake in our conflict with New York. And our conflict with Washington, Dallas, the coastal alliances …”

  “But, Minister … surely …”

  “Never has the opportunity presented itself more clearly, more obviously, Weitzel. Our continent lies in ruin, geologically unstable. Men fear to cross its terrain, are afraid even to fly through its noxious air. And scattered throughout this desolation are the few remaining cities … the lone survivors of a great Leveling that ended life and communication and, apparently, any hopes for consolidation. And that’s the only hope, don’t you see? Consolidation of power, energy, minds … under the direction of a central ruling body, one city. This city, Minister Weitzel. It is nothing less than Chicago’s destiny to create and rule an empire.

  “And I have made it my task to see that Chicago fulfills its destiny.”

  Hadrian’s eyes were not those of a madman. It was not the glaze of insanity that Weitzel saw in their white hardness. Rather he feared their purposefulness, their blinding rationality. In Hadrian’s face, in the ease of his manner and the eloquence of his words, there was only the placidity of reasoned opinion. Now about to be made fact.

  Weitzel shuddered at the vague remembrance of having been one of the ministers who’d eagerly handed control of Government over to this man.

  He started to rise.

  “Minister Hadrian, I … uh … I must go now. I do have my duties, and …”

  Hadrian frowned. “But Minister Weitzel … don’t you have a question for me?”

  “Well … uh … many, actually … but my duties are—”

  “You should have only one question,” Hadrian said. “Unless you are more of a fool than I think.”

  “Minister, I hardly—”

  Hadrian went up to Weitzel, robes brushing the plush carpet. Unthinkingly, Weitzel took a step back.

  “Come now, Weitzel,” Hadrian said. “Aren’t you wondering why it is I told you all this? Why I took a man such as you into my confidence?”

  Weitzel sputtered something, and began waving his hands.

  “The answer,” Hadrian went on, “is really quite simple. You see, my ambition for this great city will be plain to everyone soon enough. Perhaps I will have gotten matters underway a bit before I reveal all my motivations, but soon every citizen will come to appreciate the rightness of my vision. Every Urban will rally behind Chicago’s conquest of all the cities in the land.

  “But until that time, Minister … until that time, I will need men in Government whom I can trust, whose support I can rely on when certain proposals of mine meet with opposition. After all, there might be, ministers who will misunderstand the nature of my ambitions. Or, perhaps, will understand only too well, arid will try to stand in my way … in the city’s way …”

  The Minister of Commerce stood frozen, his mind numb.

  Hadrian put a hand on the other man’s shoulder.

  “I’m going to be depending on your vote a great deal in the months ahead, Weitzel. And, of course, whatever else you can do for me in the way of influence. I understand you’ve been known to bend certain rules to aid important friends … who in turn can perhaps do something for you. There was that unfortunate accident involving the young girl found in your apartment. Didn’t the Minister of Police manage to clear that up when—but it doesn’t matter, really.” His smile was thoughtful. “If you’ll allow me to paraphrase, one could say it’s merely the way of governments …”

  Minister Weitzel looked sick. The hand on his shoulder tightened its grip, as though to keep him on his feet. With his other hand, Hadrian reached into his wide pockets for a folded sheet of paper.

  “Since you’re here, Minister,” he said, releasing Weitzel’s shoulder to begin a slow pacing in the middle of the room, “and we’ve concluded the more important part of our business, you might as well stay and hear this first draft of a speech I’m going to transmit very shortly. I’m rather proud of it, actually. But I’d be anxious for any suggestons you might have.”

  Opening the page he’d filled with his own writing, Hadrian began to read.

  14

  Cassandra sat on the edge of her bed, unable to get the image of Minister Gilcrest out of her mind. It had all happened so quickly.

  She was certain she’d been the first to discover the old man’s body. Yet not minutes after Gilcrest’s murder, when only she could have known about it, two sentries had come for her, on orders of the new acting head of Government—Amos Hadrian. Logically, then, Hadrian had been behind the Senior Minister’s assassination.

  It was also not difficult to explain how he’d gained control of Government. Cassandra had seen him in the Tactics Room, had felt the eloquent strength of his words, the easy confidence he brought to his convictions. His presence, skill and obvious knowledge of the emotions guiding most Urbans was not lost on those Government members eager both for the safety of Chicago and the security of their positions. With his power having long been on the rise, and those included in his sphere of influence already prepared to stand behind him, it had been a simple matter for Hadrian to take command. It was a time of chaos, of war, when men and women looked outside of themselves for leadership.

  Amos Hadrian had obviously been planning for some time to assume that role for the ministers of Government.

  Cassandra prowled her room, suddenly conscious of its small size. She felt confined in a very new, very profound sense of the word.

  There was still much she didn’t know. From what she could deduce from the kidnappers’ note, they’d hidden Estelle Gilcrest somewhere in the city. She’d obviously been the bait to lure Gilcrest to the meeting place. But where was she now? Cassandra had seen no sign of anyone else, living or dead, in that cold room. And who was that lunk she’d found lying under the brightly colored coat? Perhaps she’d never know.

  She rubbed her eyes. None of it seemed to matter. None of it except Gilcrest’s death—and the fact that it had been engineered, and quite carefully, by the now-Minister Hadrian. The death of a good man, and perhaps even a great one. The death of a man whose life she’d been sworn to protect.

  Cassandra slammed her fist against the wall. The guilt and frustration seemed to overwhelm her.

  The cold processes of her intellect told her she hadn’t been at fault. Gilcrest had left the labyrinth in secrecy, venturing out without the knowledge or protection of his Guardian. And yet that part of her that knew feeling—however carefully she measured the doses she allowed herself—was numb with frustration and the pain of loss.

  And then, with the training of her Order, came the solace of reason. The guilt was thrown off, the sorrow lessened. Her being cauterized the pain, fused it into purpose.

  There was much to be done. Estelle Gilcrest might yet be alive. If so, Hadrian would know of her whereabouts.

  And Jake Bowman—had Hadrian plans for him as well? He and Gilcrest had been the two men most aggressively opposed to Hadrian’s obsessive hostility toward New York. Hadrian had successfully ended Gilcrest’s interference. Perhaps now he—

  Cassandra had little choice. She had to escape.

  She walked quietly to the door and cocked her ear against the frame. She heard voices on the other side. Three sentries; young from the tone.

  Hadrian was taking no chances.

  Cassandra had to
assume the sentries were armed. And ordered to kill her if she attempted an escape.

  Or ordered to try.

  The sign said the street was called Fifth Avenue.

  Bowman sat on the rusty fender of an abandoned automobile at an intersection overlooked by the sign. Not a hundred feet away, his cruiser rested, engines throbbing. It was the only sound in the streets, except for the sighing of a warm wind.

  He made the decision not to scream.

  He figured the best thing to do was keep his eyes up. Scan the buildings, search the rooftops. He was only obliquely aware of the height of New York’s silver spires. They’d obviously progressed well beyond Chicago in construction and urban design. There’d been good minds at work here, a convocation of intellects. Someone had had a plan.

  Chicago never had plans, Bowman reflected for no particular reason. Chicago never had plans. It had muscle, and energy, and desire. Like some great destructive child, discovering its strength, reveling in its inherent capacity for fury.

  Not this city. Not New York, gleaming and finely white and prosaic in its calm power.

  Bowman had never understood politics, but his instincts prodded him to consider: every city was different, unique, autonomous. How had they done it? Had New York a king, a monarch? Perhaps out of the ashes of the War had stirred the embers of faith, a creed, religion. Perhaps New York had been ruled by bishops.

  However the city had been developed and managed, Bowman’s most salient question was one to which he’d probably never learn the answer.

  How had they failed?

  He stood suddenly, tested his legs, fearful he was still too shaken to walk.

  But he could, and he found himself wanting to. It would be better to move about, to search and investigate and be absolutely sure.

  Bowman walked mostly in straight lines, and in the shadows of buildings, careful not to lose sight of his cruiser. His footsteps echoed dully.

  Had he been a philosopher, Bowman would have appreciated the fact that there lay a moral in all he was seeing. But he was merely a tactician, a mover of men and machinery. To have been more, and to have been surrounded by the dry ghost of a city’s final madness, would have been the death of his own reason.

  He’d seen the bodies when he first glided into the city, well before attempting to touch down. They dotted the streets, tiny figures with limbs outstretched, as though having been squashed underfoot by the careless step of some behemoth.

  The roar of his impulse engines when he hovered over Fifth Avenue had caused the bodies lying beneath to quiver. On landing, Bowman’s first booted step had been over the slender back of a girl in her early teens. Careful leaps had enabled him to reach the curb without disturbing any more of the dead.

  He’d chosen the old vehicle, coated with rust, as a good enough place from which to experience his horror. He’d peered inside, Service weapon in hand, and tried to comprehend the look of the driver. His head was resting against the steering wheel, his hands clutching the dash. Bowman felt foolish then. The dead man had merely looked unhappy, and for Bowman and his anguish, that hadn’t been enough.

  It seemed to him, walking now, weapon long since holstered, that every death mask had been molded in a similar fashion. New York was a dead city. Its citizens were all dead. Their deaths had made them unhappy.

  It occurred to him that he might yet go mad.

  He began running, a furious run, up and down the streets, no longer watchful of where his booted heels landed. He ran and looked into windows, around corners, through the hallways of buildings, the backseats of cars. He kicked open the doors of a bus, ran down its center aisle. He ran to where a group of them must have gathered to die, where benches planted in the brown grass of the park sagged under the weight of the bodies propped upon them, arms sometimes crooked over the backs of the benches, legs sometimes thrust forward, leisure-molded in death, heels digging the earth. Perhaps there’d been a speaker, someone who’d stood before them and read from an old book.

  His cruiser was lost among the jutting buildings behind him. His thoughts were only of running, of moving through the death, of going on to the next exhibit, the next tableau. If he could just keep running, just keep—

  “Where the hell you heading, friend?”

  The voice came from above him. No, behind.

  Bowman nearly tripped, hands in front of him pushing air. His boot struck the arm of an elderly man in a short plastic jacket. Bowman struggled to right himself, kicked aside the arm. It flapped down against the pavement.

  Bowman gasped for breath, for the strength to speak.

  “Jesus, I—”

  The voice boomed again.

  “No need to rush, friend. Whoever you’re going to see is dead anyway. Count on it.”

  Bowman turned, looked up.

  “You can trust me, friend,” the voice said. “I ain’t got no reason to lie.”

  Behind him. No—over there, across the street. That sandstone hall with the peaked roof—

  Bowman headed for the gleaming double doors, the voice staying close to his ears.

  “No, sir, I ain’t got no reason to lie. Can’t lie if there’s no one to lie to. And everybody around this place is dead.”

  Bowman vaulted up wide marble steps, gripped the door handles in his gloved hands, pulled.

  “Well, wait a minute. I guess you could always lie to yourself. Kinda stupid-shit way to spend your time, but what the hell, eh?”

  Bowman kicked at the doors. They rattled on thick hinges.

  “Time was, this place was full of talking. Everybody talking, all at the same time. Politicians said the place was bustling. They use words like that a lot, potiticians, you know? Not anymore, of course. They’re all dead. All the politicians are dead.”

  His Service gun raised, Bowman took a couple steps back and fired. The burst glowed hotly, searing the locks. The doors swung inward, and did not creak.

  “Seems a damn shame, don’t it, friend? All those goddamn politicians lyin’ around, stiff as boards and none of the rest of us around to enjoy the sight. Damn shame. Damn lousy shame.”

  Bowman held his gun against his cheek, walking in a near-crouch down the middle of the hall. There were rows of desks on either side, and a larger one at the far end. A school, perhaps. Or a trading hall.

  “But here I am, talking your ear off, and you not sayin’ nothing. Well, friend, c’mon. Open your mouth. You got a name, don’t you?”

  The large desk was made of some sturdy metal. Bowman glanced behind it, under it.

  “Okay, okay, so who needs names, right? Hell, you don’t know mine either. These things take time.”

  Bowman searched the rest of the hall, including two smaller rooms in the back. In one of them, a strikingly pretty woman in a green dress sat before what looked amazingly similar to many of the com modules used in Chicago. Her head was thrown back, blank eyes staring at the ceiling. Instinctively, Bowman glanced above him. He learned nothing except that the ceiling was cracked.

  He came out into the main hall and began searching the desks.

  He tried to think. He was sure the voice had come from this direction, from somewhere in here …

  “Look, friend, I figure I know what’s bothering you. It has to be a helluva shock at first. Believe me, I ain’t so used to it that I don’t get the willies every once in a while here myself.”

  Bowman cursed himself aloud. It had been right in front of him. Now, if only it still operated …

  He ran back into the small room where the dead girl sat. Quickly-knowing his consideration for her was both absurd and yet somehow necessary for him—he lifted the girl out of her chair and lay her gently in a near corner. Before turning back to the module, he closed the lids over her marble eyes.

  Bowman had no time to wonder about his actions. No time to wonder why a man who’d seen soldiers die in every conceivable way felt the need to perform such a pointless gesture. There was no dignity in death, never had been. That was one of t
he first untruths he’d discarded when still a young officer in Service. Men were killed in battles, and there was no dignity in that. That was when Jake Bowman had let his mind do some turns and decided that dignity therefore must lay in winning the battles. Moving men and machinery in the—

  But that was another time, another war. Perhaps another man.

  He sat in the dead girl’s chair and tried to digest the meaning of the dials and keys before him. The system was very similar, as he’d guessed. It shouldn’t have surprised him. Hadn’t there been a time when the whole continent, when what used to be called the country—

  He got the tracer working. Lights flickered on the screen. He adjusted the schematic.

  “I know what you’re thinking, friend,” the voice was saying. Bowman was not listening to the words. He concentrated solely on the voice, and on the dots forming patterns on his screen.

  “You figure they can’t all be dead. It isn’t possible. Not every living creature in New York. There’s gotta be somebody, somewhere—”

  Bowman leaned in, locked the schematic. He’d been luckier than he deserved. New York’s com links were as similar in design as the modules themselves. He’d known the voice was being transmitted artificially, but not where it was emanating from. A careful search hadn’t turned up a transmitter anywhere in the hall.

  “—but the pure and simple truth of the matter is, everybody is gone. Dead. Killed. Wiped out. It ain’t an easy thing to live with—you should pardon the expression—but that’s the way it is.”

  Bowman had the coordinates. The transmitter was here, but beneath the floor, underground.

  “Now, friend, assuming you’re a logical person, I guess the next thing that pops up in your mind’s gotta be this: if everybody’s dead, then who the hell is doing all the talking? Well, here’s where it gets a little complicated—”

  Bowman got up from the chair and walked carefully around the floor, stamping his foot on the cold tile. He heard the hollow echo almost immediately.