City Wars

by Dennis Palumbo

  So the rebels would stay in hiding. Perhaps the anonymity of their lot would yet spare them. They would be sure to make no more trouble. The rebels wanted none. Nor the promises of better days, a better life. Word of Giles’ fate had reached them. There was a lesson in what the young lunk’s earnest hatred had cost him.

  Yet they’d sought to make a final gesture in his honor; they’d considered it nothing less than a final duty to perform.

  And so, within minutes of Minister Hadrian’s speech to the Urbans, the body of Mrs. Estelle Gilcrest was found in a city sewer, still wrapped in the blankets from her bedchamber. Government physicians felt there was reason for hope.

  Communications Officer Roberts had reached a decision. A career in Commerce.

  “Look at the advantages,” he said to himself, toasting his reflection in the com screen with his fifth cup of coffee. The room throbbed dully. “Better hours, a lot of business contacts … give me a chance to meet some different kinds of people when this is all over. Maybe even some of those credit whores.” He looked around the small chamber. Screens lined the walls, showed him their featureless faces. “Gotta be a better life than this, right?”

  Roberts gave himself a wink.

  At arm’s length from him was H Channel, whose blinking light had long since gone out.

  Hundreds of miles to the east, Chicago’s five Air cruisers dropped their payload on the city of New York.

  16

  Sergeant Marjorie Lawson called out sharply. “Sir, there’s something on the screen.”

  The Scanner Captain looked up from his data sheet and trotted over to where the young woman sat, eyes riveted on her com.

  “What th—?” The Scanner Captain stroked his long brown face and peered over the woman’s shoulder. The screen’s glow melted into hollows and lines on his face.

  “Small craft,” the woman said. She touched a row of keys. “I’ll get a schematic in a moment.”

  Two other officers came over and waited at the com. The room’s air seemed leaden.

  “Got it, sir.” Sergeant Lawson nodded at the screen, then flipped through the pages of a ledger on her com. She pointed with an unpainted nail. “Two-seater, Cleveland origin, pre-War design.”

  The Scanner Captain snorted. “Doesn’t make any sense. Cleveland can’t get a fart into the wind, let alone—”

  One of the officers standing behind them spoke quietly. “We salvaged three of that model, sir. One of ’em still has lift.”

  “In which case,” Sergeant Lawson offered, “it would be bearing Chicago markings.”

  “Christ, forget this fuckin’ debate!” The Scanner Captain hit a com switch. To Sergeant Lawson, he growled: “Where’s it headin’?”

  “Hangar Three, sir.”

  He looked at her for a long moment, then spoke into the com.

  “Shoot a transmit to Hangar Three,” he said. “Tell ’em they got company.”

  Two sentries came into the hangar just as the cruiser was coming to rest. The craft’s skin was pitted and black. Its engines whined.

  Approaching cautiously, the sentries waited for the engines to cool and the canopy to open. They noted the emblem of Chicago Air Service beneath the black streaks on the hull.

  They waited three full minutes. The canopy did not open.

  The sentries exchanged looks.

  One of them stepped forward, tested the cruiser’s skin with his hand. He nodded to the other. Then, carefully, he threw the exterior emergency bolt. The canopy hissed open and slid back. The sentry peered inside.

  His cry brought the other sentry running.

  Bowman leaped from the cockpit and came at him with his head down. The sentry was momentarily confused by Bowman’s Service uniform. He was fumbling with his rifle strap when Bowman tackled him.

  They struggled on the hangar deck. They made almost no sound. Bowman wrested the weapon away from the sentry and drove the butt against his forehead. The sentry fell still.

  Bowman took off at full speed, tossing the rifle behind him. Instead, he unholstered his Service gun and slipped off the safety.

  There were two more sentries in the hangar’s outer shell, coming at a full trot. Bowman leaped for a bulkhead and drew his shoulders in tight.

  One of the sentries barked a command at him. Bowman leaned out and fired, the burst taking the sentry in the shoulder and spinning him completely around once before he crumpled to the pavement.

  Bowman knew he couldn’t allow himself to get boxed in here. Sentries would be all over the place within minutes.

  The second sentry fired from behind the hull of a disabled cruiser. The burst spread flames into the air, spinning itself out.

  Bowman was safe behind the bulkhead. Unfortunately, the sentry was afforded similar protection by the cruiser. And there wasn’t time to try drawing the sentry out into the open.

  He thought of something else.

  “Sentry!” Bowman inched his head forward. He shouted again. “Listen to me, sentry! This is Colonel Bowman!”

  Another burst whistled overhead.

  “I said I’m Colonel Bowman!”

  Another burst.

  “I don’t care who you say you are,” the sentry called out to him. “Surrender at once. Throw out your weapon.”

  Bowman knew he had to act. It was better to deal with just one than with the dozen more probably racing toward the hangar.

  “All right,” he cried, tossing his gun onto the hangar floor. It clattered noisily. “All right. I’m coming out, sentry.”

  He edged himself out into the open area of the hangar. The sentry, rifle aimed at Bowman’s head, came out from behind the cruiser’s hull. He approached Bowman warily.

  “I’m just glad you’re a reasonable man,” Bowman said, attempting to smile. He felt the sentry’s rifle prod his side. “No sense either one of us getting burned.”

  “Keep still and shut up,” the sentry said. Bowman noticed how absurdly pink and round the sentry’s face looked, fleshy chin divided by the strap of his Service helmet.

  “I signaled down,” the sentry went on. “You’ll march out of here with an escort, whoever you are.”

  “Take it easy,” Bowman said. “Besides, you’ve got backup already. Your buddy’s coming around.”

  The sentry glanced back toward the still motionless form of the felled sentry. Bowman swung hard, catching the sentry with his forearm, at the same time twisting away from the rifle barrel.

  The rifle bucked as it discharged, searing the concrete hangar floor with white heat. Bowman stepped inside the sentry’s rejoining swing and drove his fist hard into his ribs. The sentry doubled over, the rifle flying from his fingers.

  Bowman spun the sentry around and planted a boot against the man’s behind, sending him sprawling.

  Bowman turned without waiting to see the sentry hit concrete and raced for the exit. Two things struck him as he stepped into the main corridor beyond. One was the sound of advancing sentries, as many as a half-dozen from the heavy pounding. The other was the fact that he’d forgotten to retrieve his Service gun.

  He couldn’t risk trying to explain to them who he was, what he’d seen, why he’d come back. He was having a hard time believing most of it himself.

  He sped away from the advancing sound of their footsteps, hoping he could get around a corner without being seen. With any luck, the troop would head straight into the hangar shell and waste valuable seconds seeing to the fallen sentries before taking up the pursuit again.

  Bowman came to a corner and went around, staying close to the wall. Up ahead he spotted the familiar double doors of a pneumatic.

  He pushed himself away from the wall and ran for the pneumatic. Once inside, he settled back against the interior cushions, tried to catch his breath. There were cuts on his face and arms.

  He licked his lips, forced himself to keep thinking. He had to assume he’d been scanned coming into the city, despite the evasive swing he took around the far rim of the sector. His
craft had been low on fuel anyhow. He’d had to find a hangar and bring her in as soon as possible. Since no unauthorized aircraft could land at a Service hangar, he’d expected an armed reception and was ready for it.

  The problem was, he reflected bitterly, he’d been unable to raise anyone in Communications. Ever since returning to his cruiser and taking off from New York, his transmission channel had been closed.

  By whom? It wasn’t hard for him to guess. Somehow, Hadrian had gained control of Government. It had to have been Hadrian who ordered the premature strike against New York.

  Bowman started coughing. And, absurdly, he felt a sudden hunger. But he dared not think about it, not think about anything except his reason for coming back.

  About Cassandra.

  Sergeant Lawson had a transmission from Communications Officer Roberts, which she relayed to the Scanner Captain’s board.

  He punched a key.

  “Yeah?”

  “This is Roberts in Communications.” The young officer’s voice sounded unusually strained, even through the mesh of the com speaker.

  “What is it, Lieutenant?”

  “I think we have a problem, sir. I can’t raise any of our cruisers.”

  “What the hell are you telling me, Roberts?”

  Majorie Lawson glanced speculatively over at her captain. He’d seen a lot of action, yet still grew dark at the lines of his neck whenever something was apparently going awry.

  “I’m saying, sir,” Roberts went on, “that I haven’t had a transmit from Air Service One since just before the strike. Combat procedure indicates—”

  “You’ve been transmitting to them?”

  “Repeatedly. Seven-dash-seven, thirty-second intervals. By the book, sir.”

  “No response?”

  “None, sir. The following alternatives are available to us in such a—”

  “Don’t read me some fuckin’ rule I probably helped write, Lieutenant!” The Scanner Captain keyed out Roberts and swiveled in his chair. “Lawson!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Shoot one up to Tactics Six. Top priority.”

  Sergeant Lawson’s fingers tapped on the keys.

  The Scanner Captain lumbered over. Sweat glistened on his forehead, beneath the sandy line of his hair.

  “Feed ’em Prime Emergency colors, Lawson,” he said. “Ten-second intervals. And signal me when there’s a response.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He leaned across her and punched a key. Roberts’ voice crackled from the speaker.

  “Waiting for instructions, sir.”

  “Yeah, I’ll just bet.” The captain rubbed his temples. “Keep up the seven-dash-seven until further notice.”

  “Got it, sir.”

  “And you hear one goddam peep outta Air Service One, you get back to me.”

  “Right, sir. Out.”

  The Scanner Captain growled something unintelligible and retreated to his com. Sergeant Lawson, her signal in transit to Main Level, watched him with uncharacteristic chagrin. She’d thought these things were supposed to get easier after a haul in Service. That’s what everybody always said.

  Everybody had been wrong.

  The girl was fourteen years old and a full duster, but she was pretty, and eager for almost anything, and Minister Peter Weitzel had learned to ignore the deep dullness of her gaze that indicated her addiction.

  The Minister of Commerce stretched languidly on his favorite couch, short legs raised off the carpet. It was good to be back in his own rooms again.

  The girl watched him sullenly.

  “Come here, Lisa,” he said. Hadrian had poured him a little too much wine. Weitzel’s voice slurred. “Come here.” He gestured.

  Lisa crossed the floor with a slow shuffle, her transparent floor-length wrap swishing the carpet. Her body was brown and womanly, yet child-small, and its soft shapes moved easily as she walked. She never failed to arouse him.

  Weitzel motioned for the girl to sit on his lap. She did so, his hands guiding her into position more forcefully than necessary. He nuzzled her neck.

  “Lisa,” he said, pulling back from her suddenly. “Lisa, we really did it this time.”

  She smiled, uncertain.

  He bounced her once on his fleshy knees. She could feel their soft roundness beneath the thin fabric of his robe.

  “Yes we did,” he said. “Yes we did. Your lover man and his friends.”

  She kissed him hurriedly, then again. Her slim arms went around his shoulders, her breasts pressed against him. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

  He shook his head, pumped with his knees, rocked her. “No, it’s not okay. Your lover man an’ his friends did it. An’ it’s not okay.”

  She licked his ear. “It’s okay,” she whispered, afraid of him, remembering the last time he got drunk. “It’s okay.”

  Weitzel roared to his feet, pushed her away. She stumbled backward, fell to the carpet.

  Weitzel stomped across the room to his bar. He uncorked a half-empty bottle.

  “You shouldn’ta kept sayin’ it was okay, Lisa,” he said. “It isn’t okay. We did it. Lover man an’ his friends. We let him have it. Gave it to him.”

  Lisa swallowed hard. She got up from the floor, feeling for the couch behind her with her hands. She sat quietly.

  “He’s crazy,” Weitzel was saying, looking at her through the amber liquid in the bottle. He put the neck to his lips, drank deeply, choked. Lisa looked away.

  “He’s a crazy man, Lisa, an’ we gave it to him. Gave the whole damn thing to ’im. Gonna blow everything, Lisa. You watch. Guy’s gonna blow everything. All this …” He waved a hand, took in the opulence of his chambers. One crooked finger pointed in her direction. “All this … an’ you. You’ll be gone, too. No more lover man. No more good times with lover man. You watch. He’s crazy. Just crazy.”

  The Minister finished the rest of his bottle and tossed it across the room. Lisa flinched. He strode toward her, took her by the hand. Her transparent wrap came away, fluttered to the carpet.

  “No more good times with lover man,” Weitzel said, his voice thick and hoarse.

  He pushed her back onto the couch, fell on her, dug his hands under her buttocks. His head ducked down, he drew his face into the tangle of her hair. He was heavy upon her.

  Lisa began to cry. She clawed at his robe with her small hands. She pulled it down over his sloping shoulders, pulled it off his back. She cried and cried.

  “We did it, we did it,” Weitzel exclaimed. His tears smeared the powder on her face and neck. “Crazy crazy crazy. Man’s just crazy.”

  Later, only Lisa had any tears left. Most were for herself, yet some she cried for him, for her doughy-skinned lover man, so squat and miserable-looking on the floor, the tatters of her transparent wrap in his fists, the long look of guilt and sorrow in his small dark eyes.

  Jake Bowman slid out of the pneumatic on Main Level and looked around. The corridor ran a good distance in either direction before turning away. He tried to get his bearings. Tactics would be to the left.

  He started through the lighted bulkheads at a slow trot. There wasn’t time to take the care he would have preferred. He’d just have to keep moving and take his chances. There was a bend up ahead. He moved close to the wall, shoulders scraping the panelling. He peered around the bend.

  The long shadow of someone coming down the corridor curved up into the bulkhead. Bowman watched its jaunty outline as the newcomer neared the bend.

  Bowman made his move just as the sentry appeared. He went in low, catching the sentry hard at the knees. Bowman drove his shoulder down, felt the weight of the sentry as he collapsed atop him. Bowman let his momentum carry them both to the floor.

  They grappled for the rifle hanging by its strap from the sentry’s shoulder. Bowman got his hand around the barrel, twisted it free of the strap. The sentry caught Bowman with a swift elbow to the jaw. Bowman felt everything start to turn around. He lashed out with his free hand
, struck again and again, felt the sharp points of the sentry’s teeth cutting into the side of his palm.

  The sentry cried out, covered his mouth. Blood spurted through his fingers.

  Bowman got up on one knee, swung the rifle up and down, catching the sentry in the shoulder as he tried to rise. Bowman butted him again. The sentry fell back, clutching his shoulder wound. Blood covered his chin, neck.

  With an effort, Bowman steadied himself and got to his feet. He’d lost some of the feeling in his jaw, felt as though his mouth were hanging open. He stumbled over the prone body of the sentry, started along the corridor.

  He’d broken the rifle’s shoulder strap, so he had to carry it, keeping it up and close to his chest. He went another hundred yards and came to another pneumatic. Not too far beyond this point, if he remembered correctly, was the entrance to Tactics.

  He stopped long enough to catch his breath. The feeling had returned to his jaw, and with it a dull throbbing pain. He tried to shake it off; figured he could live with it.

  He scowled. Jake Bowman, thick-headed brawler. And still luckier than he deserved.

  He rested only as long as he dared, then started up again. As he neared the next length of corridor, it occurred to him that there should have been more sentries about. After all, each step was bringing him closer to Tactics. And—

  He turned the corner.

  He found Cassandra slumped against the corridor wall. Bowman dropped the rifle and lifted her to him, as gently as he could.

  He was afraid to count the bruises.

  Bowman held her tightly, kissed the dark marks on her face and neck. He felt her stirring in his arms.

  Bowman looked past her, looked down at Wilkins. The slender man was on his back in the middle of the floor. His mouth was open wide, holding a still pool of blood.

  Cassandra’s voice was a whisper.

  “He was a Guardian … a mercenary … he’s dead …”

  Bowman kissed her again.

  “Don’t talk, Cass.”

  She shook her head, pulled free of his arms. He helped her to her feet.