Triptych

by David Castlewitz

  "Motor pool for the entire municipal police force," Trapp commented, pointing. Motorcycles stood side-by-side in several long rows. Personal conveyance units with huge rubber wheels on either side of the foot rests lined one wall. A part of the bay contained lifts for the cars. There, mechanics in gray overalls quietly carried out repair and maintenance tasks. Nobody looked up when Trapp and Jamerson passed.

  A bulky armored utility vehicle sat alone at the end of the bay, in front of two steel doors that slowly opened, the top and bottom parts separating with a whine. A mechanic pulled a charging cable from its receptacle behind the driver's side passenger door. Dull black steel covered the vehicle's body. At its rear, a narrow platform with metal shielding on either side showed Jamerson where a rail gun could be mounted. The gunner, he assumed, sat inside the car, protected by thick glass and additional plating.

  Trapp gave directions to a newly arrived police, a heavyset woman with close-cropped blonde hair under her peaked cap. Jamerson overheard, "Lakeshore Towers complex. And up Lake Michigan Highway."

  "Should I get a gunner?" the driver asked. She sounded young, and the husky undertone of her voice sounded false, a put-on for the commander's benefit.

  "If we need a gunner, you got me," Trapp said, smiling. She pulled open the rear door, signaled with her head, and Jamerson scrambled into the wide backseat. Behind him was the place where a gunner sat, with an array of monitors to show a 360 degree view of their surroundings.

  Trapp sat at the other end of the seat and the driver took her position in front. The vehicle's headlamps flashed and the armored car slowly left the mechanics' bay, rolled across the open jaws of the doorway, into a dark corridor, and, picking up speed, proceeded at a steady upward incline to a roadway outside.

  "Relax," Trapp said. "It's not a long ride."

  #

  The highway hugged the shore but then veered westward and cut through a devastated part of the city, where tall buildings had been reduced to rubble as a result of large scale riots in the past fifty-some years. Jamerson always knew these ruins existed, but he'd never seen them close up, even though his apartment tower stood a mere mile from the city's old downtown.

  "Michigan Avenue," Trapp remarked when the car exited the narrow roadway that ran atop the above-ground tunnel leading from the towers to the city-proper. Same tunnel, Jamerson realized, that housed the maglev train he often rode.

  Sitting back, he watched the city scene play out on the monitors embedded in the back of the armored car's front seats. People moved about in these ruins. Tendrils of smoke rose from pipes atop ramshackle housing. Workers hauled way stone in rickety wheelbarrows, but Jamerson didn't know why. He saw no use in moving cracked cement blocks from one field to another. Maybe what passed for government here wanted to build a new sea wall to keep the storm-fed waves at bay, or fight the encroaching waters that threatened the beach and a neighboring park.

  Crowds formed on both sides of the road. Guards wearing round hats and carrying wooden clubs pushed people away. A few stones clattered against the car's plating. Trapp laughed, looking more amused than annoyed by the sudden demonstration against authority. The driver zigzagged, moving from one edge of the wide roadway to another.

  Jamerson watched the crowds disperse. In the monitor showing a rearward view, a few youngsters suddenly gathered and threw rocks that hit the ground, completely missing their target. Soon, the vehicle crossed the Chicago River at a guarded bridge. Border guards, judging by their distinctive brown coats, Jamerson surmised. To the left of the highway, remnants of old buildings still stood, some with a glimmer of their past majesty. These were the stone and steel residential compounds that once lined the lake front. In places, in the breaks between the tall buildings, Jamerson glimpsed the city wall, which enclosed the northeastern sector of Chicago-proper.

  The car sped northward on the coastal road, past guarded compounds, and then the huge Illinois Waterworks Project, a vast, walled-in compound extending into the lake on the east and as far back as the north branch of the Chicago River on the west. Convicts labored here. Malcontents were sent to The Works for re-education. Many of the residents of the towering apartment buildings they'd passed managed or guarded or otherwise worked at the water purification complex.

  "When we get there," Trapp said, "I'll talk. You listen. When I give you a signal, you can say whatever you want. But wait. Okay?"

  "This isn't your project, Commander." Jamerson forced himself to look directly into the woman's hard eyes. In the dim light of the car's interior he couldn't discern telltale facial features, didn't know if Trapp was angry or amused.

  "You look very professional," she said, "now that you've changed into a suit."

  The remark startled him. Why did she say that? He touched the lapel of his waist-length jacket. He buttoned the collar of his white shirt and the cotton material scraped his neck despite the soft weave. She'd made him self-conscious, uncomfortable in his clothes, in his skin. He didn't like the feeling.

  "What's that mean, Commander?"

  Her hand fell on his knee. It didn't hurt. It surprised him. Her fingers squeezed him. Still, not enough to hurt.

  "Just follow my lead," Trapp said.

  The car skirted Highland Park, a gated community with sandstone walls on the side facing the lake and guard towers manned by robotic sentries, their red eyes gazing from their stations above the highway, the car's monitor showing dark shapes moving with the vehicle's progress, as though the robots tracked it with long range guns.

  When the towers and high walls receded into the background, Fort Sheridan came into view, its steel mesh fence topped with barbed wire and tall beanpoles with cameras and sensors sprouting from tinsel-like limbs. Two rail guns, each mounted on the backs of pickup trucks, guarded the front gate, where a squad of soldiers waited to inspect the car.

  They were shunted to an open area inside the main gate, but still far from the Fort's inner fortifications. Trapp slipped out from the back seat. Jamerson exited on his side. The driver stepped out. Soldiers swarmed over the car. A robot squirmed around the undercarriage. A handheld sensor beeped and emitted blue pulses when one of the soldiers ran the device across the hood.

  A sign on the guard's barracks, a small building where Jamerson assumed the soldiers rested between active shifts, marked the area as "Sally Port South."

  "There's a conference room for you, Commander," one of the guards said to Trapp. He pointed at a building on the other side of the inner gate. A three-wheeler pulled up, driven by a pert young woman with a short ponytail sticking out the back of her cap.

  The cop who'd driven them here seemed relaxed. She went with two soldiers to the shed, perhaps to have something to drink while waiting to drive back. Standing in the dusty open area where the car was parked, Jamerson felt the onset of perspiration across the back of his neck. Summer had hit hard after an extended spring of not-quite-warm weather. Now, a blistering sun beat everyone. The soldiers standing guard at the gate wore no armor and only lightweight pants and shirts.

  Trapp climbed into the back of a three-wheeler. Jamerson squeezed in beside her. The vehicle whined, its electric engine revving, and then they surged forward with a jolting force, the ponytailed driver seeming to take joy in make the jacked-up scooter bounce. The gate opened ahead of them and they young woman steered to a parking lot where similar three-wheelers stood in a row.

  In the distance, Jamerson saw barracks and other buildings, all of them much alike, with slanted roofs, smooth white facades, and clipped grass lawns. In the distant haze stood various military vehicles, all of them parked with precision, the space between them not seeming to vary from one to the other. Huge storage tanks covered a part of the fort that bordered the sandy beach. A precious supply of refined gasoline? Jamerson wondered. He knew the army relied as much on old technology as new when it came to maneuverability.

  The office building offered a cool break from the outdoor heat. No one sat in the reception area, but a
woman who looked to be in her fifties, wearing a tight fitting uniform with captain bars on her shoulders, escorted them along one of the many hallways. They passed closed doors. Muffled voices permeated the air. An open door allowed Jamerson a peek into one of the rooms and he spied white boards, scattered desk chairs, computer terminals and other signs that the building's main purpose was training.

  The captain stepped to a door, opened it, and gestured at an empty room with a long conference table. As the door opened, lights flickered on. Trapp walked past the captain, to one side of the table, and sat in a comfortable swivel chair. She indicated the seat beside her and Jamerson took his cue. Side-by-side, they waited after the captain left them. During the entire time she'd escorted them she'd said nothing, as though she were a mute robot sent to fetch and dispose of them.

  A short, muscular man sporting colonel eagles on the starched lapels of his tight fitting fatigue blouse filled the doorway, hands on his hips, the edge of the buckle of his webbed belt aligned with where his trousers joined and his shirt buttoned. He narrowed his eyes, which Jamerson found himself drawn to. They flashed gold and green, settled into a pale hazel hue, and swept the conference room like a scanner seeking ordinance or other weaponry.

  "Commander Trapp," Trapp said standing. She indicated Jamerson with a nod in his direction. "My associate from Chicago's Office for Strategic Studies. Are you General Sanchez' aide?"

  "Aide?" The word came with a hint of humor in those absorbing eyes and a little spittle at the corners of the officer's wide mouth. He blew out air, which made the brush-style red mustache above his upper lip flicker as if responding to a steady breeze. The overhead light poured onto his bare head, making tiny white-blonde hairs across his scalp sparkle.

  Trapp spoke again. "Our meeting is with General Sanchez."

  "And he sent me. I'm Colonel Westin. When it comes to shits like you, my general don't got the time. That a problem for you, Commander?"

  Westin lumbered to the head of the table,. He took a chair furthest from Trapp and Jamerson. He dropped into it, slapping the tabletop as he pulled himself closer, and leaned forward slightly. The colorful ribbons across the top of his left breast pocket sagged forward. Jamerson spotted an insignia he recognized from popular entertainment, like the war movies produced in California Free State and distributed as "flats" for large screen consumption in the home or as "holies" in theatres.

  Jamerson stared at the symbol, a set of silver wings with a horse's head in the center and crossed sabers overlaying it. Westin had fought with Air Cavalry, the sort of troops the movies showed jumping into battle from helicopters. In modern times, men like Westin flew in gliders launched by catapult a hundred miles behind the front lines and leapt from the still-moving planes while they skidded to a stop.

  Westin cleared his throat. "I'm in charge of Strike Force Alpha. Any crazy idea you city people think the army oughts to try, well it's me and my officers that lead it. So my general sent me."

  Jamerson felt Trapp's eyes fall on him and he took that as a sign to venture a comment, like a pawn pushed forward in an opening gambit. "Have you read our report on conditions outside city-proper, along the lake front. The criminal activity. The near-insurrection elements it... it harbors."

  "There's no insurrection," Westin said, his meaty face lined with wrinkles mixed with old scars.

  "Our simulations," Jamerson continued, struggling to gain some degree, however minute, of confidence, "proposes a near future when these criminal elements will coalesce into a credible threat."

  Westin snorted. "That's a mouthful." He pointed at Trapp. "You're a cop. What's your take here? You got a reason for wasting my time?"

  Trapp's folded hands remained pressed into the edge of the conference table, her feet flat on the floor.

  Westin prompted her to speak with a flick of his hand, a nod of his head.

  "The threat's real," Trapp said. "In a month, a year, ten years? I don't know."

  "Whatever," Westin said.

  Jamerson said, "We need to step in now. Before the threat grows out of proportion. This is our mayor's major initiative. It has his approval, the city council's, and has gone to the federal department of the army for its sign off as well."

  "What it doesn't have," Westin retorted, "is my general's backing. No federal department of anything is going to tell field commanders what to do."

  Jamerson swallowed. He didn't want to argue that that wasn't how government-to-military interfacing should work. The armed forces were an arm of the government. Like Homeland Security and the Federal Police Bureau. They obeyed lawful commands.

  "The secretary of the army," Westin said, "sent us his approval of your supposed mission, but pending our agreement for its necessity. That's a nice way of saying we -- my general and I -- ain't beholding to anything you two say. Or your city council and mayor. Cleaning up the lake front ain't our problem. You afraid of the criminals you set loose? Deal with then."

  "We haven't the heavy armaments," Trapp said.

  "Whatcha want, a missile strike?"

  "At the right target, yes," Trapp said. "And a battalion of your men to mop up resistance."

  Jamerson's fingers tingled. He felt hot; water trickled down the side of his face. The reality of what he'd seen only in the simulations he'd been running these past few weeks suddenly took shape. He'd seen the lake front's rubble. Seen it up close for the first time in his life. The ruined streets, the toppled buildings: remnants of times past when the army fought in the city.

  Now, casually, Trapp and Westin discussed a future strike. It scared him. An unreasonable fear, he told himself. Mere anxiety. Unfocused. He wasn't in range of any missiles. He wouldn't face rail guns firing explosive pellets at massed demonstrators or fleeing masses.

  "A lot more real than any computer scenario," Westin said, and Jamerson knew the colonel spoke to him. "Scare you a little?"

  No sense denying it. Jamerson nodded.

  "How'd I know?" Westin laughed. "Commander." He turned to Trapp. "I know what you city people want, but it's not going to happen. Get yourself a full-fledged rebellion and then the army can get involved. Like last year in Indiana. Or import some of those fools from down south who want a religious cult taking over the country. But don't tell me about a few ambitious criminals you want rubbed out. Take care of that shit yourself."

  Trapp stood when Westin rose to his feet. Without another word, the colonel left the conference room. A moment passed and the mute woman returned. She crooked a finger.

  "Just what I figured," Trapp said. "You want results, you gotta do it all yourself. This is in my lap now, Jamerson. Where it belonged in the first place. I'll let your boss know. He can tell the mayor."

  Jamerson started to ask a question, but then realized he didn't know what to say. He wanted to ask, "Is this what you wanted all along?" But Trapp didn't look predisposed to answering him. She looked satisfied, pleased, already planning what she'd do next.

  They followed the silent woman with captain's bars on her shoulders out of the building and to a waiting three-wheeler.

  "The only thing we can't do," Trapp mused, "is hit them with a missile. If we hit our target, it'll have to be by assassin." She snorted, smiled.

  "Who's the target?" Jamerson asked.

  "I don't know. Do you?"

  "Then how do you know there is a target?"

  "There's always somebody you gotta take out. I've been with city police too long not to know that."

  Chapter Nine

  The large flat screen monitor descended from the ceiling, falling slowly at an angle and then locking in place with an audible click. Jamerson put out his hand as a server-bot passed. The unit stopped, rocked on its springy three-wheeled platform and waited until he took a glass of white wine for himself and then one for Katie, who sat up in bed and gulped half the liquid the moment she had it in hand.

  "Thirsty?" he quipped.

  The sheet fell from her chest and lay in rumpled folds across her stom
ach. He liked the sense of abandon she gave off, her round shoulders and wide face and plump breasts making her so much unlike any woman he'd ever been with before. He liked this about her. He wondered what he'd ever seen in the skinny, boney types of the past.

  "There's a hollie version of this," Katie said as the screen lit up and the ambient lighting dimmed. The service-bot trundled out of the bedroom and, Jamerson assumed, back to the kitchen to await new orders.

  "I like the flats," he said. "I don't like looking down on holograms on a stage. Something ... " He shrugged. Something strange about holo-entertainment? Something not as real and as vibrant as looking at a large high resolution screen with deep colors and a sense of depth?

  "Okay," Katie said. "Flats it is." She pushed against him under the sheet, their bare legs touching, his hand on some part of her anatomy, which sent him groping to identify it, which, in turn, generate soft giggles on her part.

  "Know what?" Katie said, and sat up again. Jamerson waved at the monitor, pausing the show. "You didn't work today. Isn't today Thursday? Don't you usually -- "

  "Shhh." He put a finger to his lips. He moved his finger to her lips. "Took a break." Since his project ended with last Friday's excursion to Fort Sheridan, any enthusiasm Jamerson felt for the job had deteriorated. He'd spent weeks executing scenarios ranging from battalion-sized sweeps of the lake front to small unit attacks on specific targets, incorporating everything known about life in that dismal part of Chicago, the area called "Outside." How people managed to live their lives, provide for their families, strive and struggle and persist, Jamerson found puzzling. He pictured them assembling in holes in the ground, sweltering in the summer heat and shivering to generate internal warmth during the cold winter.