by Alan Janney
It’s a strong accusation. Some indolent drifters try to visit all the markets and build a surplus without doing work. They make a circuit every day. When caught, they spend the subsequent month working to exhaustion as penance.
“No ma’am,” I answer, but she reaches for my wrist. I smack her hand away. Her breath catches and she peers hard at me. The adjacent Vendor notices. I don’t want attention. I just wanted peppers. But now I’m annoyed. I take several more baggies of food.
“Hey! Maybe I should call the Law Keepers, little thief!”
Now everyone is staring at us. I stride purposefully toward the small knot of children waiting outside the market. I drop food bags into their eager hands, and glare at the shrewish Vendor. “No one goes hungry. The food does not belong to you. We all work. We all eat.”
If we have one law, that’s it. She makes no rebuttal.
I say, “And do not hassle our Workers. Or you might be assigned to a different job, one more suited to your personality.” I storm off, and the market place stares after me.
That was not ideal.
* * *
Dodgers Stadium can hold 56,000 screaming fans. Today about two hundred will gather to witness the Discipline Assembly. Fifty members of the audience are on the Court, men and women chosen for their good judgement. They are here to witness and vote. The rest are Workers who choose to spend their day off watching the Assembly.
Seven Guardians sit over the visitor dugout. The rest of those in attendance provide them a wide berth and stare. Variants are fascinating. They eat a lot, much more than normal New LA citizens. We have enough to eat, but not much extra. We’re a trim and hard city by necessity.
I sit by myself, hidden in a hood. At 10am sharp, the Assembly begins.
Law Keepers brandishing firearms march five prisoners to the pitcher’s mound and force them to kneel. The prisoners are big, proud men, ex-military, probably special ops. They kneel, erect with defiance, and they glare.
A man solemnly approaches the pitcher’s mound. He is young, maybe thirty, tan, wearing expensive clothes, and his hair is stylishly swept to the side, glistening with gel. I don’t know his real name. He’s a globally recognized figure known as the Priest, famous from the old world.
The Priest presses a button on his handheld mic and several speakers begin humming. He’s either using a gas-powered generator, or he requested Engineers temporarily route electricity to the stadium from our grid. His voice booms too loudly, “We are gathered today to levy sentencing on the guilty. These five were found to be illegal Herders and operating against our Kingdom.”
One of the kneeling men, their commanding officer, begins shouting. He receives a crisp blow to the back of his skull and his words cease.
A single Guardian is more than a match for ten unarmed Herders at a time. Maybe twenty. But Herders are big game hunters, employing expensive and advanced electroshock weapons which can only be described as barbaric. And effective.
The Priest continues in a theatrical tone, “These five were discovered in Pasadena, using the Rose Bowl as their base of operations. I personally took the Variants’ testimony of the apprehension. Seven of our own were discovered drugged and immobilized within Herder custody. Also discovered were electroshock weapons, and I identified severe electrical burns on the released prisoners. When presented with these facts yesterday, our Courts found them guilty.”
The Guardians sitting on the dugout begin growling. It is their kind that were captured and tortured in hopes of a large reward. The Priest is calling them Variant instead of Guardians. Whatever. The Assembly would run more smoothly if they weren’t here. He should have sent them away.
“Today the gathered Court will vote on sentencing, and witness it’s immediate administration.”
The Priest is the Law Keeper Overseer, a lofty position and one he lobbied for extensively. His appointment was a controversial one.
One of the Guardians can contain himself no longer. He stands and roars in a voice too loud for a human, “Give the bastards to us! They want to fight? Let them be satisfied!”
The other six Guardians join in. They scream and howl. They are creatures of incredible strength and speed, operating within a constant state of fight-or-flight, riding oceans of adrenaline. The Priest blanches at the show of emotion and his words falter. He is a proud man, an intelligent and persuasive leader, and often he dismisses the Guardians as mere muscle, simple implements incapable of judgement. But all his savvy and bravado vanish when face-to-face with angry and insane mutants. This is one reason for the controversy — he cannot control the Guardians, especially when they’re angry.
This isn’t going well.
The Priest stammers, “The decision is up to the Court. And myself. After much deliberation, I present the following judgement for the Court’s vote; that the guilty men be sentenced to two months hard labor, working to clear rubble from the underground tunnels.”
Our Guardians are instantly displeased. I don’t blame them. It’s the wrong judgement. Look at the five guilty faces; they smirk in victory. The Priest should now present another option so the Court can vote between two judgements, but he doesn’t. He carries on over the protests, essentially providing them only a single choice. The vote is meaningless.
I’m growing more and more aggravated. The Priest wants trophies. He wants our populace to see the prisoners working and to take credit for their humiliation.
He makes a final mistake. He allows the lead Herder to speak to the Court. Absurd. The man’s already been found guilty. The big ex-military soldier snatches the microphone from the Priest’s hands. I groan and lower my forehead into my hands. So stupid.
The man snarls, “So you vote on our judgement? You are scared and homeless and I don’t begrudge you the efforts you take towards survival out here in California. I honor you for your hard, dusty work. But do you begrudge me? The rest of America is being decimated by these…animals. You call them Guardians. We call them mutants. Freaks! My wife and my children and my whole neighborhood were torn apart by these mutants. I do not lie to you. Search the internet and you’ll find the stories.”
The Priest makes an attempt to get the mic back, but the man dismisses him. His thick muscles bulge as he twists to look at all his accusers. “You judge us? We are officially licensed by the federal government to subdue mutants. We don’t kill them. We incarcerate them, and one day we we’ll find a cure. Our actions are legal! Let me present you with another option to vote on; release us. Like you, we’re doing our best to survive. To keep America upright. We are innocent, guilty only of following orders. Let us go, as you lawfully should.”
He tosses the mic back to the Priest, who fumbles it. I scan faces in the audience and I’m dismayed to see they appear indecisive. The Guardians are now on their feet, and there’s going to be violence.
“Okay…well,” the Priest stammers, “for the sake of democracy and fairness, I suppose, I will allow you to vote between my proposal and the suggestion presented by the guilty.”
The Guardians rage. Two of them, both males, hop onto the dirt infield from the Dodgers’ dugout roof. Law Keepers raise weapons protectively. This is a disaster.
“Enough!” I roar the word without thinking. All eyes swing my way. I Jump from row E and land halfway between first and second base, causing concentric circles of dust to spread like a shockwave. The crowd silences. I’m so mad I tremble and can barely see straight.
Through the fog of anger, I hear whispers.
The Queen is here!
- Two -
“Get back!” I shout at the two Guardians near the dugout. They obey, scrambling to stand with their comrades, away from my wrath. “Judgement will be decided by those charged with such tasks. All Guardians are ordered out of the Stadium. At once.” My voice echoes and caroms around the arena.
They are Variants, infernos of brute force, but so am I and my strength dwarfs theirs, and my anger burns so bright they can’t look directly at me
. The Guardians don’t argue; they flee like gazelles running from a tigress. I am their Alpha.
My blood is churning and it causes my body to harden. I’m frightening when furious; I see it in their averted eyes. The five guilty men flinch like they’re being struck with whips as I speak. “You are innocent? Your license gives you the right to detain the reckless and the dangerous. Not innocent and peaceful Guardians, like those we found in your custody. You’re innocent? Your prisoners bear scars of abuse and torture. You’re innocent? We found illegal weapons in your possession. And furthermore, you are not in America. You’re in the Kingdom, my Kingdom, and we no longer recognize the laws of America.”
The Priest clears his throat into the mic and says, “Carmine, my Queen, if-”
I squeeze his microphone in my fist and it bends and melts into a hot clump of useless metal. I want to Throw him from the stadium, but instead I address the Court. “You will vote on judgement and I will abide by the Court’s decision. But first, let me present an option that the Priest did not: immediate death for the Herders.”
My stomach twists and heaves at my own words, but I carry on. I grab the hair of a Herder hiding in the back and tilt his face up. “Do you recognize this one? I do. We caught him three months ago, and foolishly we released him. These are rogue Herders, outside the laws of their own country, and they prey on us. They aren’t going to stop. They’ll keep returning. They’ll keep using their awful inventions to hurt us. And if we make them work, they’ll discover means to escape.
“Our lives here are hard. We survive through blood and sweat, and we barely keep nature from consuming us. In the Kingdom, if you don’t work then you don’t eat. That’s how we live. There is no room for pity. Certainly not undeserved pity. Make no mistake. We have enemies who seek to crush us, and these men are their tools. Their forerunners.
“The Priest proposes we make them work. We sentence our own to hard labor. These men are not our own. They came uninvited into our land and began capturing and torturing us. Perhaps one day we’ll be strong and stable enough to extend mercy. Today we are not. These Herders are cruel men and repeat offenders. They are violent and proud and evil, and deserving of death.
“Vote how you will. Labor or death, and the will of the Court shall rule.”
I finish. The Court gathers to discuss. The Priest is furious but dares not show it. I usurped his power. I am not a Queen, no matter what they call me. I share power, rejecting full control, but I’m also fuming and he knows better than to test me at the moment. They’ll vote for my proposal; I am a very popular leader in New Los Angeles.
The Court returns the verdict: death. By unanimous decision. We used the death penalty twice before, both for repeat violent crimes. These are savage times. And we’re at war in a savage world. And I am SICK of these Herders sneaking into our land. My land.
Camera phones are produced. I was counting on it.
I carry out the sentence myself, immediately, before the guilty Herders can react. I Move like lightning and my fingernails are razors, and I open their jugulars. It’s messy, but simple and effective. And it’s already over.
My hands drip. I don’t hide that from the cameras. I want this seen around the globe. The message must get across…
Savage times. And I’m the scariest. And you don’t mess with my family.
The Assembly concludes. I find the nearest bathroom, a dark communal lavatory with no plumbing, lock the door, and I vomit into the dry commode. Over and over. And then I cry for the next hour, great shuddering sobs, wiping tears with red hands.
* * *
In November of 2018, there were 320 million Americans living in the United States. Today, one year later, there are 295 million. Population researchers predict in the next twelve months we will drop to 260, for a variety of reasons.
First, parents quit making babies. It’s too uncertain a world to bring a child into.
Second, due to upheaval, the time, effort, and resources required to unnaturally prolong life with modern medicine are no longer available. Natural causes are taking their toll on the population, an unexpected and ignoble end to the Baby Boomers.
Third, fifty million Americans have been displaced, fleeing from horrors, and another hundred million are voluntarily relocating, and many move to Canada.
Fourth, rampaging mutants.
Fifth and finally, America is in the midst of a civil war. The government and military broke neatly in half, aligning itself with either the federal government (still run by the President and a powerful Variant named Blue-Eyes) or the Resistance (led by a powerful group of military leaders with vast underground support). So far the skirmishes are over territory and resources, and the loss of life isn’t devastating. But that will change soon.
In summary, 2018-19 have been nightmare years for our formerly great nation. And I refuse to allow Herders make it worse for our small corner of the world.
* * *
Word spreads and a crowd gathers outside Dodgers Stadium. I don’t want to face a swarm of admirers so I slip unnoticed over the wall in left field, and I return to the towers with my hood cinched tight, dodging bicycles and the occasional truck. I’m not popular because I’m social; I’m popular because I’m effective. I move quickly and make zero eye contact. After the awful Assembly the last thing I want is to talk. A good book. That’s what I need. A book and a nap and chocolate and peace and no disease.
My day is too full to entertain luxuries, however. I need a change of clothes and a bite to eat. I gave my food to those children, so I’m starving. I sneak unnoticed through a small crowd of Workers on the patio and enter my building.
Kayla and Dalton wait for me in the dusty lobby of the 717 Olympic. Dalton is my self-appointed bodyguard. He is a huge, bald, black man, former Navy SEAL. And he hates it when I sneak out.
Kayla’s fists are on her hips and she shakes her head at me. Kayla’s virus manifested differently than mine; instead of possessing freakish strength, she is statuesque and beautiful and irrepressibly energetic, able to persuade and influence others, and she has a perfect memory. My gifts are less elegant and more brutish.
“My Queen,” she scolds, “You did it again.”
“That is not my name, Kayla.”
“Carmine. Your stunt is going viral.” She falls in step with me and I breathe her scent. The disease provides her with a pleasant fragrance, like Mother Nature giving flowers the ability to attract bees. It doesn’t matter how she dresses, men can’t help but stare. Today she wears designer jeans and a silky white scoop neck, probably once valued in the thousands.
We stop at the bank of elevators. The elevator Worker asks, “The 22nd floor, my Queen?”
I ignore him. “The world is ossifying, Kayla. How on earth can videos still go viral? I mean, I know Nuts has our cell tower plugged into the Resistance network. But…the rest of it?”
“Information is cheap. And yes please, the 22nd floor.”
The Worker speaks into a radio and we wait as his collaborators scurry in the floors above. The lift doesn’t use electricity. It relies on counter balanced weight provided by human bodies. It’s rudimentary but effective; we have plenty of manpower. His radio squawks and he says, “Ready, Miss Carmine.”
Kayla, Dalton and I board the lift and slowly rise up the dark shaft. The walls and ceiling of our elevator car were removed for efficiency purposes and soon we see the counter-balance car passing us on its way down to the lobby. Six Workers smile from inside. Kayla smiles and waves back. Her vitality is limitless. She says, “We need to issue a statement, addressing the public execution today.”
Kayla is our Minister of Communication, New LA’s ambassador to the outside world. Watching her, a spunky nineteen-year-old, negotiate with stodgy old men and women is a source of great joy for me. I say, “The execution was warranted and humane. The Herders trespassed, captured, and tortured our Guardians, and so they were eliminated and the same fate awaits future intruders. Tell the world that.”
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Dalton grunts his approval. “Damn straight.”
“Do you want to be interviewed by the New York Times? They’re asking again.”
“Newspapers still circulate?”
“Some do. On the east coast, of course.”
“No. I do not want to be interviewed by the New York Times.”
“How about Fox News?”
“No.”
“How about—”
“Noooooo. Thank you.”
Kayla lays her hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “I know the execution was hard on you, Carmine.”
“Get your hand off me or I’ll bite your finger.”
“Our Kingdom is fortunate to have a leader who shoulders the awful duties and absorbs the agony.”
“Stop it.”
“And I appreciate you.” She beams and it’s like being hit with direct sunlight.
I bite her finger and she squeaks in pain.
Cleaners are scrubbing walls and using Bissell Sweepers on the 22nd floor. Dust removal never ends because electric air filters are off and windows are open. The 22nd floor belongs to me and Kayla and Dalton and a reporter named Teresa Triplett. The 23rd and 24th floors house Overseers. General Brown and our military commanders live on the 25th, although they have secondary quarters in the barracks with their troops. The 26th floor is the War Department. The 27th and 28th floors are unusable. Kayla’s dog, a little pug named Princess, waddles out of her door and snorts.
I say, “Do me a favor. Tell the market Overseer that an old grouchy woman is harassing patrons near Dodgers stadium.”
“Yes Carmine.” Kayla immediately begins typing into her phone.
We enter my apartment. Dalton remains outside, arms crossed. Princess sits in the hallway and stares at him. My Devotee greets us with towels. My Devotee is a big, beefy man assigned to fulfill my every wish. Devotees are a residual part of the Chemist’s infrastructure, intended to free Variants from mundane responsibilities. I reject the Chemist and his ways, but having Devotees is a tremendous help. Kayla and Mason and Nuts and a few others all have Devotees. Mine wears a robe (he insists), cooks for me, keeps my clothing clean, maintains the apartment, sleeps on the floor in my bedroom, and considers it an honor to worship me. Very helpful, but also a little weird.