“Trespassing.”
“Trespassing? Are you serious? Didn’t see any signs.”
“We don’t need signs. Everyone knows this is the Great Marshal’s domain.”
“Well, I guess I’m kinda new around here. Anyway, who’s the Great Marshal?”
“Great Marshal Valdus. Enough talking. Put on the manacles, or we’ll release the beast.”
Number-19 voiced a command and the dog reared up, bearing its teeth, straining the leash.
I could only push him so far, but at least he’d divulged some facts. I put on the other wrist iron and now held two tiny silver keys.
“You want the keys then?”
“Throw them here!”
“Best not—they might get lost in all this snow. Why don’t you come and get them? Here.”
He gritted his teeth, raised his rifle and fired, causing me to duck. The shot went wide, but not by much. I stood back up, trying to appear unfazed, as he loaded another single round from his pocket—not such tough opponents after all. In the time it took him to fire one inaccurate shot, I could’ve downed all three targets. And then the cavalry arrived—or the infantry, anyway—as another four white-clad riflemen came running over from Sigma Tower. It was game over. Time to play nice. I put the manacle keys together then tossed them out in front of me. Number-19 jogged forward, his rifle on me as the other four men fanned out in an arc, all pointing their barrels my way. Number-19 bent down and picked up the keys. He half-turned and waved another guy over—this one a taller man wearing a number 45. He was darker-skinned but as bearded and gaunt as the other two. He sent a nasty sneer my way, bearing his crooked, blackened teeth.
Finding a good dentist can’t be easy around here, I thought, mirroring his sneer with my twenty-first century pearly whites.
“Cover him,” said Number-19, before edging gingerly toward my 9mm.
He lunged the last half yard and struggled to get it free, the front sight catching on the holster. I chuckled but kept my hands out front. He stepped back with the 9mm, eyeing it intensely.
“Nice gun,” he said as if he really meant it.
“Yeah. You might wanna put the safety on.”
“This one?”
“Yeah.”
It clicked on and he pocketed the 9mm.
“Cover him,” he repeated, nervously.
In my Arctic gear, and standing a good head height above the tallest of them, I must’ve looked intimidating. As Number-19 patted me down from the legs up, I wondered what the punishment was for trespassing. Not that severe—or at least, it wasn’t back when L.A. wasn’t run by a bunch of scrawny runts with homemade rifles. He found the survival knife and the .45 cal as expected. For these guys, it was probably like an alien first contact. For all they knew, I was an alien beneath my ski mask and goggles.
Maybe it’ll calm these jerks down if I take off the mask, I thought.
“Hey, mind if I take off the mask?”
“Yes, take it off … But stay where you are!”
“Sure, whatever you say, hotshot.”
And I slid off the mask and goggles.
Number-19 came and gestured to give them to him.
“I’d like to keep those.”
“No,” said Number-19.
So I threw them on the floor. He darted down to get them.
“Come with us,” he said.
And they led me toward Sigma Tower, still belching out thick brown smoke.
The giant letters near the top had rusted all over. It now read S gma T, with the T hanging at an angle by one corner. Along with broken and missing windows, rusty panels—once gleaming stainless steel—created a patchwork of dereliction. As I looked higher, less of the outer skin had survived, revealing crumbling concrete floors with their rusty rebar lattices poking out.
Closer still, and behind the missing windows and panels, men in dirty white coveralls stood watching their comrades lead me toward the entrance. A heavy machine gun, its operator low and unseen, tracked me from a floor above. The entrance was nothing more than a gap in the otherwise walled-off ground floor. Either side, a few of the original windows had been boarded up to maintain integrity. Sandbag-protected heavy machine gun emplacements sat just inside of the entrance, one on each side. Two men manned each gun and looked on wide-eyed at the strangely dressed outlander
“Where we going?” I asked.
“Inside,” said Number-19.
“That’s helpful, thanks.”
We passed the gun emplacements and went inside the dim space that was once a sky-high office block. It smelled of damp with concrete walls that had seen better days. All the fittings, carpet, and ceiling that had once made this a modern, bright area were gone, no doubt scavenged long ago. The cold, uninviting space was empty, save for a handful of riflemen skulking in the shadows. In the center of the large round space was the central core and the elevator bank with four doorless entrances, just like in the Hertford Building.
“Where we going?” I repeated.
“Down,” said Number-19 as he and his posse led me to the far right aperture.
The left-most two were empty, except for the cables. Inexplicably, they ran not in the center of the elevator shaft, but at the front. The second-from-right shaft contained a large bore pipe in the back right corner and some smaller pipes and electrical cables climbing the opposite one. Between them ran a ladder. I guessed safety wasn’t high on the Department of Labor’s agenda anymore. The thick pipe must have been the flue, pumping out its noxious-looking fumes above.
“Glad we’re not taking the ladder,” I said, grinning.
“Elevator,” said Number-19, pointing to the rusted platform inside the right-hand shaft.
“Sure that thing’s safe?”
He walked in, so I followed with Number-45 behind. The guy with the dog had disappeared around the back where I’d heard them both climb the echoey stairwell.
A tubular steel frame made the elevator platform into a cube, open on four of the sides—front, top, left and right. Across the back face ran an axle with a car wheel—complete with tire—at either end, keeping the platform off the back wall. Number-19 pulled the lever, releasing the simple brake pads on the tires. I grasped the frame with my manacled hands as the platform began accelerating down the dark shaft, a meager filament bulb on the frame the only source of light. The freezing air rushed past and I saw Number-19 counting as the floors rushed past, his hand occasionally pushing the lever to slow us down. Some of the floors were lit, others barely so. I saw people, too. Even though detail was hard to gather at that speed, none of the levels looked very inviting. After maybe a dozen floors, I started to feel something strange as gravity no longer acted straight down. Now the back wall wheels and the front-running cables made sense—the elevator shaft was not vertical, but grew in inclination with every floor we descended, like a kind of banana shape. I counted sixty floors when Number-13 started applying the brake continuously, slowing us with its high-pitched buzz reducing in pitch with every floor. The platform now sloped toward the back wall, putting more force on the tires and more on my arms holding me upright. Sixty-nine floors now which, based on the Hertford’s sixty-eighth floor being at ground level, put us close to the bottom of the Sigma Tower. The smell of vaporizing rubber filled the air as we halted a foot below the intended floor.
“We’re here,” said Number-45, prodding me with his rifle.
“You prod me like that again and I’ll wrap that thing around your neck,” I said, glaring down at him.
He looked away, so I decided exit without flooring him.
The small drab area wasn’t the grand, if decayed, lobby I had imagined. The place looked more like a shantytown, with a low ceiling and bare concrete floor. There was a long straight corridor ahead and one going both left and right. All were narrow and flanked by makeshift walls made from a mish-mash of ply, drywall, tarps and old office partitions. There were doorways, covered with simple, tattered curtains on the left and right ev
ery thirty feet or so. The only source of light was the mixture of bulbs hanging from the plywood ceiling. Irregularly spaced and on different lengths of cable, variously colored LED and filament bulbs made up their number. An old man with an unkempt gray beard appeared from the left-hand corridor carrying a bucket of water. His clothes were torn and tattered, and as filthy as his skin. He cast his eyes down on seeing us and said nothing. He shuffled past and along the corridor in front, disappearing into one of the entrances.
“Come on, this way,” said Number-19, with his rotten-toothed friend bring up the rear.
As I passed the curtained doorways, I heard low voices from inside. The place felt damp and joyless. My breath still produced a tenuous mist with every exhalation. It was cold, but nothing like on the surface. A few doorways later, a starved-looking young man in rags went to exit, but quickly retreated in fear when he saw us.
Was it the goons or me? I wondered.
After two hundred feet, the dreary shantytown gave way to a tunnel twice as wide and tall, bored straight through the ice. We followed it downhill and to a three-way junction, taking a left. A forlorn-looking mother carrying a small child came the other way and looked down when she saw us, standing aside to let us past. Number-19 looked her up and down in disgust, grunted then continued.
“What is this place?” I said.
“The Great Marshal’s city,” said Number-19.
“Doesn’t look too great to me.”
He said nothing.
“How many people live down here?”
“That’s secret knowledge, Outlander.”
“O-kay... How do you people feed yourselves then? Or is that secret knowledge too?”
“From mined food and grown food.”
“Wait, what do you mean, mined food?”
“Food from the ancient world found at one of the mine faces.”
“So what, you dig through the ice scavenging canned food and stuff.”
“Yes.”
“How do you grow food?”
Number-19 turned around and pointed his rifle at me.
“Are you a spy, Outlander?”
I chuckled. “No, I’m not a spy ... Why would a spy want to find out about food?”
“Because alongside fuel, food is a scarce strategic resource.”
I thought of the enormous amounts of it orbiting overhead on the Juno Ark.
Maybe Reichs is sane and I’m the mad one, coming down here.
“Not where I came from—we had the opposite problem—too much food.”
He gave me a strange look, as though I was crazy, and we started walking again. We passed ice tunnels left and right and carried on downhill until it leveled off. Here the ice floor disappeared, replaced instead by the asphalt of twenty-first century L.A. Onward we went past turnings, which led to centuries-old street-level buildings. Most were unrecognizable, but I could see some used to be shops, restaurants or office entrances. It was an icy warren of tunnels that combined, would’ve added up to some serious distance. And every person I saw looked unbelievably poor and thin, some of them emaciated.
Unexpectedly, Number-19 said, “We grow food in the hydroponics levels.”
“How do you power the bulbs and heat this place? Is that what the smoke’s about?”
“There is a lignite power plant under the Sigma Tower.”
“Lignite as in brown coal?”
“Yes.”
“And where’s that come from?”
I was pretty sure there were no lignite mines around L.A.
“From southern traders. Okay, we’re nearly there. When you meet the Great Marshal, you must bow and speak only when spoken to.”
“Yeah, right. Who is this Great Marshal Valdus anyway?”
He stopped again, gritting his teeth all stressed and up tight.
“Great Marshal Valdus is our ruler, to be feared and revered and obeyed. His appointment by God is unquestioned. You would do well to remember this, Outlander!”
“So much for land of the free ...”
“What does that mean?”
“You ever heard of the United States of America? They teach you that in history classes?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now enough of your challenging patter, the Great Marshal is expecting us. We must not arrive late.”
A few minutes later, we arrived and my jaw dropped when I realized where it was—the lobby of the Harpers-Pacific Hotel where I’d met Juliet half a millennium before. I forced my escorts to stop, feasting my wide eyes on the high-ceilinged space. The ancient chandeliers remained, complete with a hodgepodge of lighting bulbs sending out adequate, but uninspiring light. To the right, the wall behind the reception desk bore a serious structural fault line, which ran diagonally from floor to ceiling. The reception desk remained, decayed and battered. Behind them stood seven armed men wearing dirty blue coveralls each with a number on the chest.
“You’re cleared to enter, Number-19,” called one of them.
To my left, a brick wall covered the old elevator bank, its covering of cream-colored paint patchy and cracked. My mind spanned the five hundred years to the moment I saw Juliet step out of the shiny elevator, her warm smile, her sparkling eyes full of hope and possibility.
How far the human race has fallen, I lamented.
They led me through to a large room that still had the brass plaque saying, Grand Ballroom. Inside, the once lush pile was threadbare in most places. Guards in blue numbered coveralls stood watch in each of the corners. The only windows were the four tall opposite where I stood—all covered with Roman blinds. Enormous portraits of a series of bearded men wearing a crown adorned the walls. The quality of the art wasn’t that great, but it was good enough to tell they were related. The stern faces glared down at me with superiority, as if interrogating my soul. More than a dozen electric heaters plugged into the wall sockets noisily pumped out hot air making this the warmest place I’d been since the lifepod. At the front, to my right, stood a raised wooden stage and a four-poster daybed complete with sheer drapes pulled tied to the wooden posts. A poor-looking guy fussed around, straightening the pillows and sheets. In front of it, sat a high-backed throne flanked by three smaller chairs either side, all facing the room. A table beside the bed overflowed with a cornucopia of food, from bread to fruit to what looked like chocolate. The rest of the room held a long banquet table near the back, which held a selection of decanters with different colored liquids inside—alcoholic, I guessed—and an assortment of glasses. They led me to stand in front of the stage, still wearing the manacles. If I’d wanted to, they would’ve been easy to bust out of, but despite their tough talk, they hadn’t upset me too badly so far.
Then I heard a booming voice from behind the doors to the left of the stage.
“Open!”
That must be the so-called Great Marshal, I thought.
I almost expected some kind of trumpeted fanfare, but none came. Instead, the doors opened and out walked the man in one of the portraits—tall with a dark close-cropped beard and dark hair, maybe forty-something and in a lot better shape than his peasants. There was no crown, but his loose-fitting slacks and shirt, although cream-colored, looked perfectly clean if a little crumpled. And was this guy into his jewelry or what? With a so many pieces around his neck, it was surprising he could stand up straight. Behind him trailed four young women as naked as the day they were born.
What’s a Great Marshal without a harem? I thought.
It explained the heaters, anyway and reminded me how damned hot I was getting in my Arctic gear.
Then came some more blue, numbered guards and a large group of other men—all clean and healthy-looking compared to the ones I’d seen outside.
Valdus caught site of me and walked to his throne maintaining an unbroken stare, which I matched
He may be their Great Marshal, but he’s not mine.
He sat as the six men of the group took place by their chairs, three either side. The rest of t
he men and guards stood behind my escorts and me. Valdus clicked his fingers and everyone in the room simultaneously got down on one knee and bowed. Everyone except for me. They stayed there as Valdus glowered at me saying nothing, before clicking his fingers once more signaling for them to rise.
“You are challenging my authority, Outlander?”
“If that’s how you wanna take it, then sure. But if you don’t wanna take it that way... Well, that’s fine too,” I said with a toothy smile, which he returned.
“You speak with a strange accent, Outlander. From where do you hail?”
“From here, Los Angeles, but not from this time.”
He roared with laughter, causing his retinue to do the same.
“So you’re a time traveler are you, Outlander?”
“In a way, yes,” I said and went on to explain the Juno mission and what happened.
To his credit, he listened intently, at times smiling as if he thought it all a big joke.
“So right now the ship is in low Earth orbit.”
“I know God’s Kingdom is sometimes called Earth by outlanders, but what is this orbit? Is this a place?”
He’d obviously understood nothing I’d told him about space and the Juno Ark.
I sighed and went about explaining it.
“Orbit means the ship is circling above the planet in space, once every ninety minutes. You know the Earth’s a ball, right?”
“Enough!” he shouted as the calm, almost jovial face of Valdus, changed into an angry glare. “All lies. You, Outlander, are a clever trickster trying to infiltrate my domain. God has spoken to me and told me this. I was nearly willing to believe you and overlook your disrespect and your crimes.”
We were getting on so well, but his mask had taken only ten minutes to slip.
I said nothing.
With a guy like this, whatever I said wouldn’t help. He was in a rage and used to getting his way from what I’d seen. None of his beautiful sex slaves would’ve given this asshole the time of day back in 2070.
He stood and said, angrily, “I’ll show you what we do to criminals here.”
Pointing to the Roman blinds covering the long, tall windows, he ordered, “Open them!”
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