Floor 21- Dark Angel

by Jason Luthor

  “Perhaps, but who held onto the food sources?”

  I slip back in my chair and run my hand through my hair. “So, we get back to this again. It’s always going to come down to you having the military power and us having the food.”

  “Central Freedom has changed significantly in the past fifty years. Perhaps you think that’s a good thing.”

  “It’s become more democratic, if that’s what you’re saying.”

  “Yes. The democratization of power. After the departure of the military forces dedicated to my father, your own government, your own people, continued to change their views on how power should be held. Isn’t that why you’re president and not Nikola Dravic?”

  “I suppose it is.”

  “My point is that Central Freedom’s culture changed rapidly and not everyone wanted to be a part of that change. Perhaps it was too quick. Perhaps, one day, the people living here will be ready to accept your democracy. That day is not today.”

  “Then how do we make this alliance work?”

  His hand taps the table softly. “I won’t agree to securing your island unless it’s done my way, because it would mean the lives of my people at stake. Men, every few blocks. Military vehicles in the streets.” I’m already about to protest when he lifts his hand slightly in a request for me to be patient. “In exchange, I am willing to concede operational authority over to you. It would be as if you had full authority over them yourselves. I would act in an advisory position, at best, to you and your War Council.”

  “That would be . . . better, although I still don’t like the idea of changing the whole island into a military district. I don’t want my people feeling like they’re living under martial law.”

  “Then don’t make them feel that way. You have that power, so stop looking at this like it’s an either-or situation. Keep the military presence subtle. We can place vehicles out of the way, in side streets and garages. Troops can be dressed in plain clothes.”

  “Just with rifles strapped around their bodies.”

  “I’m not saying it’s your perfect vision for Central Freedom, but I’m not fond of giving up control over my troops, either.”

  I nod at him, but I’m still not smiling. “And what’s the exit plan? What happens when this threat is over and I want you off the streets?”

  “Mr. President, my people will want access to the Green Zone once they’ve experienced what it is to have fresh food every day instead of occasionally needing to exist on military rations. That’s a reality. Our food supplies to the north of the fort are unstable at best, and let’s be honest. The true reason that we cannot farm adequately is because there is simply no land. The Deadlands are 200 miles of city in every direction, and there’s precious little adequate farming land where we could feed every man, woman, and child living here. If we ever had a population boom in the city surrounding Fort Silence, in the areas we protect, the entire area would destabilize from lack of adequate food.”

  He sighs as he looks from one of us to the other. “To be quite honest, Fort Silence has excelled in military research because that’s what we’ve had access to. We lack the scientific minds with the right background in agriculture. A good portion of our strength is committed to securing enough food to supply the fort, leaving us in a less secure role to deal with the raiders permanently. You fancy me the tyrant, but I’m a tyrant approved of by my people. And ‘how can tyrants safely govern home, unless abroad they purchase great alliance?’ Whether I want to admit it or not, I need your help. We need official supply trains connecting us to the food stores in Central. But, I do hear your concerns. Perhaps we could shift toward a more active security role, deploying out toward the perimeter of the city, after your raider problem is solved. On the bridges, for instance, and on the borders of the Deadlands.”

  “It’s hard to make that call. I’d need to talk to both the Advisory Council and War Council about whether they’d want that sort of long-term commitment. And to be honest, any thought of having the military around all day long . . . I can’t help but feel like it’s asking for trouble.” I look aside at everyone with me. “Colonel Martin? What are your thoughts on this?”

  Martin spreads his hands and looks confused for a second. “You know my position, Mr. President. At least, what my typical position is. I’m always in favor of bulking up things for our men and women serving in the militia. I don’t think I’ve ever waivered on that.”

  “But?”

  He shakes his head. “Our militia members are as dedicated as they come. A lot of them don’t have the fighting experience the soldiers up here at Fort Silence do, but they respect the chain of command and they’ll fight to the death for each other. It helps that a lot of them are just the right kind of crazy to know what kind of risks this job requires and still volunteer to do it.”

  “Colonel, I’m waiting for the shoe to drop here. What’s the problem?”

  “The problem’s a cultural one, if I’m being honest. You’re bringing in a whole new kind of military force and asking our militia to serve alongside them. Our troops think of things the way you do. They’re fighters with a healthy respect for authority, but they’ll be edgy if they think we’re risking our democracy or way of life and trading that for security. The soldiers here, they’re used to serving under a military junta. If our people start thinking we’re slipping into that kind of dictatorship you mentioned . . .” He shrugs and shakes his head again. “There could be problems in the ranks.”

  The whole time he’s been talking, I’ve watched as Tommy’s cheeks have gotten redder and redder, and not from the drinks he had last night. He looks like he’s stewing. The guy’s veins are almost popping out of his temples. “Tommy?” I ask as I motion to him. “You’re my political advisor now. Advise, please. You look like you’ve got something to say about this.”

  He looks my way, and there’s a fire in his eyes that I rarely see out of him. “I’m trying to find ways to talk that will respect the general’s position, sir.”

  “Please. Feel free to speak.”

  Yousef nods. “Silence buys nothing. I want to hear what you have to say.”

  He swallows hard as he leans in, looking first at the general and then to me. “I grew up in a place where everything we did was monitored by the authorities. All our meals were given to us, we didn’t have a choice about what kind of work we enjoyed, and we didn’t have a lot of freedom about where we could go. That wasn’t the worst part about all of it though. The worst part was always having somebody watching over your shoulder.” He looks over at General Yousef. “I don’t know how much they told you about where I’m from and what it’s like, but we went through what you’re talking about. Our version of the military, we called it Security, and they were on every floor and watching us around the clock. If we said something the government didn’t like or did something that got them angry, we could be gone by morning. Security would just sweep in and take us. We didn’t have weapons, so we couldn’t fight back. We couldn’t run because the whole place was infested with Creep. Central Freedom might be a lot bigger than where I come from, but if somebody felt like they had to run, they still couldn’t get much farther than the bridges. Not if there was a military checkpoint there.”

  Tommy looks over to me. “You wanted my opinion? Yeah, this whole idea makes me nervous. I don’t know what things were like before I got to Central, but I know, growing up, that having the military everywhere wasn’t a good thing. Things were even worse because we never knew who was making the decisions or why people were getting arrested. That’s just a bad combination, giving the military whatever power it wants and making it impossible to understand its decisions. Then, if you even protest, you just become one more person who disappears.”

  I nod my head. “I tend to agree. Our ancient ancestors used to ask, ‘Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?’” I look over at General Yousef. “Who watches the watchers? If the military is designed to watch over us and we give them all the power, who will make
sure they don’t abuse that power?”

  The general’s eyes look down at the table as his hands fold in front of him. “As I said, I am willing to grant the decision-making power away from myself.”

  “But they’d still be your men, general. That’s what I’m scared of.”

  Tommy interrupts. “Let’s say you’re right. Let’s say that we are able to keep everything under control by sharing the power. Do you know what it’s like to grow up with someone watching over your shoulder all the time? How it feels when there’s somebody with a rifle watching your back? It doesn’t matter how much you tell a kid that everything’s okay in a situation like that. They know better. They know something’s wrong when all they see is the military standing around them. They might get used to it, but that doesn’t mean they feel alright. What we’d be inviting is constant paranoia around Central where every time you walk home, all you see are soldiers in the buildings or tanks on the street. I mean, I wasn’t even one of the people who was affected the most by that type of thing. I didn’t even care about it until I got older.” He rubs his face, looking frustrated as he looks over at Jackie. “You know this better than I do. You were the first person to complain about the way things were run. I mean, you got kidnapped yourself for doing that. Don’t you want to say something about all of this?”

  The general’s eyes sharpen on her, and honestly, the whole table looks to this young woman who can lift tanks above her head and cut through solid metal. Men like to believe strength is where the answers lie, but staring at her, I’m reminded that’s not the case. She looks at Tommy, her eyes peering through the eye slits in her helmet, before she finally looks back at the general. For a second, she opens her mouth, like she has something to say, but then she just shakes her head. “No.”

  Tommy looks, honestly, completely bewildered. “I thought if anyone was going to say something about this kind of thing . . .”

  She shoots a look back at him. “I don’t have anything to say.”

  He takes a deep breath before he leans back in his chair, looking away. I know he’s disappointed. Yousef sucks in a heavy breath and waves toward the door. “Let’s walk. Perhaps it would help if I showed you the kind of support I’m offering instead of letting it remain just an image of the mind.”

  I take a look at him. “What’s that now?”

  “So far, you’ve been asking for our military help without understanding exactly what we would bring to the table. You’ve seen how strong the raiders have grown, but you don’t truly understand how strong we are. Let’s clear that up, shall we?”

  Tommy’s Recording 22

  After Jackie didn’t back me on the issue of excessive military power, I’m okay saying that she got me upset. Still, it was pretty cool to go on a tour with the general. Especially when we reached the hangars they had to the rear of the fort.

  When we get to the first of the hangars, my mouth drops a little. We’ve got military tech at Central, obviously, but when I walk into the building and see all the vehicles they’ve got lined up in there? The general must see my reaction because he gives me this smile, like he knows what I’m thinking. “And this is only one of many vehicle bays we have in the fort,” he says as he motions to the lines of tanks and personnel transports that are parked from the front to the back of the building. “Lift tanks. Top of the line,” he says as he runs his hand along the body of one. “Old Apeiron vehicles with some slight modifications thanks to Carthaginian tech, they use repulsor technology to stay off the ground, improving their overall mobility.”

  Jackie’s staring the entire time, looking the tank over from one end to the other. “How do you know which ones were made by Apeiron and which ones were made by Carthage?”

  “Well, as far we understand, Carthage didn’t manufacture any tanks or have any shipped in. They’re too large. Too conspicuous. Whatever battle broke out between Apeiron and Carthage centuries ago, Carthage modified older existing vehicles that they, for lack of better words, ‘acquired’ during their campaign.”

  “You mean stole.”

  He smiles. “Of course I do. Carthaginian technology is just old government tech, from before Apeiron took over military operations, that was updated and repurposed. Those older vehicles aren’t up to the standards of the equipment Apeiron started producing after it was given the job of securing the city. Entire generations of military leaders from Central spent their lives securing old Apeiron technology and placing it here, at Fort Silence.”

  “I guess you found your armored personnel carriers and rocket vehicles the same way?”

  “Exactly.”

  Her eyes wander past him and toward the walls, where a single line of armored walkers is standing. “What about those? That’s not Apeiron tech. Apeiron used combat armor like what I’ve got.”

  “While that’s true, they weren’t able to mass produce it on the scale of the armored walkers, not from what we can tell. Your suit is powerful, but costly, not to mention it requires almost an artisan’s craftsmanship to produce. Yes, Apeiron preferred using fewer units of higher quality to get the job done, but they were also pragmatic about war. The walkers they produced weren’t as powerful or flexible as the suit you’re wearing, but they were strong enough to be effective and produced on a large scale. With their mobility and firepower, and their size, it was walkers that Carthage was concerned about, and they focused on shipping their own into the city. Of course, it had to be done in small quantities over a large span of time to avoid suspicion. If they couldn’t ship them in, they repurposed old government produced armor that their local supporters donated to them.”

  “And you know all of this . . . how, exactly?”

  “It’s just what we’ve pieced together from the shipping records and communications we’ve found over time. History is a precious commodity in our world.”

  “Yeah, that’s pretty much always been how it is.”

  “I should point out that the raiders have most of what Carthage shipped in. We preferred to secure the Apeiron technology for the increased durability. I hate to bring it up again, but despite our technological advantage, we don’t have the sheer numbers that the raiders or Central does. We survive by making sure our technology keeps us alive even in the worst conditions, which is why we began using remote piloted suits. We haven’t completed those upgrades though, so we still have many men and women who risk their lives stepping into their power armor to patrol the Deadlands.” He nods away, to the exit of the hangar. “But perhaps we should take a look at the aircraft we’ve found?”

  The general leads us out and away to another hangar that’s nearby. The whole time, he’s talking about Fort Silence, their daily routines, the kind of lives they lead, that sort of thing. From what he talks about, it’s like a weird, almost military cult they’ve got going on, at least inside the walls. Not so much in the surrounding city. Inside the walls, everything revolves around contributing to their military efforts. All the science research they do is to build better weapons. Everyone has to do some kind of combat training, just in case the fort ever has to go to war. Nothing he talks about has anything to do with things like art or music, stuff that wouldn’t help their military. I mean, I guess everyone’s free to do whatever they want once they step outside the fort, but everything inside is all about fighting.

  I don’t have long to get depressed about that because soon we’re walking into a second hangar, and this one . . . Well, it’s completely different from anything I’ve seen in Central. The first thing I notice are the Vertwings that are lined up. We’ve got plenty of those back home, but those aren’t what really get my attention. It’s the second row of aircraft, these long-nosed vehicles with thrusters strapped to the back, guns mounted on the sides and missiles loaded under the wings. “What . . .” I shake my head as I walk up to one. “What am I looking at?”

  General Yousef grins as he walks up beside me. “Impressed?”

  “Maybe I will be once you tell me what these are.”


  “These are Talons, aircraft fighters produced just before the Creep infestation of the city became complete. Apeiron technology,” he says, turning to look at Jackie, like he wants to prove something. “Built to exceed the speed of sound and deliver unsurpassed attack power in the air while also delivering crushing bombing capabilities.”

  I can barely breath hearing it. “That sounds . . . tough. And amazing.”

  Jackie takes a step up. “Yeah, it sounds pretty powerful. So why aren’t you using them? The raiders aren’t afraid of using Suiciders.”

  Yousef shrugs. “Suiciders don’t attract the Creep the way these vehicles do. All Apeiron technology runs on the same core power source. Of course, you know this.”

  “The energy released from Pocket Space.”

  “Correct. However, while that made for powerful weapons in battles against other humans centuries ago, it’s now become a double-edged sword.”

  “You can produce amazing war machines but using too many of them can attract the Creep.”

  “You are, as always, a sharp mind. One or two of these in the air won’t draw much attention. Any more than that, and . . .”

  She sucks in hard and nods. “You get attacked.”

  “Have you ever seen them?” he asks her, his eyes flicking up to the roof. “The flying ones.”

  “Where I’m from, we didn’t have any of those, but I have seen them.”

  “They are quite rare these days, but terrifying.” His hands motion around his stomach. “They produce an acid, in their gut, that they spit during their attacks. It dissolves straight through metal. You don’t want to see what it looks like when a pilot has been hit.”

  She looks away uncomfortably. “I . . . I guess I don’t.”

  “Besides the acid, they also project blade like darts from along their jaws. The darts are like incredibly hard bone that punches completely through the armor of our Talons. We’ve categorized many Creeper types. The light flying kind, we’ve taken to calling Rocs.”