Ruined Cities

by James Tallett (ed)

  The narco boss wiped his chin with a flimsy paper napkin. “Not hungry, boys? Don’t know what you’re missing. Best tacos al pastor in the city.” The man squinted as he peered into the distance beyond the square; a look of recognition flashed across his face.

  “Here they come,” he said. “Get that tarp up, will you?” The bodyguards quickly erected a portable canopy to cover the narco boss and the boys. The man winked at Diego and said, “Better safe than sorry. Never know when a drone might show up and try to take our pictures, right?”

  Diego’s pulse quickened as he watched an armored personnel carrier roll toward the square. Four state police accompanied the vehicle on foot, one pair on each side. Four cops visible, six or more inside the carrier. If they hit the square in four groups from four directions (and the new code counted on them doing exactly that), that would be at least forty state cops versus four bots. His heart sank; he hadn’t counted on there being so many police.

  As the police unit approached, the bots detected the vehicles. In unison they clamped their dispenser baskets shut and converged in the center of the square, arranging themselves back to back, one facing each direction.

  El Carnicero gasped. “What are they doing? They’re sitting there out in the open.”

  Diego took a deep breath. “That’s what they’re supposed to do,” he said. The personnel carrier emerged from a side street and rolled to a stop a few meters inside the square. Diego looked around and saw three other police units enter the area. Four groups from four directions.

  Police poured out of the personnel carriers and formed a wide ring around the four yellow bots. Diego counted nearly fifty police in total. Fifty, he thought, shaking his head. Not good.

  Someone shouted an order and the police lowered their helmet visors and raised their riot shields. Slowly they moved forward, tightening the circle around the motionless yellow bots. As one of the police raised a bot taser and took aim, the narco boss leaped out of his chair, knocking it backwards. “What the hell is this?! Are they just going to sit there like pinche statues? Get them out of there!”

  El Carnicero turned to Diego and snarled. “I lose even one of those fucking bots and it’s not going to be your finger I cut off, boy.”

  “Hey, look,” said the larger bodyguard, pointing downward.

  Diego watched the bots raise the small cylinders he’d installed. There was a short low hiss followed by a several loud cracks as the grenades shot out, quickly filling the perimeter of the square with dark green smoke. In seconds the ring of police and their vehicles were totally immersed in the thick cloud. One of the bodyguards on the rooftop laughed as the sounds of confused shouts and panicky orders filled the square. The police were blind.

  The narco boss grunted. “Very clever, my boy. But they’ll be switching to infrared in about ten seconds. What then?”

  Diego didn’t move his gaze from the square as he answered. “They never pack those for daytime raids.” Every kid in El Cuatro knew the state police only brought their see-in-the-dark helmets at nighttime.

  “And what if this had been a night raid?”

  “I would have written different code.”

  Step one worked to plan, but Diego knew the smokescreen had been the easy part. The bots were still surrounded and the smoke had already started to dissipate. They didn’t have much time. Diego’s neck muscles tensed as the bots raised their other add-ons, the larger canisters, and pointed them into the smoky green cloud.

  “What are those things?” El Carnicero asked, squinting.

  Diego plugged his ears with his fingers, turned to the narco boss and said, “You might want to cover your ears, sir.”

  The four explosions were deafening. The bodyguards sprang into action and yanked the narco boss away from the edge of the building. Pedro dove out of his chair and hit the deck in a panic. Even Diego, who’d known what was coming, instinctively cowered from the violent noise.

  Diego stepped back to the building’s edge and peered down into the square. Where there had been shouts of confusion a few moments earlier, there were now howls of pain and terror. The narco boss gingerly joined him at the edge of the building and looked down, stupefied. “Dios mio, my boy. Did you kill them?”

  “No, but they’re definitely having a bad day. I filled the canisters with small balls of hard rubber, the kind they use on protesters. They hurt like crazy, maybe even knock you out, but they can’t kill you.”

  The center of the square was hazy but smoke-free enough for Diego to watch the bots as they broke formation and started scanning in all directions for an exit. Trickiest part comes now, he thought. Come on, come on, find a way out of there, you little yellow bastards.

  El Carnicero laughed. “Now I see. The bots can see through the smoke and the cops can’t, so they find a way out while the cops roll around in the dark crying like babies. Not bad, my boy.”

  Diego anxiously watched the bots as they wandered around in what looked like confusion, repeating the same circular search patterns over and over. Jesus, he thought, they can’t find a way out. He gasped as one of the police, limping and apparently blinded, unknowingly staggered within an arm’s length of one of the bots. The smoke thinned more and Diego knew in a matter of seconds the bots would be spotted, and with their one-shot weapons depleted they’d easily be tazed and taken away.

  The four bots suddenly stopped their search pattern and lined up in a neat single file. Quickly and quietly they snaked around the debris and disappeared into the smoke at the far side of the square. Diego held his breath until he saw all four appear in a narrow side alley, untouched and unnoticed. A minute later they arrived at the meet up spot three blocks south, where Fernando the mechanic herded them into a cargo van and hauled them back to the warehouse.

  From his high vantage point Diego watched as the van disappeared around a corner. He then collapsed into a folding chair, exhausted.

  ***

  Four weeks later Diego woke earlier than usual; he had seven upgrades El Carnicero wanted done by noon. He turned on the coffeemaker and looked out the kitchen window down to the shop floor where his robot backlog waited for him. After Juarez Square the narco boss gifted Diego the spacious apartment above the workshop and a thick roll of cash. It was more money than Lorenzo earned in four months of robot repair work.

  Word quickly spread around town about what happened at Juarez Square. Diego had become an instant celebrity, the fifteen-year-old robot genius from El Cuatro who’d made fools of the governor’s troops. Overnight he’d earned street cred, money, and his own place — all the things he thought he’d wanted.

  Diego poured himself a coffee and thought about Lorenzo. By now his brother had surely heard about Juarez Square. Diego wanted to let him know he was okay, that everything was fine, but he couldn’t. A dozen armed guards had the shop on lockdown around the clock; Diego didn’t even have access to a phone.

  He’d done his job too well at Juarez Square; he’d made himself a valuable asset the narco boss didn’t want to lose anytime soon. Diego knew eventually the security would ease up as he won over El Carnicero’s trust. And once the narco boss’s grip loosened a bit he’d find Lorenzo and explain everything, explain that he hadn’t had a choice.

  A sudden, rapid knocking on the door startled him. He opened up and found a grimfaced Pedro with a couple bodyguards. Pedro held a pair of binoculars and Diego noticed the re-attached finger, still bandaged and healing. The older boy handed over the binoculars and said, “You’ve got to come see this.”

  With the bodyguards following close behind, the boys hurried up the stairs of an abandoned ten-story building a block down from warehouse. “What is it? Tell me,” Diego called out as he turned to run up the next flight.

  “You won’t believe it until you see it,” Pedro answered.

  The boys reached the roof and Pedro led him to the far corner and pointed down to a weed-filled parking lot.

  It looked like a war zone. The charred remains of six, m
aybe seven, narcobots were scattered everywhere, some still smoldering. Diego wrinkled his nose at the acrid stench of the bots’ melting plastic shells. Then he noticed a strange robot moving through the wreckage, unlike anything he’d ever seen. His mouth dropped open when he saw the state police seal on the bot’s side panel.

  Sturdy, well-armored, and loaded with weapons, the robot was something out of a nightmare. Diego couldn’t believe what he was seeing. This was all wrong. Everybody knew the police only used bots on bomb squads; for everything else they used people, who were much cheaper and easier to replace. And this was no bomb squad bot, this was some kind of monster, a killing machine.

  “Puta madre,” Diego said. “Where’d they get that thing?”

  Pedro pointed in another direction. “Over there. Look right over there.”

  Diego peered through the binoculars. A couple blocks away from the parking lot he saw a group of state police milling about, smiling and laughing and gesturing toward the destruction. In the middle of the crowd stood Lorenzo, accepting congratulatory handshakes from all sides, dressed in a police uniform.

  I won’t have you use what I taught you to help a narco.

  Diego lowered the binoculars, knowing he’d never again sit at his brother’s breakfast table.

  A HERO’S ONLY REQUEST

  by

  DANIEL KASON

  As we wait for the water to boil, my mother regales me with tales of the old world.

  “Such monstrous technologies they created. As if there was no limit. As if the world was something to be conquered.”

  I have heard my mother’s stories a hundred times, but it reassures me that she has the strength left to tell them. My mother is sick, you see, and these stories may be the only thing tethering her to life, to me.

  “But all of that ended,” she continues. “The world changed, and everyone was destroyed in a great fire, leaving us to sweep away the ashes.”

  I hear a high-pitched whistle, but as I get up to check the water, my mother grabs my wrist.

  “No, let me. It’s my tea, after all.”

  But I won’t allow it. “You have to save your strength.” And she nods, laying back in bed, even if she doesn’t like it.

  “Keep going,” I say, wanting to keep her spirits high. “There’s more to the story, isn’t there?”

  And as I prepare her tea, my mother goes on, automatically reciting the words I have heard a hundred times: “We were reaching too far. We thought too much of ourselves and put our trust in the wrong laws. That is why the world was destroyed. That is why technology failed us in the end.” I stir her tea, waiting for it to cool. “And now that the world has paid the price, the rest of us can move on.”

  I hand my mother the tea, and she blows the steam away before taking a sip.

  “What about the wizards?” I ask.

  “I was just getting to them,” she responds, and gives me a weak smile. “Those men call themselves wizards, but even they admit they know nothing of magic. They come suited in scraps of armor salvaged from the old days, riding hover cars and carrying ray guns and other forbidden items of the past. For days, they lay siege to Ilion, terrorizing the city and reminding us why we hate them so much. These wizards care nothing for the people. They worship technology and the demons who brought about the destruction of the past. They wish to rebuild a society that has collapsed under the weight of its vanity.”

  “And the heroes?” I say eagerly, for this is my favorite part of the story.

  She holds up a finger, inviting me to have patience as she takes a long gulp of tea.

  Then, “Ah, the heroes. No one has seen them before.”

  “But we’ve heard stories,” I answer. “About how they’ve come to replace the weapons of the past, how they rely on something else, something new.”

  “That’s right,” my mother says, and I can tell she takes great pleasure in this moment. “When the wizards strike, the heroes face them, wielding magic swords, weaving complicated spells, throwing off the wizards with fire and lightning. These heroes, who come from nowhere and leave to nowhere, ask only that we carry their names to all corners of the world, for in this way they can live forever.”

  I have been waiting for a hero to visit Ilion for a long time. I wish desperately to meet one, to see his shining armor and glorious sword. And now that my mother is sick, my desperation has reached a new level.

  “You should go,” she says after a long pause. “You’ll be late for work.”

  “You’ll be okay by yourself? You won’t need anything?”

  She waves me off. “I’ll be fine. I just need some sleep, that’s all. Go on.”

  I nod, but even as I take my things and leave, my mother’s story remains fixed in my mind. The heroes, who represent something greater than science, something more powerful than humanity itself.

  Magic.

  And I begin to wonder, as I head to the factory, that maybe my mother’s life can be saved after all. According to the stories, magic can do almost anything. Surely, then, if by some miracle I can find a hero, it would trouble him not at all to heal my dying mother. She has a chance.

  ***

  We talk about the heroes sometimes at the factory, a place, contrary to the factories of the previous age, where things are unmade and objects are undone. This is true progress, we are told.

  Every day, hordes of machines and artifacts from ages past are brought to the factory, and one by one, we destroy them. In a single shift, depending on their size and material, I destroy about a hundred artifacts. Now that my mother is sick, I have to work longer hours to maintain our household.

  “What do you suppose this is?” Arthur says before striking the object.

  “It’s a microwave,” I answer. “It was used to heat things and cook food.”

  Arthur shrugs and smashes the microwave with his hammer. The box collapses into broken bits of glass and metal. He pushes the remains down the shaft and reaches for another object.

  “Cooks food, you say? Doesn’t seem so dangerous to me.”

  Arthur doesn’t doubt my knowledge. He knows I am well-read on the artifacts of the past. However, without fail, he always questions me.

  “It doesn’t have to be dangerous,” I say. “Not in itself. It’s what the object represents that is the true danger. That is why we must destroy it.”

  Arthur swings his hammer and shatters another artifact. This time I do not see what it was. Only pieces of glass and plastic remain.

  “I’m just saying,” he continues, “if all this thing does is heat my food, I don’t see anything wrong with it.”

  Arthur doesn’t understand. He hasn’t heard the stories, as I have. He hasn’t seen the wizards with his own eyes.

  By chance, I witnessed an attack only a year ago. I was in the upper part of town, on my way to the market, when I heard the wailing. Everyone else was running away from the wall, but I was curious. Climbing the ladder, I remembered all of the ancient stories my mother told me. Buildings so tall that they scraped the sky. Vehicles that rocketed beyond our world and entered another place entirely. Machines that annihilated whole cities with the press of a button.

  I looked down from the wall and saw three men, suited in shiny silver armor and round glass helmets. They walked slowly, as if each step were a monumental challenge. The wizards carried hefty weapons that took two hands to hold, each equipped with a long barrel, a scope, and a trigger. Their boots, as I came to realize, could produce brief spurts of fire, lifting them off the ground. And their belts secured a host of gadgets I would soon witness for myself.

  “My name is Fermi!” one of them shouted. I’d heard that wizards often assumed the names of famous figures from the old world. The other wizards, Bohr and Teller, announced themselves as well. “We have come to take your city!” Fermi continued. “With it, we can reclaim what we have lost! We can rebuild our world anew!” He was mimicking the speech of the old wizards. Not the worshippers of technology, but the ancient
wizards from the legends, from the storybooks. The ones who truly did wield magic and protect the innocent.

  Soldiers lined up along the wall, but they carried only bows and arrows. They were so concerned with the wizards below that they did not demand I leave. And I was so dumbstruck with fear, and truthfully so curious, that I remained.

  Finally, the wizards were within range. Arrows rained down, but most were off-target or simply bounced off their armor. Fermi pointed his ray gun almost directly at me. I ducked, anticipating an onslaught of raw energy.

  Nothing happened.

  The wizard appeared very pensive, and a little frustrated, as he pressed buttons and flicked switches along the weapon’s length. He pumped the gun’s handle, presumably to charge it. Then, after this long delay in which I had not moved an inch, Fermi once again pulled the trigger.

  I took cover. There was a zap, as if the air itself had electrified, and a piece of the wall exploded into dust and rubble.

  A swarm of soldiers were running towards the three wizards now, waving their petty swords and screaming their empty threats. Teller hurled a ball, which I soon realized was a grenade. It exploded, killing three soldiers. Bohr pressed a series of glowing buttons on his chest. The bottom of his boots ignited, and he rose into the sky, up towards the wall. I feared for what would happen next, when a thrown sword collided with the wizard’s boot, sending Bohr out of control. The eruption of fire died in a series of spurts, and the wizard dropped to the earth, where he did not rise again.

  The others continued their rampage, dispatching all of their strange technologies. Rods of electricity sent soldiers writhing and twitching to the ground. Tiny metallic spiders crawled in swarms and detonated themselves. I didn’t think it would ever end. Many men were killed that day, and whether out of bravery or cowardice, I watched it all and did nothing.