by Brad C Scott
Owing to Monroe’s warning, I’ve taken point on the approach to Red Line Station, the rest of the squad following behind. Monroe wouldn’t elaborate, even after I implied some rather hurtful things about his character – all true, of course – but the regret in his eyes said plenty. He wanted to say more but wouldn’t, meaning he’s providing cover for someone higher up the food chain than he is, someone he respects. The air up there is pretty thin, so he went out on a limb just to give me a glimpse. Probably thinks it makes us even.
“Still dwelling on the plaza?” asks Worthy.
“No, thinking ahead.”
Death threats are nothing new – no shortage of those over the years from the criminals I’ve reckoned – but inclusion on a government kill sheet? Who among the powerful have I pissed off enough for that? I’ve no shortage of enemies back in DC – Enforcement would love my balls on a platter – but no one pops out as likely to send an assassin. Let alone two – someone did send Brady, after all. So it’s not about payback for the plaza, then. And it’s not John – he’d never resort to knives in the dark. So who? And why now? That’s what concerns me most, the timing – why target me in the middle of such a major op?
“Expecting trouble?” Worthy doesn’t miss much, present brooding included.
“Wish I knew.”
A long pause, the feel of his eyes on me. “Just whose funeral are we marching toward?”
Whose? The devil puts his hands on the crank, spinning: what if it’s not mine? What if Monroe’s warning has to do with the other attacks on reclaimer squads? Jace believed that the violence was coordinated somehow. Does Monroe know by whom? Are we walking into something? Glancing over at Worthy, I stumble over a crosstie and almost go down.
“Redeemer?” he prompts, hand grabbing my arm to steady me.
“Thanks.” I’m about to spill it, but the look in his eyes shuts me up. He’ll think I’m being paranoid again. And he’d be right.
The tunnel straightens out as we see flickering light and color on the walls in the straightaway ahead. Graffiti? No, more than that.
“Would you look at that,” says Worthy.
Color graces rather than defaces the curving walls ahead, a vivid mural sanctifying a fifty-foot length down one side. No typical street art, this, but a masterpiece of the genre. Shrines of upended boxes adorned with sputtering candles, dried flowers, and snapshots of people line the stones and rail ties before it.
Our pace slows as we inspect the timeline of tragedy the memorial conveys. The opening panel is day zero: a disintegrating cityscape of leaning black skyscrapers, white light filling the gaps, a mushroom cloud towering above. The mural transitions to scenes of violent desperation, the small figures of day zero survivors fleeing from fiery, rubble-strewn streets into the tunnels of the undercity. Some enter rectangles of light into subterranean bunkers and safety. Others congregate in refugee towns cobbled together in metro stations hundreds of feet underground. The mural shows one such community, hunched shapes gathered together in the gloom, orange fire and lantern light bathing their ramshackle structures on the tracks and platforms: survivors, sheltering until the surface was made safe again. The final panel is similar but lacking in two things: light and life. End of the line, no worse fate available.
“Beautiful work, horrible subject,” says Worthy beside me, both of us stopped to stare.
In the days following the nuclear strikes, tens of thousands fled underground to escape the ionizing radiation. And not just in LA – it was the same story in the other stricken cities. Many had already absorbed lethal doses, though, the walking dead of the fallout exodus. Some made it, sure, but more died underground, succumbing to radiation sickness in the dark and silent stations. Some of the remains are still there, laid out in rows by the survivors, untouched by the retrieval teams. I’ve seen them while on patrol duty in the undercities. Felt them. The ghosts run thick in those places, those lightless sepulchers. How else to explain how hard it is to breathe or stay warm there, even in a hard suit? Armor doesn’t help against the dead.
I flinch at Worthy’s hand on my shoulder. The look he gives me brooks no compromise. As my chief, he can relieve me of command. A bluff, of course. God knows, I’m mad enough, but he’d march into hell at my side anyway, the dumb bastard. Signaling to the squad to hold position, now eyeballing the mural as we were, I allow Worthy to draw me away from them.
“Are you going to tell me what’s eating you?” he asks.
“Something Monroe said. He thinks I’m a target. Or we are.”
“That was fast.”
I shake my head. “Not for the plaza. And not from him. I don’t think from him.”
“You always did have a way with people. Did you say we?”
“Could be.”
Worthy gives me that look. “So why warn you? He’s not the sentimental type.”
“You’d be surprised.”
“Bullshit. He’s a numbers man. We’re the numbers.”
“He takes things personal enough.”
“Numbers. That’s all we are to him. He’s a Gods-forsaken politico, Malcolm.”
“Not until next year.” A cabinet position in the Maxwell Administration, some sort of liaison with DSS. I try hard not to pay too close attention to the politics.
Hearing a lift fan’s increasing whir, I glance over as Patton hovers up to us, extending his struts to set down over the tracks. “What were his exact words, Redeemer?” he asks.
“Eavesdrop much?” I scold.
“Disabling my audio receptors in a combat theater would be a violation of protocol.”
“Don’t get yourself killed, Malcolm. But it’s more the way he said it. I got the impression it was a warning about something specific.”
Worthy raises an eyebrow at his deranged boss. “Well, he would know, wouldn’t he? He has access to all the kill sheets. Probably throws it back with the black baggers.”
“He doesn’t drink.”
“And you trust a man who doesn’t?”
“I didn’t say I trust him. But I think the warning was genuine. Best guess, Monroe knows who’s behind the attacks on our patrols and thinks we might be targeted next.”
Worthy gives me a long look, assessing. My sanity, I imagine.
“Your analysis has merit,” says Patton. “Assuming First Sentinel Monroe was genuine in providing notice of a potentially life-threatening incident, it is reasonable to assume that his warning was not confined to you alone, Redeemer.”
“We’d better be ready, then,” says Worthy. “Orders?”
He thinks I’m jumping at shadows. “You disagree?”
“If Monroe knows something about the attacks on our people, he’s complicit and can’t be trusted. He can’t be trusted, period. He’ll stack us right on the pile with the rest. You know what he’s capable of. What I think? He was yanking your chain. You’re an easy mark.”
“Thanks. But what if he wasn’t?”
“If he wasn’t… I wouldn’t put it past Enforcement to use false flag tactics here in LA, they’ve done it before. Innocents and people like us who look after them get caught in the crossfire when it happens. Nothing we can do but be ready.”
“You ever tire of being right?” I ask.
“The day I guess wrong? You know what happens.”
“You’re a ray of sunshine today. Sleeping in the garage again?”
He shows me his teeth. “Just taking a cue from you.”
“That’s a mistake.”
“By the way, the ID models the healers are using? Classified.”
“Classified,” I agree. “Of course.”
“Everyone I spoke to gave me the same line. Seems they’re in the dark like us.”
“Any pushback?”
“The healer in charge seemed put out. Wasn’t open about her frustration with the enforcers standing about, but I could tell. Screams cover-up, you ask me.”
“But covering what?” I hold up a hand. “Later. Let’s move.�
�
We move out, but that feeling of approaching hell doesn’t lift. The unease in my mind, in my gut, it won’t back down. Orders be damned, if this mission weren’t so critical, with God knows how many lives on the line, I’d turn us around.
◊ ◊ ◊
A pair of enforcers stand silhouetted at the tunnel entrance, looking our way. One raises a hand to knock on his helmet – comms are down. My suit’s sensors confirm heavy distortion ahead, enough to render our tactical displays almost useless. That jibes: Monroe’s intel indicated heavy scrambling in effect near City Hall.
I stop and gesture. “Patton, check it out.”
“Affirmative, Redeemer.” He swoops past with our tactical drone in tow.
His sensors, superior to a hard suit’s, can defeat most signal scrambling regimes. Once in the station, he should be able to get a read on bodies and any advanced tech in the area. Soon enough, we get his tactical data on our visors’ displays, distorted but still usable.
“Interesting,” says Worthy.
There’s plenty of company in the station ahead, three squads – one of enforcers, two of unknowns – a total of twenty-five units. The unknowns wear hard suits and carry advanced tech of their own. The local constabulary force? A delegation from the city council is slated to provide escort, so they must be it. Their level of tech is off the rails for a zone force, though.
“Patton,” I send, “give me visual on the unknowns.”
The close-up appears on my visor, grainy with distortion. The hard suit seems to be an enforcer rig decorated with the insignia of the LA City Council, a red capital letter “A” with wings and a yellow halo. The figure is holding a coil rifle, the same model we use. Patton gives me visuals on three others in succession, each equipped the same.
“Intel said nothing about this level of tech,” says Worthy.
“Sir, their configuration is, well, unusual,” says Anderson.
“It’s true,” adds Evans. “Look at the postings on the upper landings. Perfect for shooters. And since when have enforcers been cozy with anyone other than themselves?”
Good point. So why are all but their lookouts gathered in one spot inside, surrounded by constables on all sides? A tactical mistake? Maybe. Hubris? Stupid question. In any case, they don’t expect trouble from each other.
“Worthy, confab with the welcoming committee there.”
“I’m on it.”
As Worthy moves ahead, I move back down the tunnel until clear of the worst of the signal scrambling before accessing the open channel. “E99, R39.”
“R39, go ahead,” transmits Monroe.
“E99, we’re outside Red Line Station. One squad of enforcers are on site with two squads wearing hard suits marked with city council insignia. We assume they’re constables and that we’re clear to proceed. Please advise.”
“R39, stand by.”
While I’m waiting, Worthy converses with the pair of enforcers. This whole situation appears legitimate, so why is my gut telling me otherwise? Can I even trust it anymore? If my instincts are broken like everything else…
“R39, E99,” transmits Monroe, “switch to channel delta forty.”
So, a private conversation on a scrambled channel. This must be the part where he pretends to tell me the whole story. I switch over. “Go ahead.”
“Malcolm, enforcer squad epsilon seven reported a successful rendezvous with the city council’s delegation. We should have operational control over Red Line Station.”
“You don’t sound sure.”
“Scrambling is preventing contact with epsilon seven. Their last communication was fifteen minutes ago.”
“Can you explain the constables’ level of tech?”
“That’s part of our arrangement with two of the council members. It served everyone’s interests to provide them with extra leverage against their colleagues.”
“Can the two council members you bought off be trusted?”
“Proceed… With an understanding of human nature.”
“Right… Copy that. Out.”
Clever, John, you cold bastard. A reference to the useless debates we indulged in back at the Academy. There was only one thing we ever agreed on about human nature: always look for the worst. The dark underbelly doesn’t go away and no way to know for sure when it will show, only that it will. Another oblique warning. Some of the council might move against us.
Worthy returns to my side.
“Anything?” I ask.
“The enforcers are playing it like the constables are in charge. The signal scrambling is being permitted to make nice with the council. As for the constables’ advanced tech, I’d say it’s a sweetener for whatever council members the sentinels bought off.”
I nod. “Monroe just confirmed as much.”
“Trouble?”
“I don’t know.”
“You think the constables might try something?”
“With the enforcers on site? Only if they’ve got a death wish.” I motion the rest of the squad forward. “We’re still walking in fire, so be ready for it. This is a diplomatic scenario with potential hostile participants. Comms and tactical could be spotty. Omaha two formation.”
“Weapons free, Redeemer?” asks Evans.
“Safeties off,” I reply. “Worthy, you’re with me. Let’s go.”
◊ ◊ ◊
We march into Red Line Station, the pair of enforcers standing aside to let us pass. The two rooks stay on the tracks, taking left, while Murphy and Rollins climb up onto the platform with Worthy and me before fading right. Anderson and Evans hang back. Our tactical drone stays near them while Patton hovers up to cover the concourse over the platform.
The station, a victim of collapse like most in downtown, saw some renovation in the last decade, most of the debris cleared from the platform. Barricades erected around jagged gaps show where the floor gave way, possible openings to the tunnels of the undercity. The concourse overhead suffers its own rifts, most covered by boards or plywood. Unpowered escalator ramps at the station’s ends link the platform to the concourse level. From there, a wide hallway connects to a stairwell to the surface. A maintenance door off that hallway leads to a secret tunnel and our destination, the bunker where our meeting with the city council will take place.
As Evans pointed out, a half-dozen constables look down at us from the concourse above. Eight more post in pairs at intervals along the platform with us, while the final three await us in the middle, the welcoming detail. The enforcers, all but the two lookouts we passed, group together near them, standing about like they’re waiting for their shift to end.
Ten meters from the welcoming detail, I put up a hand to halt our advance.
The lead constable steps up, so I do the same.
“Redeemer Adams?” he asks from behind his visor, deep voice filtered and cold.
“That would be me.” Rude bastard, not to show his face. None of them are. “You are?”
“We’ve been expecting you.”
I’m good at reading people. It’s what I do, what I have to do – the job demands it. It’s tricky without any facial features to watch, but body language and tone of voice can be enough. Like now. Whoever this guy is, I don’t want to turn my back on him.
He continues: “We’ll need to confiscate your weapons before we can proceed.”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“We can’t allow anyone armed into the bunker.”
“And you’ll want our drones to power down, too, right?”
“Yes, the enforcers have deactivated theirs.”
I glance over at the enforcers, spread apart in a ragged line, coil rifles pointing at the deck, all with helmets turned toward us, attentive now. Almost as if they’re waiting for something, something… specific. Their relaxed posture seems forced.
“The sooner you comply,” he says, “the sooner we can get this over with.”
My gut shouts GO, take the squad and get the fuck out,
this whole scenario screams setup. This man has no intention of cooperating, we’ll get no escort to the bunker from him, not on our terms. But what will we get? And how far will the constables take it with the enforcers looking on? Glancing at their line again, I’m suddenly sure they’re a party to this, whatever this is.
Omega! sounds in my mind from Patton – danger, immediate and extreme.
Shit. I thoughtspeak my visor closed and mouth a single command: “Nightfall.”
Time staggers and crawls as the truth bares its hideous grin. Armored shoulders shift as the enforcers raise their coil rifles. The lead constable stands stock-still, frozen in time, though motion registers to either side of him from his two cohorts, pivoting and bringing their weapons up. Disbelief wars with shame, locking me in place for the split-second of time left to us before the end. Most of us are out in the open with nowhere to go. Dead and gone.
The ground between the constables and enforcers explodes, concrete debris blooming from precision missile strikes. Patton. Taking advantage of the distraction, I break laterally toward a nearby column, one of the concourse’s supports. As I shoulder brake and roll around it, the snap and shriek of coil and railgun fire echoes throughout the station. Pulses of streaked light flash by and explode chunks of concrete all around me.
“Cover-cover-cover!” shouts Worthy.
“Ahh!” screams Rollins.
“Rollins!” shouts Murphy.
I pull out an EMP grenade and chuck it toward the scattering group of enforcers. Two of them get caught in its electromagnetic embrace, the burst distorting the area around them in a ragged hemisphere, the air seeming to ripple like liquid for a moment. Caught mid-motion, they stagger and collapse, their hard suits disabled. Another one goes down hard, blood and brain matter jetting out the back of his helmet. Ducking back behind the column, I note the shot came from Evans, lying prone about forty meters away with Anderson crouched behind her. Good, they already took down the two enforcers at the tunnel entrance.
