Empire City

by Matt Gallagher

  “Welcome back to The Proving Ground! We’re live from Fifth Avenue in the one and only Empire City, for the one and only V-V Day Parade. Praise to the Victors!

  “It’s my privilege to welcome Bernard Gault, executive vice president at Rubicon Pharmaceuticals. As a younger man, he served a distinguished tour in Vietnam. He sits on the Council of Victors and in that capacity, will be today’s grand marshal. Well-deserved recognition for a true patriot.”

  A true patriot who misquotes Orwell, Sebastian thought. Tell the people that, lady!

  “Thank you, Jamie. Though ‘grand marshal’ is a ceremonial title. Nothing more.”

  “What does today mean to you? To your generation of warfighters?”

  “More than anything it’s hard to believe it’s been thirty years. Where did the time go? I swear it was just yesterday we were in those rice paddies. As for what it means for our generation—we had a lot to live up to. Our fathers saved democracy. There was a lot of doubt in the middle years of our war whether we’d be able to do the same.”

  “Do you remember where you were when Hanoi was liberated?”

  The tritest question. Sebastian rolled his eyes. Most every Victor on the planet had cut their answer into a diamond years before.

  “Of course,” Gault said. “By the time the Legion took Hanoi, I was back in the States, attending business school. A group of us got together and watched on a small TV and just celebrated. Lot of cheers, lot of hugs, a few beers may’ve been involved. And many tears.”

  “What a memory. Thank you for sharing it. Switching gears some—today’s keynote speaker is a controversial choice.”

  “Only because of some faulty media reporting on this network, Jamie.”

  “Well—I’m not sure I can agree. Regardless, the parade’s keynote will be delivered by presidential candidate Jackie Collins, who—”

  “Is an American hero. I’d be happy to read aloud her Silver Star citation.”

  Now that, Sebastian thought, is a hell of a flex.

  “Everyone here is aware of the general’s valor and devotion to our nation.” Gellhorn sounded flustered. “Still, her poll numbers have dipped since our report revealed some of her national security… excesses.”

  Gault was ready. “The Council of Victors is strictly a nonpartisan assembly. It’s in our charter. It’s something we take very seriously. General Collins will be speaking in that capacity today. As a citizen who volunteered to serve America in battle, time and again. She’s not interested in politics today. She’ll be transcending all that.”

  Sebastian didn’t know where masters of the universe learned how to control a conversation, but he was impressed. He knew firsthand how quick and professional Gellhorn was, and Gault had her backpedaling like a student who’d read the wrong assignment.

  “We look forward to it, and will be carrying it live, across the country, across the globe. One last thing before I let you go: you wanted to talk about some developments at Rubicon.”

  “Yes. The progress we’re seeing with new treatments at the colonies is just amazing—our research teams and clinicians are top-notch, as you know, and are ensuring that our vets with troubles get the care they deserve. It’s my honor to announce today that thanks to some of these medical advancements, the federal government has green-lit a second Hero Project…”

  At that, Sebastian left the knob of television cameras. He had a mission to tend to. Thinking about the Hero Project, particularly a second Hero Project, would hamper that. The long game, he told himself. The long game is your only way to actual truth. For once in your life, you’re going to be patient and strategic about something.

  He made a mental note to watch the Gault interview later, in its entirety. More superpowered would make Sebastian either more important to those masters of the universe, or less. He’d figure out which. Patiently and strategically.

  The sidewalks became more congested the farther north Sebastian went. A mass of human traffic at Thirtieth Street began snarling out, causing a standstill. A large, smelly man in sweats pushed through it with a fever of expletives. Sebastian fell against a metal railing securing the street as a parade route. He cried out more from surprise than pain, though he did feel a hot sting on his knee underneath his pants, followed by the chilled ribbon of blood. He rubbed at his knee and got out of the way of the many shoes and boots who didn’t know he was there.

  A block later, someone bumped into his back and he bristled and clenched his fists and felt sweat puddling under his arms. He closed his eyes and counted to twelve, listening to his heart slow. He took yoga breaths. Once he made it to twelve he opened his eyes, pushing his tongue against the roof of his mouth to help find focus. Hands now deep in his pockets, he turned into an empty alley and returned to visibility. Ten minutes and fourteen seconds. He was working his way up, with only a distant gleam of a headache coming on.

  So that’s good, he thought.

  Fifty minutes from the general’s speech, Sebastian entered Haig Common. He hadn’t meant to go this far west, but the side streets that would bring him back to the parade route had been filled with staging floats. Haig Common proved just as active. In addition to the schools of shoppers gliding through the sidewalks, and the human statues and dance troupes hustling for dollars, a group of a few dozen had gathered at the southern fringe of the common, under a large bronze cast of the former president. They wore a mishmash of camo tops and overgrown beards, and most were hinterland lean. About half were gray hairs, Victor age, the others younger but no less grungy.

  It looks like a pirate ship crashed here, Sebastian thought.

  He walked through the common and its new arrivals, still visible. The gnarled traveler stare took in Sebastian. A few bristled at the sound of a nearby taxi horn. Whoever they were, they didn’t like being here any more than anyone else liked having them. His eyes found their cardboard signs, limp on the cement.

  THE COLONIES ARE PRISONS!

  THE HONOR IS OURS. WHY NOT THE SPOILS?

  FREE VETERAN ZERO!!!

  Jesus, Mary, and Allah, Sebastian thought. The Mayday Front.

  He remembered most intensely these men and women, and what they were capable of. Free Veteran Zero? That man was enemy. His bloodshot psychosis had returned to Sebastian more than a few times since the ballroom. So had his loud, ragged screams after being shot in the face. Sebastian had never hurt anyone like that before and it had made him feel powerful, which in turn made him feel bad about feeling that way. He’d been glad he hadn’t killed Veteran Zero. Now, confronted with the idea of a free Veteran Zero, he was less certain.

  America needed sanity. Veteran Zero represented madness. So too did the Mayday followers, warfighters or not. Sebastian felt very sure all of a sudden that whatever threat the parade VIPs were under, these people were involved. He took slow, measured steps into a department store bathroom and soon returned to the common, gone from the world.

  He followed the complaints to find the leaders. He didn’t recognize anyone specific from the ballroom—they were all still in jail awaiting trial, he reasoned—but many still carried a vague look of familiarity. The same dusty hair from motel shampoos, the same sun-brown skin. The same untucked laces and the same crooked sleeve-rolls. More than anything, he saw the same hollow-eyed rage born from defeat.

  How many of them are out there? he asked himself. How many are still to come?

  He settled outside the circle of arguing leaders, close enough to hear, far enough away to not get bumped into. A tall Hispanic man wearing a boonie cap was speaking, sounding very much like a person tired of repeating himself.

  “There’s fifty of us. Maybe another hundred downtown. That’s a drop in the bucket compared to the tens of thousands marching. We need to be smart, cool. Jonah said to wait until we get orders. So we wait. Can’t just go rushing Fifth Avenue ’cause we’re antsy.”

  “Orders?” A man with long, salty hair in a ponytail and scratches in his voice laughed. “Orders got my friends
killed all over the Delta. I’m too old for ’em. All I want, all we want, is what we are due.

  “We’re going to have to take it, though. We’re going to have to crash through barriers to remind folks: we are here.”

  The dispute went on like that, the moderate radicals championing waiting and restraint, the extreme radicals advocating for moving their ranks into the parade in force. No one would shoot them for it, they said. But if the police did—well, that’d actually be good. The media would be all over it.

  No one mentioned the vice president or General Collins or any VIPs. No one mentioned the library steps or a speech. Still, Sebastian stayed and listened.

  The argument grew louder and more riven, until a woman’s voice cut through: “Got word from Pierre. Wants us at Twenty-Third Street in twenty. They found an entry point.”

  “Here we go.” The man with the ponytail began clapping and hooting. “Here we go! Whatever it takes.”

  “What about the vice president?” Sebastian spoke low and into his fist. Only a woman in a hoodie near him turned around, wondering where the voice had come from. “What about the general?”

  “Who cares?” Everyone nodded at that, even the moderates. “Fucking brass. What they’re doing has nothing to do with what we are.”

  Not the first time my instincts were wrong, Sebastian thought, moving away from the common. He found himself somehow wishing the Mayday Front well. Hijacking the Victors parade would make for spectacle, if nothing else. He could even picture the red-faced anger on the face of Bernard Gault. That alone would make it worth it.

  He checked the time to see how long he had until the speech began. Fifteen minutes. Which meant he’d been invisible for a half hour. A good stretch longer than he’d ever been before. He knelt beside a parked car to switch off his mental lever. Nothing happened. He closed his eyes and tried again. Nothing. He squeezed his temples tight. A bolt of pain shot from the top of his spine through the reaches of his neck, but nothing changed. He remained unseen and apart. He’d never before thought about his power like this, and thinking about it made it seem much more impossible. Raw, wild fear tore through him. He was finding breathing difficult so he curled into a ball against the car and began exhaling into the top of his shirt, like it was a paper bag.

  Change, damn it, change! He couldn’t be stuck like this. He just couldn’t be. Sebastian bit down on his lip and threw a fist into the side of the parked car. Then he felt his brain lurch. He turned dizzy, then blind for a long, few seconds. He collapsed to his side. The lever set into place. It came on like a fastball to the ribs, a force unto itself, too quick to hurt, too brutal not to. Sebastian became unstuck, though. He became seen again.

  This wasn’t how today was supposed to go, he thought, tears streaking his face as he sat up against the car, clinging to his knees. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go at all.

  * * *

  “Son. You okay?”

  Sebastian was still curled against the side of the car. Now a tall, trim man in army dress blues and a maroon beret bent over him, his face wrinkled with concern. A long, sloped chin jutted from the man’s face and toward the ground.

  “Yes.” Sebastian stood up. He couldn’t stop trembling but knew he couldn’t stay beside the car forever. “Appreciate you noticing. Really.”

  The army man laughed. “It’s my job to notice strangers,” he said. Simple silver crosses marked the man’s jacket lapels and his shoulder boards carried eagle insignias on them—he was a colonel. Not general high, but way higher than Pete and the Volunteers. A colonel who’s an army minister, Sebastian thought. Cool.

  The man put his hand on Sebastian’s shoulder. “May I?” he asked. Sebastian nodded, noticing another cross seared into the man’s palm. That weirded him out a bit. Holy was one thing. Too holy was another.

  “Life can be difficult, sometimes, young man,” he said. He had pale, cloudy eyes and spoke like a metronome, each word, each syllable, a chant. He seemed familiar to Sebastian, like a forgotten friend found in an old yearbook. “Think of someone you love, someone who’s departed this world but worked toward giving you a better life.”

  Sebastian did. He became transported. He felt himself with his grandfather again, but as a boy, standing beneath a door frame as his grandfather pointed a long naval sword toward the sky, toward the Almighty, telling Sebastian everything was fine, that everything would be okay, as long as he was a good boy and remembered to listen and do as he was told, always.

  A voice sounded from above, where his grandfather had directed the sword: “Love. Hope. Love. Hope. Holy blood, holy redemption.”

  Sebastian opened his eyes, feeling a warm glow throughout his body, from the center of his gut to the very tips of his fingers. He didn’t feel alone anymore. He didn’t feel overwhelmed. He felt part of something great and massive, a small part, to be sure, but still part of it.

  “How?” was all he could manage.

  The army minister bowed his head. “Enjoy the day, son. Praise to the Victors.”

  Sebastian watched the other man walk away, the warm glow still saturating his body. He wanted to feel sunlight. He wanted to look at grass. He wanted to sit and think and maybe read a book over a beer. He wanted to call everyone in his family and talk about how good a man his grandfather had been, how blessed they were to have had him in their lives.

  He did not want to play at being anything more than he was anymore.

  The mere act of movement helped with the trembles. His heart slowed and he felt the cool of sweat on his brow. He knew he’d wake up the next morning with a ferocious migraine but he’d manage. He found an isolated bench near a playground. He watched kids on a merry-go-round and smiled at their small joys. He pulled out his one-hitter. It felt sweet in his throat, and he breathed out into pale sky.

  That minister was great, he thought, still lost in serenity. Though they’re not called ministers in the army. They’re called…

  It was the cloudy eyes that did it. Slowly at first and then all at once, Sebastian realized why the colonel had seemed familiar. He’d been the man in rags he’d talked with in front of his apartment building months before. The one sorting through trash and collecting bottles. The nutter talking ashes and redemption.

  Sebastian knew he’d just spoken with the Chaplain. The wanted man, the holy militant, Jonah Gray. He’d found him, chanced upon him, really. Then he’d let him walk off free into the parade, because—well, because he had.

  The hell is wrong with me, he thought. I should’ve done something.

  Then he thought: I still can.

  CHAPTER 23

  THE CITY PASSED in flashes of bright steel. The sidewalks were bare and vacant, citizens either in midtown for the parade or gone entirely for the long weekend. A pall was settling across the lower part of the island, hard grayness edging in from the harbor. Mia cracked open her window and let some of it into the town car. She needed to hear the city to think. She needed to smell it.

  “We’re eleven months out,” she said. She didn’t know how to convince them that the speech today was a bad idea, but she was trying to, yet again. They needed to hear her this time. “Plenty of opportunities between now and then. It’s just not worth the risk, ma’am.” She almost mentioned Governor Harrah but held off. That would only encourage the general. “If this threat report is true, no amount of security can protect you on that stage. You’ll be too out in the open. Too many surrounding vantage points. No one will blame you for bowing out. How could they?”

  Mia sat next to Roger Tran and across from the general in the back of the town car. They reached the West Side Highway. The tires beneath them stopped fighting the pavement and began rolling smooth, like they were moving on carpet. Lady Liberty emerged in the distance, still green, still rusting. Her torch was bound for a city park, the rest of the statue, still to be determined. Mia had heard rumblings that Lehman Brothers had offered. They wanted it for their courtyard.

  “How comfortable are you, Ro
ger?” General Collins wore a gray striped suit with a notched collar, a “V for Victor” pin gleaming on her left lapel. Her speech lay in her lap, marked up with strikethroughs and last-minute edits. She brought her hands together in a prayer clasp and tapped at the black stone on her West Point ring. “Give me a percentage.”

  “Zero percent.” Tran made no attempt to hide the concern in his voice. “Ms. Tucker is right. This is a risk. An undue one. The Bureau can be overly cautious sometimes, yes. But they have sources in this group. All say something’s planned. At least one says, definitively, you are the target. And if it is this Jonah Gray—or some other colony vet who received cythrax treatments—well, they’d have their reasons for being upset with us.”

  Tran looked hard at Mia. They’d been saying more and more things like that in front of her. As a test, she knew. She also knew how to pass it. She held to the quiet.

  Poor Sebastian, she thought. Looking for the truth when he needed to be listening for it. Mia knew she had him to thank for her recommitment to the campaign. She’d told the general she was all in and meant it. Her old friend had shown her the limits an individual had when confronting entrenched power. People, serious people at least, who wanted to change systems and institutions? They didn’t do it from beyond or afar. They did it from within.

  On instinct, Mia moved her hands to her stomach and held them there. The sonogram the day before had confirmed what Jesse had been saying all along: it was a girl.

  A healthy baby girl, Mia thought in the town car. Who will know a good America.