Dark as Angels: We are the Enemy

by Dominic Adler

  “Trashmob mentioned it. What exactly did you do?”

  Hooker shrugged. “You don’t know?”

  “I’m your mate, not a stalker. You think I’ve got time to sit up and evernet you?”

  “My unit got involved in a firefight with two archangels. We killed ‘em.”

  Leah’s face hardened. “So? They probably deserved it.”

  “The thirty civilians who died in the process didn’t.”

  Leah spat out of the window. “They kill more civvies in Medway every week.”

  Hooker’s voice hardened. “Things were different back then – after the Hate War everyone wanted to make amends. The politicians offered Taskforcers up as sacrifices, a way of saying sorry.” Hooker tucked the mezuzah in his pocket, “I’m starting to think the Government wants Archangels back. I think they’ll try to rewrite the history of what really happened.”

  Leah shook her head. “You’re kidding me?”

  “It’s already happening – look at Wessex. Hyatt said they need transhumans for the Reconstruction.”

  “The people won’t stand for it.”

  Hooker made a sour face. “The people don’t give a shit, long as someone makes the air clean and gives ‘em three square meals a day.”

  “You cheery fucker,” said Leah.

  Hooker’s fob buzzed again. “Gordy’s come through with Luke McCaffrey’s address. Put your foot down.”

  “Roger that,” Leah replied. “Sooner we can get this thing done, the sooner I can get back to the No-Zone.”

  Hooker laughed. “You really do prefer it out there, don’t you?”

  Leah watched the street leaguers disappear in the rear-view mirror. “Yeah. I really do.”

  eight

  NatSec arrived in the Goons, tacticals spilling from the bellies of personnel carriers. They formed up in neat ranks, armed with rifles and shotguns, radios crackling orders. Riot squads arrived, equipped with armorglass shields, all backed up by cavalry and dogs.

  Paolo watched locals hurrying by, pushing barrows piled with bricks and petrol bombs. Up on the balconies, men handed out rifles and crossbows, older Goon-dwellers who remembered the Hate War. Paolo had drunk beer with such men. He knew they’d nothing to lose, and a burning hatred of the police. Yesterday’s Taskforcers were today’s NatSec. Same bastards, different uniforms.

  A group of robed figures appeared from an alleyway. “Good afternoon,” said a little monk, an Asian man with a wispy beard. He wore an ankle-length robe, a startled-looking hen tucked under his arm. On his feet were sandals fashioned from truck tyres. “I’m Brother Ranjit.”

  “A good afternoon to you too, Brother,” Paolo replied. “Not a good day for a walk, I fear.”

  “We heard gunfire,” said Brother Ranjit. “Lots of it.”

  Paolo nodded. “You should go to your monastery. It’s safer.”

  The little monk bridled, but said nothing. However, the biggest monk murmured his agreement. A huge man, big as Abid, with the mottled, warped flesh of a burns victim. Paolo had seen him before. The local youths were terrified of his monstrous face and silvery eye implants. He stood at the back of the group like a shepherd, quarterstaff ready.

  “Yes, of course you’re right,” Ranjit replied. “Would you like eggs? We’ve some spare.”

  Paolo shook his head. “No time for fragile things today, my friend.”

  “Of course. Well, we must get back,” said Ranjit. The little group melted away, towards the lagoon bridge. The monk with the silver eyes went last, scanning arcs like a soldier.

  Paolo walked briskly through a plaza, trash blowing on the wind. He felt the cops before he saw them. “You, in the suit!” bellowed a tactical, three chevrons on her breastplate. Two others broke the building line, carbines ready. They were followed by a six-strong phalanx in riot gear, shields ready.

  “Am I glad to see you guys,” said Paolo, feigning desperation. “I’m lost.”

  The sergeant looked him up and down. “You a Green-Zoner?”

  Paolo nodded. He had a resident’s permit for an apartment in Southwark, back-stopped by one of Sorcha’s agents. “I’m a wholesaler. I was checking stock out here today, of all days.”

  “You stick out like a donkey’s bollock,” the sergeant replied. “I’m amazed you ain’t been mugged yet.”

  “My bodyguard went missing, but I know what you mean. Although some of the people here aren’t that bad.”

  The sergeant gave Paolo the look cops reserve for lunatics. “You’ll find out how bad they can be, if you don’t fuck off sharpish. There’s a squad of Munis two blocks up, evacuating all non-residents. Turn right at the next junction and keep going, you’ll see their vehicle.”

  “Thank you, sergeant,” Paolo replied. “I really appreciate it.”

  The tactical studied him closely, taking in his suit and leather shoes. “Wholesaling, you say?”

  “Yes, I rent a warehouse nearby.” He eyed the sergeant’s body-cam, hoping his doppler was working. It would scramble the camera’s electronics, rendering him invisible.

  “Only reason I ask is sometimes Green-Zoners come out here to score cotics,” the sergeant replied. “My men will ID and search you, to be on the safe side. Then I’d get back to the city if I were you.”

  “Search me?” Paolo felt his pistol, hard against his ribcage. The money belt was damp against his belly. “Is that necessary, sergeant?”

  The sergeant shrugged. “Rules are rules. The Goons are on security lock-down. Section Twelve of the Emergency Act is in effect, so papers and pockets. You know the drill.”

  “Sarge, the blimp’s finished mapping the rooftops,” one of the riflemen reported. “We’re clear to move.”

  A dirigible passed overhead, a black torpedo bristling with aerials. The sergeant nodded. “Okay, get ready. Roth search this man…”

  Paolo shot the sergeant in the throat. Using her body as a shield, his HK35 whispered, nano-munitions slicing through armour. Two more tacticals fell. The riot officers drew their pistols and locked shields, making a wall of armorglass and steel. Bullets chased Paolo, thudding into the dead sergeant, buying him time to roll behind a dumpster. Boots crunched on concrete as the phalanx advanced, Paolo sliding a grenade onto the HK’s muzzle. Beyond the dumpster, a voice spoke into a radio. Calm but urgent. “Contact Message. Helios Alpha, this is Helios Six-Zero. We’ve got three officers down…”

  Paolo fired without breaking cover. Trajectory math scrolling across his eye implant, the grenade making a fiery parabola as it sailed into the phalanx. Tacticals scattered, armour melting and trailing smoke. Reloading the HK, the Crimson Brigade agent sprayed flechette into the survivors. Armoured bodies lay in the street like decommissioned robots, ragged figures cheering from the balconies above.

  “Six-Zero? This is Helios Alpha,” came a voice from a radio. “All Helios callsigns to Six-Zero’s last location.”

  Down to his last magazine, Paolo tugged the dead sergeant’s pistol from her holster. Pocketing the weapon, he ran deeper into the estate. The riot was a wildfire beast now, a thing of smoke and blood. Chaotic and surreal, Paolo thought, beauty in its defiance. Men hurled petrol bombs and bricks, hooch-drunk kids dancing like whirligigs. All were masked, armed with axes and staves. They stormed a shield wall, retreating when the tacticals returned fire with choke-gas. Peppery smoke drifted through the streets, loudhailers barking orders to disperse.

  Suddenly rifles barked from upper-floor balconies, bullets bouncing off armorglass. NatSec marksmen returned fire and a dozen rioters fell, bloody wounds blossoming across bellies and chests. With a roar, the crowd surged, a wounded beast, smashing angrily into the line of riot cops. Someone barked an order and the shield wall opened, like a monster’s jaws, armoured carriers and cavalry storming through the gap. NatSec vehicles crashed into the horde, sending up great clouds of exhaust smoke, rioters disappearing beneath their wheels. Police horses reared, steel-shod hooves smashing skulls. Tacticals with shock guns appe
ared, sparkling darts hitting any rioter still on their feet. An inspector barked orders and the shield wall reformed, tacticals cracking skulls as they advanced.

  Paolo hid in a doorway. Pulling an autojet from his belt, he punched a needle into his thigh. Then, euphoria. The injector flooded his veins with respirocites, a billion microscopic nanobots. Feeling power surge through his body, he scrambled up a wall like an ape. His fingers sank into concrete like crampons, and he soon reached a balcony. “Fuck,” said a tattooed pensioner, sipping beer while he watched the rioting below, “you’re like Superman, aintya?”

  “More of a Joker, I think,” said Paolo.

  “Where you headin’?”

  Paolo pointed towards the Thames. “The Commune International.”

  “Makes sense – you sound foreign,” the old geezer replied, taking in Paolo’s suit.

  Below the balcony, tacticals advanced, followed by their carriers. As a junction was taken, a new squad emerged from the vehicles to relieve the first. “They must have killed dozens,” said Paolo.

  “It’s a shame, I’ll grant you, but some of these kids are askin’ for it,” the old man shrugged. “Way I see it? They need to teach these little shits how to behave. Like the Taskforcers did, back in the old days. Then there’s no need to shoot ‘em in the first place.”

  “You really think that?”

  “Why wouldn’t I? At least the squatters at the Commune have some manners. Nobody needs to give them a battering, do they?”

  He has a point.

  Paolo pointed at the estates, an urban sprawl encrusting the entire estuary. “Look at the size of this place. They could kill hundreds of rioters and it wouldn’t matter. Won’t the people revolt against the police?”

  “Nah,” the old man replied. “They’re rioting for fun. Besides, if it gets worse they’ll bring up the heavy squad from Kent. Strike Cadres, they call ‘em. Those bastards don’t fuck around, just get the flamethrowers out.” He grinned, miming with shaky hands and made a whooshing noise.

  Paolo nodded. “I must go. What’s the quickest way back?”

  The geezer ducked, a bullet ricocheting off a wall. “Fuck me, that was close. Take the lift to the basement, if it’s working. There’s a fire door leading into a long ol’ alley. Follow that all the way, you’ll see the corner of the park. Then you’re home and dry.”

  Paolo thanked the old man. A few moments later he was in the alleyway, snaking between rows of low-rise housing units. The Crimson Brigade agent ran at incredible speed, arteries flooded with oxygen. He remembered the quartermaster in Bari issuing him the autojet. “This stuff will turn you into an archangel. But only for fifteen minutes. After that? You’ll have the worst hangover ever. So be careful, Colonel.”

  Paolo crossed an apron of scraggly parkland, lying in the Commune’s shadow. In the near-distance, a line of orange-jacketed munis patrolled the perimeter. They couldn’t get inside the Commune proper, as the anarchists had erected a network of defences – palisades and berms, big as the barrier that once protected Berlin from fascists.

  Easily scaling a tree, Paolo leapt from trunk to trunk, the munis no more than a hundred metres distant. A branch snapped like a gunshot. A muni’s head turned in his direction when Paolo heard something below.

  A thud.

  The stolen gun had fallen from his pocket, the one taken from the dead tactical. Munis began shouting, pointing at the figure in the trees. Cursing, Paolo made for the palisade. A gaggle of rifle-toting anarchists stood guard, waving at the mysterious Italian who lived at the top of the tower. The black-marketeer, generous with gossip and vintage cigarettes. Paolo scaled the wall easily. “Nice moves,” said a sentry, “but you could have come in through the gate.”

  “Lock the gates,” Paolo replied. “There’s rioting, and its coming this way.” At the lobby his head swam, the respirocite waning. Praying the lifts were working, he staggered inside. Finally, he returned to the apartment at the top of the tower.

  Rourke sat on the sofa, legs tucked beneath her, sipping tea. She studied Paolo for a moment, cigarette smouldering in her thin-lipped mouth. “You look terrible.”

  “There’s a riot out there,” Paolo replied.

  “It’s the Goons. That’s what they do.”

  Paolo unlimbered his shoulder holster. The HK clattered on the cheap plastic table, heavy and black.

  “That’s been fired,” said Rourke, levelling a finger at the weapon’s carbon-blackened muzzle.

  “I had to defend myself. Where’s Abid?”

  Rourke raised her voice. “Abid, can you come through please?”

  The giant entered the tiny living area, head bowed. He wore the grey and brown uniform of a courier company, fabric straining against muscle. “I am sorry about what happened with the girl earlier, Colonel Paolo,” he mumbled.

  Paolo slumped onto the sofa, accepting Rourke’s cigarette. “Your apology is gratefully accepted, Abid. If my words were harsh earlier, it’s because your role’s too important to be compromised. That includes how you’re perceived after your martyrdom. Do you understand?”

  Abid nodded slowly, eyes downcast. “Yes, Colonel Paolo.”

  Rourke smiled a well-that’s-alright-then smile and gestured at the omni. Drone footage of rioting streamed across the newscasts. “This is inconvenient, Paolo. I’ve got to meet my source, and Abid needs to collect the van. With that going on outside?”

  Paolo lit the cigarette with a shaky hand. A roll-up. Uh. “The worse the rioting gets, more security forces get sucked onto the estate. That means less on the periphery, where you’re heading. You’ll be okay.”

  Rourke finished her tea and stood up, knees creaking. Her eyes, watery blue, gave nothing away. “I need to get my arse in gear. If Abid doesn’t know where he’s taking the bomb, then none of this makes any difference.”

  Abid nodded. “Rourke is right.”

  “Then I’ll parley with General Ignacio,” said Paolo. “He leads the Black Rifles on the fifteenth floor.”

  “Those crazy Spaniards?” said Rourke. “The Black Rifles are trouble, Paolo. They’re too unpredictable.”

  Paolo made a thin smile. “I doubt we’ve much choice. The Spaniards will take dark work for gold, and I know they’ve contacts on the Crosland Estate. I’ll ask them to smuggle Abid to the vehicle, and you to your agent.”

  “Optimistic bugger, ain’t you?” Rourke replied, turning her attention to the omni. It showed a trashy news channel, two orange-faced newscasters fizzing with excitement.

  “We’ve received reports from the notorious Crosland Estate in Lagoon City - NatSec sources report NINE tactical officers have been ruthlessly gunned down by terrorists.”

  “A significant escalation of what initially appeared to be a typical Lagoon City fracas. Do you have any updates?”

  “Yes, Oscar. And, incredibly, the suspect is a lone male. Eyewitnesses say he was armed with high-technology weaponry and explosives.”

  “A Black Bloc agitator, perhaps? From Free Medway?”

  “It certainly fits the profile. There’s a police news conference at fifteen-thirty. The Home Secretary, Tobias Castle, has announced full National Security Constabulary and military support to suppress the rioting.”

  “That’s reassuring, although many have concerns about the so-called Commune International? The local Municipal Police have been criticized for tolerating the presence of anarchists in the Goons for so long.”

  “The Munis have long-complained of a lack of resources. But if there is a link, Oscar, and my sources suggest there might, NatSec’s hand will be forced. Dead tacticals on our streets? A nest of potential terrorists on London’s doorstep? There’s only one way that story ends…”

  “Agreed! Viewers might need to hunker down, order pizza and stay tuned. This is going to be a night of epic action out in the Goons. We’ll have the freshest coverage, expert commentary and live VR drone-feeds! Be part of the action, only here on…”

  Rourke’s raised
an eyebrow. “Lone male suspect. Advanced weaponry. Takes out multiple cops on his own. Now, who the feck might that be?”

  Paolo glanced at the HK35 on the table. “Abid, would you mind fixing me something to eat please? I’ll be in my room.”

  Abid nodded and headed to the kitchen. “Yes, Colonel Paolo.”

  Rourke crossed her arms. “Seriously, Paolo, I need to get out of here and meet my man. I’ll hold you to your word about the Spaniards.”

  Paolo dusted off his jacket. “Of course, Sorcha.”

  The Irishwoman’s smile was thin. “Otherwise, I’m sure the Command Committee will be wanting to know why this job went tit’s up. Why we risked our entire London network…”

  Paolo’s lip curled. “Threaten me again, Comrade, and we’ll see who is more favoured. If you handled your agents more efficiently, we’d already know where the conference was being held.”

  “Really?” Rourke snapped, hands-on-hips. “You’ll have to do better than that, big man. My network’s never been found wanting. Who else could penetrate the Rhys family security bubble?”

  Paolo unzipped the belt he wore against his skin, tossing packets of dollars on the table. “This is for your source, who has yet to be found wanting. I’m going to eat. Afterwards I’ll make arrangements for us to complete our mission.”

  “Best you do, my love,” Rourke replied. “I’ve been in this godforsaken city for five bloody years. I’ll not let this fuck-up make it six.”

  Paolo left the room, legs rubbery from the respirocite come-down. He kneaded his face. It felt clammy. Like dead fish. He sat on his bed, shaking, and began cleaning weapons.

  nine

  Luke McCaffrey’s address was on the fifteenth floor of a municipal cloudscraper, the summit obscured by smog. Hooker and Leah parked outside, masked pedestrians navigating rubble-strewn streets. “North London,” said Hooker sourly. “Don’t like it up ‘ere. Never did.”