The Dead Slam: A Tale of Benevolent Assasination

by Bright,R. F.

  Priyanka removed her hand from the phone. “I got you covered. Like I always do. Stop worrying. She’s on her way. Poor Petey.”

  Cassandra ran back to the conference room to collect her new laptop and found General Joe Scaletta killing time. His aimless pacing looked suspicious. A few men trickled in, looking over their shoulders, obviously waiting for her to leave. Their attempted discretion was pathetic, but she pretended to take the hint, scooped up her laptop, and left in a hurry.

  Scaletta closed the door after her and looked around the room. “Are all these things off?” Everyone checked every monitor and, once certain they were all off, gathered at the conference table.

  Cassandra ran straight to her desk and turned on the old surveillance camera mounted in the conference room ceiling. It hadn’t been used in twenty years, but it worked. She aimed her laptop’s camera at the surveillance monitor and cued up her new friend, MISH. They quietly watched as General Scaletta outlined his plan.

  “This has gone far enough,” he said. “I cannot indulge this Tuke pansy any further. Nice guy, but so stupid. And all this non-stop communications crap. I hate all this. We don’t need to be in constant communication with everything all the time. That’s the sort of oppressive shit he will impose on us. Some kinda socialist technocracy.”

  An affirming grouse spread amongst them.

  “What the hell is this, we sit back and wait for Tuke? Fuck that! We don’t even know what we’re waiting for.”

  “You think he can deliver?” asked a young Pilot, Jack Wensall. “Like he said.”

  “If he can’t, we’re fucked. If he can, we’re fucked,” sneered Scaletta. “Tuke is just another intellectual extortionist who thinks he’s doing us all a favor. Believe me. This is not right. We will stay a third-world country if we don’t restore the path. God’s righteous . . .”

  “Leave your god bullshit out of this, Scaletta, you’ll alienate everyone,” barked Admiral Kerins, the senior officer present. “No more of that nonsense. Proceed.”

  “Here’s the short and skinny,” said Scaletta. “We risk the chance Tuke will set up his socialist technocracy. Himself as a latter-day Stalin.”

  Admiral Kerins bristled. “What’d I tell you about the crazy?” He stared threateningly.

  Scaletta finished in a clumsy, but careful pronouncement. “We go into Manhattan and throw Petey Hendrix and his banker buddies out. Set up a temporary government truly rooted in original constitutional law, natural law, real democracy . . .” He caught himself just short of a rebuke.

  “What’s the tactical?” said Admiral Kerins.

  “We attack fifteen minutes before the America on Sunday show. Use the broadcast to announce . . . the situation. Until elections can be held.” General Scaletta dipped his chin humbly and stood to attention, sending his plan up the chain of command.

  Admiral Kerins drummed his fingers on the fading Formica and gazed into the eyes of his coconspirators. “I don’t agree with one single thing you have to say, Scaletta. You are totally full of shit. But our veterans are far too fragile to take any risks. If we understood what Tuke was about, maybe. But there are millions of veterans wandering around, angry as hell, wondering why we didn’t do right by them. They’re barely hanging on. Any blow to the system, screwed up as it is . . . they won’t survive. I cannot condemn them a second time. I cannot abandon them again. It was cowardly. And I, for one, can no longer live with that shame.”

  He pushed with all his wobbling strength on the arm rests and raised himself to his feet. “Prepare to launch an attack on New York City, Sunday morning, early. Before that awful church show.”

  Cassandra slumped back in her chair in horror. MISH’s cartoon face bulged for a split second before the monitor went black.

  47

  The stone Gate wept. He is dead. He is dead. He is dead!

  In the center of Gatekeeper’s Square, Freddy Cochran and his mob stood on the roof of Efryn Boyne’s transporter, surrounded by a stricken nation whose hooligan rage would not be quelled by words. A thousand hands reached for Freddy, lest he crumple in an all-consuming grief, heart crushed like a hobo’s hat. He threw himself onto the transporter’s roof, screaming, “He is dead. He is dead.”

  Freddy’s psychopathic major-domo, Roy Wils, struggled mightily to hold onto the inconsolable old boxer. He hauled Freddy to his feet time and again, but Freddy wailed and pounded him mercilessly. Roy’s face was bruised and bleeding, his clothes torn, and he was damn proud of it.

  A bloodcurdling lament slowly rose into a chorus of baleful moans — and the stone Gate did truly weep. On the other side of the Wall, the curious Burbclave Preppers were stacked fifty deep trying to figure out what was going on. Who was dead? In the adjoining good-side neighborhoods, people were heading away from the ominous sounds echoing from the Wall. Someone important was dead; better run.

  Freddy went dishrag limp, teetered, then slumped into Roy Wils’ tree-trunk arms. There was nothing left of him, but he fought with his last fiber to pull himself up, and every hand in the crowd reached to help. He climbed Roy Wils’ anguished frame, quaking in misery. The throng pushed forward, piling one upon the other, with a yearning insanity to touch Freddy, who disappeared in a raiment of clawing hands, gasping for air and swinging madly.

  His face turned purple, and he exploded into a rage. “Hearts broken black with raven sorrow! The Black Heart. The heart of hearts. The Sacred Black Heart — spawned in the shadows of despair. Beneath this Wall. His Wall. He. He shined a light upon us. And! Gave birth to a nation . . . and now he’s dead. Efryn Boyne is dead! He is dead!”

  The Burbclave burst into cheers. The Leprechauns started seething and bashed their heads on the Wall. The Preppers fled.

  Freddy gave Roy a subtle nod. Roy winked at someone on the far edge of the crowd, as Freddy continued. “He didn’t die. Nay! He was murdered! Cut down before he could write his own epitaph.” Sorrow enveloped him. “He thought only of you. His kith and kin. His blood! His sept.”

  The crowd fell silent.

  “And for hate's sake I swear, blood alone moves the wheel of man. Our story is written in his blood!”

  At the far edge of the crowd, a long wooden staff bearing a plain black flag rose. The gasping crowd parted as a young girl in her tartans raised it high and waved it side to side. The absence of the beloved Black Heart from this flag made it blacker than black. The New Hibernian rugby team, past and present, lined up to escort the young girl into the throng. They cleared a brutal path, and in her wake a freckle-faced boy of no more than seven followed cradling a big wooden bucket in his husky little arms. They marched toward the mordant spectacle that was Freddy Cochran. The girl stopped before the transporter and held the black flag steady. The boy handed the wooden bucket up to Roy Wils, who passed it to Freddy.

  Freddy raised it out to the crowd, then to the tallest arch. To the capstone — the original Black Heart. He turned to the crowd, and said in a smoldering voice, “Let me tell you how this story ends, my brothers.” He plunged his fists into the bucket and held them up, dripping with blood. Efryn Boyne’s blood. “We are going to rage out from the nation he built — and settle the fuckin’ score.”

  He smeared his face with the blood and handed the bucket to Roy Wils, who wound up and hurled the blood out over the crowd.

  The Leprechauns went insane.

  Everyone else ran for their lives.

  48

  Petey’s eyes hung heavy in their darkened sockets as he sat shoulder to shoulder with the chestnut-haired girl in the refreshingly feminine version of the shiny hacker get-up. Her pitch for the game designer job hadn’t told him anything he didn’t already know, except that she, for an undetermined price, would build him any game he wanted. She was vague and her answers to his questions cautiously ambiguous. She’d been going on and on and in and out of that hatefully infuriating, incomprehensible geek-speak, explaining in extremely general terms how she would design a game for him, in excruciating deta
il. He was bored and confused but he tried desperately to pay attention.

  “Games are made of two things: players and rules. Nothing else,” she droned on. “The rules shape the game, give it a frame, by limiting what the players can and cannot do. Like sheet music tells a musician what notes to play, and not to play. A frame. The goal creates movement within the frame. If you want people to play your game, all you need is to give them an attractive goal.”

  She was smug yet coquettish, and famous for being the first woman hacker to have her shiny coat tailored to the female form. For this, she had been named Turnstyle. Turnstyle was brilliant and always looked good.

  “Funny handle,” said Petey. “Turnstile?”

  She didn’t bother to correct him or hide her contempt. “Funny, ha ha, or funny peculiar?”

  He hadn’t meant to offend, but imagining her in a penny-dreadful doorway with a turnstile was lurid and worrisome. Could he trust someone with such poor judgment? “What’s your family name?”

  “You will never know my family name.”

  “Don’t be ashamed — look how nice you turned out.”

  “You will never know my family name, because you and I will never be — familiar.”

  Petey crumpled. He was exhausted and now he’d have to deal with this exasperating FemiNazi.

  She laughed at his discomfort, staring at him for what seemed an eternity, then a facetious glint sparked in her eye. “I have an old, coin-operated turnstile in my living room. From before the tunnels were flooded. I love that thing.”

  He couldn’t tell if she was putting him on or not. “How do you know it’s real?”

  “That’s what some guy told me. And that’s what I choose to believe. It’s a matter of faith.”

  He didn’t know how to take that, and mumbled, “Not all the tunnels are flooded.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Some guy told me.”

  She was searching for anything that would drag this out until she could make her move. She’d been stalling all along, but that lie about the turnstile had stunned him, he was second-guessing himself. This was starting to be fun.

  “Why do you all wear that outfit?”

  “It marks us out.”

  “Against what?”

  “Would you wear this?”

  “Hell no.”

  She flashed him a stink-eye with an exaggerated carnival queen smile.

  He slumped onto the desk. Exasperating . . .

  “I’m not the girl you take to the prom. So, let’s drop the niceties and get down to brass tacks.”

  “Gladly. As long as we can speak English.”

  “First, what do you want to achieve with this game? What’s your personal goal? Not the goal of the game itself, but your intentions for having this game made in the first place.”

  “I want the NPF to attack New York.”

  “No! That’s the goal of the game. What’s your goal? You want them to attack? Why?”

  “Because Tuke doesn’t want them to attack.”

  “Nice. And what do you think would make them attack, if they don’t want to?”

  “I thought you’d know.”

  She gawked at him with deep pity. “I construct games, not conspiracies.”

  “I was led to believe you could make a game out of anything.”

  “I can gamify anything — doesn’t mean I should. You’ll have to give me a minute. I’ve never done anything this evil before.”

  “Did you say prom, or Girl Scout Jamboree?”

  She continued in her painfully time-consuming way. “Here’s where you lose me, Petey.” Calling him Petey thrilled her. “It’s how you see this imaginary game of yours. Your vision. You sound like you want a first person shooter. I’m not surprised, but I don’t think a first person shooter, or a capture the flag kind of thing, will work here. Unless you want to destroy the city. Always fun — but really?”

  “I don’t want to destroy the city. I just want to slow them down.”

  “Who? The NPF?”

  “Yes, and no.”

  “Well! That clears things up.”

  “They gave Tuke forty-eight hours, but I need them to attack as soon as possible. If they attack, whatever he’s bringing in forty-eight hours won’t mean a thing. It will be lost in the chaos.”

  “What’s coming in forty-eight hours?”

  “I don’t know. But if they attack, there’ll be resistance. We have citizen militias and pay-to-play security everywhere. It’ll take months. I just need a few days.”

  “Why don’t you wait out the forty-eight hours? See what happens. Maybe you’re overreacting. I see a reactionary streak in you.”

  “Wait forty-eight hours!? See what happens? That, I fear more than an attack. An attack is nothing. But I know a real threat when I see it.”

  “Threat? From?”

  “Levi Tuke.”

  She instantly gathered her belongings and headed straight for the door.

  Petey dogged her every step. “Please. Hear me out. I’ll pay anything you want.”

  She turned and pointed a harsh finger at him. “I don’t give a shit what you do. But I won’t take on Tuke.”

  “If you’re worried about Tuke . . .”

  “It’s not Tuke. He’s the godfather of all hackers. I love Tuke. It’s his players. His protectors. The Big Brains. The KNim. They would destroy me. How much is that worth?”

  “Put a number on it.”

  She paused a beat too long. “It would take a lot.”

  He had her! She was adding it up. “I got a lot,” he said. “I’m really rich. Really rich.”

  She stared into the near distance.

  He studied her hopefully, as everything hung on her next move, but she seemed to be stalling. “What would it take to totally reinvent yourself? Somewhere else. Somewhere nice.”

  “What if . . .” Her phone rang. “I have to take this.” She turned away and covered her mouth. “It’s me.”

  Petey waited with a slight smile creeping across his face; she was already spending the money. If she tells a friend about this, it’s all over.

  “Yeah, OK. Um hum.” She hung up.

  Petey aimed two questioning eyes at her.

  She tucked her phone into her pocket and stared straight at him. “I’ll do it for a hundred and twenty million.”

  Petey recoiled. “Dollars!?” He was less concerned about the money than getting beaten by a girl.

  “Of course! But you do not have to pay until I send you confirmation of an imminent attack. I guarantee it.”

  “You don’t even know what the game is yet.”

  She aimed her most venomous smile yet at him, and sneered, “For that much money, it doesn’t fucking matter.”

  49

  The quiet of the Quaker Meeting House had given way to small clusters of men and women jabbering amongst themselves. In his office overlooking the garden, Nick Jaquay spoke in an agitated voice. “Something’s happening. Every geek in town is going crazy.”

  Lily had never imagined such a fine house. It was in the oldest and most prosperous part of Pittsburgh, near the Frick Manson. She was enchanted. Max loved the aura of discovery on her face, but he couldn’t stop worrying about the Peregrine. For the first time since landing in the city, he felt its menace. This was strange territory in strange circumstances, and the Peregrine was their lifeline.

  MacIan wasn’t worried about the Peregrine. It was able to protect itself, and them. But he couldn’t stop watching Max and Lily; they were so damn cute together.

  “I do not know what the Tuke are up to,” said Jaquay, a fearful quaver in his throat. “No one does. Not a soul. It’s way too heady for me. But I can’t help getting the feeling that something is about to explode. Tessyier and Klevens were of this Meeting. There are other members of Tuke’s development team here right now. Out there.”

  Lily looked to Max with an uneasy grin.

  “Are we safe here?” asked Max.

 
His first use of the word ‘we’ was not lost on Lily.

  “I sure as hell hope so,” said Jaquay. He startled as the Peregrine sounded its alarm.

  Max sprang to his feet.

  MacIan ran to the window.

  Jaquay froze.

  All four of them were suddenly suspended in a percussive poof!

  Ears ringing.

  Eyes burning.

  Throats on fire.

  Max tackled Lily and dove into a roll, cushioning both in the big red coat.

  All the air in the room caught fire.

  Max and Lily were blown under the table, crashing into a forest of chair legs. They watched the fireball vaporize Nick Jaquay and blow MacIan head over heels out the window, his clothes in flames. Max burst through the charred confetti and smoke, Lily pushing him from behind, to the window. Fiery chunks of shrapnel dangled from his red coat, now dotted with smoldering holes spewing tiny white feathers. They poked their heads out the window, gasping for air, a lick of blue-hot flame venting only a few feet above them. They couldn’t see beyond an arm’s length. Max jumped out the window, into a row of burning shrubs, and flopped onto the ground in a cloud of smoke and feathers. He struggled to his feet and tore off the red coat just as it burst into flame.

  MacIan lay beneath a jumble of smoldering debris, impaled on a splintered two-by-four. Max looked back to the window. Lily was OK. MacIan was not. He looked toward the Peregrine.

  Lily screamed, “Go!” pointing toward the Peregrine.

  Max took off running. As he broke into the alley he could see people scrambling out of the Meeting House, stumbling across the front lawn, and being shot by Black Hearts lining up to execute them — howling at the sport of it.

  The Peregrine was shrouded in smoke. Max ran up to it and put his hand on the wind-dome. Nothing happened. He said, “Max, ah, Maximillian.” Nothing! Then a bloodcurdling scream seized him — Lily!

  Max bolted for the window, right past MacIan, head swirling. He leapt at the wall, feet pounding up the side, and sprang onto the huge windowsill, teetering on the broken glass with both hands. To his horror, he saw an ugly man in Black Heart fatigues pressing Lily to the wall by her neck. He launched himself into the room, and right into the hands of the monstrous Roy Wils himself. The ugly man slammed Lily onto the floor like a sack of potatoes, chuckling, “Trow in a hero and we’ll have us a tragedy, Brother Wils.”