City Wars

by Dennis Palumbo

“We are but the first,” he was saying. “The first to challenge the tormentors in this new age of torment. For make no mistake. Every age has its tormentors, and its challengers, with only time distinguishing one from the other.”

  The young lunk made his hands come together in front of him. With effort, they might touch.

  “What shall we be called? Rebels? Revolutionaries? Usurpers? I can’t speak for other men and women. I can’t speak for the voice of history itself. And I don’t presume to speak for you, my brothers and sisters.”

  Speak for us, came a whisper.

  Yes! Yes! Speak for us!

  Giles tilted his head. His thick hair brushed the collar of his coat.

  A thunder of whispers.

  SPEAK FOR US! SPEAK FOR US! SPEAK FOR US!

  Giles stood before them and waited.

  The rasp of their voices, like some great gust, settled.

  Giles spoke. And wondered, as he did so, how much of what he’d said and would say they really understood. How much they actually comprehended of their own destiny.

  “Brothers and sisters,” he began quietly, easily, “it is for a very good reason that we gather today. This is more than merely a celebration of our strength and solidarity. For I have news. I bring you news of a friend.”

  A few lunks stirred. Hushed murmurs.

  “Yes,” Giles went on. “A friend to the lunks. A friend who is himself not one of us, but who shares our anguish and our pain.”

  Their whispers formed a chain.

  A friend to the lunks.

  “He came to me as a sympathizer to our cause,” Giles said. “He shares our pain. He recognizes the injustice of our lives. And he wishes to help us.”

  Their voices held wonder.

  A friend to the lunks.

  “He wishes to atone, for himself and others of his kind. He wishes to see us take our rightful places as citizens of Chicago!”

  Giles rocked on the heels of his boots.

  “And we will use the friendship he offers us—and use it soon. Yes, my brothers and sisters … soon we will leave this place of hiding and do what must be done to force Government to heed us, to listen to our demands. Soon!”

  Pale eyes blinked in the cool dimness.

  Soon!

  Giles turned away from them, away from the questions slowly forming on their lips. He strode purposefully to the doorway. As always, they would let him leave first.

  The doorway framed him. He seemed to tower.

  “Lunks,” he said softly, “will no more welcome death.”

  Giles dipped his head beneath the arch and was gone.

  The lunks stood together as before.

  Heads must raise,

  Our heads must raise—

  Eyes have life,

  Our eyes have life—

  Voices lift,

  Our voices lift—

  Lunks will no more welcome death!

  Lunks will no more welcome death!

  Lunks will no more—

  The knoll was gray and dead, black grass matted in wiry tufts across its face. There were few clouds now, little wind. Dark smoke wafted up and tinged the heavy blueness of sky.

  Bowman brought the ’copter around again and swung it in a low arc over the knoll.

  “This is the last post,” he shouted over the roar. Beside him, his face the color of dried clay, sat Minister Gilcrest. He’d insisted on coming along, on seeing that which he was afraid to let his mind imagine. He clung now to the straps of his seat-pod, hands white and without feeling. The destruction of E Sector had robbed his eyes of their life; he was huddled now against the noise, lost in the folds of his cloak.

  The Guardian behind him was pointing out the side pane.

  “Do you see it?” Cassandra cried. She reached across and tapped Bowman’s shoulder. “Down and to the left. Do you see it?”

  Bowman nodded and eased down, circling the knoll. The ’copter blades hummed as he swept across the tall grass that parted in waves beneath them.

  They passed over hulks of twisted metal, whole sections of buildings shorn and smoldering; and here and there, the almost unrecognizable forms that had once been the bodies of men and women.

  Cassandra pointed again, and Gilcrest saw it too. A hovercraft, its hull scorched and pitted, and distended like a bovine belly. Inside, its two occupants were still seated at the controls, buckled in, manikinlike in death.

  “It’s a miracle they made it to the hovercraft,” the old man said. “For all the good it did them.”

  “Can we go down?” Cassandra poked Bowman again.

  He shook his head. “No. The gamma count is too high. Minister, I wouldn’t send a party in for at least twenty-four hours.”

  Gilcrest said nothing.

  Bowman took another sweep around E Sector, the cameras in the ’copter ports recording the extent and nature of the damage for analysis in Government labs.

  No one spoke for what seemed like a long while. Once, Bowman turned and saw Cassandra gently rubbing the back of Minister Gilcrest’s neck. He made a point of not catching her eye.

  Below, the darkness had come to blanket the remains of E Sector.

  Bowman said, “Seen enough, sir?”

  “Yes. Enough to last me.”

  Bowman pulled back on the stick.

  Meyerson swallowed the last of his beansteak and patted his now-doughy paunch and decided abruptly that he’d never get used to the idea of Scholars.

  He said so.

  Clemmie Della Sala was surprised. “An old turd like you, Meyerson? I’d think we’re your last link to the past. You know … nostalgia.”

  The Scholar was grinning at him.

  Meyerson shifted uneasily in the booth. The diner was half empty, serving late suppers to hurrying Urbans and stragglers. Meyerson counted himself among the latter.

  “I don’t know, Clemmie.” He warmed his coffee mug with two thick hands. “Seems to me there’s gotta be a better way to make a living. I mean, it ain’t like the old times—”

  The woman shrugged.

  “Not the old times, no … just different times.” She rubbed her lyre carefully with a cloth. “We sing different songs.”

  “Don’t see why we need ’em anyway.”

  “Cities need people. People need heroes. Heroes need Scholars to remember their deeds, and sing of them. And make them legends.”

  Meyerson laughed shortly. “They sure trained you good and proper, Clemmie. But I don’t buy it. Time was, a man could—”

  “Pre-War man,” Clemmie said. “Almost as extinct as grain alcohol.” She plucked a few clear notes on the lyre. A few people at other tables glanced over in their direction.

  “Face it, Meyerson,” she said brightly. “You’re a page out of a book. An old book.”

  Meyerson frowned. “How long we known each other, lady?”

  “We go back about a dozen years, I think. I don’t keep records.”

  “Well, it’s just a good thing I love ya, or I’d strangle that perfumed neck of yours.”

  Clemmie strummed a chord and began to hum softly. Her voice was clear, resonant. Meyerson knew she’d been singing a long time, even though she hadn’t left her forties. Her robes were many-layered, a myriad of colors. She wore fire jewels, turquoise, baubles that caught the light.

  There was much tradition in her, and in her song.

  She lifted her fingers from the strings, looked up.

  “Why’d ya stop, Clemmie?” he asked.

  “Not in the mood.” She glanced around the small diner. People were hunched over their meals. Voices were low. “This is not the place for me, Phil. The feel is wrong.”

  “Shit. Who figured you for artistic temperament?”

  “Scholars are not artists.” She put aside the lyre. “We’re in service to Government, just as you are.”

  “Were, Clemmie. Not anymore.” He drained his mug of coffee.

  Clemmie studied his drawn features, thinking at the same time of the dozens
of songs that told of old soldiers and being away from the fighting and what that could mean.

  “Have you been all right, Phil?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I’ve been okay.”

  “That’s fine. That’s fine.”

  “Clemmie?”

  “Yes?”

  “Sing one.”

  “I thought you didn’t approve.”

  “That was before. I seen the light. Scholars are terrific. Now sing one.”

  “Not now. Not here. The feel is wrong.”

  “C’mon, Clemmie. You know the rules.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Phil, you of all people—”

  Meyerson raised his forefinger. “If a citizen requests it, the Scholar’s gotta sing. Ain’t that right?”

  “That’s right.” Sighing.

  “Then sing me one.” He leaned back, and looked away. “Sing me a good one.”

  Clemmie looked at him for a long moment. As much as she cared for him, she wished she were home with William. She and Meyerson had shared a lot of rough times since she’d met him at a Service Center just after the death of her husband. The War had taken something from both of them. Soon they’d learned to comfort one another; the right words, the right silences, the right touching when there’d been a need. They’d grown apart in recent years, she to the raising of her son, he to the tending of his more significant wounds. She’d come to feel he was no longer within reach.

  She could read nothing in his face now but expectation. Dutifully, she picked up her instrument, lay her fingers on the fine strings. And began to sing.

  A few of the diner’s patrons stood to listen, respecting an old custom. The rest merely looked up from their food, their chairs squeaking on the tile floor as they turned to watch.

  Clemmie’s voice filled the room.

  “The Leveling made of everyone

  Of every daughter and every son

  Bright bright soldiers

  Bright bright soldiers

  And though there’s yet so much undone

  Wanting of spires to meet the sun

  Wanting of drones to turn the soil

  Wanting of drones to ease our toil

  Wanting of arms to guard our homes

  Of new airships to guard our domes

  Of hope for when that time there ’rose

  Powerful shields against our foes

  And though there’s yet so much undone

  To ask of every daughter and son

  The Leveling must not again

  So we all must need remain

  Bright bright soldiers

  Bright bright soldiers”

  Clemmie put down the lyre.

  “The song is old,” she said. “And childish.” She reached across, took Meyerson’s hand. “I’m sorry.”

  He smiled at her. “I liked it fine, Clemmie. Just fine.”

  Suddenly, the familiar sound of dual chimes filled the small room. Clemmie and Meyerson turned away from each other, their attention drawn to the front of the diner.

  Everyone was looking up. The screen flickered. Media was transmitting.

  A cool voice echoed throughout the diner, announcing that Media had information regarding an attack on E Sector.

  “Holy Jesus,” Meyerson said, craning his neck to see.

  The others crowded around the screen. People began muttering, cursing.

  Media presented visuals.

  The cool voice explained that tracer cameras had recorded the devastation an hour before. In the space of that time, the information and visuals had been transmitted back to Chicago, logged, and edited for presentation by Media.

  On-screen coverage had been delayed approximately thirty-five minutes by Government pressure. Then the shield had given way, as it always did.

  “Go to the streets,” said the cool voice.

  “Go to the streets, to every corner. Holograms are being prepared. Go to the streets. Be informed. Learn of this attack on your city. Go to the streets.”

  The people began piling out of the diner. They left behind them half-eaten meals, unfinished drinks. Some had already begun shouting their outrage, confident that others would join them and make their voices brave.

  Meyerson climbed to his feet, glared down at Clemmie. “Well, ain’t ya comin’? Show’s about to start.”

  She sat very still, seemingly transfixed by the opened doorway through which the last of the diner’s patrons had exited. Instinctively, during Media’s transmission, she’d gripped the arm of her lyre. Now she released it, aware of the numbness in her fingers, of how tight had been her grip.

  “C’mon, Scholar,” Meyerson said, taking her arm. “Here’s your chance to see history in the makin’. Might inspire a tune. Ya never know.”

  “No, Phil. I can’t. I …” She shrunk back against the booth’s synthetic leather, the beads of her costume clicking together. “I’ll just stay here until the excitement dies down.”

  He grinned. “Gotcha. I figger I know what’s bother-in’ ya. But me—well, I gotta go see what’s what. It’s my nature, ya know, Clemmie?”

  “Sure, Phil. I’ll see you later. And take care of yourself.”

  Meyerson skipped to the door on his good leg.

  “Shit, lady. Day I can’t take care o’ myself, move over and give me one o’ them harps!”

  Clemmie managed a smile as he waved and went out the door.

  Clemmie sat alone in the diner. Even the waiters had gone out to see the special program Media had promised.

  She got up after a moment and went over to the serving area. The coffee urn was still hot. She poured herself a cup and leaned against the wall.

  The diner was not cold, but Clemmie found herself shivering. She was afraid suddenly of what she was feeling. She was afraid that, for the first time, the History was going out of her.

  And that she wasn’t going to get it back.

  Outside, Urbans crowded the street corners, blocked the intersections, filled the barren parks and reservoirs.

  And they looked up, up at the holoscreens, up at the gripping images being transmitted simultaneously to every corner, to every Urban in the city.

  They saw the ruins, the death, the bodies of men and women and children.

  And the Urbans knew this to be a challenge to Chicago, to their city, to their very lives.

  And they were ready.

  Deep within the labyrinth of Chicago, Government had convened a second emergency session. There had been little alternative.

  The call for war would not be long in coming.

  7

  Estelle Gilcrest lay alone in her bed. Her wheelchair stood in a near corner. A soft dimness had settled like a downy covering over every article in the spacious room.

  It was quiet, almost silent, except for the faint hiss of the environmental unit. The walls glowed dully, giving off the fine Tranquilium mist.

  The mist enveloped her, lulled her, was drawn thirstily into her skin.

  Estelle closed her eyes, sleep poised above her painted lids.

  The sound was a sharp snap: the breaking of a lock, the pulling away of a hinge.

  The mist was everywhere.

  Estelle tried to get up on her elbows, tried to raise her head.

  The lunks were through the door in seconds, and then upon her, dragging her from the bed.

  Perhaps she screamed. She couldn’t remember. The Tranquilium …

  If she had screamed, if she had made any sound, it was heard by no one.

  There were two lunks, dressed in the uniforms of Government laborers. One held her in his thick arms while the other tore open a closet door. He grunted something and reached inside.

  Quickly, the two lunks wrapped Estelle Gilcrest in her own blankets and carried her out.

  Just beyond the door to her private room ran a small corridor. At the end of this corridor stood another lunk, dressed as were his confederates.

  “Well done, brothers,” said Giles, motioning with his left hand. In his right was a s
nub-rifle.

  The lunks followed Giles down another short run of corridor, their burden by this time as though lifeless within the heavy blankets.

  Giles led them to a service pneumatic, whose sliding doors stood open and unguarded.

  “Quickly, brothers,” Giles whispered, indicating for them to step inside before him. Then, looking about one last time, Giles joined them in the pneumatic. He touched the control rod.

  “You see?” Giles leaned back against the cushioned interior, held the snub-rifle close to his chest. “You see? Our friend has come through for us, just as I promised. The woman’s private room, this fine conveyance … both unguarded.”

  The lunks nodded.

  Giles stepped forward, drew aside one of the blanket folds. Estelle Gilcrest’s face was ashen, her lips slack from fear and the remaining effects of the Tranquilium.

  He prodded her with the nose of his rifle. She stirred in the blankets, and her small eyes held him.

  “Don’t be afraid, Mrs. Gilcrest,” he said, smiling. “Think of this as an adventure.” He looked from the faces of his confederates back to hers. “An historic adventure …”

  The pneumatic reached the streets of the city in moments, and the lunks bore their hostage away.

  The Tactics Room was a swell of voices. The ministers and their associates and assistants crowded the table, or else stood in small groups in different corners of the room. A thick haze floated above the activity, the product of synthetic tobacco. A communications module had been erected at one section of the chamber, by which various Government members could relay and receive messages from outside the labyrinth.

  Gilcrest surveyed the room in thoughtful silence for a few minutes, then turned to Bowman.

  “Are you familiar with the word ‘convention,’ Jake? As applied to a political gathering?”

  Bowman shook his head.

  Gilcrest snorted and gestured to the milling assembly. “You are now,” he said. “All that’s missing are the balloons and the dancing girls.”

  Cassandra, standing just behind the old man, leaned in. “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  Bowman watched the smile edging Cassandra’s lips. He wouldn’t have thought a Guardian susceptible to Gilcrest’s obvious bluster. Still, this one was—