City Wars

by Dennis Palumbo

  “Cassandra,” he said quietly, “I’d like you to do something for me.”

  She could only nod.

  “I want you to go down to Records and pull the bio tapes on Hadrian. You might as well check up on that assistant of his, too … Wilkins. Okay?”

  “Now, sir?”

  “Yes. Right now.”

  “But, sir, with all respects, you can tap Records for that information yourself … right from this room.”

  “I’m aware of that, Guardian,” he said. “But all Records searches are logged, and I’d like this one kept confidential. Think you can slip in and out unobserved?”

  “Of course. And I’m sorry, sir.”

  He smiled, and she was touched by its warmth. “Just do as I ask. No reason why Hadrian should be the only one with tricks up his sleeve.”

  “Pardon, sir?”

  The old man chuckled as he walked her to the door. “An expression I heard once, when I was a boy. Leave it to me to date myself like that, and in front of an attractive young woman. Probably ruined my chances for sure.”

  She turned at the door and looked at him through lowered lashes.

  “Don’t be so sure, sir,” she said.

  He laughed again and watched her walk down the corridor and then turn out of sight.

  Gilcrest went back into his study and scanned the row of books on the shelves. He was looking for one in particular, one very old and —

  It was a slip of paper.

  Gilcrest bent closer, peered.

  The paper had been placed between two old volumes, with enough extending so that he’d be sure to see it. He pulled it out and opened it, knowing what it was before reading the words.

  They’d drawn a crude map, and written instructions on finding the place where his wife was being held. They wanted him to come alone, and again to tell no one of his journey.

  For a moment, he paused to wonder how they’d managed to spirit the message into his private rooms. But he let this thought go quickly. There was little time to do anything but act.

  He glanced at the map they’d provided. He was familiar with the area, as he was with almost every street and corner in the city. They’d chosen their hiding place well.

  Gilcrest crumpled the paper into a ball and dropped it on the carpet. Then he went to his bedroom, hurriedly changed to nondescript clothes, and signaled for his private car. Then he went out into the corridor and called to the sentry standing at the pneumatic.

  The sentry trotted over.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I wonder if you’d check the Alert Com light sequence at the end of Corridor D,” Gilcrest said. “I thought I noticed something flickering.”

  “Probably some circuit breakdown, sir. Shall I signal Engineering?”

  “Why don’t you run down and check it yourself first. It may be nothing.” Gilcrest smiled. “You know, I can’t always trust these old eyes of mine.”

  The sentry, fresh-faced and newly shaven, returned Gilcrest’s smile and saluted.

  “Back in a minute, sir.”

  After he’d disappeared around the corner, Gilcrest closed and sealed the entrance to his quarters and stepped into the pneumatic. With any luck, when the sentry returned to report the Alert Com in good order, he’d see the sealed doors and simply assume the Senior Minister had gone back to his study to work.

  The pneumatic sped up to street level. Gilcrest’s car had already been wheeled out of its stall. He nodded to the attendant holding the door for him, then slid into the driver’s seat. If the attendant thought it odd that Gilcrest was not utilizing a Government driver, he kept his musings to himself.

  The old man drove out of the garage, flicking the switch on the dash that tinted all four visors, concealing his features. Then, cautiously, he moved the unmarked Government vehicle into the flow of traffic.

  She’d scanned the Records bank twice, just to be sure. But there was no mistake. While the required information was available on Hadrian, Wilkins’ bio tape was incomplete. There was no record of his activities or whereabouts prior to joining Weapons Division.

  Cassandra was still pondering this as she came down the corridor, Hadrian’s tape under her arm. She found the sentry standing before the doors to Gilcrest’s chambers, shaking his head.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, I guess.” He jerked his thumb down the corridor, in the opposite direction from which she’d come. “Minister Gilcrest sent me to check the Alert Com, and when I got back, he’d gone to his rooms again. Even sealed the doors. You’d think he’d at least wait around for my report.”

  “Perhaps he’s working,” she said absently. “Don’t worry about it. Go back to your post.”

  The sentry nodded and retreated.

  Cassandra hesitated only a moment. Then she inserted her passkey and unlocked the sealing mechanism, releasing the doors.

  A quick check through his chambers confirmed her suspicions. The Minister was gone. Something about the sentry’s story hadn’t sounded right. Gilcrest was not given to worrying about minor electrical malfunctions.

  She went into the study and put down the Hadrian tape. Government ministers rarely left the labyrinth, and to do so without the protection of a Guardian was—

  Then she saw the wad of paper on the carpet. She bent and flattened it out in her palm, quickly read the few terse lines. The old man’s actions made perfect sense now.

  She looked at her watch, tried to estimate how much of a head start Gilcrest had gotten. At least twenty minutes.

  Cassandra studied the hand-drawn map the kidnappers had provided, committing it to memory. Then, crumpling it for the second time, she tossed it aside and headed for the door.

  They surrounded him, filling the room with their number. They didn’t speak directly to him, yet were always talking, murmuring among themselves in that terrible throaty whisper. Talking about him.

  Gilcrest hadn’t recalled the day being so windy. Yet the old building groaned all about him, and dust fell occasionally, and he felt chilled.

  He didn’t know people lived in this area of the city, not anymore. Government could ill afford to rebuild the whole of Chicago, so prime sectors had been selected for redevelopment. This place, this ghetto, hadn’t known new mortar, new steel, or the freshness of an architect’s perspective in over half a century.

  But this was where the rebels lived. The rebel lunks.

  For the first time, Gilcrest felt shame as well as fear. What would that old book have said? That sins would be visited upon him …

  He shuffled his feet, trying to keep warm. He could hardly believe it was just midafternoon, so dim and cool was the room.

  The lunks made no move toward him, merely continued whispering among themselves. What was it they were saying? No, they weren’t just talking. There was a rhythm, a cadence. And it was getting louder.

  Gilcrest jerked up his head, as though the recognition jolted him.

  They were chanting.

  “Heads must raise,

  Our heads must raise—

  Eyes have life,

  Our eyes have life—”

  Something in their chanting made Gilcrest realize that he might possibly not leave this place alive.

  Abruptly, the chanting ceased.

  Broken whispers, excited, breathless.

  Gilcrest looked up as the circle of lunks parted to admit a strikingly clear-eyed young lunk in a thick coat.

  “Welcome, Minister Gilcrest,” the young one said, trying hard as he smiled not to let his features droop. From his stance, the careful movement of his arms, it was apparent the young lunk was concentrating very intensely to maintain motor control. Gilcrest made a point of not pitying him.

  “I have come,” the old man said. “As requested.”

  “As demanded—! As demanded by the lunks.”

  “Very well,” Gilcrest said. “To whom am I speaking, then?”

  “I am called Giles by my brothers and sisters. You may use th
at name as well.”

  “All right. Giles.” Gilcrest selected his next words with care. The circle of lunks had closed around him again. “I have come in good faith into your domain. I expect now to be assured of my wife’s safety.”

  Giles took a measured step. “We are not greatly interested in what you expect, Lord Gilcrest.”

  “I am a Government minister.”

  “Minister, lord, master … they are all the same word. They all signify the same perversion of justice and freedom.”

  Gilcrest said, “I am sure that in many ways your actions are justified, but my wife is—”

  “Your wife!” Giles raised an arm, as though to swing. Gilcrest had never seen—had never even imagined—a lunk given to rage.

  Giles steadied his voice. “Your wife, Lord Gilcrest, is safe. Quite safe. And quite hidden.”

  “But your mesage said—”

  “We have,” Giles exclaimed suddenly, and gestured in a way that included the silent creatures surrounding them; “we have a list of demands, Lord Gilcrest. Demands that deal precisely and concretely with correcting an injustice. That address themselves to eliminating a perversion. For it is time, great master of our destinies … Even you, in that hole from which you and your kind rule—even you must see that the time has come. For my brothers and sisters in this room … for all lunks throughout the city.”

  Gilcrest was only vaguely aware that the chanting had begun again. Softly, insistently.

  Giles came about to face him. A darkness seemed to have fallen in the room, and shadows hid much of the lunk’s expression. But Gilcrest could feel the hatred.

  “How long,” Giles said quietly, “did you expect us to wait? How long did Government think lunks would wait for equal status in Chicago, free and equal status with Urbans…?”

  “Lunks are free citizens—”

  “Lunks are free, yes! But we are not citizens. We are not educated, our wounds are not treated, the very sickness that marks us goes unhealed.”

  “The doctors—”

  “And yet greater still—!” cried Giles, voice trembling—“greater still is the pain of not knowing hope, not knowing dreams, not harboring for oneself a single wish other than for the peace of death. Death, Lord Gilcrest! The only peace for lunks.”

  Giles moved away from the old man, regarded him. In his fervent emotion, the young lunk had begun to lose control of his limbs. Only now could Gilcrest hear the self-loathing that underscored Giles’ voice.

  “But we are free,” Giles was saying, his head bobbing. “As you say, Minister. Lunks are indeed free. Free to wait on tables, carry the bricks to build your city. Free to sweep and haul and tend to the disposal of Urban waste … I could only wish for you one day of such freedom. Such pathetic freedom.”

  Gilcrest waited, but Giles appeared to be finished. He stepped back into the circle, joining his brothers and sisters. And then he was chanting too, and with every breath the volume rose.

  “Lunks will no more welcome death!

  Lunks will no more welcome death!”

  The circle drew closer. Someone had blackened whatever source of light there’d been. The room seemed to shrink into darkness.

  “Listen to me!” Gilcrest cried. “Listen, Giles. All of you! I don’t deny the injustice you’ve known. I swear to God, I know it for what it is. But there’s nothing—”

  They’d closed in around him. Great hands touched him, pawed his clothes. He couldn’t make out faces, features.

  “I’m part of Government,” he said, turning from one faceless tormentor to another, “but I am not Government itself. These demands—I can take them to the ministers, I can argue your cause. But I must tell you the truth, and you must value it. You’ve known lies all your life, I won’t give you more. And I’m telling you, there’s no way these demands will even be considered, let alone met. Not now. Not with the war coming—”

  “Lunks will no more welcome death

  Lunks will no more welcome death

  Lunks will—”

  He heard Giles’ voice above the chanting.

  “Your war, Minister. Not ours.”

  “But this city is yours! Its fate is your fate—”

  Gilcrest squinted frantically in the gloom, tried to find the young lunk’s voice. With Giles he might—there was a chance he could reason—

  The chant droned on, louder still.

  Gilcrest was thrashing, pushing at the hands touching him everywhere.

  “Giles—listen, please! Listen to me! If we can reason this out, if we can—Giles, you can come with me! I’ll bring you to Government, bring you and your demands. Maybe … I can’t promise … but maybe together we—”

  Then Gilcrest heard a scream echo through his mind, and knew it to be his, the scream of his own agony, his own death.

  The heavy wooden plank had been swung with much force and took most of the side of his head off.

  The old man’s lifeless body collapsed against the closed cell formed of his tormentors, their arms unwittingly catching him as he fell.

  Giles cried out. “No!!!”

  The lunks, terrified, shrank back, their brave chant silenced. Gilcrest’s blood had splattered their arms, chests, dead faces.

  Giles was moving among them, shoving, winding through the maddened lurch of their bodies. He lumbered across the room, pulled down the heavy tarpaulin covering the largest window.

  Light splashed the room.

  They saw Gilcrest’s body lying on the floor, legs folded under him, blood soaking the floorboards red all about.

  Giles watched his fellow rebels swaying in the pale light, as though suddenly without balance, their hands clutching desperately for the anchor of the walls behind them.

  Only one man stood in the middle of the room, still holding the wooden plank.

  Giles came away from the window. The tarpaulin dropped from his awkward hands with a rustle that seemed jarring in the heavy silence.

  The man who was standing tossed the plank on the floor in front of Giles. It clattered at the feet of the rebel lunk. It was thick with blood.

  Giles looked from it up to the man standing across from him.

  Giles said one word. “Why?”

  “Because,” Wilkins answered, “I’m your friend.”

  “Friend,” Giles said evenly.

  “Of course.” Wilkins rubbed the bridge of his nose, where his eyeglasses rested. “Wasn’t I responsible for your safe passage into and out of Mrs. Gilcrest’s private chambers? Didn’t I tell you when to take her; didn’t I make sure there were no sentries, no interference of any kind …?”

  “Yes. Yes.” Giles’ frustration made his words come with a choking sound. “Yes. All so that we could bring Gilcrest here, frighten him, get him to listen to our demands—”

  “Oh, yes. That, too.” Wilkins smiled. “I’d almost forgotten the way I left that second note where the old bastard would be sure to find it. He was so busy trading insults with Hadrian, he didn’t notice me doing it. Yes, all in all, I think I’ve been quite a good friend to the lunks.”

  “But don’t you see what you’ve done?” Giles exclaimed. “The plan was working. He was frightened, he was about to give us what we wanted. He said he’d take me to Government, my brothers and I, and—”

  He covered his face with his hands. He started to cry. “Why?” he whispered, the harsh whisper of a lunk. “Why did you kill Gilcrest?”

  “So that rebel lunks would be blamed for the death,” Wilkins replied matter-of-factly. “I should think that rather obvious. Even to a lunk.”

  He turned to the silent creatures staring at him from the far side of the room.

  “The police will have to be notified, of course,” he told them. “They’ll probably start rounding up all the lunks in the area. I’d consider running away from this place as fast as you can.”

  Giles lowered his hands. His face was tear-streaked, vivid in its fury.

  Hesitantly at first, then more quickly, the lu
nks began leaving the room. The last of them were running, arms akimbo, scattering into the streets.

  In moments, Giles was standing alone with Wilkins in the old room, listening to the rumble of receding footsteps.

  Wilkins tilted his head quizzically.

  “Why aren’t you running with them, Giles?” he said. “You’re the freak among lunks, aren’t you? The one born with a brain, with the will to hate and to want. Then you ought to at least have sense enough to get out while you can.”

  Giles merely kept staring at him.

  “Run, Giles,” Wilkins said. “Into the streets, into the slums and the trash yards. Run and take your place with your brothers and sisters.”

  Giles did not run.

  He bent suddenly, took up the heavy plank, raised it over his head. His cry was thick with anguish as he rushed toward Wilkins—

  12

  As far as she could tell, the building was deserted. Cassandra moved cautiously toward the unmarked side door, its face weathered and stained. Someone had tried, unsuccessfully, to scrub the words “Lunks Eat Shit” off its pale green wood.

  The door was unlocked, and swung open easily. Beyond it ran a dismal, unlit hallway, criss-crossed with fallen support beams.

  Something dark and plump scurried up one of the beams at her approach. Cassandra stepped adroitly over the beam and headed for another open door.

  She peered into the room. Dust swirled before a cool curtain of sunlight thrown from one large window across from where she stood. She made no sound as she walked on the uneven floorboards.

  The first body she saw was that of a young lunk. She hadn’t been sure at first, because of the colorful coat thrown over his head and shoulders. She knelt beside the body, examined it quickly, expertly. The lunk’s neck had been broken.

  Beside the body lay a bloodied length of wood, perhaps the instrument of death.

  Cassandra carefully replaced the coat and got up.

  A dozen feet away, another form lay covered by a thick tarpaulin. A trail in the dust told her it had been dragged from somewhere near the large window.

  She went over to the tarpaulin, pulled it aside.