City Wars

by Dennis Palumbo

  She almost didn’t recognize him. Then she bent closer, lay her head against Gilcrest’s chest.

  Cassandra allowed herself to cry.

  There were footsteps marching determinedly behind her. Voices.

  Cassandra had just drawn the tarpaulin back over Gilcrest’s body. She turned now to face two armed sentries, their faces as hard-edged as the armored lines of their Service rifles.

  Cassandra readied herself, then hesitated. She knew she could drop both men where they stood before either could fire his weapon. But still she hesitated.

  They were Government sentries. The function of a Guardian was to serve Government.

  She found the words.

  “Minister Gilcrest has been murdered. Alert Police.”

  One of the sentries spoke, motioning with his weapon. “Our orders, are to return you to the labyrinth and confine you to quarters for the duration of this emergency.”

  “By whose authority?”

  “That of Minister Hadrian’s, Guardian.”

  “You mean he’s—?”

  “Come along, please.” Neither sentry seemed aware of the two bodies in the room. Cassandra stared at their lean faces, the whiteness of their skin against the dark Service collars.

  Again the sentry said, “Come along, please.”

  She took only a moment to consider. Then, with a last look at the covered figure of Minister Gilcrest on the cold floor, she surrendered to the sentries.

  It was like nothing he’d imagined. Great mounds of newly formed rock, lava-spawned, dotted the mid-western terrain. Everywhere was the blackness of fire-hardened earth. There were valleys cut in the land shelf, steaming lakes of radioactive residue.

  There were no signs of life. Debris riddled the plains, scattered by the winds. Swollen hunks of metal, long pitted by the elements of man and nature, piled up as refuse, grim reminders of the towns and communities that had once been.

  And above and throughout the wasteland hung the haze, gray and endless and thick, its entrails poking amid the ruins, its grayness blanketing all and sparing nothing.

  Bowman could not get above the haze, not in the two-seater. He had to cling to its underside, a forced witness to the awesome spectacle of destruction below.

  He didn’t know how long he’d been in the air. Once beyond the outer boundary of Chicago, Bowman had concentrated on little else but his radiation indicators and sweep scanners. And focusing his attention on the bright arena of lights and dials in his cockpit helped keep his mind from dealing with the jumble of thoughts that crowded it. Thoughts about Cassandra, and what she’d come to mean to him; about old man Gilcrest; about the very city in whose defense Bowman now soared through an unfamiliar sky. Two days before, standing at Cassandra’s picture window, Chicago had seemed strangely alien, unapproachable; as though capable of assuming meaning to its citizens only as they sustained the meaning in their own lives.

  Which brought him, as it had a dozen times, back to Meyerson. Phil Meyerson, who’d seemed in life almost a caricature, yet whose death suggested parallels Bowman couldn’t make himself deny.

  He stirred in the cramped cockpit.

  Crazy bastard! Oughtta know better than to let your mind go all over goddam Creation when you’ve got the gig all laid out for you. It’s so easy. It’s always been so easy. The buttons to push, the knobs to turn, the dials to read. Just do it, for Christ’s sake! That’s what you are, that’s all there is. All you have to do is …

  Bowman took a full scan of the area. No problems. Same as before. He was almost used to it by now, the ruptured earth, the scattered remnants of homes and lives, the great sea of ash that rolled to the sun.

  The buttons to push, the knobs to turn—

  Back in Chicago, back in the labyrinth, they’d be waiting for his transmission, waiting for whatever information he could provide as to New York City’s defense systems, the topography of its immediate surroundings, any estimate as to its fleet strength. He’d have to get in pretty close. Risky, but necessary. There were five fully armed Air Service cruisers waiting to lift off and follow in his wake. Maybe something he’d transmit back would get them inside faster, enable them to unload and get out before New York’s scanners could pick them up, target-read their emissions, signal anti-aircraft weapons …

  Always been so easy. The buttons to push, the—

  He was tired of the games his mind was playing. He was Service, pure Service, and he could make them stop. His hands were at the controls, he knew his objective. He would make the games stop.

  All you have to do is …

  He checked his guidance module. His flight vector was stable. Ahead lay many more miles of ruin, and beyond that, the city of New York.

  The enemy.

  “I’m sorry, Minister,” Hadrian said in reply to another question from the conference table. “Our information is just too sketchy to answer you with any degree of certainty.”

  It seemed to many of the ministers of Government assembled in the Tactics Room that Hadrian had lost some of his sharpness of tone since assuming temporary chairmanship. His thin hands were spread on the table, and he looked out at their long, frightened faces with hollowed eyes.

  “I’m not ashamed to tell you that the very suddenness of this outrage is what has shaken me,” he said. “And all of you … well, I’m sure all of you share with me the most profound sense of loss at the death of our eldest minister, Andrew Williamson Gilcrest. His record of service to this Government, his love for Chicago are known to all. And yet, more shocking to me even than the tragedy of his death, is the knowledge of its perpetration at the hands of rebellious lunks.”

  He turned to Mr. Wilkins and gestured for a thin folder in the assistant’s hands.

  “Our earliest reports,” Hadrian went on, “appear to confirm that a group of militants among the lunks has been plotting against Government for some time. We hear of such fanatics all the time, of course, and perhaps it is to our shame that we’ve never treated the problem with the seriousness it obviously deserves. And now …” He tossed the folder onto the table. All eyes were on it as it slid thirty inches on the polished surface before coming to a stop. “And now, in some insane attempt to cripple Government, these rebels have struck down our most respected member.

  “Ironically, our sources report further that the rebel leader behind the slaying, a lunk known to his followers only as Giles, has himself been killed, apparently by one of his own kind.”

  Hadrian straightened with effort, and his eyes were gray with reflection.

  “Often it seems that tragedy strikes when it can be borne least, and now is such a time, with our enemy New York openly against us. Wiser men than I have said that it is the way of the cities to bring down war upon each other. Well, perhaps that is the way things are. But rather than let this great loss weaken us at a time when our transgressors are at our very walls, we should instead have a new resolve. We should see to it that the retaliation which our late Senior Minister had now come fully to support be carried out as soon as possible.”

  Hadrian paused, nodding to Wilkins. The slender man bowed stiffly and hurried out of the chamber.

  The assembly buzzed with concern. Someone called for increased security measures, against the event of another rebel assassination. Another rose and voiced his agreement with Hadrian, and asked that the retaliatory strike time be moved forward. The Minister of Police offered a second to that motion.

  Hadrian said nothing during this last exchange, but watched with folded arms as Government voted to approve an action which Wilkins had already been sent to initiate.

  Two levels below that of the main hive of Government, Communications officer Roberts was receiving his new orders.

  “The Air strike lift-off has been pushed up,” Wilkins said, pointing to a wall module. “Minister Hadrian wants the cruisers fully armed and ready in thirty minutes.”

  The other man frowned. “Sir, I was given orders to relay any transmission from Colonel Bowman’
s re-con mission upstairs, prior to authorizing a strike.”

  Wilkins peered through his glasses at the stoic-faced young officer. “Those orders have been countermanded as of this moment. The attack is to commence in thirty minutes.”

  “Yes, sir.” Roberts shrugged and began keying a new set of disembarkment instructions into the com.

  “Oh, sir?” Roberts had an afterthought, as Wilkins was turning away.

  “Yes?”

  “What of Colonel Bowman’s transmission, sir? We have a channel open for it.”

  “Close it, Lieutenant. Whatever information the Colonel might have given us is quite useless now.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  William hated seeing his mother cry.

  “You’re not mad at me, are you, Mom?” He touched a tentative finger to her red cheek.

  “No, I’m not mad at you.” Clemmie took his hand in hers, drew him to her breast. “No, I’m not mad at you.”

  “I shouldn’ta told you. It’s all my fault.”

  “That’s not true. I would have seen it anyway. Sooner or later.”

  “Well …” He looked down. “Now I’m just sorry I had to be the one. I thought it was important.”

  She nodded. “It was. You did the right thing.” Clemmie managed a smile. “We don’t punish bearers of bad news anymore. If we did, we’d all be tossing bombs at our Media screens.”

  William returned his mother’s smile and embraced her.

  “Tell me,” she said. “Did Media say anything more about Mr. Meyerson?”

  “No. Just that he’d been found … uh … you know …” William squirmed in his mother’s arms. “They said Police would be questioning any lunks in the area. Y’know, ’cause of what happened to old man Gilcrest.”

  “Media’s had quite a week,” Clemmie said, more to herself than to William.

  William shifted position again.

  “Okay,” Clemmie said, kissing him brusquely before releasing him. “You can go watch.”

  “Aren’t you coming, Mom? They said any minute now!”

  She waved a hand. “Go on, go on. I’ll be right behind you.”

  William raced out onto the terrace, waving his arms. Clemmie got up from the small couch and followed, bending to take her lyre from its special niche in the wall.

  She went through the glass and stood behind her son on the terrace. They were just in time to see the take-off. The siren had sounded moments before, cascading off the walls of the city, scattering Urbans before it. And though she’d stayed inside most of the day, anchored by that same numbing depression she’d felt the night before in the diner, now she couldn’t help but look out at what was happening in Chicago. She couldn’t help but watch as Urbans flocked to every corner, to every curb, pointing to the sky, waiting, waiting.

  They were not denied their spectacle.

  From deep in the bowels of the earth they came, the great cruisers, the Chicago emblem on their hulls. Steadily they rose from their berths, poised, engines crying; then, armadalike, the war cruisers soared beyond the outskirts of the city, heading east, cheered by the Urbans below, as though propelled not by fuel but rather the collective will of the people.

  William stood transfixed. He didn’t see his mother extend her long white hand over the terrace railing and let go of the lyre. He didn’t see it drop a dozen stories, to shatter with an almost profound silence on the gray pavement below.

  13

  Bowman glanced down at the scanner tray and frowned. The schematic had blurred to a dull green glow in the uncertain light of the cockpit. But there was no mistaking its readings.

  He looked up, a little dazed. Hesitating only a moment, Bowman turned the cruiser about and banked once more toward the horizon. The skyline beyond—awash with the blood-red light of sundown—stood like a row of silent sentinels, grim, beckoning.

  A warning.

  He found himself wishing he’d broken his own combat rule and taken aboard a kilo of crazydust. Getting in close enough for a prime-level scan of the city was just this side of lunatic. The crazydust could have pushed him over the edge.

  The ground sped along just beneath him, its broken maze of desolation in marked contrast to the sober—yet strangely majestic—image presented by the great metropolis ahead.

  Keeping the cruiser a scant fifty feet above ground was a precaution against New York’s defensive screens. Though this was not what concerned him. His preliminary scan, the schematic just fading in its tray, had shown no evidence of defensive systems. No scanner shields emanating from the city’s outer borders, no ion nets—nothing.

  Which was why Bowman had to get in close. Had 106 to verify by means of a prime-level scan that which logic refused to accept.

  Bowman was approaching the rim of the city. He set the scanner for automatic start. Instinctively, he hunched his shoulders and tightened his grip on the stick.

  New York rushed up from behind the grayness of sky, the sun red and deep at its back. The city was mortar and steel and glass and endless.

  The scanner went into phase.

  Bowman’s hand was frozen to the stick. He did not pull back.

  The cruiser sailed over the taller outer structures and entered the city.

  And then the horror was upon him.

  “Do you believe in destiny, Minister Weitzel?”

  The Minister of Commerce, chin propped up by two stubby fists, looked across the shimmering pool of iridescence and smiled crookedly.

  “I believe in everything, Minister Hadrian,” he said.

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. I’ve found it makes things easier. In the long run.”

  Hadrian laughed, uncoiling from the lounge chair. His hands played over the shimmering light pool like those of a pianist, fingers splayed. The cool fire fanned the hair on his forearms protruding from the purple robes.

  “The long run is exactly what I’m talking about,” he said.

  “I see.”

  “Of course you do. I counted on that, you know.” Hadrian lifted his gaze over Weitzel’s shoulder, met the even stare of the young Guardian standing there.

  “Would you mind excusing your Guardian, Weitzel? We’re discussing matters of some delicacy.”

  Weitzel nodded gravely. “That’s true. Yes, I can see that. However, Lynch is quite unobtrusive for the most part and—”

  “Guardians annoy me,” Hadrian said.

  Minister Weitzel found himself watching the movement of Hadrian’s hands.

  “Well, if you insist …”

  “Consider it a request.” Hadrian smiled.

  “Very well.” Weitzel waved a hand. “You’re excused, Lynch. Why don’t you go look up that fine piece Gilcrest was using.

  “Cassandra Ingram,” Lynch said quietly.

  “Yes, that’s the one.” Weitzel nodded at Hadrian. “Nice tits on her, eh, Minister?”

  Hadrian said nothing. Lynch gave Weitzel a stiff nod, then strode out of the room.

  Weitzel tested the lounge cushions behind him, settled back.

  “You were saying something, Minister Hadrian …”

  “Yes.” The other man drew his hands back into his robes. The pool of swirling light between the two men softened its hues, lost definition, faded. Earlier, Hadrian had complained to Weitzel of a stiffness in his fingers. The stiffness was now gone.

  The new head of Government stood and looked down at the Minister of Commerce.

  “We were speaking of destiny, of the natural order of things. The way of the cities, if you will.”

  “Many people use that term, Minister.”

  “But until now, no one has understood its implications. Not totally. Not as I do. And now circumstance has placed me in a position to act on my beliefs. On what I know to be the truth of things as they are.” He paused. “Do you follow me?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course. Well …”

  Hadrian went across the room and picked up a tape cartridge from a small bureau. He showed it to Weitzel.
r />   “Naturally, following the murder of Minister Gilcrest, we instigated a search of his rooms, in the hopes of finding out more about the circumstances of his death. Unfortunately, we found nothing of any use to us. What was discovered there, oddly enough, was this bio tape. The subject, Minister Weitzel, is me.”

  The other man didn’t know if he was supposed to look surprised.

  Hadrian went on: “I suppose we’ll never know why the Senior Minister had requested this tape. Perhaps he wished to learn more about his startling adversary in Government. If so, he would have learned none of the really important things from this tape.”

  Weitzel blinked, sat up on the lounge. “Adversary? I’d hardly call you an adversary, Minister Hadrian. You and Gilcrest disagreed, surely, but …”

  “Gilcrest was an old man, but not a fool. He knew me for what I was—a threat to him and his beliefs.” Hadrian looked off. “Gilcrest was that rarity among passionate Urbans, Weitzel. He had no wounds still left open by the War. Of course, he regretted bitterly the destruction and death all the cities suffered during the Leveling, but he felt no need for revenge, for retribution. He believed solely in rebuilding Chicago. Giving it the freedom to develop once more the technological, economic and cultural advantages of a civilized metropolis.”

  “My God, Hadrian,” Weitzel chuckled, full of wonder. “You sound as though you had studied the man, become an authority on him.”

  “You’re more astute than I would have thought, Weitzel.” Hadrian replaced the tape on the bureau.

  Weitzel began to feel uncomfortable.

  “Well, then, Minister,” he said carefully. “From what you say of Gilcrest, surely you could not have been adversaries. His dreams for Chicago are quite understandable. I, myself, share them … to a degree, of course. There were some Sector Redevelopment proposals of his with which I violently disagreed. Then there was—”

  “Gilcrest was only partially right,” Hadrian said suddenly. He looked past Weitzel, as though the Minister of Commerce need not have been in the room. “Development was essential, yes. But not as an end in itself. Chicago must be strong, must be secure. But then it must grow …”