Electric Church ac-1

by Jeff Somers

  Shutting my eyes, I got ready. I could hear Moje and his men sorting themselves out, coming closer. I stashed my backup in one pocket and thought if I couldn’t do it, I wasn’t going down without a fight. And I thought, If a Monk were to somehow pop up out of nowhere and offer me salvation, save me from having to pay for twenty-six dead people and a slew of other crimes, I’d do it in a heartbeat. Taking a deep breath, I began calculating angles, probable entries, and how I would approach me if I were wearing ObFu Kit that made me blend into the walls.

  I picked my spot-a section of wall where the mortar between bricks had chipped away, leaving shadowy gaps-and launched myself at it. I managed to cram two f-ingers into one of the gaps and get one foot hooked on the tiny ledge. Heart pounding, I pulled and pushed and pushed myself up until I was almost standing, pressed up against the slick wall.

  I twisted and stretched out one trembling arm for the manhole cover. Almost… almost… with sweat running into my eyes, I gathered myself for one final effort when there was a scrape from above. I froze, swiveling just my eyeballs up to look. The manhole shifted, then tore away, revealing the dark blue night sky. A pale and ridiculously genial face, hidden behind fashionable sunglasses, appeared over the rim. I stared in complete speechless shock.

  “Come on,” Dick Marin said. “I’ll pull you up. I don’t have all day; I’m about to deliver a speech to A-Level SSF chiefs in Sydney.”

  XV

  CONSIDER THIS YOUR HEALTH PROGRAM

  00101

  I stared up at Marin, my whole body quivering with effort. His pale face disappeared, and a sturdy-looking rope slithered down toward me.

  “Come on. I’ll pull you up.”

  The splashing and shouting of Moje and his Stormers straightened itself out-they were on my trail again and getting closer. Probably using heat-tracking goggles: I only had a few seconds. I stared at Marin’s rope in disbelief. What the fuck is the King Worm doing in Newark? How does he think he’s going to pull me up?

  “Cates! Come on! I don’t have time for your existential bullshit.”

  I shivered, shaking off inaction. I reached up with my free hand and took hold of the rope. It felt oddly slippery and surprisingly strong. I looked back the way I’d come, Moje and his men so loud I couldn’t believe they hadn’t arrived yet, the acoustics of the sewers making them sound much closer than they were. I wrapped the rope around my forearm a few times and gripped it, giving it a strong pull to judge it, and looked back up at the director of SSF Internal Affairs.

  “Whatever you’ve got up your-”

  Marin pulled with a grunt, lifting me off my feet. To my amazement, I rose steadily upward. Within seconds I flopped on the damp, ruined streets of Newark again. I looked up at Marin. He stood grinning in an ObFu Kit; my eyes ached looking at him. The ObFu shimmered in the night, his head seeming to float disembodied in the air.

  He had a length of cable wrapped around his waist. My eyes moved beyond him, where a shining, unmarked SSF hover sat on the street, running lights still on. The cable led to a winch on the rear of the hover. The motherfucker had simply used the winch to pull himself-and by extension, me-away from the manhole.

  I released my grip on the cable as he untied himself with a quick motion, and the cable snapped back as the winch collected the slack. “Come on, Mr. Cates. Your friends won’t get out of the sewers for a few moments, and I’d rather not be seen here. I’ll give you a lift.”

  Without waiting for a response, Marin turned smartly and marched back to the hover. I lay panting in the mud and rocks, wet up to my shoulders, bowels loose and legs shaky. Without exaggeration, I figured if I hadn’t been able to push up the manhole and pull myself up, I’d been about fifteen seconds away from death. I might have gotten one of the Stormers, maybe even two in an incredible burst of luck. But I’d never have gotten two Stormers and Moje.

  “What about Moje?” I gasped, pushing myself up to my knees.

  “I do not personally worry too much about Colonel Moje. Get in. It’s better for me politically if I’m not seen here, and it’ll enhance your reputation.”

  I struggled to my feet and walked shakily to the hover, betting on Moje’s not having an easy way up out of the sewers. It was a small vehicle, big enough for two or three people and some gear. I climbed into the cockpit next to Marin and the doors sealed behind me. The inside was spotless, painfully clean.I sat dripping and reeking and felt angry at myself for soiling something so perfect, so beautiful.

  Marin put the hover into motion and we rose into the air like a bubble. I barely felt anything. The SSF always had the best tech. Kieth might sneer at it for being two years out of date, but the endless supply of spotless, perfectly working tech the SSF had was awesome, beautiful in its perfection after the rusty, cobbled-together shit I had to make do with. Looking at the hover was like squinting into the sun of power and wealth.

  “Where to, Cates? Anywhere in the general area. This unit won’t take us cross-country or over large bodies of water, but within reason I can take you anywhere.”

  I looked at him. Marin cocked his head as if listening to someone in the rear seat, and then smiled, one of his sudden grins. One second he was squinting into space, the next he was beaming.

  “Cates, you’re an employee of mine, more or less. I told you I’d be keeping tabs and helping out where I could. That arrogant fuck Moje is lazy, and he uses SSF channels to organize his team for his superlegal adventures. I happened to be within a hop skip and a jump of here, so I thought I’d glance in on things. And down there your heat signature was like a bright light moving underground, so I just tracked you until you were underfoot. No mystery. Besides, several of the other assets I’ve put in play on this project have already been terminated. Sloppy work, mostly.” He looked at me out of the corner of his eye for a second, and I got the message: Getting trapped in the goddamn sewers of Newark, of all places, was pretty sloppy, too. “So I thought I’d preserve you to fight another day.”

  I gritted my teeth. “I was seconds away from extricating myself without assistance.”

  Marin grinned. “You’re welcome.” Without warning his face became grave again. “Two Stormers, huh? Not bad.”

  “Lucky shots,” I said tiredly. “ObFu doesn’t help if you’re splashing around.”

  Inside the hover it was easier to make out the outlines of Marin’s body, though a casual glance made it look like his head and hands were floating.

  “Where to, then?”

  I thought about it. I was on my own until I could get the team back together in London-assuming they made it that far-and I had no prospects or contacts in Newark. “Back to New York, I guess,” I said slowly. “Moje is here and will probably spend at least a few hours making sure I’m not around. Plus all my best contacts are in New York.”

  A few more seconds than I thought natural went by before he nodded in stages, curtly and jerkily. “New York it is,” he stuttered, as if everything were coming to him in waves. I wondered if Marin were having a stroke, and eyed the controls of the hover nervously.

  I swallowed. “Thank you.”

  After a moment, he snorted. “Like I said, you’re an employee. Consider this your Health Program.”

  I stared dumbly out the side window, watching what was left of Newark drift by. Health Program. You couldn’t even get near a hospital without one. If you were rich enough or lucky enough or something enough to get enrolled in one, they surgically implanted a chip under your scalp. Every hospital and doctor scanned for chips on a constant basis, and if you didn’t scan with one, you didn’t get near. Some of the best-defended places in New York were hospitals, with private armies keeping people like me away. Gutshot by some asshole junkie, sliced by our psychotic, alcoholic wife, or just slipped and fell, shattering a shoulder, it didn’t matter. No chip, no service.

  There was, of course, a thriving black market for the chips. The real pros kept the true owner of the chip prisoner, hidden, alive or-better-dead, in order
to prolong the life of the chip, which was naturally red-flagged when its registered owner turned up dead, or was found by the SSF with a cracked skull and a surgical scar. Even so, you could make a lot of money with nonguaranteed chips whose legit owners were still alive and on the loose. Desperate times, and all that.

  “I have some news for you, Cates,” Marin said suddenly.

  “News?”

  “Your friend, Barnaby Dawson. He’s been converted.”

  I blinked dully. “Converted?” I blinked again. I sat upright in the seat. “He’s a fucking Monk?”

  Marin nodded once, mechanically, cocking his head, listening to unseen people again. “A few hours ago. We were tracking him, of course, but something went wrong. He’s the first SSF officer to ever convert to the Electric Church-although technically he was no longer SSF. It’s a PR nightmare, let me tell you. When he emerges tomorrow as Brother Dawson, the Vids are going to have a field day with it.”

  I sat back in the seat again. “Holy shit.” I felt heavy and tired, numb. I kept thinking that we’d barely even begun the job and I was exhausted. I’d come within an inch of being killed.

  I didn’t look at Marin. “You know the Electric Church is paying Moje to harass me. To eliminate me.”

  He nodded. “Of course. But my difficulty is that, officially, I have no probable cause to act against the Church. So, officially, Colonel Moje is doing nothing wrong-you being a known criminal. I am currently powerless to officially halt Moje’s activities. I could back-channel him-there are a hundred IA investigations I could launch, suspending him immediately and making that piece of shit disappear into a Blank Room forever. But that would tip my hand, and I’m not ready to do that yet.”

  I kept staring ahead. “I don’t understand a single fucking thing about that.”

  Marin nodded again. “We all have our limitations, Mr. Cates.”

  The rest of the flight was a blur. I dozed in my seat, itching in my drying clothes. Marin said nothing more, although he hummed to himself quite a bit, and occasionally I imagined his hums were murmured words, as if he were responding to people who were not there.

  Suddenly he stiffened and went silent. For a few seconds he remained that way, and I wondered if I was going to have to deadhead the hover onto the ground by myself while Marin twitched and raved in the back. Then he convulsed, a gentle, wavelike spasm through his whole body, and turned his head to me in a single sharp movement.

  “I have some more bad news, Mr. Cates,” he said, turning the hover in a smooth arc. “New York is on fire.”

  My sudden ennui shattered. I sat up straight in my seat. “What?”

  “Food riot started in Battery Park yesterday. An insufficient SSF force was sent in to subdue it, and the arrogant fucks did what they always do, tried to overawe the rioters with force. Two SSF officers were killed in the ensuing melee. Over five hundred citizens were killed as well, but apparently two dead System Cops were enough to inspire everyone, and the unrest has spread throughout most of the island. The SSF is holding the crossings by force right now.”

  I rubbed my eyes. “Goddamn it,” I muttered. “That complicates things.”

  Riots never lasted. A bunch of starving, ignorant people throwing rocks couldn’t last long against the System Pigs, especially when the Stormers landed and brought in the hovers. But they could do a lot of damage in the meantime. I’d lived through three riots so far. One had lasted three days, and the stupid fucks had even elected a mayor to speak for them. He was dead now. It hadn’t been pretty.

  “I’m afraid this means I can’t take you directly into New York,” Marin continued. We were nearing Manhattan. I could see black smoke billowing into the air. “I can get you in close, up north-island, but that’s it. You’ll have to make your own way south, if south is where you need to go.”

  There wasn’t anything north of Seventieth Street anymore in Manhattan. The Riots-The Riots-had razed huge tracts of the city to the ground, just like in Newark. I turned to study Dick Marin, the King Worm, sitting just a foot or two away from me, calm and silent-but smiling, for no reason I could detect.

  We started our descent. “A word of advice, Mr. Cates: Be on your toes. Colonel Moje has almost certainly made your name known to every SSF officer in the area. You’re wanted in several outstanding investigations, so there is no legal problem with arresting, molesting, or murdering you. But when a brother System Cop puts up someone’s name onto the wire, everyone’s enthusiasm level rises accordingly, do you understand?”

  I nodded glumly.

  The hover set down on the river’s edge, grass waving in the displacement field, the worn-down remnant of a foundation not too far away, the sky filled with black smoke and light flakes of ash drifting everywhere. I took a moment to take stock. My team was scattered, I’d just had my ass saved by the biggest System Pig in the world, I had every other SSF officer in the area carrying my picture in his wallet, and the last cop I’d tried to kill was by now probably sporting a fission heart and a digital uplink to the Electric Church. I was in fine form. I was taking home the door prizes. I was beginning to think twenty-seven was where the Avery Cates train pulled into the station for good.

  “Mr. Cates? Get out now, please. I have a meeting with several Joint Council undersecretaries in a moment, and I’m sure this New York situation will be number one on the agenda.”

  I pushed open the door and stepped out of the hover. I shut the door behind me, but Marin clicked it back open.

  “Do you have a plan, Mr. Cates, or should I arrange flowers for your funeral?”

  A plan? I grinned at the King Worm. “I guess it’s back into the sewers for me, Dick.”

  XVI

  THE HAND OF GOD HIMSELF

  00000

  “Do you not tire of this empty struggle? Do you not long in your secret heart for peace? Does the cycle of suffering not cow you into desperation?”

  The Monk was pretty entertaining. It stood on a wooden box, preaching. It had been there three or four hours ago when I’d first emerged from the sewers into Longacre Square, the old unused roads splitting off in all directions. It didn’t move, it just kept preaching. The crowds, angry and as well-armed as they could manage, surged over everything they could, smashing and stealing and burning, but they gave the Monk a wide berth. I leaned back against the old statue of George Cohan (whoever the fuck he’d been) and smoked a found cigarette, my back aching from standing for so long. It was a beautiful day, sunny and clear. A perfect day to burn your city down to the ground.

  The SSF was establishing “order” block by block. They had air superiority and squads of Stormers on the ground, so it was only a matter of time. The riot had been going on for about twelve hours, would probably be suppressed in another twelve, and I felt sorry for anyone trapped in the poorer sections of the city once “order” was re-established. SSF punitive sweeps were pretty thorough.

  Across the street, the mob was smashing their way into one of the upper-class stores where the wealthy shopped. An SSF hover swooped into position with startling speed and a team of Stormers dropped from it on thin cables. I faded back, edging into shadow. It always upset the System Pigs when some of their own got killed. The accepted wisdom being that you could never let the poor fucks think they could actually kill a System Cop. People had to believe that the hand of God Himself would reach down and squash them if so much as a drop of SSF blood spilled. The hand of God here taking the form of a hover, some Stormers, and a group of hapless Crushers who double-timed into the square to form a ring around the firefight, facing outward to guard the Stormers’ backs.

  The Monk had also disappeared, but I ignored that. I wasn’t interested in the Monk. I was tracking Kev Gatz’s old roommate, the Teutonic Fuck. Through him I expected to find his source for genetic augments, Marcel, who Gatz recommended for just about any illegal service.

  Kev had given me enough background on the German to start with, and even in the midst of a riot some of my contacts still
worked. Pickering’s was on a war footing, but was still selling terrible booze and information. Pick himself had come out from his little office, grunting along on comically skinny legs below his balloon body, to have a belt with me and grouse about the stupid fucks burning down the city.

  The Teutonic Fuck made his living and paid for his illegal gene-spliced augments by providing bodyguard services to other, slightly-higher-on-the-food-chain hoods. Like most augment-junkies, he was all flash and no sizzle. The augments that made him a huge, rippling mound of muscle left his bones weakened and his metabolism fatally compromised, meaning he was fragile as a bird and, while strong, easily winded. During moments of crisis like this, however, there was no need for his services because all the smart hoods were holed up in secure hiding places, waiting for the storm of SSF to pass them by. In such situations, the German made up his lost earnings by pulling mule duty for a few drug cookers. Since drug use of all kinds increased during times of severe social unrest, he was working overtime, following fixed routes on predictable schedules.

  As I watched, he emerged into the square with two companions, ignoring the slaughter happening a few hundred feet away. The German was easy to spy. He was between six and seven feet tall, unbelievably muscled. His arms stuck out from his sides slightly because he could not lower them any farther. He had no neck at all, just a tree trunk of tendons ending in a red, lumpy face. His hands were shovels. He carried a nasty-looking pump-action shotgun, old but serviceable, and his legs looked like they’d been carved out of stone. Like a lot of other crazy augment-junkies, he wore a skin-tight latex uniform to show it all off. He glanced at the group of exhausted-looking Crushers, and a few nodded back. At least the German’s bills were paid up.

  Everything twitched as he walked. There was nothing natural about gene-spliced muscles. One look at this moron and I knew he had about two years, maybe less, before some catastrophic genetic breakdown turned him into a pool of reddish pus. But he looked dangerous, and a lot of times that was all that you needed to get by. Everything was a fucking act. His two companions were oily, dirty women, obviously terrified. I’d be terrified, too, if I had enough drug condoms sewn into me to kill a fucking herd of elephants.