by Tim Scott
“We’ll get her out of there. We’ll think of something.”
“Where are you headed?” said another cop, catching me as I opened a drongle hood.
“Twenty-third Avenue,” I said.
“Great. Hey, Harry. This one’s going to Twenty-third, over here.”
They clambered in and closed the door.
“Your lucky boxing stance today is southpaw,” said the drongle, “and your lucky light industry is the manufacture of nickel/steel bearings. For Health and Safety reasons, don’t die for no reason. What’s the point? Right?”
“Don’t die for no reason,” I said. “What kind of a slogan is that for a city?”
“Yeah, I preferred the old one: ‘Live life and eat more of the creamy center,’” said the cop called Harry.
“That wasn’t a slogan. That was an advert you had implanted,” the other cop said. He had a pockmarked nose.
“Was it?”
“Yeah. It was for cookies. Don’t you remember? You had it planted because you wanted some extra cash.”
“Oh. Well it was good, whatever it was. You didn’t have that one?”
“No, implanted adverts are bad for you. I read about it,” the one with the pockmarked nose said, shaking his head.
“They say everything is bad for you. Even food is bad for you, if you believe some things you read,” Harry replied.
“What sort of food?”
“All food.”
“How can all food be bad for you?”
“That’s what they said. All food contains stuff in it that is bad for you.”
“So what was the advice?”
“Make sure you select a reclinable chair from Randolf’s,” Harry said.
“What?”
“Make sure you—oh, no. That’s another advert I had implanted. I’m getting mixed up.”
“Your mind has gone. I could get more sense from a badger.” The cop with the pockmarked nose shook his head again.
The drongle crept forward as the crowd heading for the fireworks began to build up further.
“This thing is too slow,” I said, feeling powerless.
“What the hell was that?” said Harry, and he pointed to the sidewalk where the crowd was panicking.
A yellow blur gleamed in the evening lights, and there was a muted explosion as it hit the sidewalk. People began to scream as our drongle finally moved on.
“It’s a melon,” said the cop with the pockmarked nose. “Someone’s dropping melons from the roof again.”
“Oh, yeah,” said Harry and sat back in his seat.
The cops chattered on inanely for the rest of the journey but I tuned it all out, willing us through the traffic.
I felt raw emotion for Nena. She was someone that I knew, and yet had not met. I was no longer clinging on to the past with every fiber in my body, and she was the reason. I was willing to take a chance on the future. And I hadn’t done that for years.
We slid in through a set of gates and into a massive lot.
“Thank you for traveling in this police drongle. I hope you are able to make the world a safer place today. And please take a few minutes to sneer at the Chicago safety squirrel. It’s a piece of crap compared to Rusty Ragtail.”
I swung back the door and stepped out. The night was clear. Above rose a massive, gray building.
It was city hall.
chapter
ONE HUNDRED
As we approached the entrance, a gigantic picture of the mayor stared down smiling. Underneath were the words: “Stay safe for Mother New Seattle!”
We followed the other cops inside.
“Huck, think rationally about this. If we get caught now, we’re in an ocean of trouble,” said Gabe.
“I’m getting her out of there.”
“I know. I’m just saying don’t let your heart rule your head, okay?”
“Okay.”
The whole building was sleek and faceless, as though nothing that happened here would stick. Security was checking everyone in.
“There she is,” I said. Ahead, Nena was being dragged down a corridor. But first, we had to get past security. A cop with a smoke canister tucked into the back of his belt was standing just in front of us. I pulled the tag and then pushed him into the waiting line.
A red plume sprouted from his back and he fell, taking out another cop holding a riot shield.
It caused enough chaos for us both to slip into the heart of the building. We headed down the corridor, passing offices until we came to an internal lobby with a receptionist sitting behind the desk. “Which floor for the head hack rooms?” I said.
The girl looked up vaguely from painting her nails, then focused on something that clearly wasn’t us.
“Hi,” she said. “My name is Monica and this is city hall. How can I help you have a safe day today?”
“Hi. We’re looking for the head hack rooms. What floor would they be?”
“Would you like to speak to someone about our range of safety leaflets?”
“No thanks. We just need to know the floor.”
She had pretty, procelain features, as though she spent most of her days sitting here away from the sun, wrapped up in her own world.
“Top floor,” she said vaguely, and it occurred to me the thousand-yard stare didn’t actually originate from shell-shocked troops; it was something they picked up from watching receptionists who had been interrupted while painting their nails.
I felt a tightness in my throat as we stepped into the elevator.
“We were good at this once,” I said. “We broke in on hoods, prostitutes, and every kind of low-life scum this city has produced. Do we still have it in us?”
“You never forget, Huck.”
“No?”
“No. There are some things you never forget.”
“Yeah, you’re right about that,” I agreed.
The elevator doors opened and we stepped out on the top floor. People in white coats were wandering around. I tried the first door. It was a science laboratory. “My mistake,” I said as the people looked up. “What the hell was that?”
“That’s the place where they’ve been making the virus the fridge was storing. Right here in city hall.”
A little farther down we came to the head hack rooms. The corridor was busy, so we tried not to look out of place and we peered cautiously through the small windows. In one, there were five cops and about the same number of technicians. Nena was already strapped into a head hack chair. I edged the door open a touch so we could hear what was going on.
“Where is my fridge with the test tubes?” A man dressed in a tuxedo had his face pressed up close to Nena’s. “You had it in your motel room. Did you steal it from here?”
“Do you see that? That’s the mayor of this city. No wonder the place has gone to hell,” I whispered to Gabe.
“Your records say you haven’t been mind wiped, so you can’t pull that one. You know where it is. Look at me. I’m the mayor. Don’t mess with me.”
I checked that the small red cop gun was loaded.
And I thought, look in their eyes; that always gives away who’s going to freeze, who’s going to run, and who’s going to get himself killed.
“Head hack her,” said the mayor, “and dig as deep as you like. Find out why she decided to do this. And who helped her. And hey, little girl, don’t die for no reason. What’s the point? Right?”
“No!” cried Nena as the machine kicked into life and her head was clasped between the boards.
I looked into Gabe’s eyes. “You never forget,” I said, and then we burst through the door.
“Freeze!” I shouted and the cops stood, unshaken but immobile, staring. A flutter of pictures was printing out from the machine. I swept my gaze around as they stood nonchalantly.
“What is this? April Fool?” said the mayor.
“Turn it off,” I said, approaching the technician by the control panel as Gabe covered the cops.
“Leav
e it running,” said the mayor.
I let off a round next to the guy’s head. “Turn it off,” I said quietly. He nervously shut the machine down. The noise vibrated away, and pictures from the hack continued to print out methodically in the silence.
“You think you can mess with me?” said the mayor, and his eyebrows became agitated. “Do you know what happens to people who mess with me?”
“Huck,” said Nena as she came around and her head was released from the boards.
The cops stared.
“Get her out of there,” I said.
“You’re finished. How the hell do you think I stay safe?” said the mayor.
The door slammed back and I spun around as a horde of cops flooded through. I aimed the gun, but my finger hovered over the trigger.
A scuffle of bodies took me down and they ripped the gun from my hand.
“Who the hell are these clowns?” said the mayor, brushing down his tuxedo with his hands. “Head hack them all and find out who is trying to upset my operation. And dig so deep there’s nothing of them left. I’ve had enough of this. Now, I have to get over to the celebrations. Give me a report later,” he said and left with a small entourage.
The cops manhandled us all into head hack chairs. Gabe had been knocked out cold and sat limply, his head hanging forward. I looked at Nena. We were going to die or come out as vegetables, and live a waking death.
“This is not the end, Huck. Tell me this isn’t the end. Lie to me if you have to,” she said.
“I don’t need to lie,” I said as they slopped cold gunk over my hair.
“Really?”
“Really. Safe journey, Nena. Don’t be scared.”
“You mean you’re not scared?”
“No.”
“No, you’re not. I can see it in your eyes.”
And then the gel ran down and blurred my vision.
I had come back to this city looking for a switch to start my life again, but all I had ever needed to do was open my eyes. My future had always been here, waiting for me to take part, but I’d chosen not to see it.
The machines began to fire up, and my thoughts blurred.
I had been free to see the world any way I chose. And now I chose to see it full of shadows and magic. And love for this girl I would not see again.
I had finally come home.
Then my mind tingled and flamed as though it was filled with fireflies.
Images ran amok as if disturbed by a soft breeze. Pictures of Nena, one after the other, spun through my mind, vibrant and sharp.
And then the machine began to claw further back and my life started to open out before me, spinning back through the years at Memory Print, bars, and motels and faces and voices.
And then through the years with Abigail. And as the memories streamed through me, I saw that our time together had been a complete thing. And that the love she had had for me still ran through my body like a white light.
And then the pain began to grow. Images were sucked from my consciousness too fast to comprehend as the machine clawed at my past with a fury that was tearing out my very essence. In the distance, a darkness rose, its power beyond anything I could comprehend. I fought it, standing my ground, but I could feel its menace crush my soul to a tight incandescent ball.
Then darkness.
I fell forward.
After a minute, I opened my eyes and saw the blurred outline of cops strewn about the floor.
“My name’s Maddox,” said a voice. “We don’t have much time.”
chapter
ONE HUNDRED AND ONE
I managed to turn my head and, through the streaming head hack gel, saw that Gabe and Nena were both still moving.
“They’re tranquilized. I can’t start killing cops. I’ve had too many years in the force,” said Maddox as he started to un-strap Gabe.
Behind him a cop stirred and raised his gun. I tried to speak, but my mouth was dry. It was all happening in a horrible slow motion.
“Even if the force has gone to hell,” said Maddox. He still didn’t see the danger.
Then there was a crash as a window smashed. A flying object came sailing in and caught the cop on the head. He dropped the gun and it clattered across the floor as he slumped down, knocked out cold.
Maddox turned.
The cop had been hit by a small dog. I tried to focus. The dog got to its feet, shook itself, then sat panting happily.
“Right,” said Maddox. “A dog. Huh.” He finished undoing the straps holding us to the chairs. “We have very little time.”
He helped us all to our feet, then led us out of the room, and into the corridor. It was deserted. The three of us were all weak and stumbled along like wounded soldiers. “Evacuate the building,” said an alarm coolly. “Leave in an orderly manner.”
Maddox opened the door to the first lab. It was empty. He threw in a grenade and then hurried us away. The thing exploded, shaking the walls and bringing down the ceiling tiles.
“There is a small fire, but it is under control. As a precaution, please evacuate the building,” said the alarm.
We passed the next one and he did the same thing. Another huge explosion.
We reached the stairwell and hobbled down, flight after flight, until we reached ground level. The lobby was in chaos and we shouldered our way through the crowd. The girl at reception was still painting her nails as people crushed against her desk.
We hustled our way through the scrum of technicians and cops until we were outside.
Smoke poured from the roof of the building.
“Who the hell are you, Maddox?” I said.
“Doesn’t matter. Get the hell out of here. Your records will all be cleaned up over the next few weeks. Stay low until then. Take a cop drongle from over there. Go.”
chapter
ONE HUNDRED AND TWO
Applause.
The six-foot furry squirrel had just finished singing the song to the mayor.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the bald marketing man, “I give you Rusty Ragtail the Safety Squirrel.” There was a huge cheer and the squirrel came to the front of the stage to accept more applause. And bunches of flowers.
“I hope you enjoyed that. And I hope you like the new city wall!” said the marketing man.
The crowd cheered inanely.
“But remember, what you see behind me isn’t just a wall. It’s a symbol! It’s a statement from everyone in this city! And you know what it says? It says, ‘This is New Seattle. The city of safety. A special place. And whoever you are—whatever creed or nationality, however far you have traveled to get here—go away! Get the hell out of here!’”
The crowd applauded, but the sound was more polite and obedient this time.
“Let’s hear it again for Rusty Ragtail the Safety Squirrel,” added the marketing man, and another huge cheer allowed him to move on. “Now we come to the official opening, and I’m proud to be able to ask our very own mayor, Dan Cicero, to cut the ribbon on this historic evening.”
“Thank you,” said the mayor. “I feel privileged and humbled to be standing here on the cusp of such big changes in this remarkable city of ours. New Seattle is a city like no other. And I think it’s right, on an occasion like this, for us all to take a moment to give thanks that we don’t live in Chicago. And so, it gives me enormous pleasure to declare this new city wall open.”
But as he cut the ribbon, an explosion rocked the other side of the city, and a fireball rose into the night sky.
chapter
ONE HUNDRED AND THREE
The cop drongle shuddered and the sky above us glowed red, reflecting off the drongle shell in a myriad of shapes.
“Who are you, Huck?” said Nena as she looked at me.
“You know who I am.”
“No. I know what I feel, but I don’t know who you are.”
“He drinks too many mojitos, gets irritated when he sees sculptures made of rusting metal displayed in a woodland, or
someone in a jazz trio wearing a hat. And he cares like hell about you,” said Gabe.
“As you can tell, this man knows me pretty well.”
“So that’s it? That’s all I get?”
“For the moment. And what about you. Who are you?”
“I’m Nena.”
“Yeah?”
“That’s it. That’s all you get. I’m just me.” And she leaned against my shoulder and closed her eyes. “I’m just a girl from a small town someplace.”
The drongle slipped smoothly through the streets. The checkpoints were stalling huge lines of traffic after the explosion, but the cop drongle just sailed through and we continued on until we reached a jammed interchange. The drongle took a sharp left and squeezed down an alley that was thick with Dumpsters as we wove our way toward Gabe’s apartment and away from the traffic.
“Looks like you made it,” said Gabe. “Welcome back to New Seattle. It’s a hell of a city.”
“Yeah, it’s a hell of a city.”
The drongle came out on Main Street and we could only inch forward. It was the kind of traffic I remembered from the New Seattle Festival of Traffic, when an area of the New Seattle streets was purposely gridlocked in celebration of St. Ryan the Late who, theologians claimed, would have been at the Last Supper had he not been held up.
The drongles were stuck solid, fender-to-fender, in a giant smorgasbord of traffic as people tried to get to the celebrations. Ours lurched and stumbled slowly up onto the sidewalk, forcing the crowd to scatter as we bumbled a little farther.
Finally we came to a stop with one wheel slewed up onto the sidewalk, and a dribble of blue liquid cascaded down the inside of the drongle shell.
“This is South Jefferson Apartments. Please leave the drongle now. Your lucky thirteenth-century heretics are the French Cathars. Please take the receipt that is being printed. It may contain traces of dead fox.” Then the drongle began printing out yards of receipt.
We were still a block from Gabe’s apartment, but I popped the hood, helping Nena out onto a sidewalk as the entire drongle filled with paper.
Ahead, all we could see were a sea of little blue domes and, above, the pinpoint white lights of the tall buildings and the advertising balloons melding with a sky rich with stars.
