Vickers

by Mick Farren

  "Either, probably both."

  Vickers was beginning to suspect that after six months of this overcrowding they'd probably be climbing the walls and eating each other like rats in an experiment, but he kept the thought to himself. Johanna was making her move on him. She'd slipped in beside him and was leaning close enough for him to feel her breast against his arm. She finished her drink with a definite finality. Vickers pretended not to read the gesture and smiled.

  "You want another?"

  "I'd rather get out of here and go somewhere marginally quieter."

  "I figure we should have one more each."

  "You want to put a bit of distance between us?"

  "I was thinking more about putting a bit of distance between us and the environment."

  Johanna looked around at the raucous crowd. "You may be right at that."

  They called up two more shots and finished them quickly. Vickers turned to see what was going on with his companions. Eggy had vanished and Parkwood was kissing Yvonne. As far as Vickers could remember, it was the first time that he had ever seen him make physical contact with another human. Clearly he had no more need of Vickers' moral support. Vickers glanced at Johanna and she nodded. They slipped through the crowd heading for the nearest exit. They emerged into a service corridor.

  "You know where we are?"

  "Sure. This is my neighborhood." She slipped her arm through his. "I know I should be grateful that I've got a place down here and I'm safe and everything but sometimes I think this living is going to drive me crazy."

  "What did you do before?"

  "I was doing public relations at the Global office in LA. I profiled out when they ran the first shortlist program. They offered me a place down here and I took it. Everything looked so bad. Of course, it was a hell of a wrench going from buying drinks for TV producers to riding a bunch of robots on the loading dock but anything has to be worth it to survive." She gave a slight shudder. "There are times when it gets to me, though."

  "So you worked for Global?"

  "Right. It seems like another life now."

  "You heard what happened to Herbie Mossman?"

  "It doesn't bother me. I used to hear stories from the girls in the Vegas tower. By all accounts he was a disgusting, fat freak." She tightened her grip on his arm. "I don't want to talk about it anymore. I just want to feel and not think. I don't even know your name."

  "Mort Vickers."

  "Are you really one of Lloyd-Ransom's top hired guns?"

  "I guess so."

  "Hmm." She snuggled up against him.

  After walking for about three minutes, they turned into the entrance of a handlers' dormitory. The sign over the doorway read General Living Area 30.

  "GLA 30. Home sweet home. You can believe me that the living here is pretty general."

  The living area was a very different place, during the down period, from the bright, cramped regimentation that Vickers had seen previously. The main overhead lights had been turned off but, while the majority of bunk tiers were in complete darkness, here and there some of the women had rigged candles or small bulbs shaded by colored scarves inside their bunk spaces. The daytime effect of gray metal uniformity was softened and hidden, made feminine even. Brute reality was held at bay and there was an almost magical quality. Each lighted space was like a cell of muted color in some giant, shadowy honeycomb. There was a trace of musky scent in the air, a mingling of incense and perfume, and low murmured conversations combined with the normal background sounds of the bunker. A few tiers away, someone was quietly playing something Spanish on a guitar. Dark moving figures in some of the bunks made it clear that others had come back to the area with intentions similar to those of Vickers and Johanna.

  Johanna squeezed his hand and led them between the tiers.

  "It's lucky that I was assigned a bottom bunk. Any kind of athletics in an upper bunk can be quiet dangerous."

  Johanna had strung Christmas tree lights throughout the steel mesh in back of her bunk. The bunk itself was covered in a black silk shawl with a red and gold dragon embroidered on it that was obviously not official issue. She sat down on the edge of the bunk and drew Vickers down beside her.

  "I have really horrible wine if you want some. It even came in a plastic container; or some of that scotch from the messhall."

  * * *

  "You are . . . very . . . weird."

  Her breath came in scarcely muffled, vocal gasps. Vickers was still conscious of the potential audience in the shadows but Johanna seemed to have shut it out.

  "Very . . . weird . . . indeed."

  Vickers grinned in the glow of the fairy lights.

  "I'll . . . stop if you . . . don't . . . like it."

  Johanna squirmed against him with an extra added thrust.

  "I didn't . . . say I . . . didn't like it . . . quite the . . . reverse . . . I like it very much!"

  Her breath came in a final shout, her back arched in a prolonged, teeth-clenching spasm. By then even Vickers had forgotten about the people all around them.

  A little later she was kissing his shoulder. "You're a terrible pervert, Mort Vickers. You know that?"

  "People have told me."

  "Will you take these things off me now?"

  "Why don't we wait a little bit."

  He had to admit, she really did look magnificent. She formed her lips into a small pout.

  "Please, if we do it again, I'd rather do it the usual way."

  Vickers smiled. "Whatever you say."

  As he fumbled with the fastening, she lay back with her eyes closed.

  "Will you come and see me again, Mort Vickers?"

  "Sure will."

  He meant every word of it. Her eyes opened.

  "You're a damned liar."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "You're too slick to be anything but a damned liar."

  The single bunk was too narrow to allow them to lie comfortably side by side. Vickers swung his feet to the floor.

  "You're wrong you know. I like you. I'll come and see you again. That's what you really want to know, isn't it? Whether I like you or not?"

  Johanna laughed. "Don't flatter yourself. What I really want is to corral myself a nice reliable fuck so I can relax a bit in this rat race. I somehow don't think you're it. You've probably got something going with at least three women down where you live."

  Vickers reached around for the wine.

  "As a matter of fact, this is the first time I've got myself laid since I got here."

  Johanna took the wine from him.

  "I don't believe you."

  "It's true, I swear."

  "Then you're weirder than I thought you were."

  Vickers leaned back against her body. There was something comforting in the feel of someone else's warmth. If the bunk had been a little wider he would have lain down and gone to sleep. He drank some more wine and let himself drift. He must have actually been slipping away. Johanna's voice startled him.

  "You'd better think about going."

  Vickers sat up. "Oh yeah?"

  "They turn a blind eye to these visits as long as the visitors don't stay all night."

  "Maybe next time you should come down to my quarters."

  "That's not allowed. If anyone in a blue or brown uniform is caught below the second level without legitimate authority, they're arrested. You can be thrown out of the bunker or worse."

  "Worse?"

  "Worse is only implied. I've never really wanted to know the details."

  Vickers wasn't quite convinced.

  "There must be a way to swing it." Johanna shook her head. "If there were, Eggy would have found it by now. He's using storerooms and machine pods for his twosomes and threesomes."

  "It all sounds a bit un-American."

  Johanna's voice was bitter. "This isn't America. It isn't any place but the bunker and we live by the bunker's rules. If you want the bunker's protection you have to go with the program. It's like the saying
goes, survivors can't be choosers."

  "I don't know about all this."

  "I do. It's got to be worth it in the long run."

  Vickers wondered what kind of persuasion was being used on them up here in the peon levels.

  "I sure hope so. What the fuck is that?"

  The overhead lights had come on at the far end of the living area. Row after row of the flourescent panels came to life, a regular measured progress across the ceiling. Vickers grabbed for his shirt.

  "Maybe I had better get out of here."

  "I don't think all this is on your account."

  Speakers crackled in confirmation.

  "Now hear this! Now hear this! This is a yellow alert. All personnel will go immediately to their designated emergency stations. I repeat. This is a yellow alert. All personnel will go immediately to their emergency stations. This is a general order. There will be no exceptions. This is not a drill. This is a full yellow alert. This is not a drill. This is not a drill. Now hear this . . ."

  The speakers repeated the message over again. Vickers was struggling into his pants.

  "I don't think they're messing around."

  All over the area women, and a small smattering of visiting men, were hastily pulling on their clothes. Some were already running for the exits.

  "This is a not a drill. This is a yellow alert. Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!"

  The hectoring speakers refused to let up. Vickers slipped into his jacket. Johanna had everything on but her shoes. She looked up at Vickers.

  "I'll see you again?"

  "Sure."

  "Kiss me."

  They kissed briefly and then went their separate ways. Vickers jogged to the nearest elevator. In the event of a yellow alert, the security teams were supposed to assemble at a central point on the fourth level. There was a small crowd clustered around the elevators. Vickers saw the huge form of Yabu, head and shoulders above the handlers. While Vickers was still a dozen yards from the elevator bank a red light flashed and the doors opened on a down elevator. Yabu and a number of handlers stepped inside. Vickers called out.

  "Hey Yabu, hold the lift!"

  Yabu grabbed the closing door and pushed it back. Vickers slipped inside.

  "It seems like some kind of shit is hitting the fan."

  Yabu was impassive. "Maybe we'll see some action."

  Vickers had absolutely no relationship with the giant Oriental. On a couple of occasions he had tried and failed to strike a conversation with him. After that he'd given up trying. It was thus that Vickers was more than a little surprised when he looked directly at him and smiled a Zen smile.

  "You visit with the handler women?"

  Vickers nodded. "Yeah, I guess so."

  Yabu looked approving. "A man needs to get fucked now and again if he is to stay sane and healthy. I do the same myself."

  He looked away; the conversation seemed to have been abruptly terminated. The handlers around them were having trouble stifling fits of giggles. Vickers shrugged. He was a little relieved when the doors slid open and he and Yabu were able to make their exit onto the fourth level.

  The majority of four security groups were already assem­bled. The only one of his group who had yet to arrive was Eggy. As he joined the other three, they glanced at him briefly. Parkwood treated him to the slightest of conspiratorial smiles. Presumably it was supposed to indicate that he had had an entertaining time with Yvonne. It was the furthest he'd ever been in terms of camaraderie. After the swift, all round acknowledgement, the attention switched off. Everyone was too concerned with what was coming out of the speakers. The ones down on the fourth level were much more informative. They appeared to have been broadcasting situation details for some time.

  ". . . an exchange of tactical nuclear weapons is now being reported from the area to the west of Poznan where the forces of Greater Germany and West Poland have been engaged with a large splinter group of the Red Army. As of yet, there are no details of the exact circumstances or who fired first but a number of corporation satellites are relaying accounts of up to four detonations of a size consistent with atomic shells or neutron minisiles. Unconfirmed accounts from Berlin indicate, however, that the German and Polish front lines are being overrun by near-suicidal Russian attacks."

  The elevator doors opened again and another anxious crowd rushed out. Eggy was among them. He hurried up to the rest of the group looking like he hadn't slept.

  "Sounds like the ice has started to crack."

  "That's one way of looking at it."

  "Has anyone told us what we're supposed to be doing?"

  "Not yet."

  Mobs of people streamed past, all apparently possessed of both a purpose and a sense of urgency, while the security groups stood around feeling a little like forgotten spare pans as the speakers repeated the same bulletin over and over. Finally there was a news report. It did nothing to raise anyone's spirits.

  "A report is now coming in from a Space Inc. observation satellite that a flight of intermediate-range surface-to-surface missiles, possibly SS 2000s or SS 2100s, are lifting from a complex of silos near Slutsk in White Russia, near the East Polish border. Although this launch hasn't been confirmed by any other satellite, it would appear to be a response to the battlefield exchange west of Poznan."

  Still nobody had instructed them what to do. Then Fenton pointed.

  "Here comes Deakin."

  "About damn time."

  Deakin wasn't just coming, he was coming at a run. He was out of breath and most of his normal bumptiousness had been sweated away. He waved quickly at the group.

  "All of you, follow me. On the double."

  Eggy fell into step beside him.

  "What's going on?"

  "All hell's breaking loose, that's what's going on."

  The first stop was the armory where the group was given a choice of either pump shotguns or machine pistols. Vickers drew his customary Yasha. While he was taping three clips back to back for an ultrafast reload, another bulletin came over the public address.

  "The launch of Russian intermediate range missiles is confirmed by four more satellites. A number of missiles have exploded in midair and more seem on course for nowhere but the open sea. This is only to be expected from the current chaos that is the Soviet Union. The remainder appear to be directly on target and are expected to reach their strikepoints in a little over eight minutes. Western Europe is under full nuclear attack. I will repeat that. Western Europe is under full nuclear attack."

  It was only at the very end that the announcer's voice faltered. Bach's Toccata in D Minor welled up to fill the silence. Someone in what had come to be called the radio station couldn't resist a production. Then another voice took over.

  "The bunker is now on Full Red Alert. All personnel, without exception, will stand to. The bunker is on Full Red Alert. This is not a drill. The Bunker is on Full Red Alert until further notice."

  Bach was replaced by funereal electronics. There was no holding back the chill. The security group jogged to the nearest elevator. All over the bunker hooters were blowing, lights flashed and sirens wailed. People went on with their duties as though trying to drown the ballooning fear in routine. Everyone avoided everyone else's eyes and panic was, in some cases, only held at bay by inches. The handlers and facers who were clustered around the lift entrance backed away as Deakin and his charges ran up. As they rode the elevator, Deakin breathlessly issued their instructions.

  "We're going up to the first level to reinforce discipline. Under a Red Alert the personnel on the surface are withdrawn into the first level. Any disturbance would be a disaster. You will be there to see that any potential disturbance is immediate­ly stamped on."

  "We're supposed to do this on our own?"

  "Of course not. There are a hundred or more uniformed troops up there. You are simply back-up. You have a roving brief. You look for individuals who are about to become hysterical. You will shoot them out of hand. You understand that? If there's a prob
lem simply kill it. You do not have the option of asking questions. Okay?"

  Slowly and grimly all five nodded. There was a terrible silence in the elevator. Deep inside Vickers' soul, something was screaming that it wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere else. He knew the voice well. He had heard it before in several dozen firefights but he couldn't remember when he'd heard it so insistent. He trusted that, when the action started, it would be muffled by pumping adrenaline. The elevator stopped, the doors sighed open and the silence was swallowed by the echoing crash of marching feet. The huge freight elevators were coming down loaded with men and materiel withdrawing from the surface. Jeeps and armored cars were driven off the platforms and parked in rows on the other side of the giant manmade cavern. On previous visits, Vickers had wondered about the first level. It had seemed so vast and bare and empty. Now he realized that it was a parking lot for an army. Even Parkwood seemed stunned.

  "I can hardly believe this."

  In some ways it was like a withdrawal. They were unmistakably in retreat but hardly defeated. This was no shattered army. It was clean and neat and orderly; it had fought no battle but the air of depression was unmistakable. Lines of gray-uniformed troops and blue-and-brown-uniformed workers waited patiently for internal transport to take them further into the bowels of the bunker. The fear was so intense that Vickers could almost taste it but the discipline was holding. Every few yards an armed soldier watched the slow processions that snaked from the elevators, looking for any kind of irregularity that might spark a panic. The five spread out, doing their best to look as though they were reinforcing the uniformed guards but secretly feeling a little redundant. Then, over on Vickers' right, a man started screaming. At first it was completely wordless but gradually it formed into words.

  "No! No! No! No! I don't want to! I don't want to!"

  Vickers knew exactly what he meant. A couple of soldiers moved toward him. Abruptly, the man stopped shouting and bolted. He was running directly toward Debbie. She didn't hesitate. Her shotgun roared. The man spun and sprawled in a bloody splatter. All over the area, guns were up. Would the single moment of hysteria trigger a stampede? Three soldiers ran up and threw a tarpaulan over the body. The lines started to move again. Moments later, the speakers came on. The voice was carefully measured as if its owner was only just managing to maintain his control.