Digital Chimera

by J N Chaney

  Human shields. Andrea was talking about using the deportees as human shields. The longer I worked with Section 9, the more I realized that they lived in a world of moral compromises, where nothing was ultimately good except fulfillment of the mission, and nothing was ultimately bad except the failure to do so.

  Bray grinned. “I don’t really care one way or the other, I’m just saying they’re going to spot us.”

  “We can modify the plan if we need to, or if a better option falls in our laps,” Andrea said. “That’s it for now though. We fight our way across the city, meet our Black Kuei contact, then slip across into West Hellas in the column of refugees. By this time tomorrow, we should be sipping Red Martians in a West Hellas cocktail bar.”

  Jones rubbed his eyes. “If we’re lucky enough to be alive this time tomorrow, I’ll be knocked out cold. If I could sleep for a month I’d still be pissed when you finally woke me up.”

  “I know what you mean.” Andrea brushed her hair away from her eyes. “Thomas, you haven’t said anything since this meeting started. Do you have anything to contribute?”

  “Anything to contribute? That seemed to be a rather rambling conversation about topics of no real interest. Why would I want to contribute anything to that?”

  I looked at him like he was half-crazy, because as far as I was concerned, he was. “Topics of no real interest? We were discussing how to get out of East Hellas.”

  “Were you?” He looked honestly confused. “I could have sworn you were talking about human rights abuses, refugees and massacres and that sort of thing. You know, sociology, politics, and… well, the soft sciences.”

  “Forget I said anything.”

  “I wish I could. While you were all debating the ethical conundrums of the situation, I sent our Black Kuei contact an encrypted text and received a reply. They’ve sent us the location of the rendezvous point.”

  “Mark it up on the map,” said Andrea. “Then we’ll all have it.”

  “If you check your dataspikes, you’ll see that I already have.”

  I checked my map of the city and noted the blinking dot Thomas had added to represent the rendezvous point. It was over in Great Wall, which didn’t seem much closer than it had been when this whole mess started.

  “Okay, I have it.” Andrea turned to look at us. “I know that isn’t as close as you were probably hoping, but it’s not that far either. And there’s a silver lining. Closing the airlock between this district and Fuji Section has made government efforts to reestablish control difficult.”

  I didn’t get that. “So we’re siding with the rioters now? I thought—”

  She raised a hand to silence me. “It’s not that we’re siding with the rioters or anyone else. It’s just that it buys Section 9 a little more time.”

  “I guess it would.”

  “Glad to see that it meets your approval. Does everyone understand the plan?”

  I nodded. The others just looked at her. They understood the plan. They always understood everything. I was the only rookie present, the only one who felt the need to specify all the details every time.

  “Okay. If anything goes wrong, just make your way in the direction of the glowing dot. If you’re with the doctor here, remember that his life is worth more than yours until this mission is over. Any questions?”

  Veraldi raised a finger. “We’re not splitting up and making our way to the rendezvous separately?”

  “No, we are not. After everything that’s happened, I’d rather risk moving as a group than allow my kids to wander around again. We stick together. Right, Tycho?” She clapped her hand on my shoulder. In theory, she had dropped it. In practice, Andrea Capanelli was still unquestionably pissed.

  17

  We walked out onto lifeless streets. Everything in the immediate vicinity was quiet except for the crackling of nearby fires and the reports of distant gunfire. We’d reached the eye of the storm, and I wondered why for a moment until I remembered. The crowd in this district had stormed Fuji Section, and they couldn’t retreat back to their own neighborhood because we’d closed the airlock on them. The people of this district, or a good few thousand of them anyway, were being murdered while they tried desperately to get back through those massive gates to the safety of home.

  Or so I imagined. I had no way of really knowing, and no real reason to assume the worst. Perhaps they were marching in triumph across the city, arm in arm and singing some revolutionary anthem together. Whatever the truth, the district was quiet because we had locked so many of its inhabitants out.

  We fanned out and started walking, ready for anything East Hellas might throw at us. Sasha Ivanovich held back, allowing us to function as human shields for him. I could hardly blame him, when our official plan was to do exactly the same thing with the deportees at the border wall. We saw hardly anyone at first, though the occasional gang member poked a head up and stared at us from a rooftop or window. Someone shot at us along the way, but Bray’s return fire was more than enough to dissuade any follow-up attempts. We kept moving, and there were no more gang snipers with the nerve to try to take us on, at least for a little while.

  The distant gunfire was growing closer, and it was becoming obvious that we were making our way out of the eye of the storm and back into the increasing chaos of the East Hellas uprising. Andrea sent us a message over our dataspikes.

  Switch to silent communication. Jones and Barrett, you’re on the target.

  Jones looked at me and nodded wordlessly, and the two of us herded Ivanovich over to the side of the street. He seemed confused, but he went along with what we wanted him to do. Just a few blocks later, we came across a group of combatants—roughly a dozen rebels armed with rifles, and three or four others holding clubs or knives. When they saw us approaching, they fanned out and blocked the street. A masked rebel stepped forward.

  “Turn back.”

  I couldn’t see the rebel’s face, but the voice was of a woman.

  Andrea Capanelli stepped up to speak with her. “This isn’t our fight, we’re just trying to escort someone out of the city.”

  “Out of East Hellas? You’re foreigners?”

  “That’s right. We’re under the deportation order.”

  The woman glanced back at the others. One of them shrugged, and the others didn’t reply at all. She turned to Andrea again. “You’re heavily armed for refugees.”

  “We’re heavily armed no matter how you look at it. We’re not your enemies. Letting us through won’t hurt your cause.”

  “Wait a minute,” said one of the others. “Aren’t these the people from the video?”

  The woman nodded. “Yeah, I think they are. They say you killed Bensouda Hafidi.”

  Bray positioned himself quietly to bring his cannon to bear. If we had to do it, we could shoot our way through this rebel squad in a matter of seconds, but I was still hoping it wouldn’t come to that. To her credit, Andrea was doing what she could to keep this peaceful.

  “We didn’t kill anyone,” Andrea replied.

  “I’m sure that’s not true.” The rebel woman looked back and forth, assessing our numbers and armament. “On the other hand, I’m also sure you didn’t kill Hafidi. That was Ares Terrestrial. It wouldn’t be the first lie they’ve shoved down our throats. You can go on through, but you should know the syndicates are up ahead. They’ve taken the company’s bounty. They hold the next few intersections, and they would all be happy to claim your heads.”

  The rebel squad stepped aside, and I saw the game this woman was playing. By letting us through, she was effectively turning us loose on the syndicate gunmen. At the end of it we’d be gone no matter which way the fight went and, with any luck, so would her enemies.

  We made our approach in silence, but the syndicate gunmen still saw us coming. I doubt they recognized us under the circumstances, but with the city at war they were in a shoot-first-and-ask-questions-later mood. They opened fire from behind a makeshift barricade. Our reply was decisiv
e, as Bray’s massive weapon ripped their barricade apart and splattered anything behind it across the pavement.

  The few survivors turned and ran, but a shooter on a rooftop three buildings over took a try at us. He missed Bray by inches, and I fired into the center mass of the gunman’s muzzle flare. I watched the dark silhouette of his body as he tumbled to the street. As we advanced through the intersection, Andrea sent out another message.

  Stay alert. The next ones will be ready.

  The survivors from our first attack had regrouped up ahead, behind another barricade with even more syndicate gunmen. We didn’t wait for them to shoot. Instead, Bray pulled the trigger and just walked straight at them, fanning his weapon slowly from side to side. Jones and I provided back-up fire, and the others moved out to flank the position.

  The gangsters broke ranks and ran, abandoning their position in the face of superior firepower. As they reached the next intersection, a column of rebel fighters with black armbands came into view. The rebels saw the gangsters running and moved quickly to cut off their escape. Trapped between us and the rebels, the gangsters were left with few options.

  One of them threw down his gun and put his hands in the air, followed swiftly by most of the others. Two broke off and tried to get away, but the rebels shot them down from behind as they ran. As we walked past the rebels and their prisoners of war, a message came through from Thomas.

  I’ve seen three different languages, but the armbands all say the same thing: Bensouda Hafidi.

  Like most of Young’s comments, this one was arguably more interesting than it was useful. I had absolutely no doubt that the history books would someday refer to this as the Hafidi Uprising or something similar. I didn’t think it was likely to ever be called a revolution, but there was no way to predict how these kinds of things would play out.

  As we moved on, we saw a lot of those black armbands and heard a lot of gunfire. We saw people shot down, and we were responsible for shooting a fair number of them ourselves. One thing we didn’t see was a single StateSec officer. In this part of the city, the fighting seemed to be exclusively between the rebels fighting in honor of Hafidi’s memory and the gangsters who had dominated the city for such a long time now.

  When given the opportunity, the gangsters had almost all sided with Ares Terrestrial against their own people. I realized I’d been wrong all along, that it wasn’t that Ares Terrestrial couldn’t control the streets, it was just that it was more cost-efficient for them to contract it out. By letting the gangsters have so much authority, the company could be all but certain that no one would ever successfully challenge their control of the city, no matter how incompetent and corrupt it might happen to be.

  The gunmen were ruthless, shooting down anyone they saw in the street whether armed or not. Looking at some of the dead, I saw no reason to think they had even been protesters in the first place. The rebels, for their part, responded in kind. When we passed a group of gangsters being held prisoner by a rebel column, the prisoners lived just long enough for us to reach the next intersection. We heard a barrage of shots behind us, and another dozen or so syndicate gunmen were erased from the streets of East Hellas permanently.

  Looks like we’re reaching the Terror stage of the Revolution commented Andrew Jones.

  This is nothing replied Bray, with no clarification as to what he was talking about.

  We passed some rebels outside a clinic, besieging the gangsters within. From the rooftops and windows, the syndicate gunmen poured fire on the streets. The rebels shot up at them, but their pistols and submachine guns couldn’t do much to end the siege. As we passed, Bray turned and casually raked the rooftop with his handheld cannon, killing most of the gunmen who were firing from that position. Then he lowered his muzzle and raked the top floor of the building, blasting out all the windows and turning two syndicate snipers into something resembling a liquid phase of human flesh.

  The rebels charged through the front door, and Bray sent a message.

  If you want to get involved, that’s how you do it.

  We’re approaching the next airlock, said a message from Veraldi. Leaving K-2 Section, and about to enter Great Wall. We’re in the homestretch, so stay alert.

  When we reached the gate, we found it defended by a large and well-disciplined unit of masked gunmen. They called out to us as we approached. “No entry except to residents. You’ll have to go around.”

  If this was the entrance to Great Wall, I could only assume that these gunmen were affiliated with the Black Kuei. If they didn’t let us through, we could hardly just open fire on the one group that could supposedly get us out of here. Veraldi looked at Capanelli, clearly wondering what to do next.

  “I am a resident!” called Sasha Ivanovich. “I have a penthouse on Formosa.”

  The gunmen laughed. “Your party house doesn’t count. Do you know anyone in the neighborhood?”

  “I do,” called Andrea. “If you let me approach, I have something to tell you.”

  “Just you. No one else.”

  Andrea slowly walked toward the man then spoke to him briefly in hushed tones. He nodded, then spent a few moments in apparent silence, no doubt communicating with his superiors. When he spoke again, it was only to wave us through.

  “Go through, the place you’re looking for is two blocks up.”

  Where are we meeting them? I asked.

  The Great Wall Art Museum, Andrea replied. Our contact is Tatiana Xiao.

  She led the way through the airlock, and we entered the territory of the Black Kuei. I don’t know what I was expecting, but Great Wall wasn’t it. The section was a mess, a place full of crumbling plasticrete scarred up by graffiti, cracked and worn streets, and the shuttered windows of abandoned buildings. Here and there, suspicious faces peered out from dark windows behind broken glass.

  Jones sent a message. You’d think the most powerful crime organization on either side of the wall would be a bit more concerned with public relations.

  They don’t really need it. Andrea replied. They control this neighborhood completely and have no real need for the public to like them.

  I didn’t know about that. The other syndicates had been such a problem for us because of the support they had from ordinary citizens. Ingratiating the people meant that the syndicates had that many more eyes and ears. It had been frighteningly effective, so it seemed odd to me that the Black Kuei wouldn’t bother. Had they made the mistake of believing money and resources would be all they needed? Hoarding their wealth and hoping to buy their way out of any problem while the city rots around them.

  I shook my head. I was thinking too much. Great Wall wasn’t worth it, and the sooner we could make the arrangements with our contact to get us out of here, the happier I would be.

  There’s the museum up there, Veraldi told us. I looked up ahead, but at first all I saw was a massive temple in the distinctive Russo-Sino style, all pagoda roofs and onion domes in a tackily conspicuous display of wealth and power. Then I realized that was the art museum, and the tattooed young men standing out in front of it with submachine guns in their hands were its guards.

  Why do they need all those guys to guard an art museum? I asked the group.

  It was Jones who replied. It makes perfect sense, really. Art is an ideal mechanism for money laundering and hiding wealth for later liquidation. This is basically the Black Kuei’s bank, and they’re going to protect it with everything they’ve got.

  The guards stepped aside as we approached, although they made sure to stare at us with blank faces as we walked past. The Black Kuei gunmen didn’t favor the flowing tunics or mask-like scarves worn by most of the inhabitants of East Hellas. Instead, they wore black suits with white shirts and skinny ties, with pitch-black glasses that gave them the appearance of insect people.

  Why are they just letting us through? I asked. We’re heavily armed.

  Look up, replied Andrea. Always look up.

  I did as she said, and I saw the cannon
tracking our movement from the ceiling. In the open air between, half a dozen drones hovered as quietly as any watchful predator. The Black Kuei had allowed us to enter their sanctuary with our weapons because our weapons didn’t matter.

  Thomas sent a message. Hacking the control systems now.

  “I kindly ask that you stop,” said Tatiana Xiao, stepping out from behind a T’ang Dynasty horse statue. “We have already detected the intrusion, and if you make it beyond our outer security shell, the drones will open fire.”

  Thomas threw Andrea a guilty look, and she sent a message immediately. Abort.

  “I am Tatiana Xiao. Welcome to the Great Wall Art Museum.” Xiao’s outfit was identical to that of the men outside. The same black suit and tie in a feminine cut and the same dark glasses. The only real difference was that she carried no weapon, but then she had no need of a weapon with all those drones. Based on her thick Russo-Sino accent, she was a recent Earth immigrant.

  “I’m Andrea Capanelli. You know who we’re with.”

  “I am afraid not. I must admit, I am rather curious on that point. Still, I think I have a good idea. You are a group of covert operatives. You work for a government, and considering the resources you have access to, that government is most likely the Sol Federation. You do not work for any of the eight intelligence Sections, because your actions are blatantly illegal and could never be publicly acknowledged. A ninth Section perhaps, for black operations?”

  Andrea was stunned into silence for several seconds, and so was I. The way Xiao had laid it out, it made me wonder if there was anyone who didn’t know about Section 9.

  Xiao laughed. “There is no need to say anything. My curiosity is amply satisfied. We have several things to discuss. If you do not mind spending a few minutes speaking with me, your people can feel free to browse the art collection.”