by Nat Kozinn
“Maybe not.”
“He could still be right. Not about murdering Nita, but maybe I should go build ships. Khan doesn’t seem to be hurting anyone else. If I really want to help the Metro Area, food is what it needs. And since Khan is refusing to use the Differents who didn’t go on strike, maybe I can sneak down to the docks at night and help out.”
“Or, maybe you could keep doing what you’re doing and Khan will be replaced with someone reasonable. Khan killed Martin and he killed Victor. He might have pulled the trigger himself, but it was his doing. You have to find a way to make him pay,” Linda says.
#
The door to the roof opens and Officer Maria Vasquez steps out. She looks tired. Still beautiful and radiant, but also exhausted with dark pits under her eyes and hair that hasn’t been attended to in a few days.
“That didn’t go so well. I told you it wasn’t a good idea,” Maria says.
“What happened? I thought the cops weren’t really after me? It almost felt like a trap.”
“It wasn’t us,” she says, raising he hands to show her innocence. “That was all the National Guard’s doing.”
“Why were they there? Protecting politicians isn’t in their mission statement.”
“That General in charge, Reeves, they say he’s right up there with Khan at the top of the hating Differents leader board. And despite Khan’s best efforts to turn you into a villain, most people still love The Beast Slayer. That makes you target number one for Different haters.”
“They’re already winning. The Differents going on strike didn’t exactly help public opinion about us.”
“I think they’re going for the blow out. ‘Exposing’ you as a criminal will really run up the score. Especially if they can catch you. Or better yet, kill you and avoid some annoying questions.”
“If they’re coming after me, does that mean the task force is back on?”
“Yes and Khan is pushing hard now. I know a guy that had been getting reassigned every morning to real police work, but that’s over. Khan is breathing down the Chief’s neck, and he’s spreading the fire to the Captains. They’re going to start searching in grids throughout the Metro Area. This is why I was so against your little plan,” she says.
“It’ll be the first time a lot of those neighborhoods have seen a cop in weeks. I’m sure they won’t be spending any time looking into the rapes, murders, and robberies that have shot through the roof,” I say matching her saltiness.
“It’s a matter of resources. With the strike and the bombs, there simply aren’t enough cops to go around. We can either spread ourselves too thinly to do any good at all, or we can focus our attention on half the Metro Area and do a decent job,” she says. I hit a nerve.
“I suppose it’s just a coincidence that you picked the wealthier half of the Metro Area to defend. Must be because of that spirit of justice you all embody,” I say, piling on.
“We are just trying to do our jobs. Other people get to tell us where to do it.”
“I’m sure that’s a comfort to everyone whose cry for help goes unanswered.”
Maria’s face shows the briefest hint of a grimace, before near-instantly switching back to stone. I went way too far.
“Maria, I’m sorry. I know you’re doing your best. I know all the cops are. I’m trying to do my best too. I didn’t mean to get so personal.”
“Okay, you’ve done your usual thing where you act holier-than-thou and all condescending. Now move on to the part where you beg me for my help,” she says. And I’m lucky to get that.
“Fine, do you know about the search of Khan’s properties? They really didn’t find anything? Ben told me there were tons of the chemicals.”
“It’s not like I saw the warehouse myself. I overheard a guy who was part of the search. Said the place was clean as a whistle. I normally try not to believe office rumors, but in this case the scuttle makes sense. Chief has been angling to move up in the political world and catching the terrorist Governor would have accomplished that. My bet is the Chief did his due diligence, and the place was actually empty.”
“But how could he move tons of chemicals? He hates Differents too much to use a Strong-Man.”
“You know, they might be a little expensive, but there are these things called forklifts,” Maria smirks at me.
#
The Eat-N-Go records room has been torn to shreds. Papers everywhere, filing cabinets ripped open, desk drawers spilled out onto the floor. At least the police weren’t lying about executing the search warrants. Although if they were, that would make my problem more straightforward.
It isn’t all that shocking that they couldn’t find any records of the chemicals Khan purchased. He’s not stupid. He wouldn’t have kept a paper copy of anything directly incriminating, and without think.Net, they’re missing out on a chance to corroborate the company’s purchases against the bank records. It’s like trying to solve a puzzle with only half the pieces, so it is no surprise that the police couldn’t do it. And it would be career suicide to charge Khan unless the detectives had mountains of evidence.
But I’m not here for forensic accounting. I’m here to find out what happened to the rest of the chemicals used to make the bombs. According to Ben, there was tons of the stuff, enough to make hundreds of bombs like the seventeen Billy the Kid placed. If that’s the case, somebody has to know what happened to the chemicals. And a good place to start is with Eat-N-Go employees.
A few minutes of searching through the papers, and I find what I’m looking for: a folder marked “Personnel Records.” It’s mostly empty, but there are a few pages inside, including someone who might just know what I want.
#
One good thing about the Metro Area being basically shut down is that it makes people easier to find. The vast majority of businesses are closed, so unless someone is waiting in the relief line, they are most likely home, or sitting out in front of it.
As is the case with Lincoln Lewis, one of the Eat-N-Go grocery store managers. He’s sitting on a Pho-Plastic folding chair, dozing away under the shade of a hideous floppy old-man hat. Something strikes me as off about him right away: his gut. It is massive.
The food shortage has put the entire Metro Area on a diet. Lincoln hasn’t felt the pinch. Even if he’s an insane doomsday prepper and kept a cache of groceries, good sense would lead even the most gluttonous man to hold back a bit. It could be months before the intercontinental trains start running again, if they ever do. That hypothetical horde might need to last hypothetical years.
More likely, Mr. Lewis has a healthy treasury full of cash, and he’s feeling flush enough to buy extra food on the black market. I have a theory as to who provided the spending money.
I drop down from my rooftop overlook, landing silently on the balls of my feet. I’m getting better and better at moving stealthily like The Beast, which is a good thing. I think.
I check to make sure the street is empty. It is. I sidle up behind the dozing man, lean down and grab two legs of his chair. I lift and jerk, raising Lincoln over my head like he’s the groom at a Jewish wedding. Then I bend my knees and jump, rocketing both of us six stories into the air, onto the roof of Lincoln’s swanky-ish apartment building. It has a layer of real brick siding.
I put the chair down. Lincoln’s eyes are open, and I watch the process of his shocked and horrified mind trying to determine if he is awake or still sleeping.
“This is not a dream,” I say, answering the question I know he’s thinking. “This is real. You’re going to want to scream, but that is just going to make me have to work faster, and faster means worse for you.”
Lincoln lets out the start of a scream, but his brain finishes processing the rest of my sentence and he cuts himself off after just a peep.
“I’m assuming from your rather reasonable reaction that you aren’t that shocked to see me,” I say.
“Just good under pressure,” Lincoln says back evenly.
“Look at
me,” I say with a sigh. “Do you really want to do this the hard way?”
“I know your M.O. You think you’re some do-gooder. You don’t kill people,” he says and tightens his jaw.
When I wrap my massive hand around his throat, my fingers touch my palm. I lift him up out of the chair and then I squeeze just enough so he knows that if I wanted too I could pop his pathetic human head off…
Where did that thought come from? Why do I want to hurt him? I need him alive to answer my questions. Afraid would be good though. I put him down.
“That’s right, I don’t kill people. But I do hurt them. I can break bones in horrific and crippling ways. You can keep your mouth shut, and you’ll live. But that doesn’t mean you’ll walk away. First, there will be weeks in the hospital, with tubes flowing into and out of your body like a human fountain. Then, after weeks of recovery, you’ll have months of physical therapy, enduring pain and humiliation as you work harder then you’ve ever had to work simply to build yourself back into a shell of your former self. But even if the therapy is able to restore your functionality, it won’t remove the pain. Injuries like yours won’t ever truly heal, because the pain is always there. It’s there when you wake up, it’s there with every step you take, it’s there every time you try to lay down. That pain will turn you angry and bitter, making it difficult for anyone to love you. The people who care about you will grow to resent you, and eventually you’ll be left alone, emotionally if not physically. Just you, your pain, and whatever vice you choose to try to get through the day. That’s the life that’s waiting for you if you don’t answer me.”
“You are one sick son-of-a-bitch,” Lincoln says, his mouth agape in horror. “What do you want to know?”
“You aren’t surprised to see me, are you?”
“I know you got it in for the Governor. So no, I’m not shocked to see you.”
“Were you getting paid off the books?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve got keys to all the warehouses, and I know how to keep my mouth shut—or at least I did,” he spits out.
“You knew about the chemicals used to make the bombs? Did you help get them out of the warehouse?”
“I just opened the door. After that, I didn’t ask,” Lincoln replies, but his face goes flush. His body knows to be embarrassed of itself even if his mind doesn’t. He helped a terrorist.
I have to remind myself that I promised I wouldn’t hurt him if he talked. I like to be a man of my word, but he isn’t making it easy.
“Where did they take the chemicals?” I ask.
“I don’t know for sure. I told you, I just opened the door. Nobody told me anything,” he says, but he does so while looking at the floor. Liar.
“I thought you had decided to tell the truth and avoid that other option we discussed,” I say menacingly.
“I heard them talk about some warehouse near Marina del Rey. But I don’t know for sure that’s where they took it. I’m not lying. I don’t know where it went after they put it on that truck. I swear,” he pleads.
He’s not lying, but I still want to snap his thin little spine.
2
Log of Notable Ultracorps/Nita activity Week Who Cares Anymore?
Nita does what she wants and none of us can stop her.
Theories: Life is short, absurd, and pointless. It is comprised of a constant series of disappointments and failures punctuated by moments of false hope. Embracing the darkness is the only viable option.
Ben stares down his nose through the magnifying lenses he fashioned from old reading glasses. He works deftly and carefully with the soldering iron, melting a small bit of tin in order to join two pieces of copper wire together. Ben moves on to connect another set of wires, but the solder fails to melt. He puts down the iron and turns his attention to a metal box connected to the iron by a wire. There’s a crank from an old jack-in-the-box sticking out of the device.
He turns the crank as hard as he can. Within the base station of the toy is a small electrical generator. By turning the crank, Ben twirls a piece of copper between the two poles of a magnet, generating a small amount of electricity, which flows through the soldering iron, past some transistors and resistors and what not, and heats up the tip. It takes a good two minutes of cranking in order to get the tip hot enough to melt the solder. Back in business, Ben connects the final two wires and completes his circuit, one of which leads to a small, red LED.
The other end of the circuit connects to a small spool of copper wire, which Ben unravels as he heads out of his workshop and towards the kitchen. He uses small bits of tape to hang the wire from the ceiling as he goes. Once he’s got the wire in the kitchen, he retrieves his soldering iron, which requires another minute of cranking. Then he breaks the copper wire off the spool and attaches that broken end to a small bit of wire coming out of a device in the kitchen he has already built. The device is a small generator, much like the one used to power his soldering iron, only instead of being attached to a crank; the generator is powered by a small windmill-looking device. Ben tugs the wires to make sure everything is well-connected.
Content, if not entirely satisfied, Ben goes over to the stove and turns on the small, propane-powered burner, turning on the tea kettle. The spout of the kettle is positioned just under the small windmill, which is attached to the generator, which is attached to the small LED in Ben’s workshop.
Linda walks into the room and sighs.
“What are you doing?” she asks in an unfriendly tone.
“Problem solving,” Ben says smugly.
“Is that what you’re calling this?”
“You were the one complaining about the tea kettle going off at all hours of the night. I took off the whistle so it won’t make any noise, but that means I won’t know when it is ready. The steam will generate electricity that will light up an LED in my workshop,” Ben explains like it should be obvious.
“So now we have exposed wires running all over the house?”
“It isn’t enough current to do any harm; it’ll barely make your hair stand up.”
“I’m glad you’ve found something productive to do with your time.”
“What would you suggest I do?”
Linda throws her hands in the air. “How about you rig the same thing up, only use it to provide light in a poor neighborhood where the streetlights have all starved to death?”
“I lack the raw materials needed to scale up the project. Besides, it’s pointless. The Metro Area can’t survive without Differents. Without the labor they provide, the Metro Area is simply too large to provide adequate services. If anything, helping recreate a few of the services might actually make things worse. The population should be leaving the Metro Area and forming smaller, more easily sustained settlements,” he says.
“Aren’t you chipper?”
“Reality tends not to be uplifting. Unless we get Nita to end the strike, the Metro Area, all the Metro Areas, are doomed to obsolescence.”
“But I thought most of the Differents weren’t on strike, especially in the other Metro Areas.”
“Enough are, and without Big Brains coordinating the labor, they will be much less effective.”
“Then at least you can try to help Gavin stop Khan,” Linda pivots.
“I was at the speech. I played my part in that debacle.”
“Complaining and arguing the whole time. You could try being a more active participant.”
“Excuse me if I wasn’t enthusiastic, but stopping Khan is like treating a head cold after being shot in the chest,” Ben says, throwing his arms in the air.
“What if all we have are tissues?” Linda replies.
“Then we should find a better way to spend our last moments than blowing our nose, because we are going to die anyway.”
“Stopping a criminal is a waste of time?”
“It is in this scenario. In fact, my metaphor might not even do it justice. Taking down Khan is more li
ke performing a bloodletting while suffering from a gunshot wound. The Metro Area is in shambles without Differents providing services. The Governor’s office is heavily involved in attempting to fill the gap. I don’t think a regime change is going to help the situation. There isn’t even a way to hold a new election.”
“Then how about this, smart guy? You think Gavin is wasting his time and should be focused on tracking down and stopping Nita, right?” Linda asks and Ben nods. “And whether it’s a good idea or not, Gavin is obsessed with taking down Khan, right? And Gavin won’t even seriously entertain going after Nita until Khan is in handcuffs, right? Then it seems pretty obvious what you should be doing.”
“That… is a very good point,” Ben concedes and nods his head.
3
Governor Khan’s refusal to employ Different labor is nothing short of lunacy. The Ultracorps strike has pushed the Metro Area to the brink. We all must come together in order to find a way to live without Ultracorps. Even still it’s going to require a Herculean effort, which is precisely why it is so baffling that we are refusing the help of the practical demi-Gods who still live among us. Let us not forget that these individuals turned their back on the calls to walk off the job and stayed true to their duty and country. We all need to move forward, together. Hate is not a solution; it’s not even a viable option.
“Beggars Can’t Be Choosers” by Forest Brown, think.Net News LA (printed in the Los Angeles Times)
Marina del Rey was once a wealthy community where those who loved their boats a little too much could live right beside them. It was included in the southern end of the Metro Area boundary, presumably with the hope that the Marina could be rehabilitated and turned into another working port. That hope never came to fruition, so instead the neighborhood rots. The masts of a few sunken ships stick out of the water, and the docks are collapsing into the sea. The buildings all bear the scars of the Plagues. Cabot’s bacteria ate through the water pipes flooding the structures rendering them uninhabitable. They’ve only continued to fall apart since the 80s.
