Warlord of New York City

by Leo Champion

  “Huh,” said Nero. “That’s not how his people are telling it. But you’ve been there…”

  Rex came back and motioned at van Zanden’s table, where the fixer was now sitting, watching them.

  “Someone wants to talk to you,” he said.

  * * *

  “Sorry you couldn’t collect on Jeff Hammer,” said Charles van Zanden, playing with his tablet. “You still want a piece of this matter? New bounties just came onto the network. Guess who.”

  “This Reverend… he a chomo, killer, peeler, what?”

  “He ordered a frag strike on his own people,” van Zanden shrugged. “But it’s only ten grand, plus a couple of opportunity bonuses. Up to you – he’s not exactly the worst tenement boss in the city, to be honest.”

  No, Diana Angela agreed. Very few precinct bosses would hesitate to brutally suppress an uprising. But for most bosses right now, that fact was theoretical and academic. The fact was that Reverend Carl Garson the Second had bombed his own people and was talking about a decimation when he took the place back. That behavior needed to be discouraged.

  “Ten grand for a hit in the Independent?” That was laughable, however. If she’d actually cared about the money…

  “I know, I know. I think it’s all they could afford. Oh, the posters made themselves known – the contract is signed on behalf of one President Jeff Hammer of West Bowery.” van Zanden looked away for a moment, touching his chin. “Wonder if that’ll spark a bidding war,” he mused.

  Diana Angela remembered the screams as she’d fled down the manhole.

  And the prospect of more, when he took over and retaliated. Maybe the Reverend’s successor would be more reasonable. Maybe the memory of swift death coming to the last guy who’d bombed his own people, might discourage some thug from pulling a similar trick in future.

  She had commitments tonight. But she also had a way into the Independent Hotel from a direction that very few on the streets did…

  “Maybe,” she said slowly. “Where in the Independent, they know?”

  “Second elevator district of the Rigotelli Wing. Enjoying the high life.”

  On his tablet, van Zanden showed her a recent photo of Reverend Carl Garson the Second. Then the similarly jowly but younger face of his son, Carl Garson who-would-be the Third, “aka Carl John Garson or CJ, to differentiate him from his father.” The third man was stern-faced and older middle aged and named John Moncreve. And yeah, the Reverend was only ten thou; the other two five K apiece, opportunity money at best.

  Ten grand was about the minimum price the Last Stand’s fixers would bother with – you could have people killed for a lot less than that, but usually not through the likes of Charles van Zanden. But a lot of primary targets were surrounded by secondary ones. Normally she risked herself taking pains to avoid collateral damage, but when a particular second-tier scumbag also had something in particular to deserve justice for… yeah, she could get greedy sometimes.

  “I have to get out of town for another few days, unfortunately.” Because she had to go back to the arkscrapers. Work was tomorrow and she had a date tonight she couldn’t get out of. But that was convenient with regard to a target at the Independent…

  It wasn’t only going to be justice for the thirty-three civilians he’d killed today; maybe this guy’s successor would talk a little less about reprisals when he took over…

  “Consider me interested…”

  * * *

  A funny thing had happened along the way to zero-scarcity.

  As it had approached in the mid-twenty-first century, one of its side-effects had been massive structural unemployment as job after job was automated. The internet had already created a global consciousness among members of the professional class the world over – the educated knowledge-worker elites of developed-world big cities realizing that they had far more in common with each other than the crude, painfully nationalistic blue-collar gronks in the flyover parts of their own countries – and that consciousness had decided that while it was okay to automate other people’s jobs, automating the jobs they filled was a problem.

  It had been an issue to catalyze the professional associations and white-collar trade unions that would go on to become the nucleus of the Intendancy – a civil rights struggle for the 2040s and 2050s, pushing for the first successful limitations on “job-annihilating” technology. It had kept the lawyers, the activists, and the last journalists employed, even if most of what everyone did was make-work.

  Another major job-creation measure had involved reducing the work week to thirty hours in the hope of forcing companies to hire more people. It hadn’t worked, so it had been reduced further, to twenty-one hours.

  Diana Angela’s own work schedule had a certain amount of flexibility due to her rank – but the people she was meeting with were often of higher rank and had more weight in consensus. Her Monday usually consisted of them, which was why she was usually back upstairs by Sunday night. Tonight she had to be back sooner, and the hyperloop supposedly carrying her would be arriving at High Central shortly before five thirty.

  It was a bit before five as she made her way, bent double, down the stormwater drain whose cave-in led inside the Madison Park Building. A steady flow of clean-ish water was coming along, ankle deep. She checked, scanning and listening – her sensors were thick around her home area, and she checked and replaced them regularly. There was no human-sized activity within two hundred yards, which was a long way underground. Known with 100% certainty, the report told her.

  Under the ground there was never hundred-percent certainty on anything. So she stayed conscious of where her backup weapons were as she undid her pouched belt and stripped naked, letting the flowing water carry all but her boots away down the channel to eventually flow into the East River.

  From where it sat just inside the cave-in point, she took a dispenser of concentrated liquid soap and began to lather herself thoroughly, including all through her hair. It was cramped in the four-foot-diameter pipe, but she was used to the procedure; she needed to clean off every detectable molecule of street dirt – and blood, and other things that sensors in public areas might pick up and describe as anomalous. Or, God forbid, radioactive. There would be few faster ways to draw notice than by triggering environmental sensors, and so she’d always been religious about this kind of sterilization on her way back.

  She carefully rinsed herself clean in the cool stormwater – she would have preferred it warmer – and made her way back up the shaft, carrying her boots and weapons belt. Another time the number of trips up matches the trips down, she thought as she replaced her weapons on their hooks and applied more body wash to the areas they’d covered, as well as the soles of her feet. Some day she would not come back up, but it was not this time.

  Several backpacks of sealed return outfits sat in a corner, on hooks high enough off the ground that the mold wouldn’t get them. She took the nearest, broke the seal on the underwear and put it on; the rest of the modest outfit would only get dirty in the airshafts. Or, as the case would be now, the elevator shafts…

  * * *

  On the forty-first floor, an empty maintenance closet backed directly onto a major air duct. Diana Angela pulled aside the back of the closet and stepped in, away from the blowing hot air, and opened the vacuum-sealed bag of clothes. She put them on; a long-sleeved blouse with rank straps but no insignia, a pair of grey trousers and black flats.

  A quick check indicated that the coast was clear on the tertiary corridor outside. Bundling the pack and clothing wrappers for the nearest trash chute, she opened its door and slipped out. At a brisk pace, avoiding eye contact, she headed toward the interdistrict elevators.

  Twenty minutes later she was in the body shower of her apartment, a hundred jets spraying patterns of scalding water at her from all directions. It was unlikely she’d missed anything the first time, but there was no point taking chances and, besides, the shower was relaxing in itself.

  Oh. She h
ad that date tonight…

  With visuals set firmly off as she scrubbed herself, she composed a message to Jean-Noel, apologizing – and trying to sound at least somewhat sincere – for having to postpone their date by two hours, from six thirty to eight thirty this evening.

  Second district, Rigotelli Wing, she thought. The Independent Hotel was a huge, complex, chaotic and multifaceted place, but that narrowed it down considerably…

  Chapter Sixteen

  “They’re going up all over the city,” Santos pointed from the Chapel roof. To the east, red and black barrier balloons floated above the Lonsdales at varying heights; to the south and the west the Changs had red and grey ones. Past the Changs to the south, red and white balloons bobbed in the wind above South Bowery.

  “You realize,” said Marder, “that those things aren’t going to make us any friends at the Airedale.”

  Hammer shrugged. You couldn’t move forwards without torching a few bridges in your backtrail. “I expected that. So long as it doesn’t start a war.”

  “It might,” Santos said carefully.

  Once the basic concept had been established and proven, it hadn’t taken long at all for imitators to start riffing on it. The first and most obvious move had been making the balloons in tenement colors, but that was just the start. Long threads of rope hung from the Lonsdales’ balloons, while the Changs’ red and grey ones were roped together horizontally.

  “What are they going to do, bomb us?” Hammer asked sardonically.

  “Boss,” said Ali Benzi, “are you really sure it was wise to throw away our biggest advantage just to stop the attacks this morning? You’ve made life hard for our guys, too.”

  Marder made a grunt of agreement.

  “We’ll figure something out,” Hammer said. He looked around the group. “Anyone got an idea?”

  “Yes,” said Santos with a smile.

  * * *

  “Colonel Benzi will see you now,” said the injured soldier on desk duty to Jimmy Beppe, who had been the Fourth Company squad leader in charge of Hammer and the Benzis. Beppe was twenty, from a respected lower-officers’ family; his brother had been Lieutenant of Fifth Company before losing his leg and retiring to a management position. He was a round-faced young man with a mop of black hair and a habit of playing with the rapier at his side, and right now he was nervous.

  Three days ago Jacopo Benzi had been his most experienced corporal and the real leader, everyone knew, of the squad. He’d intimidated Beppe a bit then, before it had turned out a lot of the soldiers actually had been scheming behind his back – and the backs of the other squad sergeants, and Captain Daniel Garson – to take over the precinct.

  Now the new colonel stood behind a desk that had belonged to the old one, who’d been the Reverend’s younger brother. The scarred Benzi was a couple of inches taller than Beppe’s six foot even, but considerably more muscular in his newly-tailored uniform of black trousers and green shirt.

  “Close the door, Travis,” said Benzi to the injured man at the door.

  Beppe looked down at the thinly-carpeted floor, checking that it hadn’t been covered in plastic. Wondering what kind of trouble he was in. He’d supported Hammer’s coup, hadn’t he? He wasn’t going to be executed or shitcanned… right?

  “Sergeant,” said Colonel Benzi with a smile. “Remember when the mutiny was just starting, and you offered your support if we made you a lieutenant?”

  “Uh, yeah,” said Beppe. He did remember that – possibly a bad idea, he was definitely going to be in trouble with the Reverend if that guy came back. But Hammer had just shot dead three First Company men and it had seemed prudent at the time.

  “And I said you weren’t qualified to be a sergeant, but if you brought other people on board you might stay one?”

  Yes, Jimmy Beppe remembered that. And he had brought his big brother on board, which had had an influence on Captain Karstein…

  “Uh, yeah?”

  “Yes sir,” Colonel Benzi said flatly.

  “Yes sir, I’m sorry, Colonel. And I did bring people on board, sir!”

  “You did,” said Colonel Benzi. “But you’re still not qualified to run a squad. So you’re getting a promotion.”

  The colonel pushed a pair of copper insignia across the desk, motioned for Beppe to take them. They were triple chevrons, like the ones pinned to each shoulder of Beppe’s shirt right now, but under each of them was a single upwards-curving rocker.

  “Congratulations, Staff Sergeant Beppe. You and some of the other sergeants whose hearts are in the right place are getting these. New rank - company third in command, you get a small pay raise but you’re no longer responsible for squads you aren’t equipped to lead. Maybe in time you’ll learn.”

  “Yes, Colonel.” Beppe considered changing the insignia right now, but decided against it, not while standing in front of the colonel. This meeting could, however, be going a lot worse. In his nervous fantasies it had gone worse, with him being kicked out of the force entirely or stripped of his rank. Instead he was being promoted out of the way.

  “Your new assignment is Sixth Company, the streetgangers.”

  Oh. Shit.

  “I’ll give you Billy Greig to watch your back. I don’t expect you to control Hoshi, but I expect you to report on him to me and the boss.”

  “Colonel Benzi,” said Beppe, before he realized he was about to plead and caught himself. The streetgangers would just cut his throat before doing anything they weren’t supposed to. So what if Greig, who had been the squad’s other corporal, was there to watch Beppe’s back – they’d cut Greig’s throat too!

  The colonel looked across his desk at Beppe.

  “Yes, Staff Sergeant?”

  “Never mind, sir. Yessir.”

  “Good man. Hoshi knows you’re coming; go join your new unit. Bring him these orders.”

  The colonel passed a sealed envelope over. Beppe took it, and after a moment folded it double and stuck it carefully in the pocket of his shirt.

  “Dismissed, Beppe.”

  “Yessir.”

  * * *

  Hoshi was somewhere in his thirties, old for a streetganger; by that age most streetgangers were either dead or quit to the tenements, where they became soldiers if they were very lucky and raff if they weren’t. The first time Jimmy Beppe had seen him, in charge of a hundred Lower East Side streetgangers who Hammer had been drilling with the airborne Charlie Marder and his gang, Hoshi had been wearing rags; now he’d found a uniform. The contrast made him look less civilized, with his heavily inflamed facial scars and greasy topknot, not more.

  He gave Beppe a broken-toothed grin as he opened the envelope. Half a dozen of his streetgangers, none of whom wore real uniforms beyond strips of green cloth on their upper arms and around their heads as bandannas, jostled around him. The streetgangers – who were now Sixth Company, officially tenement soldiers even though Beppe couldn’t imagine this individualistic rabble drilling like a regular company, even if they had the muskets – were armed with new axes and swords that they were sharpening.

  “This comes from Boss Hammer, right?”

  “Comes from Colonel Benzi, Captain.” It was ridiculous to call this animal a captain!

  Hoshi spat on the ground.

  “We take our calls from Boss Hammer.”

  It’s called a chain of command, you… whatever you are!

  “Colonel Benzi takes his calls from Boss Hammer,” said Beppe carefully.

  “OK, what’s it say?” Hoshi gave the unfolded order to Beppe.

  Beppe read it, his eyes widening as he did.

  “Says you’re to go to the armory and arm up. Then we go into the abandoned buildings, find streetgangers and recruit ‘em,” said Beppe.

  There was a burble of noise from the gathered streetgangers.

  “Told ‘ja that’s what he was gonna have us do!”

  “We give ‘em weapons and boots,” Beppe continued, “so they’ll be more effective in the w
ar to come.”

  * * *

  Separate from the Chapel sick bay, the main precinct clinic filled the third and fourth floors of a once-residential building on southern Elizabeth Street. The steep staircase that Hammer was climbing was slippery with what smelled like disinfectant; there was a hoist outside for stretchers.

  Right now the place was stuffed with moaning injured, dozens upon dozens of them. They were crowded three to a mattress on the beds; they slumped in corners and squeezed under the beds. Others, their bodies and limbs wrapped in ragged bandages, were slumped across plastic visitor’s chairs. There were civilians who’d been hurt in the airstrike; there were streetgangers who’d been hurt in the fighting of the takeover, which had not been completely one-sided.

  Someone must have alerted Doc Wohlrab that the boss was coming, because the man appeared just as Hammer reached the top of the stairs. Lines of exhaustion were under the medic’s eyes.

  “I help you, Boss?”

  Hammer looked across the civilians he’d failed to protect and the streetgangers who were here because they’d fought for him. Yeah, he owed these guys a visit. And whatever else he could give.

  “What do you need, Doc?”

  “Space,” said Wohlrab immediately. “Help. Bandages, disinfectant, I can give you a list. This clinic was never intended for mass casualties.”

  “Get it to Ali,” said Hammer. The moans and sighs, and weeping, were starting to get to him. This was an aspect you never saw from four hundred feet.

  A pre-teen kid came up to the doctor, saw Hammer and backed off.

  “Tell him whatever you were going to say,” Hammer said to the kid. He needed a moment to process this shit, anyway.

  “We lost another of them, Doctor.”

  Wohlrab sighed.