City Wars (3 page)

Then he remembered. He was older than Government itself.

Gilcrest poured some brandy into a glass and swallowed it all. He hefted the bottle in his hand, judged its contents.

Just enough, he thought. Just enough.

“Where’s the Guardian?”

He turned at the sound of his wife’s voice. Estelle was in the doorway to the study, at the top of the ramp. She touched a knob on her chair. It rolled into the room toward him.

He noticed the blanket thrown across her legs.

“Are you chilled, dear? I’ll have someone check the unit.”

“No, no. I’m fine.” Her face turned up, took the light. “I look better in a blanket anyhow, don’t you think? Woman’s got to have a little mystery, right?”

Gilcrest poured another drink, then one for his wife. She took the glass, sipped, grimaced.

“I don’t know how you drink this stuff.”

“It’s old, Estelle. Like me. That’s just old age you’re tasting.”

She handed him the glass. “No, thanks.”

He went over to a large stuffed chair, nut-brown and leathery, and sat down.

Estelle directed her wheelchair across the carpet.

“I asked where your Guardian was,” she said.

“On assignment.”

“For the city?”

He studied her, and the emptiness of her eyes. He wondered if he’d ever get used to that.

“We have something of a crisis,” he said. “There was an emergency session today.”

“That’s what I figured.” She rolled away, brought herself to where the high bookshelves lined one entire wall. She ran her long white fingers along the bindings of the old volumes. “It’s about those three people getting killed.”

“The news is everywhere by now, I suppose.”

“Media ran a special.” Her smile was a cameo. “Had holograms, taken just after that Cunningham woman got it.”

“Pricks.”

She shrugged, her shoulders like bony points beneath her blouse. Her hair was steel gray, like his, and attractively wrapped in a silk scarf. Her blouse was colorful, and had stitched designs at the cuffs. Gilcrest had bought it for her on their last anniversary. The design was supposed
to have been sewn by a human hand, which had meant something to the old man.

He was looking at his wife thoughtfully. He was looking at her blouse, at the powder she’d applied to cover the few lines on her face; he was looking at her pale hand, resting against the brown timelessness of his beloved books.

He thought of things lost to him forever.

“I’m worried, Estelle,” he said finally. “I’m worried about the city.”

“You’re always worried about the city. God knows, it gets more attention than—”

“Estelle, please. Try to understand the gravity of the situation. Chicago is—”

She set the chair in motion, wheeled it over to his side.

“How many times do I have to say it, Andrew? There is no Chicago.”

“For Christ’s sake, Estelle—” His voice was weary. From the day’s excitement, he thought, and the brandy starting to work.

Estelle had gripped the arm of his chair, as though for anchor.

“No Chicago, Andrew! No great city of cities! You’ve spent your whole life in service to a dream, an illusion …”

“What are you saying? There are new roads, new buildings—”

“An illusion, Andrew.” Her tone was low, hard. The bitterness went through him like Chicago wind. “You’re a fool, Andrew. You’re all fools. With your armies and your roads. There is no city. Not really. Not when the erection of a two-storied building is a major event. Not when your machines don’t work, and no one has the knowledge to repair them. Not when a fleet of two thousand airships has been reduced to a half-dozen. There’s nothing here but remnants, scraps … pieces holding the illusion together.”

“Estelle, you don’t know what the hell you’re saying!”

“Chicago!” She threw her hands out. The chair wriggled on the carpet. “This city—your city … what madness,
Andrew! But a comforting madness. That’s what it is, isn’t it? A very comforting illusion.”

He got up from the chair, anger rising inside him. His wife stayed right behind him.

“But I know better, Andrew,” she cried, a shrillness edging her voice. “I can’t have any illusions. Once there were doctors who could have helped me—”

“We don’t know that, Estelle.”

“Once there were doctors, Andrew—but no more. The knowledge is incomplete. Media said medicine has been lost to the ages …”

“Media knows nothing that—”

“We have machines that don’t work, cars that can’t run—” She clutched at his sleeve. “You can’t even feed the people here—all you can do is lie to them and keep lying to them and keep building new weapons after you junk the old ones that blow up in your faces and—”

Her voice caught, and she began to cry.

Gilcrest looked at her and summoned up enough pity to take her hand. His words held little comfort.

“You don’t make any sense when you talk like that, Estelle. I won’t have you talking like that.”

“Because I’m right,” she sniffed, pulling her hand away. “Because I make perfect sense, Andrew. And you know it.”

There was no argument in him. “All right, Estelle.”

“You—you people …” She wiped her tears on the cuff of her blouse. “All of you … just a bunch of proud and stupid people, with your anger and your broken-down machines. Trying to make yourselves believe you’re part of a city coming alive again, a civilization rebuilding …”

“Please, Estelle. All you’re doing is—”

“Proud and stupid people, that’s all you are …”

Gilcrest pointed to the doorway.

“Leave me alone for a while,” he said, his manner more brusque than he’d intended.

Her lips pressed together.

“Please leave,” he said more softly. “I have to think.”

She shifted in her chair, smoothed the blanket across her legs.

Gilcrest looked at his outstretched hand, pointing toward the doorway, and felt suddenly foolish.

“I know you don’t mean to upset me,” he said. “But this is a hard time for me … for the city. And—”

“I understand, Andrew,” she said. “I’ve always understood. It’s you that—aw, the hell with it. I’m going.”

She rolled toward the door. Then, over her shoulder: “Are you going to drink all of that brandy?”

Gilcrest managed a rueful smile. “Most of it.”

Estelle considered this. Then, swiveling her neck as though to ease some stiffness, she started the chair up the ramp and out of the room.

4

Bowman found an empty booth in the back and settled in, as though considering hibernation.

He’d run into Meyerson again outside on Third and had mumbled some kind of apology for the night before. Meyerson told him you couldn’t apologize for being an ass-hole and just to forget the whole thing. Then Meyerson hobbled off with some woman who smelled of Seattle and Bowman had come in here.

Meyerson had always had this thing for foreigners, for getting them into bed and then watching their eyes when he climbed in after them and they saw what the cobalt had done.

Bowman rubbed the back of his neck, put Meyerson out of his mind. He decided to concentrate on the bottle he’d brought over from the bar. It was a good synthetic; the color was almost right.

He looked around again. Lots of solitude in here, no matter how crowded. Some bars were like that, and he still didn’t know why. After all this time, Bowman figured he should have been an expert.

Corrigan ran a clean place; the customers were mostly civilians and ex-Service. Of course, there were a few lunks. You couldn’t go anywhere without bumping into a couple of them.

It wasn’t that Bowman had anything personal against them. In fact, he felt genuinely sorry for them, though he’d heard you weren’t supposed to say that. Still, it
was hard not to pity what the War had done to them.

Bowman swallowed most of his drink in a single gulp. He remembered what Government had said after the War. We can rebuild the city, we can repave the roads. No doubt we can someday do the same for those unfortunates on whom war leveled its greatest tragedy.

But no one really believed the scientists would come up with anything. The mutations would remain; the drooping faces and distended limbs would be nothing less than family traits, passed from one generation to the next.

And you couldn’t pity the lunks. They hated that worse than their own suffering. And the more they hated, the more people avoided contact with them.

So they’d just become fixtures. Part of the backdrop. On street corners, inside the lobbies of buildings. Silent, resentful, self-loathing, servile. And frightening to some, especially when a great number of lunks collected in one area. From which fear had come the rumors of organization, of a select few among them whose intelligence might yet show them ways to channel their despair and self-loathing into action. Not a week went by without some Media spokesman warning of traitorous bands among the lunks, and the seeds of rebellion they were sowing.

But to most citizens of Chicago, lunks were just those morose, grotesque, pitiable creatures who swept floors and planted vegetables and laid brick and looked down at the ground a lot.

Lunks were the new niggers.

Bowman saw one now and called him over. The lunk, wearing a dirty gray apron, handed him a menu and walked away. Bowman’s sudden guilt had balled up inside him, helped along by the drinks, and he’d wanted to say something to the lunk. Anything. Apologize …

But the lunk had simply handed him the menu and departed. Just as Meyerson had departed.

Bowman looked at the unwanted menu in his hand
and had an oblique thought: Hell is when they won’t let you apologize.

His head began to throb.

He threw down the menu and started to slide out of the booth. A hand on his shoulder stopped him.

“Captain Bowman?” The woman was beautiful, despite the professional friendliness of her voice. But it was her blue tunic that caught him unawares.

“May I sit down?” she asked.

“Sure. But I was just leaving.”

“Please sit with me a few minutes. I have a message for you from Minister Gilcrest.” She extended her hand across the table. “I’m Cassandra Ingram.”

“You’re a Guardian,” he said flatly. But he took her hand.

“You disapprove?”

He shrugged. “Let’s say the concept scares me a little.”

“I think it’s supposed to, Captain. They feel it adds to our effectiveness.”

“Call me Jake. Or Bowman, if you like.”

“All right. I’m Cassandra.” Her smile lost its officious edge. “Now if there’s someplace we can talk …”

Bowman shook his head. “Right here is fine. It’s not too crowded, and most everybody’s stoned anyway. You know Corrigan’s.”

“Frankly, I don’t.”

Bowman rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He needed a shave.

“No, I guess you wouldn’t,” he said. “But don’t worry. No bugs here. Nobody’s interested in anything but themselves.” He looked around quickly. “Unless the lunks bother you.”

She lowered her eyes. “I’d prefer that you didn’t use that expression, Cap—I mean, Jake …”

“Oh. Sure. I didn’t mean anything. Hell, the bastards use it about themselves. You know.”

Damn his head, soaked through with a week’s worth of bourbon and dust and bad dreams! If he could just sleep for a while, maybe the pounding would stop—

“Are you feeling all right?”

He gauged the concern in her eyes.

“Yeah. Well, no …” He tried on a grin. “I had this old Commander once … he woulda said peacetime just doesn’t agree with me.”

“Perhaps.” She smiled at him. He had the annoying thought that she’d probably never been drunk a day in her life. Or stoned.

No, not this one. She’s a Guardian, he reminded himself somberly. Pure in mind and body. And she’s waiting.

He let out his breath. “Okay, Cassandra. What does the big man want?”

“There were three deaths yesterday, right here in Chicago,” she said quietly. “Media carried it a few hours ago. You might have seen …”

He shook his head.

She went on: “Anyway, they were cobalt cones, fired into the middle of crowds. Point of origin unknown.”

“From what I know of those energy cones, the range could be as much as two thousand miles. Who’s on top of the suspect list?”

“New York and Washington. It may have been another, smaller city, but it seems unlikely.”

“I see. And Gilcrest wants an answer?”

“As soon as possible.” Her eyes widened almost imperceptively. “I don’t know if I’m violating any confidences, but there’s one man who’s pushing very hard for retaliation. Hadrian, from Weapons Division.”

Bowman showed his teeth. “Amos Hadrian. Yeah, I remember that guy. Dealt with him a few times in Tactics. Kinda gung-ho, if you know what I mean. He was a great believer in forearmed is forewarned,’ that kind of thing.”

Cassandra said, “In this case, he may have been right. Media’s already making a lot of noise about this. The citizens aren’t going to take the news of these attacks lightly.”

“That’s for damn sure, Cass. Territorial imperative runs high among Urbans, especially since the War.”

“Then you see the need for urgency.” Cassandra rose.
“Please, Jake. Minister Gilcrest requests that you begin at once.”

Jake didn’t get up. “Wait a minute, lady. I’m retired, remember?”

“What does that mean?”

“For one thing, it means I don’t have to do anything but order another bottle of hooch and get stupid.”

“But I thought—”

“Besides, I don’t know if I’m up for saving Civilization As We Know It.” He drew her down to the booth. “I’ve blown a lot of very expensive dust, lady. I figure I’m entitled to all those miserable side-effects they warn you about.”

Cassandra folded her arms. “I see.”

Bowman said, “Look, I’m not tryin’ to be a prick about this, but …” He spread his hands. “You know what I’m saying? Gilcrest can get somebody else.”

“He specifically asked for you, Captain. I’ll be damned if I know why, though.”

Bowman leaned back in the booth. “Jesus H. Christ. I didn’t know your type was allowed to get pissed off.”

“You’d be surprised.”

He took a long pause, eying her carefully.

“I’m makin’ a goddam fool of myself, aren’t I?”

“I think I know what it’s about,” she said, not unkindly.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, well …” He nodded, looked at the few remaining drops in his glass. Then, putting the glass down, he took a last look around the bar and followed Cassandra out into the afternoon sun.

The day was cool and bright, but the noise of the streets irritated him. Or maybe it was just the sudden light of day.

Cassandra took his arm.

“I know a side street,” she said. “Less crowded.”

Bowman nodded absently. She led him across a circular patio to another stretch of pavement, flanked on
both sides by the squat bases of what had once been towering buildings.

Through half-lidded eyes, Bowman surveyed the refuse piled along the charred building face. Little knolls of rubble dotted the pavement. Above, blackened windows were blind eyes staring at the sun.

The War had made alleys of every street.

A dilapidated overhang of stretched fabric and wrought-iron supports extended from the building ahead. A posted sign warned against passing underneath.

Cassandra pointed.

There was another street running parallel to Third, this a ribbon of unbroken asphalt leading to a small cluster of temporary garages.

“I have a car there,” she said.

They’d just started across the asphalt when the attack came.