Ascendancies (50 page)

“Well, you can't
have the
‘Mormon Meteor.'”

“The hell,” he said. “Look at this glass case. One good swift kick would break it. The cops would never expect anybody to boost this car. And if the engine would turn over, you could drive it right out the capitol door!” Starlitz ran both hands over his filthy hair and shivered. “Sunday night in Mormonville—there's not a soul in the fuckin' streets! And the Meteor does 200 miles an hour! By dawn we could have it safely buried under a dune in White Sands, come back whenever we need it…”

“But we
don't
need it,” Mr. Judy said. “We'll
never
need this!”

He folded his arms. “You didn't know you needed the van, either. And I brought you the van, didn't I?”

“This thing isn't like the van. The van is useful in the liberation struggle.”

Starlitz was scandalized. “Christ, you don't know
anything
about machinery. The way you talk about it, you'd think technology was for what people
need!”
He took a deep breath. “Look, Jude, trust me on this. This fucker is voodoo. It's a canopic jar, it's the Pharaoh's guts! It's the Holy Tabernacle, okay? We steal this baby, and the whole goddamn karmic keystone falls out of this place…”

Judy frowned. “Knock it off with the New Age crap, Legs. From you, it sounds really stupid.”

They suddenly heard the echoing chang and whine of electric guitars, a thudding concussion of drums. Somewhere, someone in the Capitol was rocking out.

They hurried back upstairs. As they drew nearer they could hear the high-pitched wail of alien lyrics, cut with a panting electric clarinet and a whomping bassline.

Four young Japanese women with broad-brimmed felt hats and snarled dreadlocks were slouching against the wall of the Utah State Capitol rotunda, clustered around a monster Sony boom box. The women wore short stiff paisley skirts, tattered net stockings, a great deal of eye-makeup, and elaborate, near-psychedelic pearl-buttoned cowboy shirts. They were nodding, foot-tapping, chainsmoking and tapping ashes into a Nikon lens-cap.

Mr. Judy gave them the password. The Japanese women smiled brightly, without bothering to get up. One of them turned off their howling tape, and made introductions. Their names were Sachiho, Ako, Sayoko and Hukie. They were an all-girl heavy-metal rockband from Tokyo called “'90s Girl”—
Nineties Gyaru
.

Sachiho, the '90s Girl among the foursome with the most tenacious grasp on English, tried to get the skinny across to Vanna and Judy. The latest DC from '90s Girl had topped out at 200,000 units, which was major commercial action in Tokyo pop circles, but peanuts compared to the legendary American pop market. '90s Girl, who nourished a blazing determination to become the
o-goruden bando
—great golden band—of Nipponese hard-rock, were determined to break the US through dogged club-touring. A college-circuit alternative radio network based in Georgia had reluctantly agreed to get them some American gigs.

The band members of '90s Girl had already spent plenty of vacation-time slumming in Manhattan, skindiving in Guam, and skiing in Utah, so they figured they had the Yankee scene aced. Any serious commercial analysis of the American rock scene made it obvious that most of the wannabe acts in America were supporting themselves with narcotics trafficking. This was the real nature of the American rock'n'roll competitive advantage.

The Tokyo-based management of '90s Girl had therefore made a careful market-study of American drug-consumption patterns and concluded that RU-486 was the hot and coming commodity. RU-486 was nonaddictive, didn't show up on the user, and it was not yet controlled by Yankee mafia, Jamaican dope-posses, or heavily armed Colombians. The profit potential was bright, the consumers relatively non-violent, and the penalties for distribution still confused.

'90s Girl planned to sell the capsules through a network of metal-chick cult-fans in Arizona, Texas, Georgia, Florida, and North Carolina, with a final big blow-out in Brooklyn if they had any dope left when they finished their tour.

“This management of yours,” Mr. Judy said. “The people doing all this market analysis. They're, not men, are they?”

“Oh no,” said Sachiho. “Never, never.”

“Great.” Mr. Judy handed over her backpack. '90s Girl began stuffing dope into their camera cases.

Footsteps approached.

The assorted smugglers glanced around wildly for an escape route. There was none. The pro-life forces had deployed themselves with cunning skill. Enemies blocked each of the rotunda exits, in groups of six.

Their leader muscled his way to the fore. “Caught you red-handed!” he announced gleefully in the sullen silence. “You'll hand that contraband over now, if you please.”

“Forget it,” Mr. Judy said.

“You're not leaving this building with that wicked poison in your possession,” the leader assured her. “We won't allow it.”

Mr. Judy glared at him. “What're you gonna do, Mr. Nonviolence? Preach us to death?”

“That won't be necessary,” he said grimly, veins protruding on the sides of his throat. “If you resist us violently, then we'll mace you with pepper-spray. We'll superglue your bodies to the floor of the Capitol, and leave you there soaked in bottled blood, with placards around your necks, fully describing your awful crimes.” Two of the nonviolent thugs began vigorously shaking aerosol cans.

“You Salvation?” Starlitz asked. He slipped his hand inside his photographer's vest.

“Some people call me that,” the leader said. He was tall and clear-eyed and clean-shaven. He had a large nose and close-set eyes and wore a blue denim shirt and brown sans-a-belt slacks. He looked completely undistinguished. He looked like the kind of guy who might own a bowling alley. The only remarkable quality about Salvation was that he clearly meant every word he said.

“You might as well forget about that gun, sir,” he said. “You can't massacre all of us, and we're not afraid to die in the service of humanity. And in any case, we're videotaping this entire encounter. If you murder us, you'll surely pay a terrible price.” He clapped his hand on the shoulder of a companion with a videocam.

The guy with the minicam spoke up in an anxious whisper, which the odd acoustics of the rotunda carried perfectly. “
Uh, Salvation…something's gone wrong with the camera
…”

“How'd you know we were here?” Mr. Judy demanded.

“We're monitoring the Capitol's security cameras,” Salvation said triumphantly, gesturing at an overhead surveillance unit. “You're not the only people in the world who can hack computers, you know!” He took a deep breath. “You're not the only people who can sing
We Shall Overcome
. You're not the only ones who can raise consciousness, and hold sit-ins, and block streets!” He laughed harshly. “You thought you were the Revolution. You thought you were the New Age. Well, ladies,
we are the change
. We're the Revolution now!”

Suddenly, and without warning, a great buzzing voice echoed down the hall behind him.
“Up against the wall!”
It was the cry of a police bullhorn.

A squad of heavily armed Secret Service agents burst headlong into the rotunda, in a flying wedge, Salvation's little knot of pro-lifers scattered and fell like bowling pins.

At the sight of the charging federal agents, Vanna, Mr. Judy, and Starlitz each sat down immediately, almost reflexively, tucking their laced hands behind their heads. The four members of '90s Girl sat up a little straighter, and watched bemused.

The feds surged through the rotunda like red-dogging linebackers. The pro-lifers blocking the other exits panicked and started to flee headlong, but were tackled and fell thrashing.

A redheaded woman in jeans and a blue-and-yellow Secret Service windbreaker danced into the rotunda, and lifted her bullhorn again. “The building's surrounded by federal agents!” she bellowed electronically. “I advise you dumb bastards to surrender peacefully!”

Her yell tore through the echoing rotunda like God shouting through a tin drum. The pro-lifers, stunned, went limp and nonresisting. She lowered her bullhorn and smiled at the sight of them, then nudged a nearby agent. “Read 'em their Miranda rights, Ehrlichman.”

The fed, methodically bending over groups of his captured prey, began reading aloud from a laminated index card. The pro-lifers grunted in anguish as they were seized with cunning Secret Service judo-holds, then trussed like turkeys with whip-thin lengths of plastic handcuff.

The woman with the bullhorn approached the assorted smugglers, stopping by their Sony boom box. “Jane O'Houlihan, Utah Attorney General's office,” she announced crisply, exhibiting a brass badge.

Mr. Judy looked up brightly. “How do you do, Ms. O'Houlihan? I think you'd better take it easy on these Japanese nationals. They're tourists, and don't have anything to do with this.”

“How fuckin' stupid do you think I am?” O'Houlihan said. She sighed aloud. “You're sure lucky these pro-life dorks are wanted on a Kansas warrant for aggravated vandalism. Otherwise you and me would all be goin' downtown.”

“You don't need to do that,” Vanna told her timidly, wide-eyed.

O'Houlihan glared at them. “I'd bust you clowns in a hot second, only it would complicate my prosecution to bring you jerks into the picture… Besides, these dipshits just hacked a State Police video installation. They screwed it up, too, the cameras have been malfin' like crazy all morning… That's a Section 1030 federal computer-intrusion offense! They're gonna break rocks!”

“It's certainly good to know that a sister is fully in charge of this situation,” Mr. Judy said, tentatively lifting her hands from the nape of her neck. “These right-wing vigilantes are a menace to all women's civil rights.”

“Sister me no sisterhood,” O'Houlihan said, deftly prodding Mr. Judy with one Adidas-clad foot. “I didn't see you worthless New Age libbies lifting one damn finger to help me when I was busting check-forgers in the county attorney's office.”

“We don't even live around here,” Vanna protested. “We're from Ore—I mean, we're from another state.”

“Yeah? Well, welcome to Utah, the Beehive State. Next time stay the fuck out of my jurisdiction.”

A Secret Service agent clomped over. His sleeveless Kevlar flak jacket now hung loose, its Velcro tabs dangling. He looked very tough indeed. He looked as if he could bite bricks in half. “Any problem here, Janie?”

O'Houlihan smiled at him winningly. “None at all, Bob. These are just small-time losers…Besides, there seems to be an international angle.” Sachiho, Ako, Hukie and Sayoko looked up impassively, their mascaraed eyes gone blank with sullen global-teenager Bohemianism.

“International, huh?” Bob muttered, gazing at the girl-group as if they'd just arrived via saucer from Venus. “That would let the Bureau in…” Bob adjusted his Ray-Bans. “Okay, Janie, if you say so, I guess they walk. But be sure and upload their dossiers to Washington.”

“Will do!” O'Houlihan beamed.

Bob was reluctant. “You're damned sure they didn't try to get into any police systems?”

“They're not that smart,” O'Houlihan told him. Bob nodded and returned to his cohorts, who were hauling handcuffed pro-lifers, by their armpits, face first down the echoing corridors. The arrestees wailed in anguish and struggled fitfully as their shoulders began to dislocate.

O'Houlihan raised the bullhorn to her lips. “Take it easy on 'em, boys! Remember, one of them is a secret federal informant.” O'Houlihan lowered the bullhorn and grinned wickedly.

“We don't raid police systems,” Mr. Judy assured her. “We wouldn't ever, ever raid federal computers.”

“I
know
you don't,” O'Houlihan said, with a chilly I-know-all cop's smile. “But if you little hippie bitches don't knock it off with the toll-fraud scams, you're gonna do time.” She examined her polished nails. “If I ever meet you again, you're gonna regret it. Now get lost before I change my mind.”

The seven contraceptive conspirators immediately fled the building. The unlucky pro-life agitators, now beginning to argue violently among themselves, were being flung headlong into a series of white Chevy vans. “Whew,” Vanna said. “That could have been us!”

“I think that's
supposed
to be us,” Mr. Judy said, confused. “I mean, it always was us
before
…I guess that's what they get for trying to
be
us.”

“Boy, that cop Jane sure is…” Vanna drew a breath…“
attractive
.”

Mr. Judy cast her a sharp and jealous look. “Come on! She's the heat!”

“So what?” Vanna shot back, wounded. “I can't help it if she happens to be 'way hot.”

“Great,” Mr. Judy said sourly. “Well, we'd better blow this nowhere burg before your girlfriend puts a tail on us.”

“What about the Mormon Meteor?” Starlitz demanded.

“Have you gone completely insane?” Mr. Judy said. “The place is swarming with feds!”

“Not anymore,” Starlitz said. “This is the perfect time to boost it. They'll blame it on Salvation's crowd!”

Sachiho, who had been listening with interest, spoke up suddenly. “It's cool car,” she remarked. “Gnarly American car to buy for trade balance. I like it excellent! Let's rent it and make cool video like ZZ Top.”

“Great
fuckin' idea!” Starlitz said.

“We have a perfectly good van that's a lot more use,” Mr. Judy said.

Sachiho looked utterly blank.
“Wakarimasen
…I think we Nineties Girl have to go rehearse now.” She did a little serpentine side-step. “Good-bye to you forever, okay? Don't call us, we'll call you.” She quipped something in Japanese to the others. They began laughing merrily and bounced off down the stairs.