City Wars (2 page)

Cassandra Ingram was a member of a unique sub-organization of the Chicago Service, the Order of the Guardians. She wore, as she was required to do in public, the light blue tunic that identified her as such. That marked her as one of an elite group of men and women trained under strict and near-legendary procedures for special duty in service to Chicago. That warned of the terrible instrument of her body.

That named her as the killing thing that was a Guardian …

A few blocks up ahead, a group of Urbans finally succeeded in pushing a stalled private sedan into the long-neglected brush of a vacant corner lot. Traffic lurched into motion once more. By which point, Cassandra had already pressed the stud on her dash that veiled the design and significance of her uniform from view. She drove the remaining two and a quarter miles to Government Access unmolested by the stares of Urbans.

2

There were few Scholars left in Chicago. Most of them had been old even at the beginning, and singing of the glories of History had proved too taxing during the War. And since that time, there seemed less need to remind citizens of the reasons for their pride, the source of their passion for Urban unity. These things they had, and seemingly would for a long time, and now the reasons didn’t appear so important.

Reasons were only important to Scholars, and of these there were few enough.

Clemmie Della Sala looked up from her modest lunch to watch her son eat. William was only thirteen, but already he’d grown man-sized and eager. His movements were filled with impatience, even to the performance of such mundane tasks as eating. Clemmie almost cried out at the relish with which he attacked his soup.

“Didn’t they feed you in school this morning?” Clemmie asked, putting aside the lyre she’d strummed absently during lunch for her son’s amusement. “It’s only barley soup, and too runny anyway.”

“I like it,” the boy replied, spoon poised in mid-journey. His hair was long, and yellow rather than blond. As had been his father’s. “Besides, you know they always ram a lot of food down our throats at school.”

“So you tell me. God knows what’s in it, though.” Clemmie shook her head. When she’d put William into the academy, she figured at least he’d eat well. It
had taken most of her savings, and what little remaining influence she had as a Scholar, to get him enrolled.

William’s eyes flashed knowingly. “Mrs. Filburn was at it again during break, Mom. You woulda loved it.”

“Not another flag-waver?”

The boy nodded gleefully as he sat upright in his chair, wielding his spoon as a wagging finger of authority. Clemmie had seen Mrs. Filburn in action; her son’s impersonation was accurate.

“ ‘You listen to me, boys and girls,’ ” he said, trying to keep his voice high and thin between giggles. “ ‘The little children in Washington and New York are starving. Every day, day in and day out, more little children just starve away to nothing and die. So don’t you dare leave one single thing on your plate!’ ”

Clemmie joined in as her son broke into hearty laughter. She reached across with thin arms and hugged his shoulders. Her love for William was a constant that never lacked for new discovery, and in moments such as these she felt totally happy.

Later, as she cleared the table, she could hear him talking to himself as he sat before the wallscreen, selecting entertainment tapes. She already regretted having to leave him tonight, but she’d promised Phil Meyerson she’d meet him after she’d sung for Citizen Clairmont and his guests.

Clemmie Della Sala was in her early forties—slim, ivory-skinned and dark-eyed, and with a kind of ebullient grace in her manner. She’d been one of the last schooled in the singing and recitation of History, and one of the few women. The prejudice for male voices had outlasted almost all others; had her father not been a Scholar before her, Clemmie doubted now that she’d ever have been one herself.

On more than one occasion since then, however, she’d seriously considered leaving the art. She no longer felt the need to sing, and she was beginning to doubt her ability to express the History in terms modern Urbans could understand and appreciate. And soon there would be the universities Government promised, and teachers to separate truth from myth, and present the result to
more sophisticated ears. The songs would end. Scholars would not be called by that name any longer. They would become merely singers, old and distracting singers with long, uncertain memories.

Clemmie finished in the kitchen and settled once again in her chair. She stroked the fragile lyre carefully, as always thrilled with the crystal tones of its strings. What more fitting instrument to accompany a singer of History in the telling of the glories and agonies of the city-states?

As always, too, the joy returned then. The simple joy of melody and lyric, and the forming of the two into song and remembrance.

Clemmie waited until her son had sped out the door to return to school before lifting her voice to its performance level, her head bending often to the curved arms of the lyre, her eyes closed.

The Scholar sang of the cities, and sang for herself.

The people had been coming back to the cities for decades. As early as the 1980’s, sociologists were calling the rush to the suburbs a failure. The urban problems from which so many had run—crime, race, metropolitan decay—had merely followed the runners into suburbia.

And in their wake, urban redevelopment opened up both employment and residential opportunities in areas where none had existed before.

Federal funds were drawn off from suburban districts and channeled back into the cities.

Housing and education, suddenly economically prohibitive in the suburbs, had become standard commodities in the new cities.

Crime dropped in most urban areas, to begin rising with the same immediacy in the suburbs.

The rush to the suburbs had left behind a vacuum which was filled—slowly at first, and then with sudden swiftness—with Federal and state monies; there followed widespread financial redevelopment, increased social services, and marked technical and social innovations.

The major cities became models of reorganization. Laws were revised, restructured. All commerce was zoned to a specific sector; so was Environmental Control; so was Pornography.

For the first time in a centennial of this country’s history, the cities began to work.

And the people came back.

Soon, what the politicians had begun calling the New Alternative became instead the new goal.

Suddenly it was important to be called a citizen, to have urban pride; to become, in fact, an Urban.

And it was only natural that Urbans would wish to protect their cities, their collective homes, what had come to be their great fortresses against ignorance and want.

And so, one by one, each city drafted plans to create a civic force, a militia, an army.

And each city’s government became stronger, more independent, autonomous.

Until finally, the great metropolis of Chicago extended its boundaries, seceded, and became an independent city-state near the turn of the second decade of the twenty-first century.

What recourse the now-fragmented Federal government might have had was undermined by the subsequent rapid secession of other major cities—Dallas, Seattle, New York, Boston—cities eager to guide their own destinies, rule their own territories, answer to no foreign body.

The warring started much later.

Scholars would never come to agree as to the exact date the warring began; or the exact reason. The pact formed earlier between Los Angeles and San Francisco was understandable, though no cause could be given for their unified attack upon Dallas.

Most of the city-states fell in the Great War.

The devastation was complete, and unprecedented. Whole areas of terrain were altered, destroyed. Natural and man-made boundaries crumbled. Mountains fell, valleys filled with dead earth, flooded rivers swept away the forests. The continent lay stripped of life.

No monuments stood.

Later, when Scholars were charged with the task, they would sing of such a war and its fury.

They would call it the Leveling.

After forever, it ended.

Only a few cities remained. Chicago, New York, Washington—perhaps Dallas and Seattle.

Communication among the surviving city-states was sparse. Each was only vaguely aware of the condition of the others. Each could only guess the others’ populations, states of repair, military capabilities. The only knowledge they shared was fear.

The reign of the city-states had ended.

The first reign.

For the rebuilding had already begun …

Chicago lay squat and shrouded.

Much of the cityscape remained buried in rubble. Most streets were impassable. Buildings were bent giants, hulking shadows of burned brick and sagging beams.

The air was leaden, and filtered the sun, and its haze cast the city in an amber halo.

The skyline was jagged, alien.

But then—

Organization came.

Government. Militia. Commerce.

The urban machinery lurched haltingly back into operation.

Men and women were treated for their wounds, mustered into service. Children were rescued, cared for, educated.

The dead were buried.

The scientists and doctors and engineers and politicians were gathered. Plans were made. Decisions were reached.

There would not be another Leveling.

Chicago must make ready, must build against the threat of the future. The threat from the other city-states
half a continent away, who even now might be stockpiling arms for another war.

Government spoke to the people on undamaged holoscreens throughout the city.

Chicago must make ready!

The Urbans responded.

And in the years following the War, Chicago’s prime activity became the escalation of its arms and the development of new weapons and defense systems.

And urban pride grew stronger again, and with it standing armies, where those trained in the tactics of large-scale warfare waited along with the masses—waited as their fellow Urbans waited, in their city, in their homes, in their offices and multilevel dwellings and great concrete halls.

Rumors flourished continually, though Government did what it could to quell them. Rumors about the intent and military potential of other cities. Rumors of secret alliances, horrifying new weapons, traitors from within.

The Urbans couldn’t be sure. So they had to be ready.

Chicago was ready.

Isolated, gorged with weaponry and animosity, primed for confrontation.

All that was necessary was a catalyst. The first strike. The first extension of the might of one city into the domain of another.

The death of George Weston was that catalyst.

3

Cassandra Ingram stood before the ID module and awaited verification. When she’d been cleared, she was mildly surprised to learn that she was to report to Tactics.

“What’s the big excitement?” she asked the sentry.

He smiled and shook his head.

“You know Gilcrest. Everything’s an emergency. Somebody probably spotted a kite flying over the Lake.”

Cassandra smiled back, as warmly as a Guardian may to a sentry. Then she stepped into the pneumatic and descended to Main Level.

Government existed in an underground labyrinth, six-tenths of a mile beneath the surface streets of Chicago. Very few citizens ever saw the interior of Government, or its subsidiary branches of Commerce, Tactics, Census, Environment and Police. It was enough for the people to know that the city was governed, that the machinery would continue to provide for their comfort and well-being.

The pneumatic opened slim double doors onto the luminescent corridor of Main Level. Cassandra got out and went the short distance through lighted bulkheads to Tactics.

The chamber was a large octagon, high-walled and flushed with the cold luminescence of the labyrinth. A great oaken desk—and one of the few natural wood pieces Cassandra had ever seen—stood in the middle of the room. A dozen chairs circled the desk, the chair
furthest from where she stood at the entrance to the chamber occupied now by an old man in a vivid purple cloak. He was alone.

“Ahh, you’re here, Cassandra.”

“Sorry I’m late, Minister Gilcrest. Traffic.”

She’d crossed the room in quick, fluid strides. The old man regarded her evenly, thick steel-gray brows raised.

“I remember a time when there wasn’t any traffic,” he said. “Because there weren’t any roads.”

She nodded, trying to look grave.

Gilcrest laughed, pinched his nose. Cassandra noted that his hand, his fingers, seemed older today. His fingers were steady, but strangely pale and fragile-looking. She had tried for as long as she’d served him to find words to describe Senior Minister Gilcrest, but “fragile” had certainly never been one of them.

He’d always carried his advanced age well, converting it somehow into a symbol of his authority, like the purple greatcloak he wore. His face was lined, but his eyes were brightly small, and had yet to take on the patina of resignation.

Yet today—

Cassandra could only guess at the reason for an emergency session of Government. But it was obvious from the old man’s drawn face and unusually leaden movements that he felt the encroachment of some great sorrow.

She put her hand on his shoulder, mindful that it was outside her duties as a Guardian to offer solace. She said the only thing that occurred to her.

“I trust Mrs. Gilcrest’s condition has not worsened, sir.”

He laughed thinly, without humor. Again, it was unlike him, she thought.

“No, no, Cassandra. But I’ll certainly send along your concern the next time I speak to her.”

Gilcrest had made it sound as though that might not be for a very long time.

“At any rate,” he said, “now that you’re here, we
can call in the others.” He bent and touched a circular stud under the great table.

Cassandra assumed a stance just behind and to the left of the Senior Minister.

Without turning his head, he said: “Sorry to have to drag you in here with all us gnarling bureaucrats, my dear. But I’m afraid it’s necessary. To paraphrase the poet: whither I goest, go thou.”

“I don’t mind, Minister,” Cassandra replied matter-of-factly. Then, after a slight pause: “To tell the truth, one isolated underground conference is pretty much like any other.”

Gilcrest nodded. “I knew there was a reason I liked you so damn much.”

Cassandra smiled. She was used to Gilcrest’s occasional paternal musings, though sometimes the Minister’s old manner and expressions put her off. It was as though he patronized her without being aware of it, and yet she couldn’t excuse him for it.

Then, expectedly, she was reminded that her duty was to guard Minister Gilcrest, not make character judgments. She sighed, and turned her attention to the other Government officials who were now filing into the chamber.

Cassandra had seen most of them before. Ministers of numerous regulatory agencies, directors of various economic and military branches of Government. With few exceptions, they all looked and sounded pretty much alike to her, lofty-toned politicians who ruled like blinded moles from darkened caverns.

The only one whose position approached that of Gilcrest’s was Peter Weitzel, the Minister of Commerce. He was a short, thick-waisted man, and he moved with jerky motions that reminded Cassandra of the scurrying of a beetle. With him was his Guardian, a young black with whom Cassandra had a passing acquaintance. His name was Lynch.

“An emergency, eh, Minister?” Weitzel shook hands vigorously with Gilcrest, his face red and shiny. “Well, well …”

“Let’s just say I’m playing it safe,” Gilcrest replied
easily. “I figured the only thing that would get you away from that financial committee you’re busy corrupting is an emergency session.”

The Minister of Commerce laughed and took his seat. Lynch and Cassandra exchanged glances. He came around and took his position behind his charge.

The whole chamber seemed thick with murmurs, most of which were coming from the far arc of the table. Sitting there were two men Cassandra had not seen before.

The taller had a faintly aristocratic bearing, accented by his straight, dark features. He sat with his elbows on the table, fingertips pressed together under his chin. His uniform took to the lean lines of his body well; he was almost handsome. Beside him, a shorter, slighter man was taking notes. He wore a dark suit and pre-War eyeglasses.

Cassandra managed to catch Lynch’s attention and nodded toward the two men. Lynch shrugged and shook his head.

The sounds of Ministers Gilcrest’s knuckles rapping on the table brought Cassandra’s thoughts back to the purpose of the meeting.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Gilcrest said quietly, “I’m sure each of you know why we’re here. If the news hasn’t leaked to you or some member of your staff by now, I’d say it was time for you to leave Government.”

He waited for the small ripple of laughter that never came. Shrugging, he reached into his cloak for a packet of tobacco and a pipe. As he went about lighting it, Cassandra noticed the startling aroma. The old bastard! Somehow he’d gotten his hands on real tobacco.

Finally, the Senior Minister was ready to begin.

“Ladies and gentlemen, reports from three separate Chroniclers yesterday indicate that the city is under some kind of attack. I can see by the lack of surprise on your faces that the news has indeed leaked to your respective departments.”

The man at the far end of the room spoke over the spire of his fingertips. “As I understand it, Minister,
these attacks were in the form of antipersonnel energy cones?”

“That’s correct,” Gilcrest replied. He took a folder from the table and opened it. “The Chroniclers all concur that the deaths were caused by low-level cobalt cones. Came out of the sky like meteors, from what I heard.” He looked up. “For the purposes of Records, I might mention the names of the citizens who met their deaths in this tragic fashion. Dennis Logun. George Weston. And Mildred Cunningham. Got that, Records?”

A speaker embedded in the wall just beyond where he stood crackled. The voice was metallic. “Recorded, sir.”

“Now,” Gilcrest went on, “the problem—”

The man at the far end spoke again. “The problem, as I see it, is with this Government.”

Some of the officials turned to stare at the man who’d made this statement.

Gilcrest blew ash out of his wiry gray mustache. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Hadrian?”

The man he’d addressed as Hadrian rose, an almost military stiffness in his stance. His features seemed to grow darker still, though he was smiling.

At which point Cassandra, unnoticed by anyone in the room, bent her knees slightly and tensed the muscles in her calves.

“I mean no disrespect, of course,” Hadrian said. “However, it seems apparent to me that the only recourse to a deliberate attack from a foreign city-state is direct retaliation.”

Gilcrest spread his hands. “But against whom, Mr. Hadrian? Or is your department privy to some special intelligence on the matter that has yet to come to the attention of this gathering?”

Hadrian shook his head. “Nothing that passes through Weapons Division does so without coming under Government scrutiny.”

“I’m sure that’s a relief to all of us, Mr. Hadrian. Now, about the retaliation you spoke of—”

“The enemy is New York City, sir. Surely that is obvious.”

“How so? Both New York and Washington have severed relations with us. If you’re going to point a finger, why not—”

“But Washington’s move was clearly a matter of self-preservation. They had to align themselves with New York’s position, lest that city destroy them. Merely because it has broken off with us, it’s not valid to assume that Washington has any pact with New York.”

“There’s no proof to what you’re saying, Hadrian. Even if I’m inclined to agree with you, we can’t act on mere supposition.”

“Then what do you propose, Minister?”

Hadrian’s voice held a challenge. It did not go unnoticed by the assembly. Nor, as Cassandra could see, by Gilcrest, who drew himself up and chose his next words carefully.

“I propose, Mr. Hadrian, to verify to the satisfaction of this Government the origin of these recent attacks, so that we can better prepare ourselves for any which might conceivably follow. I propose to do this by calling upon the services of Captain Jake Bowman, whom you may recall served so capably as Assistant Tactics Coordinator in the last days of the War.”

Gilcrest glanced at the row of faces at the conference table, gratified at what he saw.

Cassandra smiled to herself. The old man had scored nicely against this man Hadrian. Jake Bowman had been quite a popular figure during the War.

But Hadrian had something more to say.

“While I applaud your course of action, Minister, I am concerned about both the whereabouts and reliability of Captain Bowman. If I may say so, I understand his personal habits have become questionable since the time of his active commission.”

Minister Weitzel chuckled knowingly behind a small, upraised hand.

Gilcrest ignored him.

“You don’t have to tell me about Jake,” he said to Hadrian. “I know him better than most men. When all hell’s broken loose, and bombs and soldiers are flying about like kindling in a storm, Jake can put things in
order and make them go. Maybe now, in peacetime …” His voice lowered. “Well, some people handle that sort of thing better than others.”

Hadrian was nodding, as though considering this last. “All well and good, sir, but—”

“No buts, goddamn it!” In his sudden anger, the old man seemed to billow with the folds of his cloak. “I’m not going to send the combined might of Chicago Land and Air Services at Manhattan Island on the basis of your considered opinion. Not without getting some solid intelligence on these attacks, as well as a fairly good indication of their next probable occurrence—and for that kind of information, Jake Bowman is the best.”

The effort seemed to take something out of him. Cassandra was startled to hear his sudden heavy intakes of breath.

The Minister of Commerce spoke up then. “I feel Minister Gilcrest is right. It is much too early to form any opinions.”

Gilcrest’s tone was weary but bemused.

“Thank you for your support, Minister,” he said.

Minister Weitzel gestured, as though about to say more. Then, abruptly, he settled back in his seat.

Hadrian nodded in Weiztel’s direction.

“Very well,” he said softly. “But there is still the problem of Bowman’s whereabouts.”

Gilcrest stirred. “It might be a problem at that. Though I have every confidence in Cassandra. If anyone can find Bowman, a Guardian can. Isn’t that right, Cass?”

Cassandra was momentarily startled, but she managed a confident smile. “No great difficulty, sir.”

Hadrian folded his arms and regarded Cassandra, as though for the first time acknowledging her presence.

“And where, if I may ask, do you intend to find Captain Bowman? My information is that he hasn’t been to his apartment in days.”

Cassandra met Hadrian’s gaze. “Bowman is strictly Service. Now inactive, discontented. If he hasn’t been in his rooms, he’s touring the bars. Which, I’ll admit, gives him quite a few hiding places.”

Hadrian turned to his side. “Well, then, perhaps my assistant can give you a hand. Am I correct, Wilkins?”

The slight man with the glasses looked up from his notes. His smile was perfunctory, as was his manner.

“You might try Corrigan’s Bar on Third Street, Guardian,” he said. “Mr. Hadrian anticipated that this assembly would endeavor to locate Captin Bowman, so we’ve had him scouted.”

Gilcrest leaned forward across the table, his arms startlingly white against the violet of his cloak. He stared at Wilkins but said nothing.

Wilkins went on: “Prior to coming to this meeting, our information was that Bowman was still at Corrigan’s. Though, of course, he might be anywhere by now.”

Cassandra nodded, hiding her annoyance behind her eyes. Then, at a gesture from Gilcrest, she bowed slightly to the assembly and walked briskly out of the room.

Wilkins squinted at her through his glasses, watching her retreating form with what appeared to be an almost professional interest.

Gilcrest shrugged off his robes and went into the study. Its dark-paneled walls and imitation ceiling timbers were his only concession to personal taste. The rest of his private chambers were like all the rooms in the labyrinth, bathed in luminescence that wasted no energy and cast no shadows.

He grimaced as he unscrewed the brandy bottle. He was at that time of his life when shadows were more than welcome. Too much direct light gave it all away—the lined face, the heavy step, the sorrow that had burrowed into niches of his life and refused to leave.

Christ, he felt old. Older than anyone in Government.