City Wars (5 page)

Media presented visuals.

The cool voice explained that tracer cameras had recorded the devastation an hour before. In the space of that time, the information and visuals had been transmitted back to Chicago, logged, and edited for presentation by Media.

On-screen coverage had been delayed approximately thirty-five minutes by Government pressure. Then the shield had given way, as it always did.

“Go to the streets,” said the cool voice.

“Go to the streets, to every corner. Holograms are being prepared. Go to the streets. Be informed. Learn of this attack on your city. Go to the streets.”

The people began piling out of the diner. They left behind them half-eaten meals, unfinished drinks. Some had already begun shouting their outrage, confident that
others would join them and make their voices brave.

Meyerson climbed to his feet, glared down at Clemmie. “Well, ain’t ya comin’? Show’s about to start.”

She sat very still, seemingly transfixed by the opened doorway through which the last of the diner’s patrons had exited. Instinctively, during Media’s transmission, she’d gripped the arm of her lyre. Now she released it, aware of the numbness in her fingers, of how tight had been her grip.

“C’mon, Scholar,” Meyerson said, taking her arm. “Here’s your chance to see history in the makin’. Might inspire a tune. Ya never know.”

“No, Phil. I can’t. I …” She shrunk back against the booth’s synthetic leather, the beads of her costume clicking together. “I’ll just stay here until the excitement dies down.”

He grinned. “Gotcha. I figger I know what’s bother-in’ ya. But me—well, I gotta go see what’s what. It’s my nature, ya know, Clemmie?”

“Sure, Phil. I’ll see you later. And take care of yourself.”

Meyerson skipped to the door on his good leg.

“Shit, lady. Day I can’t take care o’ myself, move over and give me one o’ them harps!”

Clemmie managed a smile as he waved and went out the door.

Clemmie sat alone in the diner. Even the waiters had gone out to see the special program Media had promised.

She got up after a moment and went over to the serving area. The coffee urn was still hot. She poured herself a cup and leaned against the wall.

The diner was not cold, but Clemmie found herself shivering. She was afraid suddenly of what she was feeling. She was afraid that, for the first time, the History was going out of her.

And that she wasn’t going to get it back.

Outside, Urbans crowded the street corners, blocked the intersections, filled the barren parks and reservoirs.

And they looked up, up at the holoscreens, up at the
gripping images being transmitted simultaneously to every corner, to every Urban in the city.

They saw the ruins, the death, the bodies of men and women and children.

And the Urbans knew this to be a challenge to Chicago, to their city, to their very lives.

And they were ready.

Deep within the labyrinth of Chicago, Government had convened a second emergency session. There had been little alternative.

The call for war would not be long in coming.

7

Estelle Gilcrest lay alone in her bed. Her wheelchair stood in a near corner. A soft dimness had settled like a downy covering over every article in the spacious room.

It was quiet, almost silent, except for the faint hiss of the environmental unit. The walls glowed dully, giving off the fine Tranquilium mist.

The mist enveloped her, lulled her, was drawn thirstily into her skin.

Estelle closed her eyes, sleep poised above her painted lids.

The sound was a sharp snap: the breaking of a lock, the pulling away of a hinge.

The mist was everywhere.

Estelle tried to get up on her elbows, tried to raise her head.

The lunks were through the door in seconds, and then upon her, dragging her from the bed.

Perhaps she screamed. She couldn’t remember. The Tranquilium …

If she had screamed, if she had made any sound, it was heard by no one.

There were two lunks, dressed in the uniforms of Government laborers. One held her in his thick arms while the other tore open a closet door. He grunted something and reached inside.

Quickly, the two lunks wrapped Estelle Gilcrest in her own blankets and carried her out.

Just beyond the door to her private room ran a small corridor. At the end of this corridor stood another lunk, dressed as were his confederates.

“Well done, brothers,” said Giles, motioning with his left hand. In his right was a snub-rifle.

The lunks followed Giles down another short run of corridor, their burden by this time as though lifeless within the heavy blankets.

Giles led them to a service pneumatic, whose sliding doors stood open and unguarded.

“Quickly, brothers,” Giles whispered, indicating for them to step inside before him. Then, looking about one last time, Giles joined them in the pneumatic. He touched the control rod.

“You see?” Giles leaned back against the cushioned interior, held the snub-rifle close to his chest. “You see? Our friend has come through for us, just as I promised. The woman’s private room, this fine conveyance … both unguarded.”

The lunks nodded.

Giles stepped forward, drew aside one of the blanket folds. Estelle Gilcrest’s face was ashen, her lips slack from fear and the remaining effects of the Tranquilium.

He prodded her with the nose of his rifle. She stirred in the blankets, and her small eyes held him.

“Don’t be afraid, Mrs. Gilcrest,” he said, smiling. “Think of this as an adventure.” He looked from the faces of his confederates back to hers. “An historic adventure …”

The pneumatic reached the streets of the city in moments, and the lunks bore their hostage away.

The Tactics Room was a swell of voices. The ministers and their associates and assistants crowded the table, or else stood in small groups in different corners of the room. A thick haze floated above the activity, the product of synthetic tobacco. A communications module had been erected at one section of the chamber, by which various Government members could relay and receive messages from outside the labyrinth.

Gilcrest surveyed the room in thoughtful silence for a few minutes, then turned to Bowman.

“Are you familiar with the word ‘convention,’ Jake? As applied to a political gathering?”

Bowman shook his head.

Gilcrest snorted and gestured to the milling assembly. “You are now,” he said. “All that’s missing are the balloons and the dancing girls.”

Cassandra, standing just behind the old man, leaned in. “I beg your pardon, sir?”

Bowman watched the smile edging Cassandra’s lips. He wouldn’t have thought a Guardian susceptible to Gilcrest’s obvious bluster. Still, this one was—

Gilcrest was gesturing at Minister Weitzel, who’d just entered the room. His Guardian Lynch was right at his heels, his face even more stoic than usual.

Gilcrest called for attention.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please.” He drew the folds of his cloak about him. “I’m aware of your concern and confusion at this point, but it’s important that we begin reasonable and considered discussion as soon as possible.”

Minister Weitzel was the last to take his seat. He nodded at Gilcrest, the assembly; clasped his hands before him on the table.

“Thank you.” Gilcrest put his hand on Bowman’s shoulder. “I presume you all know Jake Bowman, at least by reputation. Now, in view of this present crisis, I have raised Captain Bowman’s rank to Colonel, and his position to that of Chief Tactics Coordinator. I’m sure you all recall his contribution in the latter days of the War and join me in—”

“Details of Captain—excuse me—
Colonel
Bowman’s flamboyant activities during the War are public knowledge,” said a voice from across the room.

Bowman and Hadrian took a moment to stare at each other across the table, the latter man smiling. Beside him, as though an extension of Hadrian himself, was his assistant Wilkins, head bent as he pored over a column of figures.

Gilcrest raised his brows.

“Mr. Hadrian, I’ll expect you to cooperate fully with Colonel Bowman in the days ahead.”

Cassandra had to smile at the old man’s suddenly officious tone. She became aware, perhaps for the first time, of how skillfully the Senior Minister played to his audience.

Hadrian’s manner was repentant. “My cooperation in the service of Chicago is assured, Minister.” He turned in his seat to address the other Government members. “Now I can only hope that the retaliation which I proposed before can be carried out without further delay.”

“What we all want,” Gilcrest said quickly, “is to ensure the safety of Chicago. At this very moment, defense measures are being taken in the event of another attack like the one at E Sector.”

“An attack that need never have occurred had we struck first, as I proposed.”

There was a low murmuring of agreement from those assembled at the table. Cassandra realized with a start that what had begun as a meeting of all important members of Government had, in a matter of minutes, been reduced to a dialogue between Gilcrest and Amos Hadrian. And, apparently, the ministers of Government were content for the moment to merely sit and judge the outcome of that dialogue. She could not even consider the disquieting ramifications of this.

Bowman broke into her reverie as he spoke for the first time. “We don’t know E Sector would not have been destroyed, Hadrian. Just as we’re not positive that any of these attacks have been launched from New York.”

“That’s right,” said Minister Weitzel. “We don’t know that.”

Bowman went on: “As soon as the analysis from E Sector is completed, we’ll have a clearer picture of whom—and what—we’re dealing with.”

“And until then, Colonel Bowman, we just sit back and watch our city reduced to rubble, sector by sector?”

Hadrian’s last remark was greeted by shouts of approval by more than a few Government members. The
Minister of Police, whose prior interests had always been assumed to be domestic, stood and made an emotional demand for action. This demand was echoed by others.

Cassandra noticed that only now did Wilkins lift his head. He was cleaning his glasses with a tissue.

Gilcrest called for order. Everyone appeared to be talking at once. Then someone made a motion to vote officially on the matter of retaliation. The motion was seconded.

“Our defenses are sound,” Gilcrest argued, leaning across the table. “We’re ready for any attack. To mount an offensive without knowing our enemy—”

“We know that well enough,” said the Minister of Police. “The politics of this are clear—”

“Nothing is clear, goddam it! Nothing but this madness for retaliation. The same madness that prolonged the first War—!”

“The city demands it,” Hadrian said. “Urbans are no longer content with your policies, Gilcrest!”

The assembly fell silent.

Bowman’s gaze went from Hadrian to Gilcrest and back along the circle of stunned faces. Minister Weitzel was hunched forward, eyes blinking.

No one had noticed that Wilkins was now standing. He cleared his throat.

“This is true, Minister Gilcrest,” he said quietly. “With all due respect, your strategic posture these last few months has been too weak.”

Gilcrest leveled the fullness of his voice on Amos Hadrian’s assistant.

“When your insight is desired, Mr. Wilkins, this body will ask for it.”

Wilkins opened a brown folder on the tabletop.

“I only meant to point out, sir, that since Washington severed diplomatic relations with us four months ago, popular opinion has favored Mr. Hadrian’s theory that New York forced Washington to such an action. Further polling among Urbans indicates a deep concern over New York’s reported military growth. As I’m confident your own lab analysis will show, E Sector was
probably leveled with a long-range gamma shower, a weapon that New York has reportedly had in development for some time.”

Wilkins looked up, closing the folder.

Gilcrest’s anger drew the blood to his temples. But before he could speak, Hadrian motioned to his assistant to sit down.

“My apologies to the assembly for Mr. Wilkins’ rather forthright behavior,” he said. “I’m sure it was not his intention to alarm either Minister Gilcrest or any other member of this body.”

Bowman and Cassandra exchanged looks. Hadrian had scored soundly, and he knew it.

Meanwhile, Gilcrest had withdrawn his pipe and was making a show of lighting it. His look was strangely reflective as he took his first puffs.

“Mr. Hadrian’s apologies are accepted,” he said at last. “Though I would appreciate it if, in the future, Government were made aware of any new functions of Weapons Division, such as the conducting of opinion polls.”

Hadrian bristled at the old man’s ironic tone, but managed to smile.

“Now, as to the matter of the vote,” Gilcrest went on, taking his seat. “While I must regretfully agree with Mr. Hadrian as to the identity of our enemy, I cannot, in good conscience, sanction any retaliation against the city of New York without positive proof.

“And since every unit of the Chicago Service has been called up and put on alert, and all defensive procedures have been set in motion, I am totally confident that Chicago is secure from another attack at the moment.”

Voices began rising in disagreement. A few members rose and joined Hadrian at the end of the table.

Gilcrest held up a hand. “Please. I understand how you feel. And no matter what you may think of my strategic philosophy, believe me when I say this: if and when Colonel Bowman’s analysis proves that New York in indeed responsible for these acts of war against our city, I will vote for massive retaliation. Until that time,
however, I ask that you remain patient a little longer.”

The sheer presence and considered eloquence of the old man seemed to stabilize the assembly. The Minister of Police got to his feet and addressed Bowman.

“How much time do you need?”

“Give me five hours, sir. That’s all.”

Bowman looked at Gilcrest expectantly. The Senior Minister shrugged and drew a long puff on his pipe.

The matter went to a vote.

It was very close.

The decision to retaliate was postponed, to be reconsidered at the end of five hours.

“Until that time,” Gilcrest said afterward, “Government must maintain strictest security. And be advised against venturing outside the labyrinth. Many of our citizens have been outraged by the picture Media has presented to them. There have already been reports of violence.”

The Minister of Police acknowledged this last remark and went over to the portable com module to begin relaying instructions to his men.

Bowman watched as various Government members exchanged harsh whispers before rising from their seats. One or two glanced in Hadrian’s direction as they exited.

Hadrian himself pushed back his chair then. He bowed stiffly to Gilcrest, then strode out of the room. His assistant Wilkins followed, a stack of folders under his arm.

Gilcrest sighed heavily. The flame in his pipe sputtered and went out.