City Wars (7 page)

10

Clemmie sat on her terrace in an old dressing gown, gently stroking the strings of her lyre. Above her hung tiered pods of algae, their purification units gurgling as they screened the water for waste and pumped nutrients. Below lay the streets of the city, and great swarms of Urbans, Media pumping its own nutrients into their blood.

She thought about Phil Meyerson all of a sudden, and wondered where he’d ended up spending the night. Then she remembered the song.

Well, there weren’t any domes, not in this city. But it didn’t matter. It was just a song.

Her son William pushed open the sliding glass and stepped out onto the terrace. He was rubbing his eyes with child-small fists, incongruous with his firm, lanky body.

“I didn’t wake you?” Clemmie swung her legs in, put down her instrument on the chaise.

“Nah, Mom. I gotta get up now anyhow. School.”

Clemmie had lost track of the time, but was aware now of the orange haze coming up from the horizon, pushing the blue-black of night before it.

“Did you see Mr. Meyerson last night?” he asked,
peering over the railing at the small clusters of people below.

“I told you I did,” she answered. “I told you all about last night, before you went to bed.”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot.” He turned from the railing and went back into the kitchen. She couldn’t help smiling.

A great roar from the streets brought her attention to the scene below once more. She saw Urbans arguing among themselves, some of them stopping occasionally to point at the holoscreens suspended above them.

She could guess what Media had been doing all night, even how they were doing it. Stoking the flames. Keeping the pressure up.

Clemmie leaned back, the lyre silent in her lap. She’d seen it before. War fever. Every few years, when the frustration threatened to crush the people under its sodden weight, the war fever would come.

But this time it was different. Clemmie could see that. News had leaked out. Government would soon be voting, she’d heard someone say—and the vote would be for retaliation.

She got up, looked past the mossy underside of the algae tanks at the pale streaks of sky. It looked to be another good day. Another bright and cool day.

She went back inside to make breakfast for her son.

Gilcrest sat alone in his wife’s room, still wearing his violet robes. The apparent sentience of the Tranquilium mist irritated him, remnants of it swirling about his ankles. In a corner of the room, Estelle’s wheelchair lay, overturned.

Knowing Estelle, she’d probably struggled, if only briefly. The thought failed to comfort him.

He looked again at the scrap of paper the kidnappers had left behind. They’d been very succinct. They had Mrs. Gilcrest. They wanted an audience with Gilcrest himself. The would inform him of the time and place.

And, of course, he was to tell no one.

Gilcrest got up finally and went through the connecting
corridor into his private rooms. The study flared into luminescence as his foot touched the threshold, and he was relieved to see some remaining liquid in the bottle still standing where he’d left it.

The old man slipped off his cloak and folded it neatly over a chair. Then he poured himself a drink and tried to bring some order to his thoughts.

Perhaps it was symptomatic of his age, but it seemed to him as though everything had happened at once. The attacks in the midst of the city, the destruction of an entire eastern sector post, the mustering of hostile sentiment in Government. In less than twenty minutes, he would chair an emergency session of Government that most assuredly would sanction a military retaliation against the city of New York, that would begin another great war. Maybe the last great war.

And now the kidnapping of his wife, and a demand for a meeting—for what reason? Were they rebels, foreign agents, a faction in his own Government? As Senior Minister, he had considerable influence in the formulation and execution of policy, but his was not the sole decision-making vote.

And lately, in these last few months …

Gilcrest drained his glass. What power he’d had was nearly gone, like the brandy in his bottle. Age and overuse had come to claim it.

As for Estelle—well, they had her, whoever they were, and she would be adequate leverage against him. Gilcrest felt pretty sure he no longer loved her, a source of annoyance only because she’d ceased loving him so many years earlier. There was a sense in which he felt he hadn’t had time to catch up with her bitterness and frustration. But his own feelings about his wife hardly mattered. He’d have to comply with the kidnappers’ demands, whatever they were, whenever they decided to send them.

He crossed the room to the wet bar, filled the basin with cold water. His eyes looked like rusted marbles in the mirror.

There was still one thing left to fight for, he thought as he returned the thick purple cloak to his shoulders.
One thing that meant enough for him to get inside the heavy robes and all they represented.

And if it were all to end in flames and madness, then he’d see it through to that end. He owed the city that, as he owed it for everything that had given meaning to his life.

He hurried out of his study, the darkness blanketing the walls once more.

There was no day or night within the labyrinth.

Jake Bowman stepped into the corridor outside Cassandra’s room and shielded his eyes from the cold light. He’d been lulled by the effects of Cassandra’s environmental unit, felt deprived now of the luxury of soft lights playing on his body, and of the shadows they cast.

He turned back to see her pulling the blue tunic over her shoulders.

“See you in Tactics,” he said. “I want to transmit something out.”

She nodded, shook back her hair. She seemed softer to him now, one with the sensual ambience of the room, the thick draperies, the sweet-smelling veils billowing languidly in the faint push of regulated air. Had every man in time felt this way leaving a woman?

It occurred to Bowman that he’d become uncharacteristically introspective lately.

He took a pneumatic down to Communications, where a young officer named Roberts pointed out the only free com. Bowman took a seat in front of it. He keyed the transmit sequence to the coordinates of Meyerson’s residence in what had once been known as Old Town. There was no response.

He tried again. Still nothing.

“C’mon, Meyerson,” Bowman said aloud. “Call in. I got a job for you.”

Bowman keyed over to Service Central, then sent tracers to the various clubs catering exclusively to Service and ex-Service types. It was early in the morning, but Meyerson was a man of few habits.

He looked at his watch. It would take a while to
track Meyerson down, and the special assemlby was due to reconvene in ten minutes. Bowman was planning to suggest bringing in Meyerson to assist with some of the Land Service deployment when the retaliation was voted through. As he knew it was going to be.

Communications Officer Roberts came over and watched Bowman work the keys for a few minutes.

Bowman glanced over his shoulder. “Something on your mind, Lieutenant?”

“No, sir.” Roberts was a short man, doughy-faced, but with the stoic eyes of a man too long orchestrated by the mechanics of routine. His was a face that spoke of having too few alternatives.

Bowman had gotten a negative on the first tracer. He keyed up again.

“If I may make a suggestion, sir?” Roberts leaned in and reached with a surprisingly delicate hand for the key bank.

Bowman said, “Whatever you got, Lieutenant.”

Roberts punched two keys and said, “Census, please.”

The com module shifted hues.

“Name, sir?” Roberts said.

“Meyerson,” Bowman answered.

Roberts keyed the name in, sent the tracer. There was a pause of mere seconds.

A voice came from the module:

“Meyerson, Phillip, age 44, ex-Service, Residence Seven, cobalt disability.”

Roberts looked at Bowman. He nodded.

“Confirmed,” said Roberts.

The voice buzzed again. “Meyerson, Phillip, age 44, ex-Service, Residence Seven, cobalt disability. Death filed by Chronicler A254, six-fourteen
A.M.
”

“That’s today, Census?”

“Affirmative.”

Bowman stared as the module went to black. Roberts straightened up and smiled.

“Once in a while you get lucky,” he said.

Bowman said, “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

“No trouble, sir.” Roberts strolled off.

Bowman listened to the quiet drone of machinery and the voices of men in the room. He told himself he would make it a point to find out how Meyerson had died. He knew in the same instant that he would make it a point not to.

Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing, Meyerson buying it. He was too old for soldiering, and too sick, and he didn’t know how to do anything else.

Had he left anyone, any family? Bowman tried to remember. The only person Meyerson ever spoke about with anything approaching tenderness was his friend Clemmie. Maybe somebody should get a transmit to her, before she heard the word from Media.

He got up from the com. He couldn’t deal with it now. He wondered at his own lack of grief. Surprise, yes, at the news. But no grief.

Then he knew.

It wasn’t Meyerson’s death. It was the realization that Meyerson had had little else but death to look forward to. What life he’d had was behind him, a sack of memories and old stories he carried with him from bar to bar. And almost any night you could find him opening the sack and emptying its contents on a table and sharing them with somebody like Bowman.

It wasn’t Meyerson’s death he’d seen when the com went black. It was the emptiness of the man’s life.

And what might yet come to be a similar life for him.

Jake Bowman tramped out of Communications feeling like the worst kind of duster, strung out past thought.

His analysis of the nature and probable origin of the attack on E Sector had been logged and presented to Government in the form of an audial communication from Records. The metallic voice came from the walls of the Tactics Room. Its message was received in silence by the ministers assembled there.

After which, the vote was taken.

Bowman listened as each minister made known his
decision. He was only mildly surprised when Minister Weitzel abstained.

Cassandra stood by Gilcrest. The old man said nothing until the voting came around to him.

He didn’t look up.

“Retaliate,” he said.

The voting was concluded. The assembly was dismissed, each to see to his or her duties. Arrangements were made to mobilize Chicago Air and Land forces. Media would have to be informed of the decision, somewhat of a formality under the circumstances. A tactical timetable would have to be structured.

There was much to be done.

He stood alone in his newly assigned rooms. He wore the uniform of the Chicago Service, the insignia of Tactics, the rank of Colonel.

With an almost respectful slowness, Bowman buckled the tops of his boots and tucked his gloves inside the wide regulation belt. Then he withdrew his Service weapon and hefted its weight. Bornhauser 7xx5. Cartridge-loaded, limited range. A personal weapon.

In a few minutes, he was to meet with Amos Hadrian on the formation tracking of the five Air Service cruisers and the sixteen Land cruisers. With luck, cruisers would be in the air in two hours; landrovers and hovercrafts in their wake in another three.

Bowman took a last look in the mirror. He saw in his own eyes mirrors of his life, and its recent turns.

If there was meaning to his life, it was his duty, or so he had always seen it. What was it he had desired? To manipulate, to plan … to move men and machines in the achievement of a specific objective. A specific tactical objective.

But now, for him, there appeared to be other objectives. Meyerson’s death had warned him that there had to be.

Then why was this the only thing that made him whole? As if the man standing in the mirror—Colonel Jake Bowman, Chief Tactics Coordinator, Chicago Service—were the only Jake Bowman he knew.
Was he truly, merely, ultimately the product of his own mind?

He turned away from the mirror.

“But we don’t know the terrain,” Bowman was saying. He punched his finger against the tinted glass set in the tabletop. Beneath the glass was a three-dimensional model of the theorized topography between Chicago and New York.

“We know enough, Colonel,” Hadrian replied dryly. “Hovercrafts have occasionally traversed the distance between cities since the War.”

“Yes, but only a few. And reports have been extremely unreliable as to atmospheric conditions, new land mass formations—”

“Our tracer cameras—”

“—Haven’t shown us a damn thing but a lot of gray patches,” Bowman said. “Clouds, seas of ash—they could be anything. None of the tracers could penetrate the air layers.”

“Then what do you make of the area, Colonel?” Hadrian arched an eyebrow. “I believe the radioactive fog theory is still popular among our city’s more illustrious doom-sayers.”

Bowman crossed the space between them in two strides, his heavy boots echoing in the marble chamber. Above and about them, lighted schematics of Chicago’s weaponry systems painted the sheer walls.

The two men were alone.

“Listen to me, Hadrian—not because of my rank, goddam you, but because I’ll put my fist through your face if you don’t!”

Hadrian sniffed at Bowman’s upraised knuckles.

“Whatever you say, Colonel.”

Bowman’s hand opened, fell to his side. He felt hot and foolish, as he always did when confronted by men such as Hadrian. Yet he knew there were fires within the man—knew that they burned much deeper, where you couldn’t feel the heat.

He began to pace. “Look. The last contact we had
with New York was almost a year ago. Even before that, information transmitted between cities was sporadic, unreliable …”

“True enough,” Hadrian admitted. “Though our intelligence had warned us that New York was far exceeding us in gamma research. The unfortunate result of that research you know only too well.”