She turned, saw the boyish-looking CO, and realized he had repeated her name. “Sorry, Captain. My mind was elsewhere.”
The officer thought his passenger was stunning and was willing to forgive almost anything. He smiled. “No problem, ma’am. Look at the screen. See that star? The one inside the green delta? That’s Earth. Are you happy to see her again?”
Maylo looked, marveled at how small the planet appeared, and decided that she was.
The sun was high, the sky was clear, and the Imperial Coliseum was packed with human beings. Conceived by the long-dead emperor, and constructed as a monument to his empire-sized ego, it survived because people actually made use of it. The venue’s size, plus the retractable roof, made it perfect for sports, concerts, and political gatherings. But not like this ... never like this.
At least a hundred thousand people filled the surrounding seats, but unlike the normal crowds, this one was silent. So silent flags could be heard as they snapped in the breeze.
Colonel Harco stood toward the front of the governor’s box. It was a large, balconylike structure that projected out over the seats below. The perfect platform from which to see and be seen. Food and drinks were available, but the officer wasn’t hungry. What was going on? And why had he been summoned?
The arena was so vast that the people on the far side of the field looked like little more than specks of multicolored confetti. But they weren’t bits of paper ... far from it. Each was a real, live human being. Selected by computer, ordered to come, and afraid to refuse.
That was the kind of government Matthew Pardo ran ... and the kind Harco had unintentionally empowered. Not for himself, but for the men and women of the military who had been used, abused, and left begging on the streets.
Some of them, including Staff Sergeant Jenkins and Sergeant Major Lopa, were with him now. They stood in positions reminiscent of parade rest, carried handguns under their jackets, and watched from the comers of their eyes.
No one knew why the crowd had been assembled—no one beyond Pardo, that is, and he was perennially late.
Maybe he planned to give one of the long, rambling speeches for which he was becoming increasingly famous, or—and this was what Harco feared most—the ex-legionnaire had something else in mind. Something crazy.
Harco found himself wishing that Patricia Pardo would return. Not because he
liked
her ... but because she was sane.
It was then, as if summoned by Harco’s thoughts, that the governor arrived. Not immediately, but behind a screen of security troops, all drawn from the militia.
They were heavily armed, wore black body armor, and seemed to know what they were doing.
Then, with the security troops in place, Pardo arrived. He wore the jet-black uniform of a general in the militia. It was a rank he had conferred upon himself, and, given the fact that Harco remained a colonel, rated a salute.
The usual retinue of sycophants, toadies, and suck-ups followed their leader onto the balcony and struck a variety of poses. Leshi Qwan was among them.
Harco, his jaw rigid with barely controlled anger, came to attention, delivered the salute, and saw the other man’s smile. “Leon! Nice of you to come ... not that you had a great deal of choice.”
The entourage laughed, tittered, and giggled. This was the sort of entertainment they lived for.
Pardo ignored them. “I asked you to come because there are those who admire and take comfort from your stem military visage. About sixty percent of the voting public, give or take a point or two. They will note your presence and feel much relieved.”
There was a humming sound as three ovoid-shaped robocams rose from the depths below and positioned themselves along the rail. Harco felt more lead enter his belly. It was a setup. But what kind? And for what purpose?
Pardo smiled sardonically. “Why, Leon, what’s wrong? You look worried. What a silly thing to do! You’re one of us ... not one of
them.”
The last word was said with contempt—as if the still-silent crowd was inferior somehow.
It was at that particular moment that Harco realized that no matter what happened next, some of the responsibility would fall on
him
. Not because he had
conceived whatever was about to happen ... but because he had enabled it. Enabled it and lost control. Like a missile he couldn’t recall.
One of the toadies offered Pardo a wireless microphone, whispered something in his ear, and stepped out of the way. Conscious of the vid cams, the entourage looked suitably respectful.
An announcer read from a carefully prepared script. Pardo stepped out where he could be seen and took a moment to admire the size of his audience. His image blossomed on three enormous screens. Halfhearted applause rippled through the crowd.
The odds were that the RFE’s fly cams were covering the event as well, which was all to the good, since that would extend the breadth of Pardo’s coverage. Dozens of black-clad troops appeared at the exits as he brought the microphone to his lips. The crowd stirred uneasily. “Greetings. Thank you for taking time out of your busy lives to attend this gathering.
“Most of you are law-abiding citizens. Thanks for your support. Others, and you know who you are, belong to the so-called resistance, or, if not active yourselves, persist in supporting those who are.
You will be punished.”
There was a deep rumbling noise. Harco recognized the sound and scanned the horizon. The ship, which was too large to land within the coliseum, appeared from the west. It threw a shadow across the crowd. Twelve man-made cyclones held the vessel aloft. They destroyed a four-hundred-foot section of wall, sliced through a section of intentionally empty seats, and sucked debris into whirling columns of air.
People screamed, clung to each other, and surged toward the exits. The guards fired, people staggered, and the crowd retreated. The wounded called for help, and the dead lay where they had fallen.
The ship had completed its journey by then, and hung over the arena like an ominous lid.
In spite of the fact that the rebs controlled the upper layers of the atmosphere, they allowed government aircraft to operate below thirty-five thousand feet. So far, anyway—though that was likely to change. This particular vessel was about as large as a spaceship could get and still be able to land on a planetary surface.
The resistance had allowed the ship to exist because it was based so close to Los Angeles that an attack would cause civilian casualties. One of Harco’s suggestions—and one he suddenly regretted. “So,” Pardo continued solemnly. “It seems that some sort of example is in order.”
The words were a cue. Six beams of bright blue light touched various parts of the crowd. There were screams followed by confusion as the targeting lasers swept the seats.
“Yes,” Pardo said understandingly. “Scary, isn’t it? Knowing that death can reach down and touch you.... But
only
if you’re guilty—like citizen Deke Bayeva.”
Three of the lasers converged on a single man. He stood, tried to run, and vanished in a flash of light.
The ash modeled the shape of his body for a moment, surrendered to a puff of wind, and dusted the seats beyond. Five people, all of whom had been seated near Bayeva, died at the same instant. A wooden seat back started to burn and was extinguished with a jacket.
“That’s what happens to traitors,” Pardo intoned. “And if you doubt that Bayeva was guilty, then watch the screens.”
The crowd had little choice but to watch as the recently deceased Bayeva appeared on the screens, pried the lid off a public utility vault, cut the cables nestled within, and ducked off camera.
A new culprit was announced, and the torture continued. Harco watched in disgust as the targeting lasers swept the near-hysterical crowed, settled on their latest victim, and burned her down.
There were no apologies for those who died with the condemned, or the long line of blackened bodies that resulted when a burst of wind hit the hovering ship, sending an energy beam down row 123. The message was clear: Watch those around you, choose your friends with care, or share their fate.
Finally, after ten resistance fighters had been identified and executed, the assault ship was allowed to depart. Sunlight flooded the arena. Pardo, his eyes alight with emotion, scanned the crowd. “Remember what you saw, tell others, and obey the law. You’ll live longer that way.”
The security forces withdrew from the exits, people rushed to leave, and the governor turned his back. “So,” Pardo said, his eyes locked with Harco’s, “what do you think?”
The officer considered a political reply, knew he couldn’t stomach it, and said what he truly believed. “I think you’re insane.”
A bodyguard went for her weapon, staggered as Staff Sergeant Jenkins shot her, and skidded across the floor.
The braver members of the entourage surged forward, hesitated when Sergeant Major Lopa aimed a machine gun in their direction, and stayed where they were. The militiaman to whom the weapon had been issued lay u
nconscious at the noncom’s feet. The voice was little more than a growl. “If you want some ... then come and get it.”
No one accepted the offer. Especially Leshi Qwan—who had slipped out the door.
Pardo, the only one who dared to move, shook his head sadly. “I’m disappointed, Leon ...
very
disappointed. I looked up to you, wanted to
be
like you, and believed you were strong. I thought you knew that political power,
real
political power, grows out of the barrel of a gun.”
“The battle is for justice,” Harco said hollowly, “not power.”
Pardo laughed. “Speak for yourself, Leon. Now, if you and your men will step aside, I have a supper to attend.”
Lopa, who could have killed the governor by exerting the tiniest bit of pressure on the machine gun’s trigger, raised an eyebrow. Harco shook his head.
Pardo gestured to his entourage and led them out. All but the bodies, which remained where they had fallen.
Harco turned his eyes in the direction of the field. The cameras were gone and the sun had started to set.
The horizon seemed to shimmer as the sun-tortured tarmac released waves of heat. Rank after rank of troops stood at attention.
Thanks to the constant flow of volunteers, and the infusion of more than nine hundred “reactivated” cyborgs, the 13th DBLE was considerably over strength. So much so that they had been forced to muster at Djibouti’s airport.
The ceremony was Kattabi’s idea, a way to not only welcome the borgs back to active duty, but to show the once-demoralized 13th just how strong it now was.
The ground shook as the newly reinducted cyborgs marched past. Three had expired during the flight to Djibouti, six died while being transferred into their new bodies, and eighty-nine were declared unfit for duty.
The rest turned in response to an order, formed a column of twos, and marched the length of runway 1R.
Booly held his salute as yet another Confederate flag drew abreast of the makeshift review stand and felt a variety of conflicting emotions.
It was good to see these veterans, to have their strength to call on, but sad nonetheless. How many of these same cyborgs would die cursing his name? Wishing he had left them buried in the past? There was no way to know.
A bugle sounded, a flight of six fighters roared overhead, and the troops marched on.
The safe house was buried in south L.A. It belonged to a sympathizer who worked for the government. Water poured into the tub, and the bathroom filled with steam. It billowed, eased toward the window, and shivered as it passed through the opening.
Kenny had changed during the recent weeks and months. The acne-scarred face was the same, but
he
was stronger, more self-confident. And why not? He had founded the RFE, hadn’t he?
Yes, there was the mysterious J.J., and the funds that greased the way, plus hundreds, no,
thousands
of underground correspondents who risked their lives to submit their reports, but he was the one who made everything tick, and lived with a price on his head. How many times had they come for him? Five? Six? He’d lost count.
He pulled the 9mm out of his waistband, laid it on the toilet lid, and shucked his clothes. They were filthy, and rather than wash them out he would throw them away. So much for laundry. A new set, tags removed, lay in a corner.
Kenny examined his body in the mirror, took pleasure in seeing how hard it was, and bent to brush his teeth.
That’s where he was, spitting into the sink, when the girl entered. Her name was Jenny, and, like many of the women Kenny had run into of late, she was attracted to him. It was a new development—and one that he enjoyed.
Kenny turned. Jenny smiled, did an abbreviated striptease, and stepped into the tub. She had an elfin face, pert little breasts, and long, slim legs.
Kenny felt himself respond, saw her eyes widen in response, and grinned. He checked to ensure that the door was locked and crossed the room.
The water was hot. Some slopped onto the floor as he entered the opposite end of the tub. Her legs slipped up over his shoulders. He kissed one ankle, then the other. It bore a half-moon tattoo. Jenny giggled, found what she was looking for, and held it tight.
That’s when something went thump, an intrusion alarm went off, and Kenny grabbed for the gun. “The window! Now!”
Jenny grimaced, brought something up out of the water, and pointed it at Kenny’s chest. She screwed her eyes shut and sent a message to her right index finger.
Kenny shot her twice, saw blood tinge the sudsy water, and heard the gun thud against the bottom of the tub.
The teenager stood, grabbed his boots, and shoved them through the window. Clothes are nice but don’t offer any protection from rocks, metal, and broken glass—just one of many things he’d learned during the last few months.