Authors: Dennis Palumbo
Cautiously, Bowman bent and peered into the gloom the door had opened onto. He heard a low humming, felt a mild warmth on the side of his cheek.
He bent lower, drawing his elbows in as tight as possible. He entered the narrow, airless passage. The hum grew louder as he started walking along the length of the passage.
He reached the end, stood in near-total darkness.
“Now what, friend? Back the way you came?”
The loudness and clarity of the voice never varied. There must be speakers secreted everywhere, Bowman decided.
“Dead ends are a pain in the ass, eh? Not only can’t you keep going, but you gotta stand there, feeling like a fool.”
Bowman examined this end of the passage. It was solid on all three sides. He reached up, tapped the ceiling with the barrel of the gun.
“Don’t get discouraged, friend. You did find me. Yes, you did.”
Bowman started back along the narrow pasageway, back the way he’d come. He was almost halfway to the lighted door when the stone floor along which he walked started to move.
He lunged for a side wall, felt it scrape the leather tips of his gloved fingers. The walls were rolling up into the darkness—
No … the floor was moving downward, descending at an ever-quickening pace.
He bounced crazily from wall to wall in the confines of the passage, the speed of his descent hurling him about. He steadied his stance finally, held fast to his gun.
He lurched to a stop, floor trembling as it settled on new earth.
“I told you, friend. You found me.”
Bowman squinted in the sudden cold light.
The chamber opened up before him was almost totally white. Even the massive computers, forming a link that encircled the entire room, were gleaming white. Lights danced across broad com screens. From the walls beyond the row of computers came the insistent throbbing of heavy machines.
In the midst of the circle stood a young man, his pink face split by a grin. His graceful hand moved away from a slender console beside him.
“Welcome to New York City, friend,” he said. He
wore a light gray suit of some material Bowman hadn’t seen before. His eyes were shiny points.
Bowman aimed his gun carefully, took a step forward.
“I’m only sorry there aren’t more of us New Yorkers to extend our greetings,” the young man said. “But you’ve been topside. You know how goddam dead everybody is. How goddam sure-as-shit-deceased the whole population is.”
The young man shrugged.
Bowman spoke. “What happened?”
He kept his gun leveled at the young man’s midsection.
The young man merely gestured. “Come on closer, friend. See what all these machines are doing.”
“What happened here?” Bowman asked again. “What killed everybody? I couldn’t see any marks and—”
“You can’t really appreciate these beauties without getting right up close and breathing down their circuits.” The young man scratched his chin thoughtfully, “ ’Course, to tell you the truth, I’ve been looking at them a long time and I still can’t figure out what the hell’s what.”
Bowman stood where he was.
“Well,” said the young man, only now beginning to frown. “Are you going to be sociable or what? A guy can get lonely down here, waiting for some traveler to come by and—”
Bowman took another step, then paused.
“Hey, look, friend.” The young man let irritation edge his voice. “You’re gonna have to eat sooner or later. There’s nothing left up there. Unless you brought supplies with you—”
“You can see I have nothing with me,” Bowman said.
“This is a helluva thing. I go out of my way to say hello—”
“Then again, I might have left some supplies up on the streets.”
“—and instead of coming over, shaking hands—”
“Nice weather we’re having, if you don’t mind radiation.”
“—like any normal person, you treat me as if—”
“Ever hear the one about the three-legged widow from Cleveland?”
“—I were an enemy instead of a friend. Well, who in Christ’s name called to you up there? Who helped you find your way down h—”
Bowman fired at the console unit, the burst echoing against the sheer white walls. The image of the young man in gray disappeared.
The machines continued to throb. Computer-fed lights formed patterns on screens. Bowman recognized some of the configurations, had from the moment he’d first arrived.
He reached into a pocket of his flight pack and withdrew a spent burst cartridge. He tossed it in the general direction of the area where the young man had stood.
The squat plastic cartridge melted into blue flame in midair and was gone.
“Field screen,” Bowman murmured. “Son of a bitch.” Projecting such screens in a limited area was still beyond his own city’s capabilities.
He tried to make sense out of what had happened. Obviously, he’d been lured down here by a sensor-activated system that transmitted the voice he’d heard on the streets above. He even understood why the com module upstairs had seemed similar to those he’d known. That had been intentional, so that any visitor from Chicago or Washington or some other city where such systems were at least rumored to exist would be able to operate it. Such a person would be bound to trace the source of the voice transmission, end up down in this chamber. Once here, the image of the young man was provided, and given just enough character nuances to appear totally lifelike. With luck, the image would entice the visitor to venture closer, to cross into the field screen.
But why such a system at all? Why lure a visitor to this underground chamber—and to his death? Unless …
“Unless,” Bowman said aloud, stepping as close to where the invisible screen was projected as he dared; “unless there was something up above they didn’t want the visitor to stumble on. Better to coax him down here with the voice transmission, better to promise him answers underneath the city …”
He peered at the computer screens. New schematics had formed, locked. He recognized these configurations as well.
Bowman understood then. Understood why his running form up on the streets had activated the voice system. Why he had been lured down here, and, hopefully, destroyed, instead of being allowed to explore further the dead canyons of New York. He knew that somewhere up above there were great projectors, probably hidden in buildings and towers like those that ranged throughout the city. Projectors of such awesome—
The sequence had been preprogrammed, was automatic. And unless he could get a warning back to Government, the next step in that sequence was about to commence.
He whirled and stepped back on the narrow floor of the passageway, searching for some hidden control. There had to be a way to activate the lift, a way to get back to street level and then to his cruiser.
Bowman hurriedly scoured the wall panels but could find nothing. Maybe a stairwell somewhere beyond the walls of the chamber, in case of an emergency—
“Use your head, for Christ’s sake!” He stepped out of the pasageway, fists clenched. From the rate at which he’d descended in the shaft, he was thousands of feet underground. There’d be no stairwell.
He stood, shivering with frustration.
Suddenly, he heard the groan of hidden machinery, and saw a tremble roll across the floor of the passageway. It started to rise off the chamber tile.
Quickly, Bowman stepped back up on the floor. It began its ascent with a sickening lurch.
Of course, he thought as he sped upward. This
system was automatic too. After a suitable period of time, the camouflaged lift would return to its berth high above, in the unlikely event a second unknown visitor should appear. And have to be dealt with by the irascible young man in gray.
Once at street level, Bowman would have to race back to his cruiser and begin transmission to Chicago. They’d have to be warned.
Unless something had gone wrong. Unless somehow, someway, the strike time had been pushed up, and Chicago’s Air cruisers were even now heading for New York.
In which case, it was already too late.
It was later.
Communications Officer Roberts had all five Air cruisers on screen. He extrapolated their relative positions, fuel intake and air speed; computer confirmation followed in seconds.
The strike force would descend on New York City exactly as calculated.
Roberts checked his watch against the digital on the board. Twelve minutes.
He poured himself a second cup of coffee and settled back in his swivel chair. It was a lonely assignment, and not a little nerve-wracking. Especially now, with all other coms gone to black. His was the prime strategic module; his hand the sole authorized com control.
Roberts was not normally given to introspection, though he found himself again pondering his decision to enter Communications. Maybe his brother had been right. Maybe he should have gone into Tactics. Or Commerce. A little dull, from what he’d heard, but it was supposed to be a good living.
It had to beat working shifts down here, relaying messages, confirming computer readouts for the higher-ups, opening channels for this big shot, closing them for that one. And never being privy to what was being said, what urgent messages were being relayed, which were being blocked.
Like the one on H Channel. The channel Colonel Bowman was to have transmitted on.
Roberts glanced across at the board. H was still lit up. A message was being transmitted on that channel.
But H had been ordered closed. Came straight from the top.
He took a long sip of his coffee and scowled.
It wasn’t that he gave a damn about Bowman. One big shot was the same as another. He was just curious about the message.
He looked at the tiny light, blinking on and off.
“C’mon, Colonel,” he said aloud. “It can’t be that goddam important or they wouldn’t have closed you out. Besides—” he checked the board clock—“in about nine more minutes, it isn’t gonna make much difference.”
Roberts chuckled at his own insight and tossed the rest of his coffee into the waste bin.
Cassandra had made her decision. There was no other way. If she were going to escape, she’d have to attempt it now.
She tested the door, being careful to make no sound. The door panel had been sealed from the outside. Had she her key, she wouldn’t have been able to unlock the mechanism.
Cassandra placed her hands on the panel, palms down. Her hands were flush with the frame, the sealing mechanism directly beneath them on the other side of the door.
She could hear the sentries outside in the corridor. They were laughing at some private joke. Cassandra put the sound out of her mind. She closed her eyes. Her breathing slowed, seemed almost to stop. Her being directed the flow of blood into her biceps, triceps. Muscle fiber clung to and made stone-hard the bones of her forearms, wrists, fingers. She shifted her legs, created a stress conduit from her legs through her spine to the tilt of her shoulders. Adrenaline manufacture was increased a hundredfold. Her will was a juggernaut.
She knew being.
She knew strength.
There would be no strain.
The minutes passed slowly, slowly, soundlessly. Only in the final moments did the sealing mechanism screech as its interior bolts and springs were pulled apart.
Cassandra tore open the door panel.
The trio of sentries outside her room turned as one, the Service weapons at their sides raised to fire.
Fingers squeezed triggers.
Cassandra responded.
Two sentries fell, unblinking. Rifles clattered to the floor. The third managed to get off a burst that narrowly missed Cassandra’s head, burning itself out instead in the bulkhead over her shoulder.
She pivoted, drove the heel of her right foot into the sentry’s chest, separating his aorta from the left ventricle of his heart. He was lifted six inches. Organs crowded his chest, upper ribs broke the skin.
His scream echoed down the corridor.
Cassandra turned from where he lay, now silent and unmoving, and sped away. With luck, she could ascend one or two levels before the alarm was raised.
She reached the pneumatic in minutes and started up to Main Level. Her mind racing, Cassandra tried to calculate the distance she’d have to travel to reach the Tactics Room, and the number of sentries she was liable to encounter.
Cassandra put out of her mind the thought that Hadrian might not be in Tactics at all. Since taking control, it was possible he’d moved his base of operations into Gilcrest’s former chambers, or else some other rooms of his own.
The pneumatic came to rest in its berth and she stepped out. Ahead lay a hundred-yard stretch of well-guarded corridor, a turn, another twenty yards, and then Tactics.
The alarm sounded when she was not a half-dozen feet into the corridor. The luminescence changed hues to Alert Red. She heard the rumble of running boots. Converging sentries.
Cassandra darted back for the pneumatic.
A compartment door panel to her left opened with a sharp hiss.
She turned again, this time on the balls of her feet.
The man standing before her was Wilkins.
Later, she would remember thinking how different the slender man looked without his glasses.
“Minister Hadrian is quite beyond your reach, Guardian,” Wilkins said, with that easy smile he always seemed to use on her. “Government is in his hands, as it always should have been.”
Cassandra didn’t pause. Her open hand lashed out.
Wilkins caught her wrist. His grip was a steel band, as steadfast as his smile.
With his arm upraised, Wilkins’ own wrist was exposed. Cassandra didn’t need to see the faint markings etched there.
“A mercenary,” she said.
“Now retired,” Wilkins said, with mock formality. “Something far greater is at stake now. Though I think I’ve always preferred power to money.”
Her voice was even. “That’s why the bio tape on you was incomplete. Before joining Hadrian in Weapons Division—”
“—I was gainfully employed by the War.” He shrugged. “Like all such conflicts, it had to come to an end one day. Fortunately, not too many days after that, Hadrian and I crossed paths.”
Only now did Wilkins’ smile fade. Cassandra felt the hatred rise within her.
The corridor lights changed hues again. A dozen sentries had arrived, weapons raised. The leader approached Wilkins.
The slender man spoke to the sentry in a taut whisper Cassandra could not quite make out. Then, wordlessly, the sentry turned and gestured to the others. They followed him down the corridor and out of sight.
Wilkins returned Cassandra’s questioning look with a nod.
“We are Guardians, you and I,” he said. “Ours should not be a public spectacle.”
He bowed.
They began.
Minister Amos Hadrian stood with other august Government members and made a speech. It was carried to the home of every citizen, to holoscreens throughout the city, to crowds of Urbans in the streets and in the bars and in the buildings.
He told the people everything. Of New York’s documented attack upon them. Of Minister Gilcrest’s death at the hands of rebel lunks. Of the new leadership to be provided by Government.
He promised the people vengeance. Against New York. And against Washington, which, it could be reasonably assumed, was allied with New York. And later against Dallas, as well as a number of other cities, about which Hadrian guaranteed proof of their aggressive intentions toward Chicago.
Within minutes, he told them, Chicago’s mightiest Air cruisers would begin the retaliatory strike against New York that all Urbans clamored for. He predicted they would hear the bombs exploding all the way back here in Chicago.
Great cheers fanned the air like banners.
Hadrian’s vision was that of the people.
It was the warring time.
From the shadows, the lunks stood watching.
City troops were assembling at designated areas. On Adams Street, Air and Land Service personnel oversaw the conscription of able-bodied citizens. Broad Street was for the solicitation and cannibalization of any and all nonessential mechanical devices, private vehicles, and raw building materials. State Street, cleared of all Urban traffic, groaned under the wheels of heavy transport cruisers. The Loop was made inviolate, now the seat of Urban deployment.
While from the shadows, the lunks were watching.
Silent. Afraid.
Here and there among them, where they huddled
in the backs of shops, the dim hallways of long-emptied apartment houses, the ash-gray pockets of concrete jutting from deserted buildings—here and there among them stood the rebel lunks, the followers of Giles. They had scattered to every corner of the city, melted into the wash of blank faces of their brothers and sisters.
The rebels had been betrayed, and now blamed for the death of an important man. The Urbans would not forget that, not even in the fever of war. The rebels would be made to pay, no matter how long it took. Examples would have to be set.
So the rebels would stay in hiding. Perhaps the anonymity of their lot would yet spare them. They would be sure to make no more trouble. The rebels wanted none. Nor the promises of better days, a better life. Word of Giles’ fate had reached them. There was a lesson in what the young lunk’s earnest hatred had cost him.
Yet they’d sought to make a final gesture in his honor; they’d considered it nothing less than a final duty to perform.
And so, within minutes of Minister Hadrian’s speech to the Urbans, the body of Mrs. Estelle Gilcrest was found in a city sewer, still wrapped in the blankets from her bedchamber. Government physicians felt there was reason for hope.
Communications Officer Roberts had reached a decision. A career in Commerce.
“Look at the advantages,” he said to himself, toasting his reflection in the com screen with his fifth cup of coffee. The room throbbed dully. “Better hours, a lot of business contacts … give me a chance to meet some different kinds of people when this is all over. Maybe even some of those credit whores.” He looked around the small chamber. Screens lined the walls, showed him their featureless faces. “Gotta be a better life than this, right?”
Roberts gave himself a wink.
At arm’s length from him was H Channel, whose blinking light had long since gone out.
Hundreds of miles to the east, Chicago’s five Air cruisers dropped their payload on the city of New York.