Post by Aedh on Sept 23, 2014 13:00:15 GMT -5
083
Tuesday, 20 October
Sunrise, when its fingers finally felt their way through the Cascade mountain passes, opened out across a city strangely prostrate and silent, twitching a little, like a giant animal laid out with a dose of ketamine. Quietest was the bristling hump of downtown, while in the north, south, and east sides, thin columns of smoke still rose. A closer view of main roads revealed activity, but not normal inbound commuter traffic. Vehicles were headed out, toward blackout country: tiny Smarts and Sunglorys with cases and boxes piled on the roofs, some pulling motorcycle trailers; larger Tatas and Toyotas and Daihatsus and Codas, loaded likewise, and bikes, trikes, and cycles—even the odd scattering of skateboarders with backpacks. Some people had evidently decided to try out places like North Bend, Duvall, and Snohomish, where power and water might be unreliable but the general peace still held. The traffic crept along, sometimes stopping altogether to pick its way around a wrecked bus or truck, but again, all was quiet. There were no horns or curses. Drivers were all focused on one thing, and for once it wasn’t the vehicle ahead of them.
Chief Jones, like a lot of other people, had stayed all night in his office. Just after seven A.M. he came to in his chair, his neck aching; he stretched, went for a cup of last night’s ‘bux on his side table, and sat down again, focused himself with an effort, and refreshed his workplex displays. He had a two-hour-old message from Agent Hudson; FBI, DHS, and FEMA had been notified of the situation and were sending people on the next flights. Leonard Chung had checked into his office earlier, and had sent some communications.
The PD-NET reports weren’t reassuring. Damage from the night’s rioting was not as great as many had feared, but the indications that it was terrorist-related were disturbing. Much of the damage was to communications facilities, masts, and power supplies. Secure ‘Net server locations had been damaged, and power and fuel supplies sabotaged. There had been three hundred thirty-six arrests, mostly for assault or property crimes. There had also been twenty-two casualties in police incidents, eight of them police officers. There were many, many more civilian casualties, with some estimates running at high as three thousand, most with non-gun-related flesh wounds Hospitals and clinics still struggling with Transit Tunnel victims over the last five days were now overwhelmed, some with temporary pavilions pitched on their grounds where wounded were simply warehoused with minimal care, and appeals were going out to medical centers for a thousand miles around. Some military medical staff were being dispatched from Lewis/McChord and Bremerton, but it was not enough. Some administrators were calling for aid from the NAE or even world levels.
Experts were already weighing in on possible causes. The amount of gun violence had been less than predicted in civil-disaster models; the amount of old-fashioned mano-a-mano flesh-rending had been much greater. There would be testing. Some thought it was a mass outbreak of mental illness, possibly triggered by amounts of hydrogen chloride, ammonia, and hydrogen fluoride entering the air or water, either due to induction or natural causes, as these were also earth gases that could be released by geological events. A few people believed it signaled the onset of a huge earthquake or volcanic eruption; the very idea could excite even more panic.
The latest reports, however, were the most ominous. Whoever had been responsible for the night’s outbreak, there were better-known offenders starting to take advantage of it. Organized gangs were on the move. A Nation of Aztlan block commander had been killed in White Center; blame was being laid on Asian Triads in the tech-and-tissue business, and there and in Highland Park there had already been street shooting and some gas bombings of strongholds. With the bulk of his staff already having worked anywhere from twelve to twenty hours straight and in dire need of downtime, Jones knew that these quiet hours were perhaps the most dangerous of all. He went out onto the HQ floor in search of something to eat, even just a muffin, and to think about strategy. It was quiet on the floor, too, with Justin Earle lying stretched out asleep on a bench, and a few workplexes being monitored by tired officers. He decided to ask for a meeting with Leonard, Mal, Sarah DeJong, and Hudson as soon as possible.
Jones went back to his office and sat down to send out a message, when he felt, rather than heard, a deep boom, which rattled a few things. He looked out into the HQ area.
A couple of people had felt it, too, and stood up, and he, too, stood. Whatever that was, it could not be good.
>< >< ><
Three minutes later, Jones had gone to Earle’s bench and was shaking him gently. The man stirred, turned over, and stretched. “What?” he asked.
“Bombing,” Jones told him grimly. “County Administration Building. Took out half the top floor, it seems.”
Earle’s eyes popped open. “You’re shitting me.”
“I don’t shit anyone on Tuesdays,” said Jones. “Who’ve we got?”
>< >< ><
Leonard Chung’s first sensation had been that of being squeezed and then thrown against a wall by a giant fist. He opened his eyes to see building debris falling around him amid billowing dust and smoke, and he drew in a sharp breath. The breath didn’t gush sharply into his lungs, and when sensor displays winked on inside his view, he remembered that he was still wearing his helmet and tactical suit.
He’d come into his office in the small hours and laid down in his private inner office for a nap without taking it off. After some of the things he had seen during the night, he wanted to be wearing it as often as possible. The idea might seem paranoid, but it had certainly saved his life.
A wave of fiery heat enveloped him, passing over and away. He backed up against the wall, and a huge piece of concrete girder slammed down in front of him, collapsing the floor underneath, and he slid down into it, into smoke, and landed somewhere, instinctively turning and trying to scramble away behind where he had been. Clouds of thick dust blinded him, and the infra/ultra sensor modes were of little help. He felt floor move underneath him again; his hand was on a door frame, and he put the other hand on it and hung on, pulling himself through. Sixth floor—fifth? He staggered a few steps, shaking his head; light came from a broken window in front of him. There was a desk—desks, a fallen bookcase, paper and debris scattered around. Someone, a man, had fallen down, hands to his head; a woman lay on the floor, moving, saying something. There was a shouting noise behind him. He turned, to see two people, injured, blackened with dust or smoke, backing unsteadily away, coughing.
Of course. He was in the killing suit, recognizable from Tunnel and Chelly videos. There was only one thing to do. He removed his helmet. The two people fell silent, recognizing him, not putting two and two together yet, but they stopped.
“It’s me,” he said. “I’m alright. Let me take you out of here.” Still confused, they nodded and let him approach, and he picked up a desk lamp and hit one, a woman, on the head, a woman, and after a brief struggle overcame the other, a man, as well. Then he took the man by the collar and an arm, rushed him to the window, smashed it with his boot, and threw the man out. He went back for the woman and threw her out, too. Then he hurriedly stripped himself of the suit, helmet, gloves, attachments, and boots in a supply closet. Then he saw a box of large trash bags, and loaded the items into two of those, and came out. He looked a little odd in his undersuit and socks, toting two bin bags, but that was not important compared to what he had to do now.
He coughed, too; now that he wasn’t wearing the helmet’s filtration system, the filthy air was invading his throat. The lifts would be out, of course. He knew where the stairs were; he had used them last night. He headed toward the staircase door on the south side.
>< >< ><
The run of the Alder Island Ferry Tawanis had been cancelled, prompting Rhys Macklin to think seriously about leasing a hover after all. His day had started poorly, Candee having locked herself in a guest bedroom for the night, and refusing—as she’d said through the door—to come out until he’d gone. ‘Net and phone had been disrupted; the Island’s own servers were unaffected, but many communications routed through Queen City were either experiencing network problems or were down altogether; he couldn’t even get through to Ralna, although his satellite-based business channels were open, including the channel he used to talk to Aziz and Watiq, and he had had a brief talk with Chief Jones; not included in that talk was Mona Stern’s ransom demand for John Brunett. He drove down to the ferry dock, parked in his spot, and went through the office to have a brief talk with Captain Sigurdsson in his capacity as Councilor and Committee Chair for Law Enforcement, the upshot of which was that the Tawanis would make one morning and one evening run daily, carrying only pre-cleared passengers, with a crew augmented by a squad of a half-dozen Island police. That did not make the morning ‘net- and ‘vidcasts.
What did make the ‘casts was that at eight-eleven AM a call had been placed to the Queen City Police HQ, claiming responsibility for the event about to take place, on behalf of the December Third Brigades. At eight-twelve, a powerful explosion had taken out the western half of the top two floors of the County Administration Building, apparently centered in the Number Four service shaft, destroying the offices of County Executive Leonard Chung and the Council chambers beneath, shattering windows for blocks around and spewing chunks of concrete and steel which damaged the County Courthouse, the Public Safety Building, and City Hall, repairs to which were underway from the bombing there eight days earlier. Cherry and James Streets were closed, and Fourth Avenue looked as if it had been hit by an earthquake. There were dozens of dead and scores of wounded, as the workday had just begun; the silver lining was that many employees had not reported in, due to the disturbance, but unfortunately, most of those who had reported had done so because they fulfilled essential functions. City fire and rescue personnel, having worked a long night after a busy day before, responded as best they could. Nearby City Hall Park was turned into a staging area, and the venerable Dexter Horton Building on Second Avenue was taken over as an emergency shelter. Bayview Medical Center, so near and yet so far, had had its own park turned into a pavilion-studded staging area, and there was literally nowhere to put anyone else; casualties still arriving from the night’s violence were already being waved away by police. “Where do we go, then?” was asked hundreds of times. “Bellevue. Tacoma. Vancouver. Anywhere but here,” had become the standard reply.
>< >< ><
Jason’s morning had begun with bout of sex with Shamber, who had returned to duty the night before, but the other policewoman guard had disappeared; called away, Shamber said, due to a lot of urgent police activity. After going into the shower and hosing a quart of him off herself, she dressed, left the rest for the bed sheets to soak in, and went to Jane’s to see about breakfast. He turned on the tube, and in the half-hour it took her to return he got all the news, up to and including the City Hall explosion, which was now definitely said to be a bomb.
Shamber sat inside the place with him while he ate. “Your mom’s locked in her place,” she explained, “and with what’s going on I don’t care to be out there alone, even if I have got a gun and a badge.”
“My forty-eight hours of bullshit here is about up,” he said. “That was our agreement, Jane, me, and Sarah. I’m going.”
“You can’t do that,” said the policewoman. “Everyone’s advised to stay in.”
“What are you gonna do, handcuff me?” he asked her. “And stand outside alone? You don’t know who’s gonna come to relieve you, or if anyone’s gonna come at all. And if anything happens to you, I’m screwed. It’s on you.”
“I could try calling HQ but I don’t know what I’d say or how to explain it. This is a private arrangement. I’m officially on loan for Sarah’s security. What do you think I should do, then?”
“I think you should carry out what Sarah agreed to. Let’s go. Get me out of here and escort me home.”
“How do we do that? Swim? The ferry’s cancelled.”
“Call my dad. He’s the Committee Chair for Law Enforcement. He’ll think of something.”
“What’s his number?”
Jason told her. She tried the call, but her sleeve display just blinked. “No service. A lot of communications are down right now. We’re lucky to have power.”
He stood up. “Well, I’m walking, then.”
Her eyes popped open. “What?”
“There’s a bridge in Tacoma.”
“You can’t fucking walk to Tacoma!”
“I’ll make things up as I go,” he answered, reaching for his coat.
“Alright, alright,” said Shamber. “I guess we’re stuck together, then, because no way I’m gonna be responsible for losing you. Let me go see if I can raise your mom, and tell her what’s it gonna be like. You mind staying a minute longer?”
“One minute, if I have to,” said Jason. “I’ll get a bag of food together.”
“Okay, back in a minute.”
The policewoman shut the door and walked twenty feet down a walkway fronting on a car park, and turned in at another door. She unlocked it with a key and went in and closed it behind. Inside, two people sat back-to-back on metal kitchen chairs, bound together, arms, bodies, and lets, with loops of rope and electrical cord. Their heads were tied together with one long run of duct tape around their mouths. One wore a police uniform. The other was Jane Macklin. Both were barefoot.
“Well, ladies, it’s about that time,” said Shamber, going to the sofa, looking inside a gym bag, and zipping it up. “Thanks for your donations; Jane, for the booze and smokes, and Kris for the gun, ammo, and gear. Don’t think we could do this without you.” Both women made noises of fear and protest. Shamber drew her baton and hit each of them on the head, knocking them out.
Then she went to the kitchen area and drew a knife from a block and tested its edge. Not very sharp; there was a serrated one which would do better; that, and a moist, soapy dishrag from the sink. She approached the bound women, knelt down, and took one of Kris’s feet; with two quick motions she cut deep into the femoral arteries. Then she did the same with the other foot, and then the same to each of Jane’s feet. She stood up, wiped down the few things she had touched with the dishrag, and then hefted the gym bag. “Bu-bye,” she said, turned, and went out. The two women would bleed out in ten minutes or so, nice and quiet, no fuss.
Back at Jason’s door, Shamber knocked. “Ready?” she called.
Jason came out, with a bag of his own. “What did Jane say?”
“She was speechless,” said Shamber.
“For the first time in her life, probably. Let’s get out of here while the getting’s good.”
“And all the people said, Amen,” she rejoined.
>< >< ><
>< >< ><
With downtown delays, Rhys was nearly an hour late getting to his new personal office in one of the twentieth-century air defense facilities in the former Fort Lawton, leased to him as a scientific researcher working for local government. It wasn’t much to look at from the outside, or from the inside either; ‘severely functional’ had been the description, and the concrete walls and iron doors bore that out, but it was spacious, secure, and out of the way. Maybe a little too out of the way. The transportation problems evinced this morning meant that he was facing a helio lease, like it or not. He didn’t; though there were now practical security concerns, and his new office, unlike his old one, was helio friendly, his home on the Island was still a mile away from any feasible regular landing site.
As Nels’ replacement at Council, he had Nels’ old Council office, but if the news was anything to go by, that would be buried under a few tons of bomb rubble in the County Administration Building. Until the end of the year, he also had the unexpired portion of his lease on his old office in the County Annex, where there was still a desk and a ‘com line, but this was the best location now--but for transport. He sighed as his car rolled to a stop and he got out, tipping the driver. Too many buts.
He went around the walkway, down a few steps, and entered a code on a keypad; the big door swung open readily, and inside he saw Ralna, wearing her usual slack suit and glasses, seated at her workplex, surrounded by holoscreens, pads, and pedals, with servers, relays, routers, and wiring racked in un-pretty but performance-optimized array around her; there was also a cooler in the corner, doubtless holding her ten thousand calories’ worth of lunch and snacks. “Good morning, sir,” she greeted. “Your routine financials for yesterday and today are done, and the usual tasks taken care of. Do you have something for me?”
“Good morning, Ralna,” he returned, reaching inside his coat. “I do have something for you.” He walked over to her, holding out a small, square object. “This is a memory device that Holly obtained from Nels Anderson at the risk of her life. I need to know what’s on it. I should warn you, it’s heavily encrypted.”
“Leave it to me, sir,” she said with a bright glance up at him. “If man can make it, I can break it. It may take some time.”
“Well, not too much, let’s hope.” He spoke on, knowing that he had her attention, even while her fingers and feet drummed out other, routine jobs through partitioned mindwindows. “Jason was picked up Saturday afternoon, as you know, and taken into custody by City police, doubtless for his own protection. I expect they’re ready to let him go by now. Hopefully, three days in custody will have driven home the lesson that the city isn’t a good place for him to be, and we can get him out of here for a while. See to that for me, please,” he added, by instinct looking around for a coat rack. He had to fold it carefully and drape it over a chair. “I’ll be getting settled in the inner office. And get us a coat rack, please.”
“Very good, sir,” Ralna replied, and as he was going in, spoke to someone through her headpiece, still typing and pedaling without a break. He had just time to test his chair and get his workplex turned on, when the com-bar flashed, and Ralna’s voice spoke. “Excuse me, sir. Sergeant Yanos at City PD says he has to speak with you directly.”
“Alright,” Rhys agreed. “Put him through on Two. Yes?”
“Councilor Macklin?” Rhys confirmed his identity. “Thank you. You understand, it’s a bit hectic here. Our records say Jason was released into parental custody on Sunday night.”
“Parental custody? I’m his parent,” said Rhys quietly. “There’s some mistake here.”
“It says here, Jane Macklin, mother. Is that right?”
“She brought him into the world. She’s also restricted from contact. Is that not in the records?”
“I don’t see that here, sir,” said the cop.
“Who authorized this?”
“It doesn’t say. That means it was either done on a court order or on executive authority.”
“H’m. Alright, Sergeant, that will be all. Thank you.” Rhys ended the call, and thought. The next step would have been to call Jane’s attorney, but … “Ralna?” he said.
“Sir?” came her voice.
“When you tended to Mr. Boulanger and his assistant, you did download his case information, didn’t you? And contact list?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Apparently, Jason was released on Sunday, into Jane’s custody. Mr. Boulanger’s contact list would have Jane’s information, would it not?”
In the other room, Ralna’s eyelids fluttered briefly as she accessed the files. “Yes, sir. I have it.”
“Dial her for me, please, Ralna.” He waited for the call to connect, but only got her inbox message. “This is me. Talk.” He left a request for her to call back about Jason. The next step was to talk to Jones about it, or Sarah DeJong as ‘executive authority.’ That could wait for a few minutes while the matter of an actually endangered life was to be dealt with.
There was, of course, no question of paying Mona Stern anything for John Brunett’s release, but, intelligent as she was, she probably did have some form of payment verification lined up. His train of thought was broken by another summons from Ralna—Councilor Espinoza calling—and was quickly connected to a ‘vidmeet with the other Councilors: Williams, Mtumbe, Gerstein, Delaney, and Bennett.
“Where’s Leonard?” Rhys asked, looking at the other windows.
“He was in his office when the CAB was bombed this morning,” said Oscar. The big man murmured something, and Mtumbe added, “He’s damn lucky to be alive.”
“He’s—he is?” Rhys stuttered.
“You look as surprised as I was,” said Delaney. “Christ, I was three blocks away when that thing went off, and it about parted my hair, too.”
“We need to meet. This morning,” said Williams.
“We are meeting,” Rhys pointed out.
“No, physically. We’ve got things to ink,” replied Williams. “Now that we’re all here—Leonard’s still being checked out, but he’s pretty much okay—where’s a good site?”
“It has to be a public place,” said Bennett. “One that hasn’t been bombed or is full of wounded,” added Mtumbe.
“Ralna?” asked Rhys through the door. “Any suggestions?--my PA stays on top of everything,” he added to the meeting.
“County Annex, sir,” came Ralna’s voice. “No activity there.” Rhys repeated that to the meeting. “Six blocks from the CAB, County building, has a conference room, not being used for any emergency activities. Easy access, Alaskan Way’s being kept clear for emergency vehicles, but this sounds like an emergency meeting.”
“The agenda will be short,” said Williams. “Can everyone be there by noon? Who’s not downtown already? Anyone need an escort from a deputy? Okay, you, Paul. Rhys? Where are you?”
“Doesn’t it give my location?”
“It says you’re in Belize,” said Gerstein, to a couple of laughs.
“Damn, new device. Corner of West Thirty-Sixth and Government.”
“Discovery Park?” said Mtumbe. “Whatta ya, feeding the pigeons?”
“Business,” Rhys replied. “Okay, we’ll have a deputy out there for ya within the hour,” said Williams. “See you soon.” The business was concluded, which brought Rhys back to the John Brunett matter. One thing at a time.
“Sir,” came Ralna’s voice, “to be at the rendezvous you will need to leave in six point two minutes at your default walking speed.”
“So you don’t think I want you along?” he asked, with the ghost of a smile.
“No, sir. You have to take a course of action on the matter of John Brunett. You will require me here to facilitate that in a timely manner.”
“As pure chance would have it, that is so,” he replied, getting up and walking back into the outer office. “Contact Hassan Boumara in Bahrain and have him set up a shell account workaround once Janine contacts you back with Mona’s information. You know how to arrange the rest. Get ready to go. Contact Janine Sandoval, tell her that we, of course, accept Mona’s proposal. We have the last known physical address. Monitor the number that Janine calls and run a trace, assuming the service connects, of course. If there’s a match, go get John. If there isn’t, go to the last physical address first and go through from there. As for tactical options, use what you see fit. John is a person of disability who has been kidnapped, and use of any necessary measures to retrieve him is authorized by me as CCLE. If an officer cares to ask what you’re about, have them call me and I will straighten them out. Clear enough?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Ralna, whose typing had maintained its steady rainstorm-on-the-roof space. “Intercept, interface, retrieve, and terminate.”
“If necessary, under usual conditions. We would prefer an apprehension, and you will be accountable for whatever outcome ensues.”
“Yes, sir. Understood.”
“Thank you, Ralna. And now, I have a ride to catch.” He picked up his coat. “Contact me when you have John, and I will tell you where to bring him. I may be back here today, and I may not. I will contact you when I know.”
“Thank you, sir.” He heard her keyboarding break for a fraction of a second, then resume as he went out.
Along the walk, he activated his soft specs and checked messages. There was one from Aziz. I know we are done, brother, but let me ask you, can I see Holly again? That made him smile again, briefly, and he trudged on toward the car park under the grey, cloudy sky.
>< >< ><
>< >< ><
Tuesday, 20 October
Sunrise, when its fingers finally felt their way through the Cascade mountain passes, opened out across a city strangely prostrate and silent, twitching a little, like a giant animal laid out with a dose of ketamine. Quietest was the bristling hump of downtown, while in the north, south, and east sides, thin columns of smoke still rose. A closer view of main roads revealed activity, but not normal inbound commuter traffic. Vehicles were headed out, toward blackout country: tiny Smarts and Sunglorys with cases and boxes piled on the roofs, some pulling motorcycle trailers; larger Tatas and Toyotas and Daihatsus and Codas, loaded likewise, and bikes, trikes, and cycles—even the odd scattering of skateboarders with backpacks. Some people had evidently decided to try out places like North Bend, Duvall, and Snohomish, where power and water might be unreliable but the general peace still held. The traffic crept along, sometimes stopping altogether to pick its way around a wrecked bus or truck, but again, all was quiet. There were no horns or curses. Drivers were all focused on one thing, and for once it wasn’t the vehicle ahead of them.
Chief Jones, like a lot of other people, had stayed all night in his office. Just after seven A.M. he came to in his chair, his neck aching; he stretched, went for a cup of last night’s ‘bux on his side table, and sat down again, focused himself with an effort, and refreshed his workplex displays. He had a two-hour-old message from Agent Hudson; FBI, DHS, and FEMA had been notified of the situation and were sending people on the next flights. Leonard Chung had checked into his office earlier, and had sent some communications.
The PD-NET reports weren’t reassuring. Damage from the night’s rioting was not as great as many had feared, but the indications that it was terrorist-related were disturbing. Much of the damage was to communications facilities, masts, and power supplies. Secure ‘Net server locations had been damaged, and power and fuel supplies sabotaged. There had been three hundred thirty-six arrests, mostly for assault or property crimes. There had also been twenty-two casualties in police incidents, eight of them police officers. There were many, many more civilian casualties, with some estimates running at high as three thousand, most with non-gun-related flesh wounds Hospitals and clinics still struggling with Transit Tunnel victims over the last five days were now overwhelmed, some with temporary pavilions pitched on their grounds where wounded were simply warehoused with minimal care, and appeals were going out to medical centers for a thousand miles around. Some military medical staff were being dispatched from Lewis/McChord and Bremerton, but it was not enough. Some administrators were calling for aid from the NAE or even world levels.
Experts were already weighing in on possible causes. The amount of gun violence had been less than predicted in civil-disaster models; the amount of old-fashioned mano-a-mano flesh-rending had been much greater. There would be testing. Some thought it was a mass outbreak of mental illness, possibly triggered by amounts of hydrogen chloride, ammonia, and hydrogen fluoride entering the air or water, either due to induction or natural causes, as these were also earth gases that could be released by geological events. A few people believed it signaled the onset of a huge earthquake or volcanic eruption; the very idea could excite even more panic.
The latest reports, however, were the most ominous. Whoever had been responsible for the night’s outbreak, there were better-known offenders starting to take advantage of it. Organized gangs were on the move. A Nation of Aztlan block commander had been killed in White Center; blame was being laid on Asian Triads in the tech-and-tissue business, and there and in Highland Park there had already been street shooting and some gas bombings of strongholds. With the bulk of his staff already having worked anywhere from twelve to twenty hours straight and in dire need of downtime, Jones knew that these quiet hours were perhaps the most dangerous of all. He went out onto the HQ floor in search of something to eat, even just a muffin, and to think about strategy. It was quiet on the floor, too, with Justin Earle lying stretched out asleep on a bench, and a few workplexes being monitored by tired officers. He decided to ask for a meeting with Leonard, Mal, Sarah DeJong, and Hudson as soon as possible.
Jones went back to his office and sat down to send out a message, when he felt, rather than heard, a deep boom, which rattled a few things. He looked out into the HQ area.
A couple of people had felt it, too, and stood up, and he, too, stood. Whatever that was, it could not be good.
>< >< ><
Three minutes later, Jones had gone to Earle’s bench and was shaking him gently. The man stirred, turned over, and stretched. “What?” he asked.
“Bombing,” Jones told him grimly. “County Administration Building. Took out half the top floor, it seems.”
Earle’s eyes popped open. “You’re shitting me.”
“I don’t shit anyone on Tuesdays,” said Jones. “Who’ve we got?”
>< >< ><
Leonard Chung’s first sensation had been that of being squeezed and then thrown against a wall by a giant fist. He opened his eyes to see building debris falling around him amid billowing dust and smoke, and he drew in a sharp breath. The breath didn’t gush sharply into his lungs, and when sensor displays winked on inside his view, he remembered that he was still wearing his helmet and tactical suit.
He’d come into his office in the small hours and laid down in his private inner office for a nap without taking it off. After some of the things he had seen during the night, he wanted to be wearing it as often as possible. The idea might seem paranoid, but it had certainly saved his life.
A wave of fiery heat enveloped him, passing over and away. He backed up against the wall, and a huge piece of concrete girder slammed down in front of him, collapsing the floor underneath, and he slid down into it, into smoke, and landed somewhere, instinctively turning and trying to scramble away behind where he had been. Clouds of thick dust blinded him, and the infra/ultra sensor modes were of little help. He felt floor move underneath him again; his hand was on a door frame, and he put the other hand on it and hung on, pulling himself through. Sixth floor—fifth? He staggered a few steps, shaking his head; light came from a broken window in front of him. There was a desk—desks, a fallen bookcase, paper and debris scattered around. Someone, a man, had fallen down, hands to his head; a woman lay on the floor, moving, saying something. There was a shouting noise behind him. He turned, to see two people, injured, blackened with dust or smoke, backing unsteadily away, coughing.
Of course. He was in the killing suit, recognizable from Tunnel and Chelly videos. There was only one thing to do. He removed his helmet. The two people fell silent, recognizing him, not putting two and two together yet, but they stopped.
“It’s me,” he said. “I’m alright. Let me take you out of here.” Still confused, they nodded and let him approach, and he picked up a desk lamp and hit one, a woman, on the head, a woman, and after a brief struggle overcame the other, a man, as well. Then he took the man by the collar and an arm, rushed him to the window, smashed it with his boot, and threw the man out. He went back for the woman and threw her out, too. Then he hurriedly stripped himself of the suit, helmet, gloves, attachments, and boots in a supply closet. Then he saw a box of large trash bags, and loaded the items into two of those, and came out. He looked a little odd in his undersuit and socks, toting two bin bags, but that was not important compared to what he had to do now.
He coughed, too; now that he wasn’t wearing the helmet’s filtration system, the filthy air was invading his throat. The lifts would be out, of course. He knew where the stairs were; he had used them last night. He headed toward the staircase door on the south side.
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The run of the Alder Island Ferry Tawanis had been cancelled, prompting Rhys Macklin to think seriously about leasing a hover after all. His day had started poorly, Candee having locked herself in a guest bedroom for the night, and refusing—as she’d said through the door—to come out until he’d gone. ‘Net and phone had been disrupted; the Island’s own servers were unaffected, but many communications routed through Queen City were either experiencing network problems or were down altogether; he couldn’t even get through to Ralna, although his satellite-based business channels were open, including the channel he used to talk to Aziz and Watiq, and he had had a brief talk with Chief Jones; not included in that talk was Mona Stern’s ransom demand for John Brunett. He drove down to the ferry dock, parked in his spot, and went through the office to have a brief talk with Captain Sigurdsson in his capacity as Councilor and Committee Chair for Law Enforcement, the upshot of which was that the Tawanis would make one morning and one evening run daily, carrying only pre-cleared passengers, with a crew augmented by a squad of a half-dozen Island police. That did not make the morning ‘net- and ‘vidcasts.
What did make the ‘casts was that at eight-eleven AM a call had been placed to the Queen City Police HQ, claiming responsibility for the event about to take place, on behalf of the December Third Brigades. At eight-twelve, a powerful explosion had taken out the western half of the top two floors of the County Administration Building, apparently centered in the Number Four service shaft, destroying the offices of County Executive Leonard Chung and the Council chambers beneath, shattering windows for blocks around and spewing chunks of concrete and steel which damaged the County Courthouse, the Public Safety Building, and City Hall, repairs to which were underway from the bombing there eight days earlier. Cherry and James Streets were closed, and Fourth Avenue looked as if it had been hit by an earthquake. There were dozens of dead and scores of wounded, as the workday had just begun; the silver lining was that many employees had not reported in, due to the disturbance, but unfortunately, most of those who had reported had done so because they fulfilled essential functions. City fire and rescue personnel, having worked a long night after a busy day before, responded as best they could. Nearby City Hall Park was turned into a staging area, and the venerable Dexter Horton Building on Second Avenue was taken over as an emergency shelter. Bayview Medical Center, so near and yet so far, had had its own park turned into a pavilion-studded staging area, and there was literally nowhere to put anyone else; casualties still arriving from the night’s violence were already being waved away by police. “Where do we go, then?” was asked hundreds of times. “Bellevue. Tacoma. Vancouver. Anywhere but here,” had become the standard reply.
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Jason’s morning had begun with bout of sex with Shamber, who had returned to duty the night before, but the other policewoman guard had disappeared; called away, Shamber said, due to a lot of urgent police activity. After going into the shower and hosing a quart of him off herself, she dressed, left the rest for the bed sheets to soak in, and went to Jane’s to see about breakfast. He turned on the tube, and in the half-hour it took her to return he got all the news, up to and including the City Hall explosion, which was now definitely said to be a bomb.
Shamber sat inside the place with him while he ate. “Your mom’s locked in her place,” she explained, “and with what’s going on I don’t care to be out there alone, even if I have got a gun and a badge.”
“My forty-eight hours of bullshit here is about up,” he said. “That was our agreement, Jane, me, and Sarah. I’m going.”
“You can’t do that,” said the policewoman. “Everyone’s advised to stay in.”
“What are you gonna do, handcuff me?” he asked her. “And stand outside alone? You don’t know who’s gonna come to relieve you, or if anyone’s gonna come at all. And if anything happens to you, I’m screwed. It’s on you.”
“I could try calling HQ but I don’t know what I’d say or how to explain it. This is a private arrangement. I’m officially on loan for Sarah’s security. What do you think I should do, then?”
“I think you should carry out what Sarah agreed to. Let’s go. Get me out of here and escort me home.”
“How do we do that? Swim? The ferry’s cancelled.”
“Call my dad. He’s the Committee Chair for Law Enforcement. He’ll think of something.”
“What’s his number?”
Jason told her. She tried the call, but her sleeve display just blinked. “No service. A lot of communications are down right now. We’re lucky to have power.”
He stood up. “Well, I’m walking, then.”
Her eyes popped open. “What?”
“There’s a bridge in Tacoma.”
“You can’t fucking walk to Tacoma!”
“I’ll make things up as I go,” he answered, reaching for his coat.
“Alright, alright,” said Shamber. “I guess we’re stuck together, then, because no way I’m gonna be responsible for losing you. Let me go see if I can raise your mom, and tell her what’s it gonna be like. You mind staying a minute longer?”
“One minute, if I have to,” said Jason. “I’ll get a bag of food together.”
“Okay, back in a minute.”
The policewoman shut the door and walked twenty feet down a walkway fronting on a car park, and turned in at another door. She unlocked it with a key and went in and closed it behind. Inside, two people sat back-to-back on metal kitchen chairs, bound together, arms, bodies, and lets, with loops of rope and electrical cord. Their heads were tied together with one long run of duct tape around their mouths. One wore a police uniform. The other was Jane Macklin. Both were barefoot.
“Well, ladies, it’s about that time,” said Shamber, going to the sofa, looking inside a gym bag, and zipping it up. “Thanks for your donations; Jane, for the booze and smokes, and Kris for the gun, ammo, and gear. Don’t think we could do this without you.” Both women made noises of fear and protest. Shamber drew her baton and hit each of them on the head, knocking them out.
Then she went to the kitchen area and drew a knife from a block and tested its edge. Not very sharp; there was a serrated one which would do better; that, and a moist, soapy dishrag from the sink. She approached the bound women, knelt down, and took one of Kris’s feet; with two quick motions she cut deep into the femoral arteries. Then she did the same with the other foot, and then the same to each of Jane’s feet. She stood up, wiped down the few things she had touched with the dishrag, and then hefted the gym bag. “Bu-bye,” she said, turned, and went out. The two women would bleed out in ten minutes or so, nice and quiet, no fuss.
Back at Jason’s door, Shamber knocked. “Ready?” she called.
Jason came out, with a bag of his own. “What did Jane say?”
“She was speechless,” said Shamber.
“For the first time in her life, probably. Let’s get out of here while the getting’s good.”
“And all the people said, Amen,” she rejoined.
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With downtown delays, Rhys was nearly an hour late getting to his new personal office in one of the twentieth-century air defense facilities in the former Fort Lawton, leased to him as a scientific researcher working for local government. It wasn’t much to look at from the outside, or from the inside either; ‘severely functional’ had been the description, and the concrete walls and iron doors bore that out, but it was spacious, secure, and out of the way. Maybe a little too out of the way. The transportation problems evinced this morning meant that he was facing a helio lease, like it or not. He didn’t; though there were now practical security concerns, and his new office, unlike his old one, was helio friendly, his home on the Island was still a mile away from any feasible regular landing site.
As Nels’ replacement at Council, he had Nels’ old Council office, but if the news was anything to go by, that would be buried under a few tons of bomb rubble in the County Administration Building. Until the end of the year, he also had the unexpired portion of his lease on his old office in the County Annex, where there was still a desk and a ‘com line, but this was the best location now--but for transport. He sighed as his car rolled to a stop and he got out, tipping the driver. Too many buts.
He went around the walkway, down a few steps, and entered a code on a keypad; the big door swung open readily, and inside he saw Ralna, wearing her usual slack suit and glasses, seated at her workplex, surrounded by holoscreens, pads, and pedals, with servers, relays, routers, and wiring racked in un-pretty but performance-optimized array around her; there was also a cooler in the corner, doubtless holding her ten thousand calories’ worth of lunch and snacks. “Good morning, sir,” she greeted. “Your routine financials for yesterday and today are done, and the usual tasks taken care of. Do you have something for me?”
“Good morning, Ralna,” he returned, reaching inside his coat. “I do have something for you.” He walked over to her, holding out a small, square object. “This is a memory device that Holly obtained from Nels Anderson at the risk of her life. I need to know what’s on it. I should warn you, it’s heavily encrypted.”
“Leave it to me, sir,” she said with a bright glance up at him. “If man can make it, I can break it. It may take some time.”
“Well, not too much, let’s hope.” He spoke on, knowing that he had her attention, even while her fingers and feet drummed out other, routine jobs through partitioned mindwindows. “Jason was picked up Saturday afternoon, as you know, and taken into custody by City police, doubtless for his own protection. I expect they’re ready to let him go by now. Hopefully, three days in custody will have driven home the lesson that the city isn’t a good place for him to be, and we can get him out of here for a while. See to that for me, please,” he added, by instinct looking around for a coat rack. He had to fold it carefully and drape it over a chair. “I’ll be getting settled in the inner office. And get us a coat rack, please.”
“Very good, sir,” Ralna replied, and as he was going in, spoke to someone through her headpiece, still typing and pedaling without a break. He had just time to test his chair and get his workplex turned on, when the com-bar flashed, and Ralna’s voice spoke. “Excuse me, sir. Sergeant Yanos at City PD says he has to speak with you directly.”
“Alright,” Rhys agreed. “Put him through on Two. Yes?”
“Councilor Macklin?” Rhys confirmed his identity. “Thank you. You understand, it’s a bit hectic here. Our records say Jason was released into parental custody on Sunday night.”
“Parental custody? I’m his parent,” said Rhys quietly. “There’s some mistake here.”
“It says here, Jane Macklin, mother. Is that right?”
“She brought him into the world. She’s also restricted from contact. Is that not in the records?”
“I don’t see that here, sir,” said the cop.
“Who authorized this?”
“It doesn’t say. That means it was either done on a court order or on executive authority.”
“H’m. Alright, Sergeant, that will be all. Thank you.” Rhys ended the call, and thought. The next step would have been to call Jane’s attorney, but … “Ralna?” he said.
“Sir?” came her voice.
“When you tended to Mr. Boulanger and his assistant, you did download his case information, didn’t you? And contact list?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Apparently, Jason was released on Sunday, into Jane’s custody. Mr. Boulanger’s contact list would have Jane’s information, would it not?”
In the other room, Ralna’s eyelids fluttered briefly as she accessed the files. “Yes, sir. I have it.”
“Dial her for me, please, Ralna.” He waited for the call to connect, but only got her inbox message. “This is me. Talk.” He left a request for her to call back about Jason. The next step was to talk to Jones about it, or Sarah DeJong as ‘executive authority.’ That could wait for a few minutes while the matter of an actually endangered life was to be dealt with.
There was, of course, no question of paying Mona Stern anything for John Brunett’s release, but, intelligent as she was, she probably did have some form of payment verification lined up. His train of thought was broken by another summons from Ralna—Councilor Espinoza calling—and was quickly connected to a ‘vidmeet with the other Councilors: Williams, Mtumbe, Gerstein, Delaney, and Bennett.
“Where’s Leonard?” Rhys asked, looking at the other windows.
“He was in his office when the CAB was bombed this morning,” said Oscar. The big man murmured something, and Mtumbe added, “He’s damn lucky to be alive.”
“He’s—he is?” Rhys stuttered.
“You look as surprised as I was,” said Delaney. “Christ, I was three blocks away when that thing went off, and it about parted my hair, too.”
“We need to meet. This morning,” said Williams.
“We are meeting,” Rhys pointed out.
“No, physically. We’ve got things to ink,” replied Williams. “Now that we’re all here—Leonard’s still being checked out, but he’s pretty much okay—where’s a good site?”
“It has to be a public place,” said Bennett. “One that hasn’t been bombed or is full of wounded,” added Mtumbe.
“Ralna?” asked Rhys through the door. “Any suggestions?--my PA stays on top of everything,” he added to the meeting.
“County Annex, sir,” came Ralna’s voice. “No activity there.” Rhys repeated that to the meeting. “Six blocks from the CAB, County building, has a conference room, not being used for any emergency activities. Easy access, Alaskan Way’s being kept clear for emergency vehicles, but this sounds like an emergency meeting.”
“The agenda will be short,” said Williams. “Can everyone be there by noon? Who’s not downtown already? Anyone need an escort from a deputy? Okay, you, Paul. Rhys? Where are you?”
“Doesn’t it give my location?”
“It says you’re in Belize,” said Gerstein, to a couple of laughs.
“Damn, new device. Corner of West Thirty-Sixth and Government.”
“Discovery Park?” said Mtumbe. “Whatta ya, feeding the pigeons?”
“Business,” Rhys replied. “Okay, we’ll have a deputy out there for ya within the hour,” said Williams. “See you soon.” The business was concluded, which brought Rhys back to the John Brunett matter. One thing at a time.
“Sir,” came Ralna’s voice, “to be at the rendezvous you will need to leave in six point two minutes at your default walking speed.”
“So you don’t think I want you along?” he asked, with the ghost of a smile.
“No, sir. You have to take a course of action on the matter of John Brunett. You will require me here to facilitate that in a timely manner.”
“As pure chance would have it, that is so,” he replied, getting up and walking back into the outer office. “Contact Hassan Boumara in Bahrain and have him set up a shell account workaround once Janine contacts you back with Mona’s information. You know how to arrange the rest. Get ready to go. Contact Janine Sandoval, tell her that we, of course, accept Mona’s proposal. We have the last known physical address. Monitor the number that Janine calls and run a trace, assuming the service connects, of course. If there’s a match, go get John. If there isn’t, go to the last physical address first and go through from there. As for tactical options, use what you see fit. John is a person of disability who has been kidnapped, and use of any necessary measures to retrieve him is authorized by me as CCLE. If an officer cares to ask what you’re about, have them call me and I will straighten them out. Clear enough?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Ralna, whose typing had maintained its steady rainstorm-on-the-roof space. “Intercept, interface, retrieve, and terminate.”
“If necessary, under usual conditions. We would prefer an apprehension, and you will be accountable for whatever outcome ensues.”
“Yes, sir. Understood.”
“Thank you, Ralna. And now, I have a ride to catch.” He picked up his coat. “Contact me when you have John, and I will tell you where to bring him. I may be back here today, and I may not. I will contact you when I know.”
“Thank you, sir.” He heard her keyboarding break for a fraction of a second, then resume as he went out.
Along the walk, he activated his soft specs and checked messages. There was one from Aziz. I know we are done, brother, but let me ask you, can I see Holly again? That made him smile again, briefly, and he trudged on toward the car park under the grey, cloudy sky.
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