I sleep in late, waking at the ridiculous hour of ten o' clock. But with no food in the fridge and no job to work at, I might as well stay in bed. I stare up at the ceiling; a flat, white expanse with a single spherical overhead light. Bored as hell, I strive to remember my dreams of last night. A pillow over my face augments my memory. I only recall sparse details--of Nilwar. "I too have killed," he moans from the shadows of my mind, trying to explain, to justify something. Even awake, the banshee freezes my blood. What was Nilwar talking about--he was saying that he had killed, just like Nat. Just like Nat? No. Nat is a butcher. The sight of that man, that unarmed, running man, crumpled in the street with his hands clutching at his shredded innards; his blood mingling with half-digested food as he coughs up ragged gasps of crimson-tinged phlegm; his big, frightened eyes just like an animal's, twitching, wild, scared, even as the life sags out of his lungs . . . Shit. Do all men die like that? Feeling somewhat depressed, I shed the sheets of my bed and stumble into my bathroom and flip on the shower. I haul off my boxers and stagger into the spray of lukewarm water. Fucking murderer. Callous, hard-as-nails . . . these aren't good traits! Sensovision be damned, Eastwood and Wayne and Norris and all the rest of the great action heroes just make every little shit on the street think it's a fucking great pastime to go out and shoot some Axemen in the knees. I stare around my bathroom. Tile floor, ceramic fixtures, real glass mirror . . . yet somehow I'd rather be back in Petrograd Block, back where everything isn't built on heaps of dead people. The slums fucking suck. I lean against the tile wall of the shower stall, and another, better memory replaces that of an eviscerated man. Grocke, her thin, wiry frame pressed up against mine . . . I've got to see her again, and it's not just that virus hanging over her head which compels me. She said she was getting transferred out of Special Weapons to something else, something more . . . elite? She could have been lying, but even if she wasn't it's going to be a pain finding her. A search of the Popo's employee roster is impossible without permission from the corporation or a solid background in computerized breaking and entering. I step out of the shower, dry off, and fire up my computer. I'm no hack; I just write, surf the net, and download pornography. But I'll bet I know someone who knows a good operator . . . Oscuro and company are out of the question. I don't think amigos would smile upon me being involved with the Popo on any level, animal lust included. I'd probably get a dumpster in some remote alley as my coffin. Besides, Diablo doesn't seem like the kind of organization that is overflowing with computer know-how. Nilwar would be able to find out. Marsec hires computer artisans--I remember spotting a few of them entering the lobby of the Marsec Building on my first day on the job. Dirty as hell, wearing clothes that surely hadn't been laundered for weeks, those punks were probably--heh--assigned to Internal Security's Intranet patrol. Special Agents just like myself. I snort. I wonder how they got conned into working for big bad Marsec. But Nilwar shouldn't know of Grocke--and bearing Ben's warnings in mind, I think it would be best to keep a few things from the bodyguard and Hageny. Oscuro and Nilwar discounted, I have only one choice left. I send my AI searching for "Lotus Systems". I munch on a synth-beef sandwich, ordered from the reception downstairs. If you ignore all the graffiti and litter, Biafra A's lobby is actually quite charming; real wood panelling, used, but still fairly decent furniture, and several healthy and alive plants. They also have a palatable selection of microwavable foods and food accessories. The AI is done, having taken all of maybe five minutes to dredge up every instance of the words "Lotus" and "Systems" in the public domain servers. "Lotus Systems: Discrete Information Services," reads the top entry. I select it, and instantly connect to none other than the Purple Lotus Fanpage. The entirety of the page is a small counter displaying five hits, the phrase "Last updated 3/11/2084" typed in the lower left hand corner, and a large, colorfully animated film short of overweight Synthmesh workers riveting structural steel. "Under Construction" boasts the site. I roll my eyes. Plasma pistol already holstered, I head for the door. "Your webpage sucks." Swan looks up from his three computer screens and blinks. "Bar's that way, wino," he says, pointing to the office door. I instinctively glance over my shoulder and snort. "Let me try that again," I repeat, swallowing the insult. "I need your help." The bouncer swivels his chair towards me, the dark grey bulk of Gaudin's cashbox hiding underneath his desk. A mangled lapcomputer rests off to his side, on top of a large sheaf of yellowed papers. "Really?" replies Swan. "Yeah. I need to contact someone who was in the Popo SWAT command." He narrows his eyes at me and looks me over. "Jeez, it's eleven in the morning, Karl. Have some self control--don't hit the booze until at least twelve." "I'm serious." "So am I." I glare at him for a moment. He cracks a broad smile and knocks a heap of magnetic disk cases from a nearby stool. "Have a seat. I'll see what I can do." He clears one of his monitors of the document he was formerly working on--a long passage about someplace called Dallas. I sit down. "What is all of this?" I ask, pointing to the two remaining monitors. One is apparently a few pages along in the description, having more mentions of Forth Worth, Dallas, and the year 2005. The other is a United States Army declassified list of casualties--some "National Guard" unit. Something like Megapol, I suppose, because it has a lot of low-ranking corporals and sergeants. "My book," boasts Swan. "It was the late summer of that year, and the heat was incredible--one hundred and twelve was the high on Tuesday. People were dropping like flies from the heat . . ." My eyes cruise down to the bottom of the page. "'-had enough problems already; hell, we were gonna be facing mass riotin' in a few weeks anyways. Of course, fate would have it that we got them bugs instead.'" "What is this about?" I ask. "The Battle of Dallas," he answers. "The history of XCOM's a little hobby of mine; Dallas was the first time the bugs just started out and out killing people." "Interesting," I mutter, reaching around him and scrolling down the text. "Police and National Guard units tried to halt the bug advances, but were brutally beaten back by superior technology and weaponry. Over one thousand men and women died in these early phases of the battle. However, tattered elements of the 14th Precinct managed to hold a few key buildings in the heart of Dallas for crucial hours before the arrival of XCOM. "This is their story." "Where is your research?" I inquire. "Declassified stuff off of the Senate servers--damage reports, ground assault salvage inventories--boring shit, mainly. I read that novel by Patterson, too. What's it called- ?" "Crusade," I answer, rolling my eyes. "You read that right- wing propaganda?" "You have a problem with Crusade?" "Other than the fact that it's probably the most racist book of all time, no." "Hemingway would fall into that same category," counters Swan. "But Hemingway was an artist--and a human. Patterson's just a militant nazi who wanted to create something like The Turner Diaries--except with more popular appeal." "I wouldn't compare the two." "Crusade's just twenty megs of gung-ho lies." Mocking the novel, I rant, "'Bob walked around the corner and was shot by a grey. Tom followed him around the corner and shot the grey. He checked to see if Bob was alive. He wasn't. Furious, he tore out the little alien's guts with his hands,'" Swan's face is a bright, throbbing red. "It's not lies," he starts out, quietly. "Patterson explains a lot that nobody cares about--like why there were only one hundred veterans of the original XCOM and how dead US soldiers somehow wound up in Japan, Switzerland, and Australia without anybody's knowledge. And he doesn't just brush off the whole fucking war like it was some pre-planned miracle, because it wasn't." He is shouting. "Hey, it's cool," I apologize, holding my hands away from my body, half expecting him to physically attack me. "I read it too, and you're right--Patterson deals with that shit the US Army and the United Nations never explained. And I also read Kamikaze and his book about Navarro." "You a student of the First Alien War also?" he asks, his voice flat. "Let's just say that I had a class at Lifetree which thoroughly covered it." Swan turns back to his computer, silent. "You wanted me to find some shit on someone in the Megapol roster?" he asks. "Uh, yeah." "It'll be difficult," he mutters. I grit my teeth and glance back towards the doorway. "Look, I can pay you-" Swan holds up a hand to stop me from saying more. "If it'll get your drunk ass out of my office, I'll do it for free." "Uh, thanks?" Swan switches to his web interface and selects the general information menu, accessing the Popo site instantly. He travels through a few submenus, repeatedly fending off queries and alerts such as "Do you wish to report a crime? (Yes/No)" and "Protect your apartment with a Megapol alarm/link network! (Tell me more/I'll take my chances)". He finally reaches a screen demanding a password. Swan types in the password, a long seven character string. "Where'd you- ?" I ask, amazed. "Popo sergeant who'd had a few too many," replies the bouncer. The next level is revealed to us. Personnel lists and locations are his next target, and he loads up an AI query screen. "You have a name you want? Hurry up--I've got this link routed through six servers, but they're gonna trace us fast." "Grocke," I reply. "Why are they tracing you? I mean, you already gave the correct password." He shrugs his shoulders. "Standard procedure, I guess." "That's stupid," I mutter. "No, that's paranoid," he corrects. The AI returns, bearing a link to one 'Lieutenant Casey Grocke.' "Here you go," Swan says, opening the file. "RESTRICTED ACCESS: Lev 10 Authorization Required." "Shit," he mutters, cutting the Intranet connection immediately with a flick of his wrist. "Why'd you do that?" I whine. "Got a level fucking ten identification on you?" he sneers. "I didn't think so." "What does level ten mean?" I inquire. "Let me put it this way--Sergeant Postle had Level Two Authority. When you said SWAT, I thought you were just jerking around . . . I guess you weren't." "Hm," I mumble. Swan looks back at his monitor. "But that's kinda strange-- they must've shuffled around the access levels. SWAT files have always been level seven." "She said she transferred out of Special Weapons to some secret assignment." The bouncer turns and stares at me. "Great, they're probably a Megapol hit squad airborne for us right now. Listen, wino, you can mention these things to me beforehand. There is no 'out' of the Special Weapons and Tactics . . . except for incarceration, deep cover, or death." I recall locks of brown, sweaty hair draped down over my face. "She certainly wasn't dead," I mumble, "and I doubt that she was on her way to jail." "Deep cover," mutters Swan. "Just looking at a Deep Cover agent's name is enough to get a Megapol AI on your ass." A certain gold card in my pocket burns at my thigh. I stand up to leave. "Sorry I couldn't help you," says Swan. "It's OK . . . I didn't expect to find her anyway . . . good luck with the novel," I reply, adding, "And I did like one of Patterson's books--Kamikaze. Much better than Crusade." Swan spins his chair around. "Why?" he asks, puzzled. "Jack Rawlings was an idiot compared to everybody else in XCOM! He wasn't a strategist, an engineer, or an xenobiologist! Just a ghetto punk who somehow wound up rubbing shoulders with the people who really deserved to be there! I mean, that was one dull, dull pencil." I chuckle, and turn my back to Swan, leaving. "Yeah? Well, he survived . . . and the rest of them didn't." I purchase a small bottle of wine at the counter before leaving. I have no idea where to go now. I ride the tubes back to Biafra Towers, thinking all the way. I've got to see Grocke again. Casey? Well, at least it's a better first name than 'Bitch.' Jesus, what a profane degenerate of a woman! F-ing this, f-ing that--she must've fit the role of a hooker nicely. I stare out the thick thermoplastic tube walls. The wreckage of Yokohama Block stares back at me. The geodesic dome's light tan north half is a charred smear of broken steel toothpicks and punctured polymer panes. A few Synthmesh vehicles lethargically sweep at the debris field at the apartment block's base. As the grav field pushes me by the building's east side, I spot tiny opened portholes--windows. Insulation, sheetrock, and other chunks of Yokohama's guts hesitantly fly out these pores. There are people inside, rummaging through, salvaging what they can. "WHERE ARE YOU, MEGAPOL?" asks a spray-painted stretch of white sheet suspended between two windows. From the crushed rim of the arcology's atrium rises a spindly flagpole--from it flies a flag of blue with the white four-spoked wheel of Sol in its center. It is the cross within the circle; it is the sign of the Church of Sirius. Flannery has been here. The ranks of his Church swell with every disaster. Whenever Megapol lapses and the emergency vehicles come too late, Flannery is there, with his ranks of green-clothed followers. They are the only ones that care; they are the only real humans in this cage of a city. The Senators should take some cues from this man. Where Sakurai and his cohorts plotted a Shangri-la to end all Utopias rose just another big, ugly city that chews up the young and spits out pollution and crime. Flannery, on the other hand, never made any promises of technological progress or perfection on a grand scale. He simply teaches the golden rule. I look away from the carnage of two nights ago. Which I simply don't follow. I sit down on the grav field, still flying along at a comfortable thirty kilometers per hour. See, if I were doing unto others as I wish were done unto me, I would be finding some damn way to tell Grocke that she's dying. She is dying. HIV one twelve bee. The more I think about that whore, that beautiful woman, that lady, the better I think of her--a strange phenomenon, considering that familiarity breeds contempt. "She very lonely," isn't that what Ben said? I stare around at the ranks of strangers travelling this tube with me. Just suits, suits, and some more suits. Nobody I could give a goddamn about. So am I. Feeling depressed, I wander in through the front door of Biafra. I stumble past some strangers, intent upon flying up the lift to my room and sleeping the rest of the day. "Peace! Wait up!" says one of them. Wolf. "Hey," I mutter. He immediately senses that something is wrong with me, his natural talent for empathy kicking in. I'm sure he plays as good a prostitute as Grocke. "What's the matter?" he asks, the exuberance dropping from his voice. I look up at the short blondish-brownish stubble on his chin, his slightly yellowed teeth, and his blue, blue eyes. "Nothing you'd care about," I sulk. "I'll bet you lunch that I would. Come on, I know a decent place to get Chinese." I grunt and follow him. He doesn't head out the front door-- instead, he strides towards the elevator. "Have you eaten yet?" he asks. "No," I sigh. I'm not feeling particularly hungry. Trudging after him, I am stricken by a sudden sense of deja vu--Buenos Aires . . . I chuckle. "Man, how did you put up with me?" I yell after him as he leaps up the grav lift. "What do you mean by that?" he shouts back. "I'm such a moping bastard," I reply. "I don't know how you can stand me." Wolf hops off the lift on the second floor. I quickly join him. He shrugs and grins. "I'll chalk it up to your easy-going demeanor," I say. We walk down the hallway. "Now seriously," he asks, "what's your problem?" "It's about a girl." Yeah right. How do you sum up the flash-burnt memory of straight brown hair draped across your neck, green cat eyes bearing down on you, the bruise of a boot mark on your throat, and primitive, violent sex? Wolf slowly looks at me, raises an eyebrow, and smiles-- sadly. "I know what you mean." Well, the means might be flawed--but he understands. Wolf knocks on an apartment door. I spot small brass plate with a few characters in kanji. "Hello?" asks someone from the inside. "Hungry gaijin looking for food," replies Wolf, breathing on the peephole. It frosts up. I hear multiple locks coming unbolted. The door swings open, and a small, older oriental woman greets us. She wears a neat black dress underneath a whitish apron along with a rather nasty facial expression. "I'm Chinese, stupid! Not filthy Japanese! Read the sign-" she runs a thin finger underneath the plate, "Quality Chinese Food. Knock for service." Wolf grins and shrugs. "Sorry," he whines. The door slams shut and the deadbolt slides closed. My friend mouthes the words "what the fuck" to me and pounds on the door. "Open up, silly bitch!" he yells. "Not for stupid Americans!" "Jesus, you think I don't know you're Chinese?" "Then why you use the word 'gaijin?' That Japanese word, arrogant oaf!" Wolf makes an ugly face and his right hand twitches. I lean over next to the door. "We have money!" I shout. I hear the bolt disengage. The door cracks ajar. "Why didn't you say so before?" she asks, holding it open for us. Wolf and I walk in. The restaurant inside must be the several apartments large; I spot another door a few meters to my left. A few large tables with lazy-susan style glass tops dominate the room. These are surrounded by chairs, smaller tables, and more chairs. A few oriental-types sit in the back corner, their lapcomputers loaded up with mah-jong or some other nearly extinct board game. They don't look up as our cranky hostess directs us to a small table next to a window. "Great view," I mutter, looking across an alley at another cement and steel tenement. "You got a problem, you leave," replies the small Chinese woman. I sit down never the less. "Bring us your best stuff," commands Wolf. "Like you Americans know the difference," she snaps back. He leans over the table to me as the woman heads for the kitchen. "Good friend of mine," whispers Wolf. "She just treats us like crap because the food's so good and so cheap there isn't any competition to go to." I grunt. "So tell me more about this hot mama of yours," says Wolf. "She's about one hundred seventy centimeters, is built like a gymnast, and works for Megapol's SWAT team." "Bummer," he says. "Built like a gymnast?" He makes a gesture with both hands over his chest. "It's not like Nat's particularly endowed in that aspect," I reply. Wolf blushes and looks away. I press forward with my assault. "Anyways--how does a fairly smart son-of-a-bitch like you meet a slum queen like her?" He returns his gaze to me and glares. "She's not a 'slum queen', asshole." "OK, she's not. But how did you come here to MegaPrime?" Wolf leans back in his chair and folds his hands behind his head. "I made some bad decisions," he begins. Flunking out of secondary school? "I'll say," I interject. He doesn't respond to the barb. "Misha," his former woman-friend, "and I broke up about after about six months in Sao. She said I wasn't 'pulling my weight,'" he snorts, "so I just left her. Which," raising his palms, "was a bad thing. I didn't have a fucking dollar to my name, and all of my 'friends' in Sao were Misha's friends." He closes his eyes. "I don't want to tell you how I did it, but I got together a little capital." I open my mouth, but without looking at me, he silences me with a gesture. "I'll tell you later . . . but I took that cash, and went into business." "Narc?" I mumble. "Yeah. Couldn't find a day job, and it was the cleanest nighttime job I could land--trust me, there's lots of worse stuff to do than peddling a little Kay." He opens his eyes again. "But I'm done with that. I'm on the up-and-up from now on. Remember that website we set up--the 'Father Borgeouis Secondary School Women's Locker Room Fanpage'?" I nod my head and crack a smile. Oh, the silly things schoolkids do . . . "The java sucked," I chuckle. "Yes it did," he agrees, "but I met up with some SELF guys who'd visited it. They thought it was just the funniest thing they'd ever seen, and to make a long story short, they introduced me to the Sao chapter's chief--this old intel named Bolivar. I did a few favors for him, and we became good friends. "But," he sighs, "Sao was getting old fast. Bolivar was heading north to take over SELF's ops in MegaPrime, and I volunteered to be his courier. We flew Transtellar sub-orbital in first fucking class." He smiles, remembering the journey I suppose. "Well worth the money," he continues. "I just got hammered-- which actually saved our asses." "Do tell," I reply. A little Chinese boy comes out of the swinging door to the kitchen. He bears a tray with two plates of steaming chow mein. He places one before Wolf and the other before me, bows, and leaves. I mutter thanks. I bust open the sterilized recycled chopsticks on the plates and get to work eating. The vegetables are fresh and the 'chicken' is so well done that I can't tell whether it's synth or not. But most importantly, the rice is neither rubbery or too water-logged. "This is really good," I say, my mouth stuffed with food. Wolf nods. "We grow our own hydroponic vegetables. Out here in the Territories, we don't trust Nutrivend--not after they refused to sell food to the entire southside for three months about four years ago." Four years ago . . . The Senate had tried to put in place Popo checkpoints at the Wall groundcar and people tube entry gates--and they planned to pay for it with a monthly use fee of a mere one hundred dollars. Not everybody in the slums agreed with the Senate's decision. The proletariat voiced their dissatisfaction by burning down an entire Synthmesh warehouse just outside the east wall. Senator Luis Chin responded by putting a squad of Megapol riot police 'on every doorstep in the slums'. But the violence only really erupted when he was assassinated . . . My blood runs cold. I shiver, even though by now I'm quite used to the feeling. "Where is Nat now?" I ask. "Nat's cleaning up some apartments," Wolf replies. I set down my chopsticks. "What in hell is she?" I whisper. "Huh?" he frowns. I look around the restaurant. Still nobody here except the Chinese in the back corner. "I have seen her kill at least a half dozen people in less than a week. I could have been one of those poor fuckers--don't give me any shit, Wolf." A pause. "She's Oscuro's right hand." "Elaborate." "You saw Gomez." I wait for him to continue. "You've met Oscuro, right?" he asks in a quiet voice. I nod. "If somebody fucks around with him, he will fuck them up." "Like that Gomez guy." "Yes. Normally that's Fizzy's job. He's Oscuro's designated hitter. But Fizzy doesn't have the words subtlety or stealth in his vocabulary--the botched Seger hit was typical of him. That's where Nat comes in. Gomez was an exception . . . normally she goes it alone and doesn't make as big a mess." So it's true. She's no samurai! She's an honorless ninja, a simple killer . . . I finally meet Wolf's eyes again. "Where did you find Nat?" "She was our contact at the spaceport. She got Bolivar and me out of a nasty situation with some noncompliant customs fucks, and as payment for the service . . . I'm her property." Property? It's my turn to say 'what'. "What?" Wolf resumes eating his chow mein. "Yeah, it sounds bad, but I've had worse. Much worse." "Property? Jesus, I thought indentured servitude was-" "Yes, Virginia, Unca Mikey's a whore. A prostitute. A kept man, if you will." I mull over the disturbing revelation. Long, tan legs, a hint of black lace; I suppose he's right--he could have it worse. "In a completely perverted way, that's kinda kewl," I mumble, grinning slightly. Wolf stares at the remnants of his food, pushing around stray grains of rice with his hashi. He smiles wryly. "There's only so much sex you can take." I chuckle more. "Never thought I'd hear you say that." "Well, you just did. And I'm serious. It's a job to me. I mean--I don't know." He throws up his hands. "I have to concentrate, Peace, I have to concentrate real hard . . ." "What, to keep it up?" He doesn't even get the joke. Instead, Wolf closes his eyes, and folds his arms over his chest. He looks like he's been raped. "No--I have to consciously keep myself from blowing my brains out." There's no witty retort to that one. I finish the rest of my rice in silence. The Chinese hostess materializes at our table as soon as we are done. "Is there anything else?" she asks, hungrily watching Wolf peel bills from his wallet. A psychiatrist, please, I almost blurt. God damn, Wolf is one sick puppy. My troubled friend pays the bill and we get a pair of fortune cookies. I bust mine open; Wolf hesitates with his. "Hey, what are you waiting for?" I ask. His cheek twitches, and he peels the biodegradable wax paper wrap from the cookie. He cracks it open, and takes out the thin strip of paper. "What's it say?" I ask, trying to be cheerful. I snap mine open and start munching on the sugary dough. "'You will acquire Fortune and Happiness through Perseverance,'" he reads. Wolf snorts and crumples up the paper. "What the fuck." "Like they pay the guys who write these things creative bonuses," I reply. "What's yours say?" Wolf asks. "'The Trust of your Friends is t Accidental.'" Wolf nearly spits out his cookie. "Let me see that." He eyes run over the ominous line. "Shit, must be a typo." "Jesus," I moan. "I got a dud." Wolf continues to eye the strip. "That really sucks. I mean, what if some poor depressed fucker opened up this cookie?" I smile. "They'd blow their brains out?" Wolf rolls his eyes, flashes a trademark Fangman smile, and makes a pistol with his right hand. He plants it on his temple and fakes shooting himself. "Lucky thing you got it. It could have been enough," he conspiratorially leans closer to me, "to push me over the edge." I grin. "Listen, if you have any problems-" Wolf draws back. "Hey, it's OK now. As long as I can talk to somebody about my problems . . . I won't do anything stupid." I wouldn't bet on that. "Just make sure that I'm along with you when you do," I reply. Wolf chuckles. "I thought I was the one who always talked us out of trouble!" "Yeah, but you're not as trustworthy as me." Wolf is silent. I glance out the window. "Where's Hap?" I ask. Halfway there, I turn to Wolf. I'm still in shock. "Why?" "I don't know. He's been coming here ever since I met him." "He just doesn't seem like the type." Quiet, confident. Meditative. Complex. These are not words normally used to describe members of the Church of Sirius. "Well, he is. Do you have a problem with that?" Granted, the Church does great things like feed the poor and heal the sick . . . but it takes an ignorant, simple mind to adopt their tenets--right? Salvation for the poor. The poor and stupid? Those who take well to that 'old time religion' shit Flannery puts on--the stupid! Hap just doesn't seem like the kind of person to raise his hands and move 'with the spirit,' as they say. Jesus. "No . . . I'm just wondering why. Are there any other bizarre secrets of his that I should know about?" I spy groundcars cruising by the people tube. That's Lennon Street off to our left; to our right hand is the Wall. And dead ahead, in a broad, sprawling complex of trees and sun bleached concrete, is the House of the Open Door. The name refers to the ancient legend of Joseph and Mary in Bethlehem--how they were turned away from all the hotels and rental apartments--and how we, as a society, have continually been doing that for the last two millennia--turning away those in need. It happened again, just four years ago. When Senator Chin closed the Wall and locked out all the slummers from the inner city, Flannery was moved to action. "Well, let there be at least one door . . . one door that is open to all!" he declared, breaking ground for the first of four such hostels. The House of the Virgin Mary, the House of the New Millennium, and Friendship House are their names. "Yeah, one other," answers Wolf. "How do you think Hap became an ace pilot?" "I don't know--he flew cabs for Transtellar?" Wolf chuckles. "Not exactly. Hap's ex-Popo." Mouth agape, I frown at Wolf. "You're not . . ." "Yes. Squadron leader, maybe three dozen official kills. Probably the best pilot they ever had." "Then why's he- ?" "Why is anybody in the Territories?" answers Wolf. "It wasn't his choice." I furtively look around, still somewhat disbelieving. "That's the short answer. He can tell you the long one." We step off the tube at the front gate of the House of the Open Door. This tube terminal is a multi-story thermoplastic encased porch to the smooth, almost marble columns of concrete that front the building. Blue flags with white cross-wheels hang from the spaces between the towering supports; low green shrubs surround their bases. I notice the cultists--er, churchgoers--who spring from the tube around us. While many are dressed in the suits of middle-level managers or the jumpsuits of the working poor, a few conspicuous members wear deep green capes, hip-length folds of a heavy, crude canvas material that mash their shoulders, back, and chest. Their pants, loose and flowing, are tied via a thick green-died cord of hemp. I spot a particularly attractive female; the shirt on her chest is of that same cloth and hue. "Crazy," I mutter. "Maybe to you," replies Wolf. We walk inside. A broad concourse runs the length of the building, with regular skylights and plants. Hundreds of rooms branch off of this; I glance in one. Stacks of crates are inside, all bearing the insignia of Nutrivend. Other rooms are filled with chairs and tables. Churchgoers eat a late lunch in a small cafeteria. Wolf and I stride past a large gameboard, huge white and green tiles evenly spaced upon the floor. Two children move the large plastic pieces via remote; they sit in high-backed chairs on the board itself. Wolf pauses. "Take his bishop!" he laughs at one of the players. "Whatever," replies the lad. "It's an obvious ambush," Wolf whispers to me. "He'll lose his own bishop, a pawn, and maybe a knight if he does that, but . . . he'll force the other guy to have to pick between losing his queen or his rook." I shrug. It's Latin to me. "No idea," I answer. "Never learned, never will." We move on. The scenery is good; there is an inordinately large number of young, pretty women here . . . damn. "Wow," I mumble. "Did you see- ?" "They've all taken a vow of chastity until marriage," he whispers in my ear. "I'd stick with that gymnast girl if I were you, Peace." Oh. Right. Grocke . . . She really is beautiful. Lithe, athletic, an engine of sexual energy . . . and a carrier of that goddamn virus. Wolf chats with a green-robed man. He points back towards the entrance. And I could love her--and not just in a purely physical way. True, I'm a Diablo initiate, accessory to more than a few murders and she's a steel-toed nazi with an axe to grind, but I think we can make something happen. Wolf heads for the people tube platform. I mindlessly follow him. I wonder what my parents would think if I brought her home? My dad, the easy going, stereotypical laid-back "Good German" would probably be content that I'm not a homosexual . . . my mother, on the other hand, would be downright driven to insanity over my bad taste. Was I simply conceived to be married off to some other rich family? Does Grocke have any money of her own? Why am I still mulling over a somewhat elongated one night stand? We step through the doorway to that small cafeteria. Hap, or someone who looks a lot like Hap, sits at the end of a table. His short brown hair is hidden underneath the hood of a big green . . . bathrobe? He eats soup and bread. "Hap!" smiles Wolf. "Mike!" replies the churchman as we saunter over to him. "What brings you here? It couldn't be that you've actually decided to end your sinful ways?" "I wish I could," my friend responds, not a drop of sarcasm in his voice. "Peace here wanted to know what your day job is, so I decided to bring him here." Hap pulls back his hood. I sit down next to him. "Eat already?" he asks. We nod. My God, it's true. Hap is Church of Sirius. He spots me staring at him. "What's with the green . . . outfits?" I ask. Hap smiles and grasps a fold of the rough material. "'Green is the color of spring, the color of innocence and virginity,'" he rattles off, suddenly grinning, "-plus stains don't show nearly as bad and you can get dandruff in it." I chuckle. "Excuse me," says Wolf, "I've got to place a call." He stands up and trots off, leaving me frowning at his back. "What the- ?" "Nat likes to know where he is at all times," says Hap. "How did those two meet up?" I ask, somehow glad that my friend is momentarily gone. "I mean, he doesn't really love Nat-" "Their relationship is not about love. It's about survival." I am silent. Hap sets down his empty soup bowl, a crude plastic affair. A church member heading to the counter to put away his own bowl picks it up. "Bless you, brother," says Hap. "Gracias, amigo." I raise my eyebrows at the exchange. "Mike was an up-and-coming SELF spokesperson," quietly begins Hap. It takes me a moment to realize that he's talking to me. "He was the right man for the job--intelligent, witty, and a lady killer. He mingled with the trend-setters, the politicos and corporate executives, drumming up support for the androids and generally showing the world that SELF could have a handsome human face." Hap sighs and looks at me. "He could've made a difference, Peace. He really could've changed things." He stares down at the table. "But at one of those damn cocktail parties he met Jasmine Ademino. They hit it off well, I hear. Became the best of friends, so to speak." Shit. "Her husband, the 'honorable' Senator Ademino, was not at all pleased. Besides putting a significant bounty on your friend Mike's smiling face, he also took out his rage on SELF--and you know the rest of that story." Senator Robert Ademino. Technocrat advocate of law and order and tradition--as long as the latter coincided with Megapol's policies. But God is a humorous bastard who likes his irony straight-- good old 'Family Values' Ademino couldn't even keep his own wife from straying! The fascist cracked at the news, and before his peers in the Senate unanimously voted to expel him, he pushed for the unofficial-- and involuntary--decommissioning of all mobile sentient artificial intelligences within MegaPrime's borders. He was responsible for the droid lynchings of two years ago; so many non-sentient maintenance and service droids were slain out of mere paranoia that Synthmesh, Super Dynamics, and General Metro sued Megapol for nearly one billion dollars in lost productivity. I saw Ademino the night before his impeachment hearings. Bloated, with slabs of fat hanging from his neck, thick pudgy fingers shaking as he knocked down shot after shot of Jack Daniels, his bloodshot, beady eyes blurred over with fear and alcohol. A cornered animal, he lashed out at patron who stepped too close to him; his bodyguards merely grabbed him and turned his bulk back to his bottle of whiskey. They carried--no, they dragged him, dragged him out the back exit of the Lotus, his bulging slacks wet with spilt liquor and urine. Gaudin, the old barkeep, nearly cried when he saw what had become of his favorite politico. Lean, Mean 'Family Values' reduced to a quivering, hairless baby, struck dumb with alcohol and fear. Gaudin thought the whole incident was so disgraceful that he refused to serve Senators after that night . . . "Damn," I mutter. "But Ademino's been impeached for a couple years now; why is Wolf still- ?" "Ademino was Megapol's man," says Hap. "They hold Mikey personally responsible for his downfall." "And that's why he's always near Nat." "Yes." I shake my head. "Disgusting," I mutter. "So they don't love each other at all?" "No," disagrees Hap, "There is something there, but it's a one-way street." "Huh?" Hap glances around. Wolf is still gone. "Trust me on this. She will never admit to it, and if you press her on it, she'll blow your head off, but Nat really does love Mike." Then why the fuck does she flirt with me? I want to scream. "Huh," I manage. Hap is quiet for long minute, watching the other church members finishing up their modest noon meals and wandering off to do more good work for the Lord. "Why are you a member?" I inquire. "Member of what?" he replies. "This." Hap shrugs. "I'm here because I believe." To believe--an impossible task for my poisoned, cynical mind. But there is hope for even the worst cases . . . "Brother Reynolds! It's been too long!" roars a boisterous, unmistakable voice. I glance over my shoulder and do a double-take. The man in white bears down on me. "Father!" Hap stands and then kneels upon the floor. I stand and turn--it truly is Father Robert Flannery Junior, the last great sage of humanity. "Oh, knock that rubbish off, Reynolds! We're all equals here, and you needn't lick the dirt off my shoes to express your respect!" Hap stands up, a broad grin on his face. He and Flannery embrace, the small white mass of the founder of the Church of Sirius engulfed in the billowing green folds of Hap's robe. Easily two dozen retainers and assistants to Flannery cram the entrance of the cafeteria, several with lapcomputer satchels slung over their church wardrobe. However, they aren't the people that attract my attention--it's the other hooded, robed figures like Hap. My eyes aren't trained, but something about the way that heavy green canvas rests over their frames is unusual . . . "I honestly thank heaven that I met you here, for I was worried," says Flannery. "Southside has been having it's share of troubles recently, hasn't it?" I watch Hap's eyes. They go bright for a second. Perhaps he is remembering a shapeless, crumbled heap of bones and meat lying in the middle of Calle Almodovar . . . "I think things are looking up, Father," he slowly states. "That is good--so many new faces from the southside! And it's truly a blessing that at least that portion of the outer city is normally so peaceful; the people from the South Projects need somewhere to stay during the rebuilding." Flannery turns to one of his entourage. "Joseph, tell them to load up the transports without me. I'll catch them before they leave." The church man dips his head and weaves his way out of the room. "How bad is the destruction?" I ask. "I'm sorry, Father," interjects Hap. "This is Peace, a friend of mine from Southside." Flannery extends a hand. Without thinking, I clutch it. "Pleased to me you, Mister Peace." Flannery's eyes are a pale blue, the color of the sky in old two-dimensional films. He looks into my eyes as I stare into his--I see clouds, thin wispy white cirrus clouds like a summer's afternoon in the desert. He is an old man, shrunken and stooped from years of hard labor and devotion towards his goal of enlightenment; but his grip is iron. No, he does not crush my hand in some sick gangster twist of machismo; the strength may be merely implied, but it is there, latent and waiting. We break the contact. "Strange name--Peace. An old nickname?" "From secondary school." "Does it suit your character?" "Any name fits me as well as the next." "Take care then," Flannery grins, a touch of wickedness in his wrinkled face, "that they do not call you by profanities." Father Flannery, shield of the oppressed and a new savior unto mankind, just joked with me. Heh. I turn away from him, my face all contorted with waves of laughter. Hap rolls his eyes skyward. Flannery pats me on the back. "All three must be demolished," he finally says, turning away from me. "Thanks to Megapol, not one of those arcologies is fit for human habitat. Thanks to Megapol, not less than twenty two thousand people lost their homes. And now," he continues, a wisp of anger coloring his voice, "thanks to Megapol, the survivors go hungry." Flannery is no longer speaking to just me. His personal attendants, the patrons of this cafeteria, and gathering throngs of church members crowd us. He boldly steps onto the table top to be better heard. "We need every groundcar you can get," announces the sage, "because Megapol is searching everything going into the South Projects! They know we're just bringing in food and medical supplies, not narcotics or weapons or--Hellfire and Damnation--," his eyes bulge, and he pours on the sarcasm, "Bibles! They're searching us for Bibles!" "Blind fools!" shouts someone from the crowd. "We should run the blockade!" Flannery shakes his head. "No, that's not how we work. We will turn the other cheek to Megapol's policy. That's not important-- what matters is that we get a regular food delivery system down, and that means as many groundcars as possible. Megapol can search all they want, but if we keep food coming into the Projects twenty four hours a day for as long as it takes to stabilize the situation . . . that's what matters." "Searching for Bibles?" yells a puzzled church member. "We can't let them get away with that!" "That will come later. Feed the body first. Then feed the soul. We have sworn to helping those in need--I refuse to hold the starving hostage to our beliefs. Yes, we would be that much more fortunate if all we aided joined us, but that is an impossible task. Those we help must find the Love of God in their own hearts and join on their own. We, nor anyone else, can find that for them. They must be willing volunteers. We all must be willing volunteers, willing volunteers for Jesus' work." "AMEN," rumbles the assemblage. "So let's find some groundcars!" finishes Flannery, nimbly hopping off the table and moving towards the door. The crowd, sensing that storytime is over, returns to their previous tasks or follows Flannery. "Why can't you get Nutrivend to deliver to the South Projects?" I ask Hap as we're pushed along with the mob. "They say it's too dangerous," he replies through clenched teeth. "Too dangerous to offend Megapol, more likely." But weren't you once Megapol? I almost ask. Someone catches me by the arm before I can utter such stupidities, though. I glance to my side, and it is Wolf. He wears his predator's grin again. "What is it?" I ask. "Seger is ours." In a vacant room apart from the rush of church members Wolf finds a seat. Resting on a large plastic barrel labeled 'SOY PRODUCTS--DE NUTRIVEND" he repeats the good news. "Seger is ours! Some of the lower southside amigos caught wind that he was running for Rider Territory; they shot up his ride and forced him into a highrise. Nat and Fizzy drove in to finish him off, and I'll be damned if Fizzy didn't personally capture him alive!" "Alive?" I cough. "Poor bastard," replies Hap. "Poor fucking bastard." "It's pokestick time!" grins Wolf. "Oscuro's throwing a party to celebrate. Starts at midnight." "Mandatory?" mumbles the green-cloaked Hap. "Very. El Jefe wants to thank you again in front of everybody." "Wow," I murmur. "Can I come?" Hap opens his mouth, but Wolf beats him to the punch. "Fuck, yeah! He really wants you to show up--you're the sorry son-of-a-bitch who started this whole war!" Really. Thanks, Nilwar, you conniving old bastard. "Do I need to rent a tux?" I ask. Wolf grins and slaps me on the back. "Nope. Go home, take a nap, and then come as you are, but most importantly be sure to show up on time--when Oscuro 'wants' something, he damn well expects it to happen." 3/11/98
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