After the Revolution, page 14
As they walked past the bar, Mike scooped up four pint glasses of dark brown lager. He kept them in one hand as he opened a metal hatch on the rooftop. Manny could see a ladder that led down into semi-darkness. Mike nodded toward the ladder.
“Down you go. Beer at the bottom.”
Manny and Reggie descended into a luxurious conference room. It was candle-lit, dim enough to seem intimate but bright enough for human navigation. A single redwood table dominated the space. It was twelve feet in diameter and low to the ground, like all the tables he’d seen in the cafe. Cushions and other colorful, lumpy soft things surrounded it. One man and one woman were already seated cross-legged around the table. Manny was shocked to see they were both quite old.
The man was heavyset, with a lot of curly black hair piled atop his head and around his craggy, lined face. Startlingly bright blue eyes stood out over the flickering candle light. He wore an old-fashioned suit with a necktie and everything. It was the kind of suit a banker might have worn fifty years ago, if the old movies Manny’d watched were close to accurate.
He looked to be in his sixties, while the woman next to him seemed considerably older. Her face was so lined, and her skin so thin, she almost looked fake, like some kind of animatronic creation. No one looked that old anymore. The Austin autonomous region wasn’t wealthy but basic JuvEn treatments were cheap and heavily subsidized. Even the poor could afford to combat the worst side-effects of aging. Things were different in the Republic of Texas proper, but none of the poor there lived long enough to look like this woman.
She wore high-waisted, purple yoga pants and a very tight t-shirt with a faded print of a five-fingered Bart Simpson flipping the bird. Her hair was completely white and bound behind her in a tight ponytail. She smiled at Manny when he looked at her. The old woman’s teeth were as white as her hair.
“Hello there, young men,” she said in a voice that evoked the Platonic ideal of a grandma. “Hello, Topaz. Mike.”
“Skullfucker Mike, ma’am,” Skullfucker Mike corrected her as he came down the ladder. He handed Reggie, Manny, and Topaz each a beer and then found a cushion large and plush enough for his bulk and dropped down. Manny took his cue and found a seat. Reggie grabbed the cushion next to him. Topaz leaned against the back wall but stood as she introduced them.
“This is Manny Sanchez, he’s a fixer from the Austin region. And this is Reggie Sullivan, he works for the BBC. Manny, Reggie, this is Nana Yazzie. She’s our Eldest. And the less-old fart is Donny Farris. He’s a guest. And a Brit, too.”
“Wait, the Donald Farris?” Reggie asked. “The guy who made–”
“Visions of Blood? Yes,” said the old man. “Did you actually watch it? Or have you just seen a handful of ten-second clips in your media feed over the years?”
“Both, actually,” Reggie replied.
“Mmmph,” Donald grunted.
Manny had heard of Visions of Blood back in school. It was a documentary, released a year before the Second American Civil War caught fire. It followed two Navajo special-forces veterans as they organized a massive direct-action campaign that started in Sante Fe but spread throughout the Southwest. His textbook had called it one of the major seeds of the old U.S.’s collapse.
Reggie was clearly star-struck by Donald. Manny was more curious about the old woman. No matter where he turned his head, he couldn’t quite seem to escape her eyes. She had this strange way of staring at him, without really staring. It made Manny feel somehow naked and, vaguely, comforted all at the same time. “Nana” meant “grandma,” which made sense. But he wasn’t sure what the rest of her title meant, exactly.
“Are you in charge, then?” he asked her. In response, everyone but Reggie chuckled.
“No one is ‘in charge’ here,” said Nana Yazzie. “That will become increasingly clear the longer you stay. I’m the Eldest, which means exactly what it sounds like. I’m old as dirt, and older than any of the other dirt around here, too.” She eyed Donald Farris, and continued.
“When I give advice or have an opinion some people listen. This is not a state, and I am not a head of state, but sometimes I play one for the folks outside. Foreign policy, diplomatic relations, that sort of stuff. Mainly because no one else can be arsed.”
“By the way,” she added, “welcome to the City of Wheels. Or,” she frowned a little, “Rolling Fuck. I argued rather strenuously against that name, but I was outvoted.”
“I like the name,” said Skullfucker Mike. “It’s fun. Cities shouldn’t take themselves too seriously. That’s when the problems start.”
“So why are we here?” Manny asked. “I mean, I’m grateful and all. We’re grateful,” he nodded to Reggie. “But I know y’all aren’t just being nice. Mike said you had dangerous work.”
“Skullfucker Mike,” Skullfucker Mike insisted again. Nana Yazzie ignored him and replied to Manny.
“We do have a job for you, mijo. You are not required to take it though. If you say no we’ll still return you and your journalist friend to Austin. And if you do help us, you’ll be compensated.”
“So what is it you need?”
The old woman snapped her fingers. A projection screen hummed to life on the wall of the room that faced Manny and Reggie. It displayed three faces: two women and one man. They all looked young, though that meant very little. One woman was white and kept her hair in a bright purple mohawk. The other was as bald as Skullfucker Mike, with round cheeks, green, scowling eyes, and skin a little darker than Manny’s. The young man was very pale. He appeared to be of Chinese descent, and his exposed skin was covered in scarified symbols from a language Manny didn’t recognize. It definitely wasn’t Chinese.
“From left to right; Marigold Fulton, Tule Black Elk, and Rick Hartford. They’re all citizens, and they act as our negotiators when the city is in the Southwest. Two days ago they arrived in Plano to negotiate a trade deal with the Republic of Texas. We have quite a lot of processed coffee and we were hoping to trade it for…” She trailed off a bit and her cheeks reddened. Manny thought she looked embarrassed. “For snacks.”
“Snacks?” Reggie asked.
“Yes,” she nodded. “The Frito-Lay Corporation is—or at least was—still headquartered in Plano. The junk food they produce is harder to find out west.”
“We mostly wanted cheetos,” Topaz licked her lips. “For whatever reason, the imitations we print out here just don’t cut it.”
“We barter everywhere we go,” Nana Yazzie continued, “and since post-humans aren’t welcome in most populated areas, our negotiators are all pretty close to baseline. They traveled unarmed into Plano. The city fell six hours after they arrived.”
Reggie grunted. “Two days ago people were telling me the Kingdom was on its last legs.”
“Yes,” Nana Yazzie said, “it would appear they are not quite the paper tiger everyone expected. We’re still scrambling for good data, but it’s safe to say they’ve pilfered the majority of the Republic’s heavy equipment and converted as much as half their standing army. At the same time Plano fell, dozens of Christian militias across the state launched fresh offensives. Galveston is still holding, but that could change at any moment. Houston blew their levees and flooded half the city to save the other half. But that also means the Kingdom can move on to Austin without worrying about their flank. They’ve pushed the SDF entirely out of ciudad de muerta, so there’s nothing left between them and your home.”
Donald Farris spoke up, grave and gravely. “We know that the offensive started with dozens of autonomous car-bombings at checkpoints and fortifications. We don’t know how they managed it.”
“What’s important now,” Nana Yazzie continued, “is that three of our people have been captured.”
Manny fought down a spike of anger. “With all due respect Nana,” he said in a deliberately neutral tone, “they just conquered the city I was born in. I’ve probably lost a dozen friends and these godfascists are only, what, two hours away from Austin?”
“Ninety minutes,” Donald said. “They seem to be holding position now. Digesting their meal. But they’ll be on the march soon. I expect the vaunted Austin defense forces will be able to hold them off for, oh, a good four or five days. Maybe a week. Unless.” He glanced over to Nana Yazzie. She nodded in agreement.
“Unless?” asked Manny.
“Unless,” Nana agreed. “Unless our militia comes to their aid. We’re not in the habit of fighting other people’s battles. But we’re not in the habit of letting regressives win, either. I asked for a vote once we learned our people had been captured. Our fighters, most of them, agreed to stop the Heavenly Kingdom’s advance and give your people enough time to coordinate a proper defense. But there’s a catch.”
“Ah,” Manny was starting to get it. “If you step in, they’ll kill your people.”
Nana Yazzie nodded. “Yes. And none of our fighters are willing to risk that.”
“Well I’m not sure what you want from me,” Manny said. “I’m a talker, not a fighter.”
“A talker is exactly what we need, Emmanuel,” Nana Yazzie assured him.
Manny winced in irritation at the use of his full name.
“Manny,” he insisted, in the same tone Skullfucker Mike had used a little earlier.
“As you say, mijo.”
“What kind of talking do you want me to do?” he asked. “I’m sure you’ve got better negotiators than me.”
“Perhaps, but you’ve got something none of our people possess. You’re a citizen of the Republic. And the Heavenly Kingdom has just issued a general amnesty for all citizens willing to repent and declare allegiance. You know how the people in this region talk. You won’t arouse suspicion if you enter.”
“So you want me to find your people. And then what, break them out? I can barely shoot straight. I don’t think I’m the man to execute a prison break.”
“They’ve got plenty of fighters, son,” Donald Farris growled. “But if Topaz and Skullfucker Mike haven’t keyed you in on this, the chromed aren’t exactly good at ‘blending.’”
“He’s right,” Nana smiled sadly. “We’ll pair you with someone who can do the violence. But we’ll need you to get them close enough to find our people and effect an escape. You’ll need to help our person maintain their cover.”
Manny felt a powerful anger boil up inside his belly.
“So, basically, you and your ‘militia’ are holding my homeland hostage? And if I don’t risk my culo to save your negotiators, Austin dies?”
“Mijo. It’s nothing as sinister as that. Our people want to fight, but…”
“But,” Donald picked up, “we’re all family here. And family comes before corrupt, fractious foreign militias and equally corrupt, fractious foreign cities. All told I’d say it’s a good deal for you.”
“What was your plan before this meeting?” Nana Yazzie asked.
Manny opened his mouth to respond, but realized he didn’t have a clear answer. He hadn’t exactly had much time to puzzle that out. And any time he’d tried, he thought about Oscar, his missing stringer, and that made him want to panic. He’s dead, or worse. And there’s nothing you can do about that. What you can do is buy a fucking plane ticket and beg the Germans to take you in as a refugee.
That seemed like a good plan. Or at least the best of a bunch of shitty options. But then a scornful voice rose up from the dark recesses of his semi-withered conscience. What about his wife? Are you just going to leave her broke and widowed? You have to at least give her something…
“I’m flying to Germany,” he said, “or maybe France. Wherever I can get the cheapest ticket, either in Austin or El Paso.”
“How much money do you have saved up, son?” Donald Farris asked. “They won’t issue a long-term visa unless you’ve got at least sixty grand, Californian.”
Manny had a little more than half that. Less, once he paid off Oscar’s wife. Widow. Fuck, man, you sent him out there. The uncertainty and despair must have been obvious on his face. Both Donald Farris and Nana Yazzie gave him the kind of looks normally reserved for wounded kittens.
“I may be able to help,” the old Brit said. “I do have some connections in Germany. People who might sponsor your visa. If you help.”
The thought of a visa, the mental image of seeing one stamped in his otherwise-worthless passport, was intoxicating. Manny’d never traveled outside of Texas but he had kept, at all times, an active passport. It had been the physical anchor for his wildest dreams. And now Donald Farris was telling him he could make something as magical as a visa real. Manny almost swooned.
“Do I have to decide now?” he asked, careful to keep his tone as calm as he could manage.
“Of course not,” Nana Yazzie said, “that would be terribly unfair. You should get some sleep and then a proper breakfast. There’s certainly enough time for that. And you look exhausted.”
He was. Now that the excitement of the morning had faded, he felt gripped by a bone-deep weariness that was not at all helped by the dim lighting and comfortable cushions around him. Reggie should have been even more tired, what with jet lag. But the journalist looked alert, jittery despite the bags under his eyes.
“If it’s possible,” Reggie said, “and you have one, I could really use a high speed data connection. My deck’s been spotty since the shooting started. I’ve got a lot to upload to the company servers, and I should probably check in with my editors, let them know I’m not dead, et cetera…”
“That won’t be a problem.” She stood, and her knees popped audibly with the movement. “Ooh,” she grunted and then continued, “Topaz and Mike–”
“Skullfucker Mike.”
“–will show you to a nice, relatively soundproof room. They’ll help you get onto our data tower too, Reggie.”
“Thank you.”
She looked at Manny again, and fixed him with her sad grandmother’s smile.
“We’ll give you as much time to decide as we can. We expect the Kingdom to hold for a few days. But we didn’t expect them to launch an attack like this. So take that with a grain of salt.”
“I’m Texan, Nana,” Manny said. “I take everything with salt.”
Chapter 11
Roland.
Roland loved to fight men in powered armor. The increased firepower and durability gave them an outside chance, which made it fun. And the sheer expense of modern suits made it feel a little like wailing on rich kids with fancy toys.
But Roland did not like fighting normal humans. He’d hoped the infantry coming up behind the armored troopers would run like hell once he popped their vanguard. But instead, they’d insisted on a fight and started shooting at him with very large guns. One explosive munition had hit nine yards ahead of his position and the other had impacted close enough to pepper Roland’s torso and face with shrapnel.
So, regretfully, he charged the enemy. The Martyrs shot back, they hit him a few times, but Roland paid their bullets as much mind as he would a mild rain.
He drew close enough for visual contact. These Martyrs were a motley sight. Several of them fought shirtless with white crosses daubed across their chests. Most of them wore body armor, very little of it modern. Roland saw a lot of old pre-war plate carriers and surplus police vests. That crap wouldn’t stop military-grade rifle rounds. Although, since the only weapon in Roland’s hand was a big-ass wrench, how these men were armored hardly mattered.
They were mostly armed with old M4s and a smattering of newer assault rifles probably pilfered from the Republic of Texas. Fifty men. Six technicals. Two drone carriers. Roland hit their skirmishing line before the teams on the recoilless rifles, his first target, could reload.
Roland’s wrench broke jaws and orbital bones, it cracked pelvises and shattered thighs. He dispatched the rifle teams and then danced through the onrushing mob of militia like some sort of compound-fracture-dispensing ballerina. And as he fought, Roland felt the familiar sunlight warmth of serotonin flood his synapses. He remembered a little of how the Army had explained the battle drugs now flowing through his brain: “a guarantee of sustained aggression.” The longer he fought, the harder it would be for him to stop fighting, and to avoid killing.
Roland felt his self control begin to fade as he knocked out his dozenth Martyr. He started swinging harder. His blows increasingly connected with clavicles instead of coccyxes, and jaws instead of elbows. His hindbrain warned him as the kill likelihood estimates jumped from four to six percent, up to twenty, thirty, forty percent. He felt his conscience fade beneath the euphoric red haze of narcotic splendor.
Before he knew it, the whole platoon of martyrs was either on the ground or fleeing for the relative safety of their technicals. Roland laughed a madman’s laugh, tickled that they thought a bunch of old Toyota trucks with machine guns in the beds might slow him down. He put a fist through the engine block of one and ate a burst of .50 caliber fire from the other as he pivoted and launched his wrench through the driver’s-side window. The improvised missile connected with the face of the driver, who spun his wheel hard to the left. The truck flipped forward onto its cabin. Something about the wet crunch it made sounded so familiar–
“–Oh God, oh dear sweet Jesus please sir–”
The National Guardsman was nineteen years old. Randall Wallace was his name. Roland knew that because his hindbrain had sucked in every piece of publicly available data on the boy once it had scanned his face. It had done that with all the occupants of the humvee in the four seconds before Roland had blown it on its side. Wallace was just the only member of the crew unlucky enough to survive.
