Angel Of The City (6 page)

“
Some people would call that kind of talk treason.”

“
But that’s all it was, just talk. She never did anything.”

“
You’re sure?”

“
Yes.”

“
All right, so how did you two get away after they took your father?”

“Abby had made friends with a Blueshirt. He helped get us out of the Garden District and delivered us to some people in the forty-third precinct.”

“
Members of the resistance?”

“
I guess. We didn’t stay with them long. They kept us in a basement for a few days, shared what little food they had, then in the middle of the night we were moved to another place. Like most of people we’ve stayed with, they were poor, starving almost. I’d never seen people that poor before.”

“
When did they start calling her the Angel?”

“
The first time I heard that was a few weeks later. This man with broken legs and crutches came to where we were staying and showed her a flier. Said they were found scattered around the city.”

“
What did it say?”

She sighs.
“I don’t know. Something about the Angel of the City coming from the Garden District to bring justice to the city. Abby tried to tear it up; said it was all nonsense. But the man in the crutches wouldn’t let her. He said it didn’t matter who was spreading the rumors, it was good propaganda.”

“
So he’s the leader?”

A shrug.
“I guess so.”

“
You don’t know much about your sister’s activities, do you?”

For the most part, Pen
’s attitude has been one of resigned acceptance, but now she shows a flash of anger. “Abby didn’t want me to know. She said it was safer that way.”

“
I’m not sure I agree with her, but all right. How long after you left the Garden District before you became shades?”

“
That first week. Abby’s Blueshirt friend brought us to a dirty room in an alley. There was some old man in a grimy smock with knives and…” She shudders.

“
How have you survived?”

“
People from the resistance found us a little place. It wasn’t much. In the beginning they even gave us a little money to live on each month, but that stopped. Finally, a friend of Abby’s was able to get her a job; nothing recordable of course. Doing books, I think.”

“
For Devon?”

“
No, I never even heard of him until they came for Abby. I was out getting water from the precinct fountain. She was gone by the time I got back but everyone was talking about what happened. I thought maybe they’d question her and let her go, but then they handed her over to Counselors. I waited and waited, but after three days and she never came back, Faisal came looking for me. He said he knew someone who could help. That’s when he took me to Devon.”

“
Who’s Faisal?”

“
Abby’s friend; a Blueshirt stationed in the eighty-ninth precinct.”

“
Another Blueshirt? Your sister isn’t wanting for low-level friends, is she?’

“
He always seemed nice.”

“
They always do.”

I stand and go to the window.
Nothing about this feels right. There’s no lack of corruption within the Blueshirts—even Counselors won’t trust them with anything but the lowest security clearance—but finding two who just happen to have contacts with the resistance seems a little fortuitous. Unless this resistance movement is more widespread than anyone knows, a thought that gives me no great comfort.

And then there
’s Abby herself. If the resistance thought it was important enough to help spirit her out of the Garden, then why let her rot in a station cell, waiting for execution? Why haven’t they attempted a rescue themselves? No doubt it didn’t take the Council long to figure out she wasn’t the leader. Now they’re simply using her as bait to draw out the real leaders. I’m going to have to take that bait, but it would be helpful to know why the fish aren’t biting.

“
Pen, do you know who this Faisal works for?”

She wrinkles her brow.
“I don’t understand. I know he’s a Blueshirt, but I thought Faisal worked for Devon.”

I let loose a short laugh that sounds more like a bark.
“Yeah. So does Devon.”

The room grows quiet again; the only sounds the squeaking of a mattress in the room above us and the noise of children in the trash piles outside our door.

Pen coughs. The silence has become uncomfortable. “So where are you from? I mean, what quarter?” She asks it in a way that makes it clear she’s just making conversation.

“
Here, in the Bonifrei. They may not tell you this in the G.D., but moving out of your birth quarter is highly discouraged.”

She blushes.
“I knew that. I just meant… when you were angry. I’ve never heard an accent like that before.”

“
Pretty much the way everyone speaks in the Alba district. I don’t suppose you’ve ever been there?”

She shakes her head.

No reason she should. Poorest district in the poorest quarter, few people have reason to cross below forty-third street. In a city of segregated slums, Alba is the lowest of the low, isolated by language and culture. The distinctive dialect means few have a chance to escape their lot. I did, but only because someone else got out before me.

Talking about my past always makes me uncomfortable and I divert the conversation.
“Were you in school before the purge?”

A nod
. “Senior year. My dad was trying to sign me up for University, but I wasn’t all that interested. I’m not smart like him or Abby. I’m not really good at anything.” There’s a weariness to her that seems out of place for someone so young.

“
Nothing?”

A thin smile forces its way up.
“Yeah, maybe that’s it. Maybe I’m good at being nothing.”

“
And what exactly is involved in being nothing?”

This time the smile isn
’t forced. “Not much. Parties, mostly. Lots of parties. And boys. You can’t have parties without boys. Oh, and food. So much food.”

A strand of wet hair falls in her face and she pulls it back behind her ear.
“I’m sorry. I know that sounds shallow. If you want a deeper conversation, you’ll have to talk to Abby. She’s the serious one. She wants a better world.”

“
And what do you want?”

As suddenly as it appeared, the smile evaporates and her face crumbles.
“I just want my old life back. I want to go back to the Garden District and school and my friends and my parties. I want clean clothes and my own bed and all the food I can eat. My dad’s dead and Abby’s in prison and that’s all I want. Isn’t that horrible?”

“
No, but I think you know that life is gone for good.”

She wipes
her eyes. “I know. He really is dead, isn’t he? My dad, I mean.”

Yes, he
’s dead. He’s as dead as any man who ever died, maybe more so. If he was removed in a purge, then not only will there never be a body, but when they finish wiping the records, he won’t ever have been born. Then again, neither will you or your sister.

But all I say is,
“Yes.”

She nods. I haven
’t told her anything she didn’t already know, yet somehow hearing it from me causes something to change in her. Her eyes dry up and her expression becomes stern.

“
I’m going to take you to my nest in the one seventeen. It has a bathroom and a shower. There’s enough food for four or five days.”

“
You’re going after Abby then?”

“
Yes, tonight.”

“
What if you’re not back in four or five days?”

“
Don’t wait that long. If I’m not back in two days then I’ll be dead. Abby too. Take the food and anything else you need and try to find this Faisal. He helped your sister once; he may be able to help you.”

“
What about Devon?” she asks.

“
Stay away from Devon. Nothing he does comes without a price and trust me, the cost is more than you can pay.”

She drops
her head, her gaze unfocused. “I’ve never been much use on my own.”

“
Don’t sell yourself short. You’d be surprised what you can do when you have to. You’ll be all right.” But I don’t believe a word of it. If her sister doesn’t make it back, this kid won’t last a month.

Her focus returns and she looks
me straight in the eye. “Could you do me a favor? When you leave me at your nest, could you leave me your gun?”

For a moment I just stare at her
, uncomprehending. Then something unspoken passes between us and I nod.

We take the long way to the nest, keeping off the main streets. I don’t know if the authorities are circulating her picture, but I don’t want to take a chance on someone recognizing her. It’s past noon when I help her down the trench behind the laundry, though the shadows from the buildings make it seem later. The shops will be closing soon. I change into some old clothes as Pen sits nervously at the table and tries to make small talk.

“
Why do you wear it?” she asks, pointing to the coat draped over the chair. “It looks like a Counselor’s coat.”

To
remind myself
, I want to say. But of course I can’t say anything like that. I shrug. “It keeps people away.”

“
You don’t like people much, do you?”

“
I like a few.”

S
he runs her finger absently through the dust on the table. “Have you been a shade for long?”

No reason to go into detail.
“For a while.”

“
How do you stand it? Always running and hiding; always being scared?”

“
No one ever said it was easy, but sometimes there’s no other choice.”

“
Did you have a choice?”

How many times have I asked
myself that question? Mostly when I’m with Reed or adversely, when Devon calls for me. Could I have made another decision? Could I have found a way to remain a Counselor?
“No.”

“
I think maybe we did.”

It
’s clear she’s having second thoughts and maybe beginning to blame her sister for their present situation, but it’s a pointless exercise. What’s done is done. There’s no going back for any of us and nothing to be gained by dwelling on it. Once you’re a shade, you either learn how to live as a shade or you die, it’s as simple as that. “Pen…”

“
Have you ever…you know, been picked up by Counselors?”

I answer as truthfully as I dare.
“I’ve been in a few precinct houses in my time.”

“
Is it bad?”

“
It depends on what they want you for. It’s never pleasant, but not everyone who gets picked up undergoes interrogation.”

“
Abby says interrogation is just another word for torture.”

True, b
ut torture is illegal, so they found another word. Interrogations can last for days, weeks even. I’ve seen Counselors bring a prisoner to the very edge of death, only to revive them and begin the process all over again. I’ve done it myself, and worse.

“
Sometimes people are just held for questioning,” I say. That at least is true. Often just being picked up is enough to scare people into giving them everything they want to know.

“
Oh,” she says, and I see hope rise in her. It’s a thin enough hope, but right now it’s all she has and she’ll grasp it until the end.

I grab a small coil of wire and we stare at each other in awkward silence.

“You promised,” she says.

I hesitate
, then reach into the drawer and pull out a pistol, handing it to her. “Remember, two days.”

She stares at the gun, turning it over in her hand.

“Pen, two days.”

She looks up.
“Yeah, I know. Two days.”

As I walk towar
d the Two One Nine station house, my collar drawn up against the cold, I can’t get her image out of my head: small and alone, holding my gun in her hand. A gun with only one bullet.

T
he shadows have lengthened by the time I reach the precinct. I find a dark corner in the alley next to the station house and squat down in the trash. On the wall across from me is another Angel graffiti, the white paint dripping down in irregular lines.

Freedom breeds uncertainty; uncertainty invites chaos.

Within the hour, the streets are packed solid with humanity, everyone moving together in sweaty, shuffling, imperfect rhythm. Heads down, eyes forward; all anyone wants is to get home before the scanners come alive. Few look in my direction and those that do, glance quickly away. You can’t be too careful.

Maybe you
’ve insulted someone from a another quarter or a different clan, or maybe someone has finally tired of watching your family eat while theirs starve. Not all vendettas are blood feuds and revenge is cheap. There are always men with empty bellies and sharp knives willing to work for a few coins.

To live in the city is to live in fear
, so you trust to your instincts and look away; don’t make eye contact; keep on walking. Only Counselors walk the streets without fear, and only because everyone else fears them.

The crowd soon thins
, then vanishes altogether as the sun sets behind the tall buildings. There’s a crackling sound and I can just see the blue haze of a scanner flicker to life across the street. I’m in no hurry. Nothing to do for hours yet, so I sift through the trash and find a brick, carefully tying one end of the wire around it. It’s cold. I pull the trash around myself to keep warm and close my eyes.

A few hours later I stand and stretch my legs, getting the blood flowing again. The alley leads to the back of the station and a fenced parking area. An electric gate opens to the street on the opposite side.

I could have chosen any station house, but not all will be delivering bodies tonight. The Two One Nine is in the Huenta quarter, close to the riot. They’ll be busy. I creep down into the weeds and circle the fence to the gate and wait. My timing is good. After only a few minutes, the metal doors of the station house open and a large black van leaves, driving through the gate. As soon as it passes, I grab on and leap lightly up onto the back fender.

I let him get to within one block of the One Twenty Seven before swinging the brick on the wire and flinging it under the van. It bangs around three or four times before shooting back out and I haul it in quickly in case I need to do it again. But it works the first time. The driver stops the van and gets out, looking for the problem.

Even before we come to a complete stop, I step off the bumper and head around the passenger side, coming up from the front of the vehicle as he’s bent over, looking under it. One blow from the brick to an area behind the left ear and he hits the pavement like a slab of beef.

A hit like that usually isn
’t fatal. If it is, it’s due to a ruptured blood vessel slowly bleeding into the brain, squeezing it against the skull like a molcajete. But that takes hours and I only need him for a few minutes. I remove his coat then lift him up and toss him into the passenger side. I slip on the coat before getting in and driving away.

Vans come all night to deliver bodies to the One Twenty Seven. No one tends the
gates; they’re automatic, triggered by the tags of the drivers. As we pull up, I grab the Counselor’s arm and pull it toward my window. A second later, the gate slides open. The door to the covered garage is open and I drive inside. Two vans are already here, their cargo of shiny black body bags being unloaded onto gurneys while the drivers go inside to complete the paper work.

As soon as I back the van into a slot, I
’m out, keeping my head down and moving quickly toward the station door. Prisoner cells are usually located in the basement, but here that area is reserved for the ovens. This station isn’t typically used for prisoner interrogation and there are only two available holding rooms, both on the first floor. Abby will be in one of them.

I step up onto the landing and enter the station. Two drivers are in the receiving area behind the glass, heads bent over
clipboards. No one even looks up. I just need to get through one door then down the hall and I should be to the holding cells.

I open the inner door and take one step inside as something dense and heavy strikes me on the back of the head, dropping me to my knees. I
’m able to look up just briefly at a smiling face in a black trench coat before blackness pours over me. So far, so good.

The experience of waking up from being cold-cocked is a little like a near drowning. Muffled voices; vague odors; sensations you can’t quite place, all surge around you like open water. When it finally comes together into something recognizable, it usually does so rapidly, like now.

I throw my head back and gasp. The four blurry images in front of me focus and converge into two men, both wearing leather trench coats with insignia of Counselors. The one on the right has three gold bars across the left sleeve: Liedercounselor. I
’m sitting on a metal chair with my wrists bound behind me in handcuffs. My head is pounding. It takes me a moment to realize I’m completely naked. I look around the room. No furniture except for a metal bed attached to one wall with a thin, vinyl covered mattress. No clock.

The Liedercounselor speaks.
“Ah, you’re still with us. For a moment I thought Counselor Ellison here might have struck you a little too hard. That would have been… unfortunate.”

The junior or Mindercounselor reddens, but remains
ramrod still, his arms at his side. In his right hand he holds an electric prod.

I shake my head, an effort that almost makes m
e pass out again. “No, I’m good. Never felt better.”

“
Excellent. It may interest you to know that the Counselor you assaulted will recover as well, though if he had not, it wouldn’t have changed much for you. The punishment for assaulting a Counselor and murder are of course, the same.”

“
Glad to hear it. Listen, I hate to be a bother, but would you know the time?”

He grins as he raises his left arm, pulling back the sl
eeve. “Ten twenty five. Are you late for an appointment?”

“
Dinner reservations.”

“
Ah, yes? After curfew? Tsk-tsk, I’m afraid I’ll have to have the cook shot.”

“
Don’t apologize. I’ve ate there before. You’d be doing the place a favor.”

“
I’m glad to see you have a sense of humor. I hope you can manage to keep it. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Liedercounselor Remy.”

“
A pleasure. You’ll forgive me if I don’t get up?”

“
Of course. Now then, you may be surprised to learn of it, but there appears to be something wrong with your tags. The scanners can’t pick you up at all.”

“
That’s odd.”

“
Isn’t it? So then you’ll understand that I have to ask you your name.”

“
Ellison.”

The young Counselor
’s face turns a darker shade of crimson and his mouth sets in a firm line, but he doesn’t move.

Remy
raises his eyebrows and smiles. “Like my young protégé here? Isn’t that a coincidence. Related?”

“
Could be. Dad got around.”

“
I see. I’ll tell you what, why don’t we just call you Mr. Smith for the present? We’ll discover your true identity soon enough.” He rubs his hands together, the black leather of the gloves creaking. “Now then, Mr. Smith, tell me, are you one of those delusional revolutionaries that pop up now and again, or are you just a gun for hire?”

“
I’m not much for causes. I like to think of myself as an independent contractor.”

“
I thought so. You have the look. Some of my colleagues were hoping they would send in one of their own, but I find fanatics tiresome. I mean all that rambling about freedom and liberty and…oh, what’s the other one?”

He looks to Ellison, who gives a slight shrug of the shoulders.

“Democracy, that’s it! Where do they come up with these ideas? I swear I think they just make this stuff up as they go. No, it is much easier dealing with a practical man such as yourself. Now then, if you would be so kind as to tell me who sent you for the woman?”

“
Woman? You have women here? This night just keeps getting better.”

The nod is so slight I almost miss it, but I’m able to grit my teeth and contract my stomach just before the prod strikes me, right above the groin. Even prepared, the force of the shock is excruciating. I double over onto the floor, pulling the chair on top of me. For several seconds that seem more like several minutes, I can’t breathe. Ellison roughly pulls me back up. I’m still bent over in the chair, straining to take a breath as spasms rack my body.

“
Shall we try again?” Remy asks.

I can only grunt in response.

“Oh,” he says, his smile fading. “I do hope you haven’t lost your sense of humor. I was beginning to enjoy our repertoire.”

I work the muscles in my jaw, fi
ghting to speak. “Two Cosags walk into a bar…”

The next shock hits in my left nipple. I
’m not ready for it and my mouth slams shut with such force I bite through my tongue. Once again I fall down onto the floor, this time writhing as the contractions rip through me. I’m allowed to lie there a little longer before being hauled back up.

“
My apologies, but I’ve heard that joke before. Let us understand one another, shall we? You are a shade. A man with no identity has no rights of any kind—that is the law. I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you aren’t an imbecile and that you know this already. That being so, then you also know that your life will shortly end.”

He steps closer and looks down at me with a practiced expression of feigned sympathy.
“There is nothing I can do about that. I’m simply a servant of the law and the law is very clear concerning shades. Please try to understand, the city can’t have undocumented actors wandering throughout the precincts stirring up trouble with no regard for the consequences. I can tell you from personal experience, that many of these people are deviants of the worse kind. They have to be eliminated; I’m sure you can see that. Order must be maintained.”

He sighs.
“Unfortunately, the law now requires that prior to your execution, you undergo interrogation for…” He snaps his fingers at Ellison.

“
Forty-eight hours, sir!”

“
Very good.” He smiles. “But as Liedercounselor, I do have some leeway in these matters. Tell me who hired you and I can have that reduced in half.”

He squats down near me.
“Give me more and I can do even better.” He raises four gloved fingers and breaks into a wide grin. “That’s right, just four hours. Why, for a man like you, four hours of interrogation would be nothing. I might even be able to arrange for certain considerations to be given, say to your eyes or genitals. Then it’s just a quick, painless execution.”

The
muscle fasciculations have slowed enough for me to sit up in the chair with effort. My throat is raw, but I force myself to be heard, spitting blood with my words. “Throw in a hand job from Ellison and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

I see Ellison move, but I can
do nothing to prepare for it, if that’s even possible. He drives the prod between my legs.

The pain is impossible to describe. My entire world explodes into something white and hot. I don
’t remember falling or even moving, but I’m on the floor again, lying on my side, my arms still bound behind me. I’m making a sound like a gurgling drain and flopping around like a freshly hooked fish. The floor under me is wet; probably my doing. The chair is in front of me, also on its side and against the wall.

A blurry set of trousers appear in my view.
Remy squats down. He’s smiling, then laughing. The pain is so intense it drives all else from my mind, even rage. I can only gaze at him through teary eyes as the spasms continue.

“
I think you’ve made counselor Ellison angry. I like you Mr. Smith, I do,” he says, wiping his eyes, “you’re a bit profane for my tastes, but funny nonetheless. Don’t let this opportunity pass you by. You’ve proved your courage. Both counselor Ellison and I are dutifully impressed. Take the offer. You must realize by now that eventually you’ll tell us everything anyway. It’s inevitable. Every man has a point at which he can go no further. After two days of interrogation you will be so far beyond that point, that you will look back upon it as the happiest moment in your life. Now tell me, who hired you?”

It
’s enough. I’ve taken it as far as I have to, to convince him of my sincerity and as far as I dare without risking his anger and the possibility of permanent injury. The muscle contractions make answering a struggle. “Two men. Paid cash. No one gave me…a name.”

“
No, of course not. No one hires a man for a suicide mission then gives him his name and address. But you knew how to get into the station; you knew your way around and where the holding cells are. That’s not a thing to be picked up in some rushed meeting in an alley. That takes planning; days of planning. And it means someone from the inside must have supplied the information.”