Stephen Berry - The Battle for Terra Two

Away from headquarters, the ruins stretched for miles. Burnt and shattered tenements, stores, garages, factories, schools, all spilling into weed-choked streets. A forest of broken glass glinted in the noon sun. Once they flew over a rusting tank, its left tread gone, eighty-eight millimeter cannon cranked at an absurd angle. Nothing moved in the whole desolate landscape.

"Roxbury and North Dorchester are like this," said zur Linde, voice clear in John's headset. "Uninhabited since '68. South Boston, Jamaica Plain and Hyde Park are turf- ganger country. Not on our tour. They hit us in the enclaves, we hit them where they live. Otherwise, we stay clear."

Issued in August of '68, Executive Order 1016, the Soweto Order, had mandated photo IDs and travel documents for all residents of the proscribed areas. The day after 1016's promulgation, a fifteen-year-old Chicano in the Los Angeles barrio had Molotoved a UC registration point. Two days later, the cities were burning.

When it ended, air strikes, armor and rolling artillery barrages had laid waste much of urban America. Tens of thousands were dead, with most of the stunned survivors being herded aboard trains bound for resettlement camps in the Southwest. Those who'd hid, staying behind, learned to fight, turning their turf into death zones for the patrols.

Urban Corps had been formed in '70, mandated to restore order. Badly mauled by increasingly formidable gangs, UC had taken to merely patrolling turfs' perimeters, guarding the burbs and enclaves from ganger forays.

Reading it in a briefing book was one thing. Seeing the result was quite another. John sat numbly, watching the passing wasteland.

Coming to the shoreline, zur Linde turned north to the harbor. "Here we are," he said after a moment, bringing the chopper over the waterfront. John had a fleeting glimpse of a jammed marina, old warehouses upgraded to atrium-lobbied condos and chic market-stall boutiques, now filling with the lunch-hour crowd. Skillfully weaving between the tall office buildings, zur Linde set them down atop one of the twin Fed towers overlooking Government Plaza.

"Did you see the marina?" he asked later as they sat sipping Rob Roys in a Back Bay plaza dubbed Cinzano Bay. ("All thesetricolore table umbrellas make it look like a red-white-and-blue bay.")

John nodded.

"I have a thirty-two foot Morganer moored there. If you'd like to go sailing, just let me know. I can fix you up with a date."

"Does everyone who works here live here?" John pointed his celery stalk at the passersby. Most were well-dressed, with the sleek, easy ways of early affluence. Except for a sharp-looking black woman sitting alone, the few minorities were waiting table.

"Many of the technos do." Zur Linde munched a handful of macadamia nuts. "Some come in from the burbs, but there's only one open road, an expressway with lots of checkpoints. Sometimes it's mortared."

"The gangers have mortars?"

"Not just mortars. Spandaus, claymores, bouncing ju-jus, TOWs." He eyed a leggy Japanese as she passed, blue silk dress slit almost to the waist, gaily colored boutique bag swinging from her left hand. A piece of war booty from occupied Japan.

The two sat silently, watching that dahlia-blue dress melt into Cinzano Bay.

"Why is UC headquartered between turfs?"

"Stupidity. Pride," said the German, signaling for another round. "They built HQ there years ago, just after '68, thinking all resistance was crushed. When the incoming rockets burst that myth, it was decided-by officers in Frederick, Maryland-to enlarge and harden all the regional headquarters, rather than pulling them back, losing face.

"You've seen the result-the Hospital." He polished off his drink, reaching for the next as it arrived.

"I have this recurring dream," he said, slouching down in the white wrought-iron chair. "The Hospital is being overrun by dusky hordes. It's night. I'm up on the roof, carnage all about me, machinepistol in one hand, knife in the other-Dietrich at the gates of Leningrad.

"Turning to Aldridge, I shout, 'It's hopeless, Hen Oberst\ Permission to autodestruct?' "

Heads turned toward the two soldiers.

"He just stands there at the parapet, watching wave after wave of gangers surging up the hill in the glare of the arcflares. Finally he says, wonderingly, 'Now I know how Camus must have felt, seeing those ants swarming up from the graves in Algiers.' I always wake up then, soaked, stinking of sweat."

The German's breast pocket beeped. Annoyed, he pulled out a small paper, inserting the privacy jack. "Zur Linde," he said. The tiny crypto light glowed amber.

He nodded after a moment. "Understood. On my way."

Rising, he tucked the device away. "If you'll excuse me, I have to go.

"No, no," he waved John back down. "Finish your drink, have something to eat-the prime rib's very good- order an end cut. You might want to do some shopping over on Newbury. When you're ready, just go across to our Copley substation and requisition a ride back to HQ. They're always choppers on standby. Ciao."

"Ciao."

Zur Linde stepped past the planters walling the red-awninged cafe and was gone.

John ordered the prime rib and sat nursing his drink, wondering when the resistance would contact him.

"Hey, Major Harrison!" Walt Wenschel was rolling toward his table, clad in a great swath of three-piece pinstripe.

"Hey, Wenschel," said John as the chemist stopped by his table. "All settled in?"

"Sure am-big Beacon Hill town house for free, free maid, free car. God bless America."

"Amen."

"My lunch just came," said Wenschel, pointing three tables away, where a big plate of steaming clam linguine sat. "Care to join me?"

"Thanks, but no. I'm expecting someone." John smiled apologetically. "Take a rain check?"

"A what?"

"Another time?"

"Any time. Good to see you."

Sighing, John lifted his drink, draining the last of the vodka-and-tomato-juice.

A shadow fell across the table. Two UC troopers, corporal and sergeant, stood there, lean, pale kids with hard faces. The corporal had bad acne. John returned their salute.

"Sorry to bother the major, sir," said the sergeant. "May we see your ID?"

John looked around. A second set of troopers was checking the other side of the cafe. All carried those deadly little machinepistols he'd first seen at the airport. Schmeisser minimacs, he'd learned.

The diners presented their orange IDs with practiced boredom, hardly noticing the soldiers.

"Thank you, sir."

John put his green card away.

The troopers moved on to the next table as John's food arrived. Chewing, he watched the black woman at the corner table smile, open her lavender purse, take out a large-bore derringer and shoot both troopers in the face. The gunshots were still ringing as she leaped the low wall, turning to hurl back a small round something. It rolled clattering beneath a table.

"Grenade!" shouted Wenschel, trying to squeeze under the tiny table.

Taking two quick steps, John dived over the concrete planters as a minimac burped and the grenade exploded.

He rose to pandemonium-dead and dying littered the shattered cafe, moans and screams mingling with hoarse shouts. Eyes glazed, Walt Wenschel sat with his thick legs splayed in a growing pool of blood. Ignoring the intestines spilling over his cordovans, he daubed with crimson-soaked napkin at the clam sauce and blood ruining his suit.

Sirens rose, drawing near. The woman who'd thrown the grenade lay on the sidewalk, right leg shattered. The gathering crowd watched silently as she began crawling the pavement, blood trailing her, face twisted in agony.

One small, well-formed breast hung from her chic lavender evening dress.

On the crowd's edge, a dapper young man in khaki boating togs pointed to the girl, saying something to the slim, tanned brunette at his side. They chuckled.