Al Steiner: Greenies

"What's this bullshit for again?" Lisa asked, referring to the latest call that they had been dispatched to. She knew she was heading for the lobby of the Apple Tree public housing complex at 5 thStreet and 65 thAvenue, but aside from that she had not heard the particulars.

"Assault in progress," Brian told her, reading from the terminal mounted between their seats. "A young man of Asian descent is apparently beating upon someone with a piece of lobby furniture."

"So what the hell do they want us to do about it?" she asked, shaking her head. "Those fuckin' animals are always beating the hell out of each other. We haul them off to jail and they're out two hours later beating on someone else."

"Maybe he'll kill him," Brian said with a shrug. "At least that way he'll spend a few months in the slam."

"And give us more reports to compose too," she pointed out, slowing up for another group of gang members that were ambling from an intoxicant store across the street to the entrance of their housing complex. They all carried bottles of Fruity — the potent concoction of fermented waste juices from the bottling facilities. It was the favored drink among the welfare class because it was both cheap and powerful. One bottle of Fruity was more than enough to give a person of average weight a therapeutic alcohol level. Though the taste was horrid, it was very economical. This group of gang members seemed to be in a better mood than the last. Only one of them flipped the bird at the patrol car and one of them, an African descendent, actually blew a kiss at Lisa.

"It's good to see public support for the police, isn't it?" Brian asked, grinning at his partner.

"Yes," she said, shaking her head in amusement. "It makes me all warm inside."

As they continued on their path towards the Apple Tree, their talk turned to the upcoming inauguration. Lisa was of the opinion that Laura Whiting, whom she had voted for, was not quite as corrupt as the others of her species. "I mean, I actually voted for her," she said. "Me. I haven't voted for anything since I was twenty years old because it seemed like a complete waste of time and mental effort. But there's something about her that's... well... different. I just can't explain it, you know?"

Brian was a little more cynical. "She just had a better campaign manager," he said. "She's smart enough to realize that we Martians are not as dumb as the Earth politicians and the corporate assholes seem to think we are. She just played to our intelligence a little. You watch. She won't be any different. Remember how she got to where she is."

"I know," Lisa said. "By cramming her nose up every corporate ass that's been stuck in her face since law school. I'm not saying that she's going to make a real difference or anything. I'm just saying that she seems to have a little empathy for us working folks."

"Hmmm. So you seem to be of the opinion," he paraphrased, "that she won't totally fuck us, that she'll just partially fuck us?"

"Right," Lisa agreed, chuckling. "She'll put on a little bit of lube before she sticks it in."

The two partners were still mulling over that analogy when Lisa pulled to the sidewalk a half a block from the Apple Tree main entrance. They opened their doors and stepped out onto the street, taking a moment to adjust their weapons belts and resettle their Kevlar armor upon their torsos. As part of the standard patrol load out they had blue and white, bullet resistant helmets upon their heads with combat goggles mounted to the top, where they could be pulled down for easy use. Their belts contained 5mm pistols with thirty round clips in addition to three pairs of handcuffs and a tanner, which was a one-meter metal club capable of delivering an incapacitating electrical charge. They had military style M-24 assault rifles in their possession but these were usually kept under the seats of the cart and rarely taken out. On their lower bodies they wore blue shorts but their knees were protected with Kevlar guards and their feet were encased in steel-toed boots.

"Shall we do it?" Lisa asked, slamming her door shut. She pushed a button on the patrol computer/communicator on her belt and the door locks clanked into the locking position. A chirp indicated the alarm system was active.

"We shall," Brian agreed with a sigh.

Above them the red Martian sky, which was visible through the dirty plexiglass roof, was darkening with sunset. Soon the stars would be out and shining in all of their brilliance. The ninety story low rent building, most of its windows darkened, rose above them, somewhat cutting off the view. On the street before them there was not much activity. A drunken group of youths, not quite badass enough to be considered a street gang, were sitting on a planter in the middle of the street passing a marijuana pipe back and forth. The youths watched the two cops impassively, hardly seeming to notice them. Brian and Lisa gave them a once over and then turned their attention forward. They walked carefully to the entrance of the complex, keeping a wary eye on everything within view. The police department was not terribly popular with members of the welfare class and ambushes by gang members or just plain crazy people had been known to occur. Despite the armor they wore and the weapons they carried, an average of thirty patrol officers were killed each and every year in Eden alone. It was a dangerous profession where Darwinism ruled.

The main entrance to the complex consisted of glass panels reinforced with steel bars. Two sets of automatic sliding doors allowed access to the lobby area. An elderly man lay curled up and snoring next to the closest door, an empty bottle of Fruity next to him. He smelled strongly of urine and stale sweat. The two police officers stepped over him and sidled up to the door, peering through into the lobby. It was best to get an idea what you were walking into before you went and walked into it. The lobby of the Apple Tree, like the lobby of any housing building of the welfare or working class, was typically used as a gathering area for the residents. Any Internet packages or grocery shipments were delivered there before being carried up to the rooms. A large crowd of fifty or so people was gathered around the bank of elevators on the far wall. They seemed very upset and excited.

"I hate crowds," Lisa said, trying to see what the focus of the excitement was about. "A group like that could stomp us both to death in about a minute flat."

"I'm sure these fine citizens wouldn't do something like that," Brian joked, a little nervous himself. Having those that a police officer was trying to help suddenly turn on him or her was an all too frequent phenomenon in modern law enforcement. The welfare class hated the cops and the cops hated the welfare class.

"Well," Lisa sighed, stepping forward to activate the door sensor, "let's get it on."

"Right behind you, babe," Brian replied, taking up position.

The glass door was badly in need of a routine maintenance regiment. It rattled and clanked its way open with agonizing slowness, ruining their hopes of a quick, unobtrusive entry. Finally it provided them with an opening big enough to walk through and they stepped inside. The lobby was covered with various bits of trash that overflowed from the garbage containers and seemed to spread out from there. Everything from empty Fruity bottles to empty marijuana packages to empty food containers lay in piles on the carpet and the lobby furniture. The smell was of poorly ventilated air scented with sweat, urine, vomit, and even a hint of feces. It was a smell that both had long since ceased to notice, they smelled it so often.

"Yo, motherfuckers!" screamed a middle-aged Caucasian man from the rear of the crowd as he saw them enter. "Git yo asses over here! They killin peoples!"

"Yeah!" yelled an elderly Asian woman standing next to him. "Motherfuckers is dusted out!"