Posted: 2008-04-25 01:31am
by The Duchess of Zeon
January 19th, 2048
New York City, New York.
FedGov Territories.
New York Penn Station was a hub of activity like could not be imagined before the war. It had, in fact, never had this kind of activity, and even with the approach tracks to Grand Central largely rebuilt, the amount of traffic absolutely crammed the station to the limit. The old Post Office building which now held the grand hall was filled with people, but more importantly, it remained vaguely some idea of what life had been like Before, even if in some cases the commuter trains these days consisted of old automobiles linked together by pin-and-bar couplers.
There was, for instance, a few stands selling food still open, and even a bar--where the owner subsidized the food and offered it cheap to get people to come in and spend their money on beer--though all of them make dishes that were simple, predominantly soup or hot dogs, and even then just the best-off amongst the travelers (for the ersatz socialism that the FedGov practiced didn't completely eliminate disparities in wealth). It was probably the only place, other than Grand Central, where they were any food stands--as opposed to soup kitchens--that the government tolerated. A few restaurants for important officials; a few other stands here and there largely catering to the security services. 96% of the restaurants in New York city from before the fall were out of business. All of them, of course, were required to provide their leftovers to the government at the end of the day, where they were redistributed to people in the neighbourhood.
This didn't include the stands which sold things which were most likely chopped rat, rabbit, and dog make into cheap soups for those on the very bitter edge. Even in New York, after all, people starved to death regularly over the winter, and most of the food consisted of potatoes, not much different than the winter of 1917 - 1918 in the Kaiser's Germany. The children went malnourished, and fat people were no longer seen. Even gum was rare, which was why the squeaky noise that Javon Reuben heard surprised him. He'd been lounging in his red uniform as usual, randomly checking the permit-IDs of the people coming up from the train platforms into the concourse area. The platforms coming from the northbound sector; most of them were employees of the government who due to the electrified line could actually move fairly easily between Albany and New York City.
He liked harassing them. After a lifetime of oppression as an African American, the FedGov had given him power. Real power. And sometimes my bro's go a bit crazy with it, but I can't blame them to much. Life was good in security, on the top, and now it was time to find out what sort of silly bastard had managed to get some gum. At the least, he ought share a piece...
The woman coming up the escalator, despite the rushing and nervous crowds, was alone. Javon noticed that from the start, and he got uneasy at the ten foot gap before the source of the squeaking came into view. A tall woman, almost six foot and almost as tall as he, with longer-than-regulation blonde hair and lightly green eyes, wearing the same red uniform he was, except with the black badges of the Special Operations Division with a crisp kepi. She was in the middle of popping another cheese curd into her mouth, and that was the real source of the squeak.
The rank tabs meant that he was up in a sharp posture and saluting from the moment his brain processed all of that. She was, after all, a Major. "Comrade Major!" The security services were the most marxist of the lot.
"At ease, Comrade," she said easily after she'd swallowed the cheese curd. "Your name?" She stepped off the escalator and paused for a moment, an old duffel bag slung over one shoulder and a 10mm pistol prominently visible on her belt.
"Corporal Javon Reuben, Comrade Major."
"Major Emilie Lafargue," and those words confirmed what her accent had already told him. She was Quebecois, and that meant trouble for someone. It also explained, a bit bitterly, why she was well fed, though she dispelled that feeling soon enough, offering over some of her bag of cheese curds.
"Have a few, Comrade? I just got them in the Gare Centrale before leaving, oh--eight hours ago. Still quite fresh."
Javon couldn't quite remember if he'd ever had cheese curds in his life, but they might as well have been the best dish he'd ever partook of as he carefully savoured them. The thought of someone being able to get ahold of that food--even security personnel--left him both envious, and grateful that he'd gotten a bit. And not as resentful as he could have been.
For the first time, African-Americans were at the top of the pack in what used to be the United States of America--on the East coast, anyway--but that didn't quite make them top of the pack period. That, after all, belonged to the Quebecois, with their vast supplies of energy and their, before the fall, "inefficient and subsidized" warren of small farms which now, it turned out, were just what was needed to keep production up. With their canals and their electric railroads and their immense mineral wealth, and their population concentrated in the dense and efficiently laid-out conurbation of Montreal. They had succeeded in replicating the similarly predominant position that France had acquired in Europe, in miniature with the FedGov.
"Remember, Comrade.."
"Comrade Major?"
"With absolute power comes absolute responsibility. We guard these people, Comrade. We correct their ills, sometimes. But we guard them. And the trust that, however harsh, we are at least honest, is what gives us the right to be proud and what keeps civil society intact. Keep that in mind, non?"
"Of course, Comrade Major," Javon answered, though he thought he might soon find a far more disturbing meaning in it, as he watched her walk off with a tipped salute, and not another word. Oh yeah, there is some bad shit goin' down.
49th Precinct Headquarters, Bronx.
There was one place in the FedGov where it was possible to obtain cigarettes fairly easily; Quebec was that place, though the kind that Emilie smoked on the way over in the back of the patrol car sent to get her were infinitely rare, Indonesian kreteks. Considering the lunatic mess that Indonesia was in, the driver had simply no idea where she had gotten them, and thought it slightly mad when she had explained what they were. And also, a little odd, that she observed that "Ah, but I only have two or three a year."
"Special occasions, Comrade Major?"
"You could call it that," she answered laconically, and then they had arrived, just across the street from Jacobi Medical Center. The security forces managed the police now, too, so the precinct headquarters were integrated. She got out and received the salutes of the building guards, handing over her ID for inspection with a casual ease, and receiving a salute once more before striding inside.
She went straight for the Precinct Commander's office. "Where is Comrade Lieutenant Walker?"
"Out on coffee break, Comrade Major," one of the duty personnel shuddered as he looked up, wondering what had possibly gone wrong to bring a jack-booted, crimson-dressed Quebecois with black badges here. It spelled doom for someone, to be sure.
"I'll wait for him in his office," she answered, and just opened the door and stepped in, settling down in the Lieutenant's chair. Tilting it back, she settled back in the chair, craddling something in her lap, and crossed her legs, jack-boots resting on the Lieutenant's desk, and waited. She didn't have to wait long.
"Who the hell is in my office?" Came the roar of the old Lieutenant, a police Captain before the reorganizations to include extensive enlisted ranks. The duty sergeant couldn't answer before the Lieutenant had angrily stormed in... And froze to a stop.
"My apologies, Comrade Major."
"Comrade Lieutenant Walker," Emilie replied, gesturing to one of the chairs in front of her. "Have a seat."
"But.. Why, what's the meaning of this...?"
"Then stand. I am here to execute five of your officers, Lieutenant, and if you are uncooperative, I will have you executed as well. There is no room for mercy in the defence of civilization and the revolution." And when threatening death to an armed man, it was good to be a decisive advantage. She was; what she had been craddling in her lap was her drawn pistol, and she lifted it down and aimed it at the lieutenant.
"You know the powers I hold as a Black Guard, Lieutenant. Don't presume to question my authority. I'm going to put the gun down now. Now, think of your family, and the hard regime in a labour camp they would be sentenced to if you try to play Blue Wall of Silence games with me, your own body rotting in the grave, let alone if you presumed to shoot me. And I am going to put the gun down." Which she did, back into her lap.
Lieutenant Walker was in a cold, trembling sweat now. "Well.. What can I do for you, Comrade Major?" The thought of sitting was certainly thoroughly forgotten.
"Again, Sergeant Trevor Watts, Corporal Reginald Smith, and Privates James Henderson, Felicia Woods, and Keeshawn James are going to be executed. And your personnel are going to seize them immediately, and once."
"It's over that fucking hymie, isn't it!?"
Emilie pulled back the hammer on her pistol. "Why, yes, it is, Lieutenant Walker. It is over that 'fucking hymie'. Guess what, Lieutenant Walker? I hate to mention this, but Jews are people too. And they're certainly citizens. Now, I know that Jews have oppressed your people for a very long time, and they were indeed rich, filthy capitalist beasts for most of history. But they're still people, and the summary execution in the street of a fifty-eight year old Jewish accountant walking home to his wife and family for being 'uppity'--by which I mean for possessing a side of beef he'd legally purchased for a Hannukah meal as a special holiday allowance based on a performance bonus, which he had documentation of, is not what we consider legal in this country, Lieutenant. And so they are going to be executed."
"And what about a trial! They're my men?"
"Oh, you probably have four or five people waiting for execution in your holding cells even as things stand," Emilie laughed grimly. "Do you forget, Monsieur, that you are supposed to be enforcing martial law? If you have forgotten, perhaps you need a ten-milimetre brain hemorrhage. Much better than a slow death from alzheimer's, non?"
"Major, half of them have families..."
"So did Mister Horowitz. Their families, I assure you, are at least not considered enemies of the people; they, however, have violated the trust the population holds in the security services, and so they must be killed. Racially motivated slayings on the part of government agents, regardless your prior position of repression, is unacceptable.
"You have five seconds to agree with me in regard to this directive, or else I'll include you. Four." She raised the pistol once again.
"Major..!"
"Three."
"Two."
"Alright, alright, damnit, we'll send out the detention order!" He was virtually panting in fear, and turned his back only very reluctantly. "And when will I get my office back..?" He muttered under his breath.
"When I leave, Comrade," Emilie answered. She only smoked cigarettes when she thought her life in some danger; but this time, they broke without any exemplary examples, and so discipline was maintained peacefully. For now.
It took only five hours to detain the five officers in the holding cells below. Emilie ignored them, instead just sending a civilian staffer in the headquarters across the street to bring her back some a great big plate of french fries from the cafeteria of the medical centre across the street, which was still open to serve the endlessly busy doctors and medical professionals. The confiscation of a large quantity of fried potatoes by the security services was accepted with some equanimity, though the request for a large cup of gravy was odd in combination; everyone in the precinct was universally repulsed when she--as though almost conscious of the fact that it was both weird and disgusting, and therefore she relished forcing them to watch and smell--put down the rest of her cheese curds, which had lost their squeek, and melted them over the rest, and ate it with a fork.
"That much food?" One of the officers finally dared, almost in disgust.
"Other than the cheese curds to munch on, I've not had anything in thirty-six hours, Comrade," she replied easily, as though glad to speak in such a way after the threats of the proceeding hours. "I prefer one big meal over a few smaller ones. They provide fonder memories," she added with an almost sweet smile, and then returned to her food, pausing only to make a short phone call.
Soon enough, Lieutenant Walker returned to find her finishing the last of her poutine. He, at least, was in fact intelligent enough--he had been a detective, once--to realize that it was a calculated gesture of insult rather than a living stereotype. Though he chaffed under he, had wised up, and didn't argue with the Major again. "They're here for you, Comrade Major."
"Very well. Wait for me." She took another five minutes to finish eating, and only then rose and gestured for him to follow them down into the bowels of the basement and the holding cells there. As she walked, she talked about another matter, equally grim. "How many awaiting execution authorization?"
"Four, Comrade Major."
"Very good, I'll deal with their executions myself--consider it a favour, so you don't have to waste time and money on holding them until authorization comes through. It's within my power, after all."
"Ahh.. Thank you, Comrade Major. "What kind of heartless bitch is she? Damned Quebecois.
They arrived at the holding cells for the five guilty officers, stripped out of their red uniforms and reluctantly forced by their comrades into gray woolen jumpsuits that were used for prisoners, glorified old-time pajamas. She read off their names quickly; the woman, one of the men, they were crying, the others, angry and defiant, and then she concluded:
"You have been found guilty of the crime of the false execution of an innocent civilian within the Federal Union State. The sentence is execution by seven-man firing squad. Due to martial law, all appeals have been suspended, and the sentence as a result of a secret investigation of the internal affairs branch has already been signed and sealed. Your pensions are forfeit to your families but they are not directly charged."
"Over a fucking hymie, bitch? We finally got a chance to clean up hymie town, and you're going to shoot us for it, you damn cracker 'ho?"
"Comrade, we are not above the law. We are the law. And the law must also enforce itself," she said in a genuinely soft voice. "I'm sorry someone ever erred so greatly in giving you all a position--I am genuinely sorry--wherein you might bring about your own executions. It is, after all, a disgrace to the service. A disgrace which will now be dealt with. Your sentence is to be executed immediately. Guards! Bring them out to the execution grounds"
And with that, two guards apiece, the shackled prisoners were removed from their holding cells and marched out into the abandoned lot where once there had been a building behind the precinct headquarters. Here, there was a firing squad waiting from another precinct, and Lieutenant Walker stiffened a bit when he saw it, at how pre-planned it had all been, but he was at least thankful that it wouldn't be his men.
Or him, for Major Lafargue stepped forward, and gave the orders herself, after they had been chained to the chain-link fence at the far end of the yard where the executions were to be carried out. There were no necessities; no last words, no blindfolds, no last meals. Except one. Before giving any of the further orders, she walked over to them herself, and went down the line, holding up her pack of incredibly rare Indonesian clove cigarettes. "Kretek?" She asked each one. Two accepted, and she put them to their lips and offered them a light Two more were in tears, to distraught to refuse or accept.
The fifth Corporal Smith, spat at her, instead: "You'll burn in hell too, you hymie-loving bitch!"
"Au contraire, for there is no God, no Devil, and no Hell. Just the people around us, whom you betrayed." And she just reached up with a black gloved hand and wiped away the spittle as thought it did not bother her--and perhaps it didn't--before walking back to where the seven-man firing squad was formed with semi-automatic Garand rifles.
"Present!"
"Aim!"
There was nothing ritualized about this, no blanks. They just presented their arms, and then shouldered them, and aimed. Multiple people being executed at once? Certainly not a problem.
"Fire!"
The guns barked, and barked again. Seven rifles, eight rounds to the rifle, fifty-six rounds were simply pumped into the five bodies before them. Some missed, most hit. They were used to this, after all, and the distance was not great. Four of them were dead, all thoroughly riddled with bullets. The girl still twitched with some real life in her, though, and so, unhesitatingly, Emilie stepped forward to her, drew her pistol with a flick of the flap across the holster, and fired two rounds in a neat double-tap into her head.
She wiped off the flecks of blood with the same glove as the spittle, and stepped back. "Lieutenant Walker," Emilie said softly, then. "I believe you have four prisoners in need of execution?"
"That's correct, Comrade Major," he answered very hoarsely, while the practiced attendants let the bodies down and dragged them off into the donkey-pulled cart that was waiting for them.
"Then bring them out."
And so, sobbing, came the next four prisoners.
"Christopher Benson--You have been convicted of the crime of wrecking for stealing boards from the side of a building, damaging its structural integrity. Wrecking is punishable by execution, and you have been sentenced to execution by seven man firing squad!"
And so she went, in her, before this, vaguely attractive French accent, laying out the sentences of death for the other three as well. Of this group, again, two cried, and two remained still and sullen, and of those, one took a cigarette. That was about average, and Major Lafargue, in her own strange way, rather liked to pamper those about to die with one last mercy, what would otherwise be poisonous and cancerous, but scarcely mattered to them now that they were about to die. Usually, those two or three she smoked a year were, suitably, to remind her of her own mortality.
It was time again.
"Present!"
"Aim!"
Guns leveled, now just waiting for the signal, the setting of the sun already making the execution field quite dark.
"Fire!"
Fifty-six rounds. This time, she was lucky; they had all been killed cleanly despite the reduced visibility. "Nice work," she said simply, and then stepped over to Lieutenant Walker. "I need a car to Grand Central, as there's an overnight train to Toronto I need to catch. Some other business to attend to."
"Of course, Comrade Major," he answered quite stiffly, as they walked back in, whence she stripped off her gloves, tossing them in a side pocket of her duffle, and retrieving another and clean pair.
"We'll be watching you, Lieutenant Walker. At the very least, if this happens again in your precinct, expect to be commanding a platoon of line infantry within a week of the incidence," she concluded simply. "But I think you have learned your lesson. I certainly hope so. Good luck, Comrade Lieutenant." She slung her duffel back over her should and headed out the door, another day's work finished, and the prospect of being lulled to sleep by the rails on her way to her second most favourite city ahead. Toronto was no Montreal all, but it was pleasant enough, and, her business there might, just might, not even involve an execution.
It could turn out to be a rather good week, really. She slept peacefully that night, without a nightmare, without a trace of regret, without a single thought at having presided over the executions of nine people. And somewhere in Hell, the ghost of Lavrentiy Beria laughed.
Posted: 2008-04-25 12:16pm
by Gil Hamilton
Write the other day and Marina has given her blessing for it:
Somewhere on the Ohio River south of Wheeling, West Virginia, FedGov
Chandra puffed on the end of a cigarette, the pale red glow of its burning tip the only light around as his boat slunk down the pitch black waters of the Ohio River. It was a dark night with the new moon and he could barely see the tree covered shore, even with his excellent vision. The only light out was the red and green lights on the the tug which the Gateway Clipper fleet - as he liked to jokingly call the six rusty twenty five foot former river rescue boats which comprised his group - was guarding.
Behind him, most of the crew was slouched sleeping next to the rows of batterys on the floor with their rifles between their legs. At the front of the boat, the machine gun operator, a Haitan refugee girl, Precious, who Chandra knew to be sixteen but had lied in order to get on a crew, sung some gospel song to herself while nursing a cigarette she had gotten from him. Smokes were scarce nowaday, with no one in the FedGov growing tobacco anymore, and Chandra had paid handsomely for the luxury. Blowing a cloud of smoke in front of him, he didn't regret it in the least.
He didn't have the time, but up he'd ridden the length of the river from the Ohio River Valley Industrial Zone in Pittsburgh to know they were somewhere beyond Wheeling and were going to be passing New Martinsville soon. There were alot less of a chance of encountering Rebs this close to Wheeling, which along with much of West Virgina was firmly under FedGov control, but that didn't mean that there weren't desperate people willing to do desperate things in order to steal from the cargo train. He'd be glad when they arrived in Cincinnati and the barge, which largely was carrying ordinance for the front, was someone elses problem.
As he had the thought, the walkie talkie on his lapel buzzed. “This is One. I saw someone on the IR on the south shore at the bend. Could be a spotter. Over.” The lead ship had mounted on it an aging infrared camera, which probably cost more than the rest of the vessel, for watches. Chandra sighed and stamped his foot hard on the metal deck of the boat.
“Get up! Arriba! Arriba! South shore!”, he said authoritatively, as the crew grumbled to consciousness. Usually these things weren't much, but they climbed over to the port side of the boat and lined up at the railing under the large metal box bolted on a frame above the centerline of the ship. Someone had the thought to turn the creeking box to face south as they crossed. Precious lazily yawned and kept singing to herself.
Slowly the rounded the bend in the river. Gateway Clipper fleet slowly pushed of the tug ahead on its electric motors and Chandra steady himself as the vessel bounced in the water. The boys - and boys was a good word - chattered irritatedly to themselves. For his own part, he scanned the shore line in silence. They should be around New Martinsville by now.
The walkie talkie on his lapel clicked alive at the same time as the distant crack of gunshots rattled through the air. “This is One. The south shore is crawling. They've got rowboats I think; bandits.” Someone in his crew swore and Chandra grimaced in agreement. Ahead of them, he saw the rattle of the lead boats 50 caliber come to life before the metal box on it switched on.
“Lights! Camera! Action!”, he called out, making the same joke every damn time this happened. He reached down and threw a large toggle on the floor. There was a hum and a smell of battery acid and smoke, then the lights in the metal box came on with a flash. They were several flood lights which suddenly illuminated the water and the south shore ahead of them. However, that was almost a secondary purpose to the camoflague that afforded the crew of his ship on nights like this. Any bandit or Reb looking in that direction would have his night vision blown out and wouldn't be able to see any particular member of the crew in any event. He'd salvaged the lights from a Little League field somewhere in Bellevue - its not like they had any power during the nights for baseball - and personally wired them on the ships with as many acid batteries as he could get. They wouldn't last very long, but batteries were pretty plentiful. However, he hoped they didn't catch fire this time around.
He raised his own rifle to his shoulder and looked out over the Ohio River. Around the bend, he saw about a dozen row boats leaving the shore with a handful of men in them, carrying hunting rifles and the odd automatic. They covered their eyes in the glare of the flood lights and Chandra grinned unpleasantly to himself.
“Open fire!”
All along the railing, his men squeezed their triggers and started firing in the crowds on the boats. Several men and boys fell off or jumped off into the water immediately, possibly shot but more likely frightened, not expecting any organized resistance. However, from the shore and boats, some of the bandits had more gall, as a the characteristic sound of bullets whipped around him in the air.
Chandra looked down his sights and one of the rowers on the boat, barely visible due to some dark clothing. He squeezed the trigger and the man slumped backwards, paddles falling out of his hands and dragging on their hooks in the water. Behind him, a lad was raising a rifle and the boat commander heard a loud crack as the bullet ricochetted off a sheet of clear plastic guarding the flood lights above him. Someone at Neville Island found sheets of old ballistics plastic, the kind produced maybe a million years ago back when he was an Engineering undergraduate at Carnegie Mellon, and he'd “aquistioned” them. At an angle, it had an even chance of deflecting a bullet.
Several members of his crew immediately ducked for cover. This was probably the first time anyone had shot at a few of them before and somehow he didn't think the four week crash training that the FedGov ran them through before giving them a gun and pointing them at a security job was adequate. They'd learn and it's better than being out West. For her part, Precious pursed her lips around the cigarette and was spraying controlled bursts at the closing boats. Chandra knew next to nothing about her past, but it told him quite a bit that the girl had already known the ins and outs of operating a 50 caliber machine gun before she had gotten off the refugee boat from the Caribbean.
The fleet formed a rough line with the shore. He could see now that people were firing from behind debris on docks and the river, and there were alread several horses with wagons attached to them waiting to cart off stolen goods. One of the rowboats, now devoid of human life, banged against the hull of his ship and he looked in.
Chandra looked down at the body of the dead rower. The dark clothing was the faded remnants of a police uniform that had its badges removed. He realized all at once that these bandits weren't near New Martinsville, but rather were from it.
The walkie talkie clicked. “Looks like they are running. Cease fire! Good job, crews. Over.” then cut. Indeed, the few people left alive aboard the boats were jumping into the water and swimming back to shore as plumes of water sprang up around them. Other bandits were fleeing back into the town.
Chandra mulled in his head as he continued with his ready gun on how the commander of the fleet was going to fill out the incident report when they got to Cincinnati. He knew Gary, who'd be somewhat hesitant totell the higher ups that the police department and citizens of a loyal town had turned to piracy. It wouldn't be immediate, but the boot of the Federal Government would come down hard on the entire city for the actions of a desperate few dozen. It were hard enough times as it is.
.
. (Wonderful work BTW, in case I forgot to write that before).
. (Wonderful work BTW, in case I forgot to write that before).