---------------------------------------------------------------
PROBLEMS? Please try viewing this with Netscape Navigator.
---------------------------------------------------------------
_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Andrew Roller Presents
NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS
in
FEVERED FALL
_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Chapter Twelve
The three searchlights stared vacantly at the pile. A homeless man
rummaged amidst the shattered concrete. Otherwise, it was empty. What
would have once been �a major news story�, with round-the-clock
coverage, continuous updates, and unending live video feeds, was instead
no story at all. Not that the public had lost its taste for entertainment;
rather, other news had so swamped the news that it no longer mattered.
Worse, there was so much news now that none of it could lawfully be
reported. Martial Law had been declared, cutting off all news while the
Imperial government frantically tried to restore order.
Eloise Bryan drifted into the room. Charles Bryan was sitting in his
favorite chair, watching T.V. It was a �Big Sur� chair, by Simmons, all
leather, top grain. Eloise reflected to herself that the name could not be
more appropriate. Charles was a wealthy man, with powerful friends.
After all, he�d designed Level 5, and wasn�t that just the perfect way to
ensure everyone stayed where they belonged?
Eloise tugged her mink sweater closer around her neck, concealing
her strands of pearls. Diamond rings on her fingers glittered. She had a
distinctly bored look on her face, relieved only by wrinkles around her
eyes.
�What are you doing?� Eloise asked. She felt caught between a
desire to gaze at the big screen T.V. in the room, and at the panoramic
view of New Washington, seen from above, outside their large picture
window.
�I�m watching T.V.,� Charles replied, perfunctorily. Eloise
remembered a time when he�d avidly watched her every move, anticipated
her every question, and listened when she spoke. Now he seemed slightly
perturbed that she had interrupted the bleach blonde newscaster on the
T.V.
�KCOP News has a live report!� the bleach blonde on the T.V. assured
him. He put a Cohiba Esplendido cigar to his lips and sucked on it as he lit
it with an ivory lighter.
�Hello, Deborah,� a male news reporter said, on the T.V. �I�m
standing here at the New Washington Federal Courthouse Building, where
12-year-old Joshua Paul Reynolds has just been convicted of sexually
molesting an 8-year-old girl!�
Charles puffed on his cigar. �They found him �playing doctor� with
the girl,� Charles said, reclining in his �Big Sur� chair, watching the T.V.
with his stogie.
�Good God,� Eloise said. She pulled her mink sweater tighter. Her
jewelled fingers glittered. The T.V. screen won the battle with the
picture window. Eloise gazed at the image of the blow-dried man standing
in front of the Federal Courthouse. �I hope they start that boy on Depo-
Provera right away,� Eloise said.
�I�m sure they will,� Charles replied, taking a deep, luxurious breath
on his Cohiba Esplendido. Then he exhaled.
Eloise turned away. She lost interest in the T.V. She looked away
from it, glad that justice had once again prevailed in the world. She
walked slowly toward the picture window. She gazed out upon the city.
A day later, it was evening again, and Eloise was standing at the
window again, remembering the quiet peace of the previous evening. So
much had happened, so much was happening, and yet now all they could get
on the T.V., on KCOP, KBAR, and all the other T.V. outlets in New
Washington, even on the satellite channels, was endless re-runs, and
rehashes of the day�s sporting events. Plus the weather. It was a calm,
tranquil evening, just like the evening before, with one minor exception.
The natives were restless. She gazed down upon New Washington.
Down through the inrolling fog she could see the lights of the White House.
Their Sky Dwelling was out over the bay, almost atop the Golden Gate
Bridge, just a little to the east of it. Alcatraz, closed for awhile, had
been reopened again. It lay on the eastward side of their Sky Dwelling. It
had taken on new life as a Mental Health Facility for Underage Sex
Offenders. She looked toward it. She watched its lights for awhile. At
least THEY were under control, unlike the people running wild in the midst
of New Washington. Her eyes passed back to the scene to the south of
their building. She gazed at the downed Sky Dwelling, in the middle of
New Washington�s commercial district. Its flames rose up into the night.
Her husband sat cursing the T.V. He surfed from channel to channel,
getting nothing but re-runs.
�Dammit! This is supposed to be an all-news channel, and they�re
re-running yesterday�s news!� Charles swore. He was watching KCOP.
Twelve-year-old Joshua Paul Reynolds was being led from the Federal
Courthouse again, on videotape, though his entertainment value was now
much diminished.
�Yesterday was nicer,� Eloise said. She turned toward her husband.
�Darling,� she said. �Why don�t we leave?�
�And go where?� Charles asked. He aimed his remote control at the
T.V. and pushed a button on it. The all-news channel became the all-
cartoon channel. Joshua Paul Reynolds was replaced by Daffy Duck. �You
know all non-emergency vehicles have been disabled by Level 5,� Charles
said.
She stood watching him as he watched Daffy Duck. Yes, she knew.
Charles had designed Level 5. He�d told her all about it, when he still
fancied having a conversation with her. Any Lift-capable, or Jump-
capable vehicle had a regulator installed in its engine. In times of
emergency, the government could disable the Lift and Jump functions of
cars equipped with the regulator. Level 5, thanks to Martial Law, was now
in effect. Only emergency and police vehicles could still Lift or Jump.
�We�re damn well not going to DRIVE out of here!� her husband said,
talking to Eloise but looking at Daffy Duck on the T.V.
�Yes, dear,� Eloise answered. �Obviously we can�t get in our car and
drive out of the building.� She laughed, nervously. �We�d probably wind up
on the White House lawn.�
�Smooshed,� her husband said. �I can see it now, on KCOP. �Husband
and wife, Sky Dwellers, drive out of the building, find out Level 5 prevents
flight, and drop in to meet the president.� They�d put it at the end of the
newscast, to give everyone a laugh.�
�But dear,� Eloise said. �Level 5 can be overridden, can�t it?�
�I�m not supposed to talk about that,� Charles said.
�But it can be, can�t it?� Eloise asked. There was a note of pleading
in her voice.
�Where do you want to go?� Charles snapped. He did her the favor of
turning around in his �Big Sur� chair and looking at her. In doing so, he
knocked over his cocktail, which rested on the hardwood Victorian-era end
table beside his chair. It spilled to the floor. �It�s a mess down there,�
Charles said. �Just look out the damn window! But with Level 5 in effect,
we�re safe up here. Nobody can get to us, except an ambulance, or the
police. Besides,� he said. He smiled. �I just took Viagra a few minutes
ago. I�m going to have a raging erection soon. I don�t fancy farting around
with some regulator, upstairs in the garage, with a boner in my pants.
We�d wind up making love in some haystack someplace, and that�s IF I got
the damn thing overridden. It�s been years since I designed Level 5 you
know, even if I do still get royalty checks for it.�
�But dear,� she said. �I still think we should leave. You could
override the regulator. You know you could. We should fly down to earth,
and find some nice motel. We�d be like kids again.�
�I�m not making love in some goddam motel!� he harrumphed. �God
knows, the place might get overrun by rioters. I may have the hard-on of a
younger man, but in case you haven�t noticed, it�s been awhile since I
exercised.�
�Yes, dear,� Eloise said. She gazed at his fat belly, covered over by a
hand-tailored vest and jacket, which in turn were covered by a silk shirt
imported from Bali. �But look at the other building,� Eloise said. �The
Alexander Building?� she asked. She pointed toward the ground. The
commercial district was a raging inferno where the Alexander Building, a
Sky Dwelling, had plopped down into the midst of it.
He harrumphed. �I know bad programming when I see it,� he said.
�But Mrs. Selvine told me that the bug in that building was in all the
others,� Eloise said.
�I�m sure the people downstairs are working on it,� Charles
answered. �Tell the maid to come up and clean up this mess, would you?�
he said. He pointed at the cocktail he�d spilled on the floor. �Good God!
We�ll be like the people down THERE pretty soon if you insist on standing
at that window and whining.�
�Alright, dear,� Eloise said. She walked toward the interior wall,
where a Building Intercom unit was installed. Why did she always have to
summon the maid when her husband made a mess? she wondered.
�Because,� a little voice answered, quickly. �Because he would have to get
up out of his chair to go press it, and you�re already standing up.� It was,
she knew, her mother�s voice. Her mother would have pressed the
Intercom button for her father, and that, in the end, is why she did too.
She reached the far wall and pressed the button. �Gratiana?� she
asked, in a voice slightly perturbed, as if it was the maid herself who�d
knocked over the cocktail, and then failed to clean it up. �We�ve got a bit
of a mess up here!�
�Oh! Yes, ma�am!� the maid answered. She spoke little English but
she seemed to understand it sufficiently well. For her duties, at least.
Perhaps �clean up� had an equivalent in Spanish that sounded similar,
Eloise reflected, letting go of the button.
She turned to her husband. She looked at the ripe olive that had
fallen out of his cocktail and rolled some distance from his chair. �You
could have told me you were planning to take Viagra,� she said.
�I told you,� Charles answered. �Just now.�
She bit her lip. �Yes,� she said to herself. �In effect, you told me,
�get ready to drop your drawers, honey, I�m going to fuck you in about an
hour.� Thanks a lot. The only people who got less warning time were
hookers, but at least they spent the afternoon dressing up in expectation
of it.
�I�ll be waiting in the bedroom,� she said.
He lit another cigar. �You don�t have to go yet,� he said, staring at
Daffy Duck on the T.V. �Nothing�s happening yet.� He harrumphed, then
reached for his cocktail, only to find it had spilled on the floor.
�Dammit!� he swore. �Honey, would you get me another cocktail?�
�Yes, dear,� she said.
Smith felt the speed of the Hoodoo suddenly increase. Thorston
looked up at the dangling handstraps in the interior of the craft,
illuminated by the red Emergency lights. He got up. Without saying
anything, he walked forward to the cockpit.
When he returned, Thorston sat back down in his sling chair.
Perfunctorily, as if announcing tea before dinner, or the arrest of some
low-level robbery suspect, he said, �We�re going to blow Clinton Bridge.�
�Hmmmm!� Zenger said, grabbing at the pencil behind his ear. He had
been staring vacantly into space, but now he grabbed his pencil, his pad,
and began to write. �Wasn�t that once called the Bay Bridge?� Zenger
asked.
�I have no idea,� Thorston answered. He looked at the reporter as if
the need to inquire about such a thing was somehow suspect.
�Well, it�s called William Jefferson Clinton Bridge now, that much I
know,� Smith offered. �I met a girl near there, on my way to Indonesia,�
he said to Thorston. �If you pull off onto Treasure Island you get some
nice views of the city. You can almost see the White House from there.
It�s great for kissing.� The cop nodded.
On the bridge, which the Hoodoo was racing toward, traffic had
slowed to a standstill. Thousands of people, most of them under 18,
thronged the massive structure. They interweaved with the few cars on
the bridge. Their very numbers prevented traffic from getting onto the
bridge, or from driving across it, if a car did somehow manage to get on.
At the end of the bridge a sheriff�s roadblock had been set up.
Smith looked at Thorston. �Maybe I should go up front, so I can have
a look at the bridge as we come in,� he said. �An ariel view would help.
So�s I can get a good idea of how to blow it.�
Thorston nodded, granting permission. Smith stood. Zenger stood up
too.
�Not you,� Thorston said, still sitting in his sling seat. He reached
for Zenger. But the younger man was slim and quick. He darted forward,
avoiding the cop�s clutching hand.
�KLAW goes wherever there is news!� Zenger declared.
�Dammit!� Thorston swore. He grabbed at his belt. It was still too
tight. He rose up, slow and tired, from his sling seat. He went forward
after Zenger, but the reporter was already in the cockpit.
The view of the city of New Washington, as the Hoodoo glided in, was
astonishing. The TransAmerica Building was dwarfed by larger structures
that had been built in later years, but was still visible. Treasure Island,
once a U.S. Naval Station, was now a wealthy resort. To the south of
Clinton Bridge, almost abutting its southern side, was the new
international port that had once been a U.S. Naval Base. Above it all stood
the Sky Dwellings, suspended above the city like massive airborne buoys,
each one as large as a skyscraper. The Hoodoo flew in under the Sky
Dwellings, toward the earthbound part of the city.
�If you�re going to San Francisco, be sure to wear some flowers in
your hair,� Zenger said.
�Huh?� Thorston asked, coming into the cockpit behind the reporter.
Smith stood behind the pilot, Judy Dan. In seeing the spectacular sight of
the city, Thorston forgot that his aim in coming forward had been to force
the reporter back to his seat. Like many minor functions of a cop, it had
been a decision based on his own personal discretion, subject to being
changed, on a whim, or merely forgotten.
�Just an old song,� Zenger, awed by the view of New Washington,
said quietly to Thorston. �I read about it in a book.�
�Humph!� Thorston said, and tugged on his belt. He was as incurious
about the song, which gave the old, outdated name of the city, as he was
about the previous name of Clinton Bridge. Facts, particularly those which
clashed with present reality, were never popular with a policeman.
�Looks like the D.C. Sheriffs could use some help,� Thorston said,
craning his pudgy neck over the helmeted head of Judy Dan. He could just
perceive the sheriff�s roadblock. It was at the end of Clinton Bridge, on
the D.C. side. It was holding, at the moment, but threatened to break under
the pressure of the crowd on the bridge.
The radio in the cockpit of the Hoodoo crackled. Something
unintelligible, which only the trained ear of Judy Dan could make out, was
spoken over the radio.
�Roger that,� Dan replied, flicking a switch on the console in front
of her. �Will clear.�
�...on Treasure Island,� the radio ordered.
�Roger,� Dan said.
�IMMEDIATELY!� the voice from the radio said.
�How fast is immediately?� Dan asked the radio. �There�s a lot of
people down there.�
Zenger pointed. �There�s the White House,� he said. He and Smith
and Thorston looked past the cluster of buildings in the city�s commercial
district. Between two tall buildings a small group of white lights could
be seen. Smith wasn�t sure he was looking at the White House, but Zenger
apparently was. �It was once called the Presidio, long ago,� Zenger said.
�When the International Accords were signed, that�s when the president
moved there. With Chinese permission, of course.�
�Damn Chinese,� Thorston said. His remark was echoed by Smith. It
was a reflexive comment, spoken by both men without even realizing it.
The Hoodoo swung lower. Dan flicked another switch on her console.
She picked up a microphone and put it close to her mouth.
�CLEAR THE BRIDGE!� Smith heard the Hoodoo say, from a
loudspeaker on the bottom of the craft�s nose. There was movement
below, but it was forward, the one direction the crowd wasn�t supposed to
go.
�Dammit! The sheriff�s lines are starting to give!� Thorston said.
Zenger looked up at the T.V. screen above Judy Dan�s head. It was dark.
She, or her co-pilot, had turned it off. He wondered, if it were on, what it
would be showing. Probably re-runs of Fuller House, or something equally
benign, as New Washington lost its grip on its own internal security.
Zenger wondered what the president was doing at this moment, over in the
White House, beyond the tall buildings of the city�s commercial district.
He could see there were flames in the city itself, from where a Sky
Dwelling had come tumbling down from its perch above the city. The last
thing New Washington needed now, from the standpoint of order and
security, was for a horde of rioters to join those already wreaking havoc
in the city�s interior.
�CLEAR THE BRIDGE!� Judy Dan said again, into her microphone. The
bullhorn on the outside of the Hoodoo echoed her voice, at a much larger
decibel level.
�Where�re they supposed to go?� the co-pilot, also a woman, who
was on her first mission, asked Dan.
�Back,� Dan said. �Away from the sheriff�s lines. Treasure Island is
being set up as a containment area for them. But instead they�re moving
forward!�
�Shit! The lines are cracking!� Thorston said, gazing down at the
crowd on the bridge. It pressed into the sheriff�s lines and the sheriff�s
deputies could not hold them back.
The radio crackled again. The voice on it was more unintelligible
than ever. It sounded like it was screaming, which it was.
�The WHITE HOUSE!� it yelled, through a mass of static, that only a
pilot, well-trained, could understand. Dan could have gone to video, but
she found it a distraction to look at the person talking, monitor what was
happening outside her quick-moving craft, so low now between Upper and
Lower Washington, and listen. She was a good listener, well-trained in
the art of interpreting radio communications. The co-pilot, however,
reached for the video control. She flicked on the craft�s Com screen.
Smith watched as a person�s face came onto the Com screen. Unlike
what the T.V. would have shown, were it turned on, this screen broadcast
real news. It wasn�t even moderated by a newscaster, but came straight
from official sources. A woman with a rumpled beige shirt and a loosened
tie was hunched forward. Behind her was the seal of the D.C. Sheriff�s
Department. It was carved in wood and hung up on the wall. With the
presence of the video picture a special Video/Level 2 audio input cleared
the sound of her voice. Even Smith could understand it, now. So could
Zenger, who lifted his camera, and began filming the face on the Com
screen.
�Clear the bridge, whatever it takes. NOW,� the woman on the Com
screen said. �Official from the White House,� she added. She stared at
the interior of the cockpit, suddenly able to see all of them, thanks to a
camera in the cockpit which turned on whenever the Com screen was on.
�Dammit! I can hear just fine!� Judy Dan snapped at her co-pilot.
She reached over and shut off the Com screen. The face disappeared. The
screen returned to black. The camera recording them shut off as well.
The voice, still speaking, became snarled in static again.
�Yes, Captain Dan,� the co-pilot apologized.
�...NOW!� the disembodied voice coming from the D.C. Sheriff�s
Department barked.
�What do we do?� the co-pilot asked Judy Dan. Below them, on the
bridge, the crowd was breaking through the sheriff�s lines.
Dan drew in her breath. It was a long, slow, speculative inhalation.
She lifted her chin as she did it, as if contemplating grander things than
the problem down on the bridge.
�Only one thing we can do,� she said, at last. She said it so quietly
that the roar of the Hoodoo�s engines almost drowned out her voice. She
turned to her co-pilot. �Gatling,� she said.
�But they�re only--� the co-pilot gasped. She leaned forward. She
gaped down at the crowded bridge. Behind them, Zenger was still filming.
Dan turned. She looked at Thorston.
�Clear this goddam cockpit!� she shouted at Thorston.
�Yes, ma�am!� Thorston said. He was, like a dog, delighted to have a
clear-cut command to obey. He turned. He put his hand over the lens of
Zenger�s camera. He pushed Zenger back. With his other hand he indicated
to Smith that he was required to obey also.
�What?!� Zenger asked. He tried to speak to Dan, over Thorston�s
bulking figure. The cop shoved him back toward the cockpit�s door.
Smith and Zenger had just been pushed into the main cabin, and were
turning to go to their seats, when the Gatling opened up.
ZZZUT! ZZZUT! ZZZUT! ZZZUT! The Gatling fired. Each blast from its
mighty, circular, double-barrelled cannons shot out multiple blasts of
laser fire. The greenish glare of the descending lasers lit up the gunner�s
face. He was smiling. Zenger darted toward the opening in the side of the
craft, as did Smith. The Hoodoo passed along the bridge. Zenger screamed.
Below, he could see the people on the bridge falling as the Gatling tore
into them.
Her little sister�s last words echoed in her mind. Lisa was
screaming, but all she could hear was her little sister, asking again, in
frustration, �Why don�t we just fly to Disneyland?�
�Because I broke into the damn thing, and it won�t fly with the alarm
sounding,� Tod was just telling her, yet again, when laser fire from
somewhere above them sliced into their car. It put a hole in their roof and
narrowly missed Tod and Lisa. Lisa�s little sister, hunched between them
on the front seat of the car, was killed instantly.
Lisa screamed, again and again. Tod shouted. He stepped onto the
car�s accelerator. The vehicle shoved forward into the crowd on the
bridge. Tod watched in horror as he ran over several people in front of
him. Then the very pressure of the crowd slowed and finally stopped his
car.
Laser fire tore into the crowd in front of Tod�s eyes. Lisa was still
screaming, clutching at her dead sister.
�My God, you�re killing them!� Zenger shouted at the door gunner of
the Hoodoo. He was still grinning. He fired continuously from his Laser
Gatling, murdering the people on the bridge. �They�re just children!�
Zenger yelled. The Gunner paid no mind. Thorston pushed at the reporter.
�Sit down, goddam it! Captain�s orders!� Thorston shouted over the
roar of the craft and the shriek of the Gatling.
�You can�t just kill all those people,� Smith said. He hovered
between a desire to obey Thorston, and return to his sling seat, and a
desire to do something about the Gatling. The gunner kept firing,
mercilessly.
Suddenly there was a loud THWUMP! on the outside of the craft. It
teetered in the air. The boxes of explosives in the back of the craft
shifted. Several tumbled to the floor. Smith turned. He clutched at an
overhead handstrap and gaped with horror at the side of the Hoodoo, near
the back. A huge hole had suddenly appeared in the side of the ship. The
edges of it were burning. Through the hole, obviously made by some kind
of high-caliber laser fire from the ground, he could see the lights of the
city.
The trajectory of the Hoodoo became unsteady, as if there were a 2-
year-old in the pilot�s seat, merrily driving it without knowing how.
�Dammit! Shit!� Thorston cried. He reached for an overhead
handstrap, but too late; he missed, and toppled forward to the floor.
Zenger was torn between trying to film something, and grabbing for a
handstrap. In the end, he did neither, and fell to the floor with Thorston.
Smith held on for dear life.
�CODE RED! CODE RED!� A voice, Captain Dan�s, blurted over the
cabin�s loudspeaker. The Emergency lights flashed. The Gatling continued
to fire, but Smith, staring at the door gunner�s opening in the side of the
craft, saw the laser fire shoot out in a high arc, obviously missing the
bridge. As he watched, the arc became more inclined. Suddenly, the
Gatling�s fire tore into the lowermost windows of an overhead Sky
Dwelling.
�Omigod, we�re going down!� Smith shouted, to no one in particular.
The worst fears of his boyhood phobia about heights returned. He�d ridden
in enough Hummers in Indonesia to be able to tell even when a big craft
like this unfamiliar Hoodoo was in trouble. The pitch of the cabin became
more severe. He gripped the overhead handstrap, hard. It was now not so
much overhead as tilting very much toward what would once have been the
side of his body, when the craft had flown level. Up was leaning toward
Down and Down was leaning toward Up now, as the Hoodoo rolled into a
groundward dive.
Down on the bridge, a cheer went up. A lone tank, stuck amidst the
crowd on the bridge, like some marooned whale, had blown its spout. On
its first try, its mighty gun had not only worked, it had hit its target.
�Alright!� someone yelled to the girl who had fired the gun. She
grinned. She aimed, and fired again at the Hoodoo. This time, she missed.
But the first blow looked likely to bring the Hoodoo down anyway, she
realized, as the ship went into an unsafe dive toward the ground.
Tongsun Anu watched the Hoodoo as it dove into the D.C. Bay. Harold
stood beside him. They were on Clinton Bridge. Ahead of them, where the
sheriff�s barricades had been set up, he heard gunfire erupt.
�She got him!� Harold said, and Tongsun knew who he meant. The
girl. The girl who�d asked to drive the tank. She�d known her stuff. But
now their situation had grown more deadly, for he could hear the sheriffs
opening fire. They were no longer just trying to keep back the crowd.
They were killing them.
�Everywhere I go there is death,� Tongsun said.
�I know. I know,� Harold murmured. They watched the Hoodoo plunge
into the bay and wondered, without really caring, whether there would be
any survivors.
�First they killed Her, my love,� Tongsun said. Harold nodded.
Tongsun�s teacher, his lover, had been killed in the crossfire between
himself and the police, at his house. �Now they are killing everyone in
sight,� Tongsun said.
�Yeah,� Harold agreed. He looked forward, along the length of the
bridge. Many of the people on the bridge were not, in fact, under Tongsun�s
control, but merely young people out for the excitement of the night,
watching, or perhaps helping, the Imperium to die. Others, older than the
bulk of the crowd, were simply caught in the wrong place at the wrong
time. They all suffered the same reaction when hit by laser fire, however.
�We�ve defeated the Oakland Police,� Tongsun said to Harold. He
looked at his assistant. Behind them the Oakland shore, seen in the
distance, was relatively quiet, except for the buildings that the rioters
had set fire to. �I don�t want any more of our people to die. If we go
forward, we�ll have to fight our way into D.C. They�ll try to beat us back,
right down to the last man.�
Harold nodded, silently. In the distance, out along the water, there
was only a still, black surface where the Hoodoo had gone down.
�However,� Tongsun said. �Look. If we can get back to Oakland,
quickly, there is a port over there.�
�Hmmm,� Harold said. He gazed at the Port of Oakland. Had it been
daylight, he would have been able to see the sign, hung on the side of one
of the buildings lining the port, which read, �International Port of
Oakland.� Ships bulked like black shadows in front of the port. A few
were lit, here and there, by cabin lights or by safety lights, unmoving
fireflies against the large frames of the ships.
�One if by land, and two if by sea,� Tongsun said to Harold.
�What?� Harold asked.
�If you can�t get through the front door, try the back,� Tongsun said.
�Our goal is the White House. Trying to cross Clinton bridge is only going
to get us cut up by the sheriffs. Worse, perhaps, we�d have to move our
force through the riot-torn city on the other side. That building won�t
help any, the Sky Dwelling that somebody dropped down into the middle of
D.C.�
�Yeah,� Harold said. He looked over his shoulder. The Sky Dwelling
had landed smack in the center of the financial district, toppling
earthbound buildings and starting a huge fire that burned along its
wreckage and stretched toward the sky.
�What if the president Jumps to the moon?� Harold asked, looking up.
Through the overhead Sky Dwellings he caught sight of the ancient orb. It
glowed down at them with apparent indifference to their fate.
�Ah, that�s a last resort,� Tongsun said. He shook his head. �There�s
nothing up there but a hotel. I mean, how can you be President of the
Imperium if all you�ve got left to you is a hotel?�
�What if the Chinese intervene?� Harold asked. He stared again at
the fallen Sky Dwelling, blazing hotly in the middle of D.C. He could hear
sirens, gunfire. The sounds of chaos. He wondered if a body, inside itself,
made similar sounds when it died.
�They�ll say it�s an internal matter,� Tongsun said. �That�s my
guess. God knows, they don�t want to do us any favors.�
�Fucking Chinese,� Harold said.
�We have to take the White House, Harold,� Tongsun told his
lieutenant. �As someone once said, �It�s not over until the fat lady sings.��
�How?� Harold asked. He bit his lip. He wasn�t being difficult,
merely asking, to find solutions.
�The port,� Tongsun said. �Let�s go. We�ll get our best people and
get a small little boat. Not a big one. God knows, we�d never be able to
figure out how to sail it. Just a small little boat, and our best people.�
�What, and attack the White House, in a boat?� Harold asked. They
began walking. It was a long way back along Clinton Bridge to the Oakland
side of the shore. He hoped they�d find a car or two to commandeer, and be
able to get through the crowd somehow to the Oakland side. Hopefully
they wouldn�t have to open fire on people who were nominally, at least,
for the Cause.
�It�s the path of indirection,� Tongsun said. �The direct way, across
Clinton bridge, is like a trip through Hell. But the bay is open, and quiet.�
Tongsun gestured toward the water.
Together, they approached a car. It looked like someone had hit the
forward part of the roof with laser fire, punching a big hole there, but the
engine was still running.
�Shit, man, I saw something on T.V. once,� Harold said. He turned to
Tongsun. �The White House has mines in the bay. They�re not turned on,
normally, but now they most certainly will be. We�ll sail right through
your peaceful, quiet bay into some fucking mine that�s just waiting for us,
in the water!�
Tongsun kept walking. Harold hurried after him. Tongsun reached
the car. It was a four door car. He pulled open the passenger�s door of the
car, along the front seat. He looked at Harold. �Get someone with an
Uplink,� Tongsun said. �I doubt they�ve fixed the bug in the computer
program that controls the Main Lift Engine on those Sky Dwellings.�
�Oh, yeah,� Harold said. He opened the back door, as Tongsun, leaning
down, spoke to some female sitting on the passenger�s side of the car, in
the front seat. �Shit!� Harold said to himself. �We could do that. I mean,
with an Uplink, we could drop a building straight into the bay, right over
the fucking approach to the White House. The mines blow, we sail in.
Cool.�
�Oh my God,� the female in the front seat was saying. Tongsun got
in beside her. She had a dead child in her arms. A small girl, wearing a
pink jacket.
�Howzit,� Tongsun said to the car�s driver. �I�m Tongsun Anu. I need
you to get me back to Oakland. We�ll be putting more people in your car,
and on the roof, the hood, wherever we can fit them.�
The driver�s eyes widened. He turned. He looked back through the
car�s rear windshield. �There�s not a lot of room to drive, man,� he said to
Tongsun. �This bridge is full of people.�
�That�s okay,� Tongsun replied. �I don�t want to have to do it, but
we�ve got to get back to Oakland. If necessary, we�ll run over them. Or
shoot them. Whatever it takes, okay?�
�Are you really Tongsun Anu?� Tod, behind the wheel of the car,
asked.
�He�s the real McCoy. Shove this thing into reverse!� Harold, sitting
in the back seat, yelled out.
�Shit. Talk about a back seat driver,� Tod said.
�Just do it,� Tongsun told him. �Stop when I tell you. We need to
get our people in the car so we can move them quickly. If necessary, we�ll
make several trips. Or we�ll get another car on the way back, if we can.�
�This thing�s almost out of gas,� Tod said, looking down at the
dashboard. Tongsun leaned over. He looked at the gas gauge.
�We can make it,� Tongsun said confidently.
30
----------------------- Dreamgirls! -----------------------
-Back issues (and stories): type
http://www.dejanews.com/
into your browser�s �Location� window. Press your �return� key.
Click on �Power Search� in the middle of the screen. Next,
Type in: roller666@earthlink.net in the box that appears.
Click on �find� (the button to the right of the box).
-Other providers:
Usenet Newsgroup: alt.sex.stories.moderated
or by e-mail: file.request@backdrop.com
or via the Web: http://www.netusa.net/~eli/erotica/assm/
-When visiting Barnes and Noble, ask for: Jock Sturges� Radiant
Identities and David Hamilton�s The Age of Innocence. Support art!
-Also by David Hamilton: A Place in the Sun, and Twenty Five Years
of an Artist Need a book? http://www.amazon.com
- JOIN the world�s greatest organization! Send $35.00 to The North
American Man/Boy Love Association for a one-year membership.
NAMBLA, P.O. Box 174, Midtown Station, New York, NY 10018.
-Naughty Naked Dreamgirls (Library of Congress ISSN: 1070-1427) is
copyright 1998 and a trademark of Andrew Roller.
-END OF story EMISSION