CATCH UP ON LAST ISSUE!

And just one last little twist here and we’re all set! Betsy, with a tune-up like that, you about to be the hottest steel pony in the whole wide west. Now where did I–oh howdy! Didn’t expect y’all to drop in so soon. Always nice to have some friendly faces around the ranch, especially on an off-day when you can enjoy their company.

Yes friends, sure as my midnight black fur, your ol’ pal Sheriff Godred’s taking a pit-stop. Normally I woulda said no to it. You know me; I’m much better when I’m out with the rest of the Ascensores, keeping patrol over our little neck of the woods. But with the heapa trouble me, Betsy, and a hunk of the pack just went through, the boys said it’d be worthwhile to take up some R&R.

Now I betcha y’all are curious what kinda trouble could make even your ol’ pal Leo say yes to a day-off. And since I got plenty of time, here it goes!

It all started when we got a lead on one of the nastiest carjacking gangs out here in the New West. The Ober gang was always hijacking poor folks’ rides for scrap and parts and leaving them stranded on those treacherous trails between settlements, if left alive at all. The head honcho himself, Harry Ober, was one of the meanest hounds you could meet. A tall white fella with a big black eyepatch and a nasty laugh that could shake rocks from the hills. We’d been tailing ‘em for ages, but when we finally got a good lead after picking up a family close to Croswell, we weren’t lettin’ ‘em outta our sights for nothing.

Now we Ascensores take great pride in our hot rods and mighty muscle cars. Without our colorful iron gals, we wouldn’t stand half a chance taking the great big bites out of crime we do out here in the old New West. Just the same as we pride ourselves on keeping our hats and jackets nice and neat, and always showing courtesy to our friends down the trail and across the desert. It’s all a part of being prepped and ready to do the hard work that needs doing of bringing what’s good and right to this great land of ours. And boy were we gonna need to be on our toes for this one.

First things first for us; you know we got the sharpest tracker in the land. Good ol’ Jay Lightfeather with the flat black cowboy hat was as good with his nose as he was with his boot on the throttle or a gun in his hand. Our tan-furred friend managed to pick up the trail of the Obers thanks to some stray shells left over from the ambush. Just a few hunks of dead lead and we was off racing westward.

Now here’s where all that fussin’ first comes in hand: endurance. Between Jay’s powder-blue Dodge pickup, my Betsy, and the whole rest of the gang, our four-wheeled friends were built to weather every storm that done come their way. From the rockiest ridges to the twistiest bends, you can ride ‘em real rough the way we do chasin’ bandits all over hill and dale. That’s something we just can’t afford, but especially when on the trail of crooks who drive like bats outta hell.

I let Jay lead us as far as that well-worn snout of his could. We roared through canyon passes and around old gulches, red sand as far as the eyes could see. Red sand that, once we got perched up on a ridge, gave way to tiny dots of white, black, silver, and red down on the desert floor. Dots which grew into cars, and lots of ‘em.

It was them alright; the whole Ober gang rockin’ and rollin’ down in the valley. They were savoring the latest of their spoils with all the half-cocked tricks they were pulling off. They never really were good mechanics though. They simply saw new metal and slapped it wherever it was needed. It gets ya around, but it ain’t gonna last forever. But if squealing tires didn’t give their fun away, that haggard laugh of ol’ Harry Ober did.

“DRINK IT IN BOYS!” he hollered real shrill, “THE BEST FOR US AND TO HELL WITH THE REST!”

Now the obvious question is how does a posse like ours, no more than 10 hounds, two to a ride, go wrangling a gang twice our size? Seems like a mighty tall order, but when it comes to making plans like that, good ol’ Terry Toth with the slick gray fur sure knows how to cut the problem down to size. Terry was riding with me after looking at how far the ridge spanned from our spot to theirs, that sharp gray mind of his cooked a real hoot of a scheme.

“Say Leo,” he says to me, “Figurin’ how one-track they minds is, how bout we handle ‘em as such? ‘Stead of a cattle drive, we got us some iron horses in need of wrangling.”

I done loved the sound of that and it came even sweeter when I saw how we was gonna do it. We sent two hounds down along the top of the ridge–far from eyesight–to perch their ride over top where the gang was having their merrymaking. They’d start firing down on ‘em to spook ‘em, and then get hightailing right up their tailpipes to keep ‘em moving in the right direction. More of our gang would file alongside to keep ‘em flowing right, but we’d need something to file them into. I prefer capturing and trying ‘em, but with the kinda blood on these thugs’ fur, I wasn’t gonna fuss either way.

Toth pointed out a good dry riverbed drop on the way back. A solid 10-20 foot drop that could do some damage. All we needed was the right carrot on the right stick to lead ‘em there alongside all our corralling.

“How bout my Betsy?” I offered. “They’re gonna try and take snipes at the rest of the boys, but my baby oughta be a real gold nugget for ‘em. You drive and I’ll shoot.”

With the way this doll-eyed black Chevy Fleetline had gotten me outta more pickles than I gotten her into, she seemed the perfect bait. Toth and I shook on it, and before we knew it, the whole gang was in place.

When we heard the cracks of rifles and the hollering of wolves, we knew our iron stampede was starting to make its moves. Sure enough, they started in the direction we was angling. When more of the Ascensores got into the mix, these creeps started to try and take our rides. You could see ol’ one-eyed Ober licking his lips and firing like mad from behind the wheel of his ol’ beat-up Ford.

The end result was wild; the mass of stampeding hot rods and sedans were ebbing and flowing out as they made their swipes. Only thing louder than the engines was ol’ Ober hollering “THERE’S PLENTY OF GOOD STEEL TO GO ROUND!”

It was only after being met with the sharpshooting of my hounds that they realized things weren’t gonna be so easy for ‘em.

That then, of course, was where me, Terry and ol’ Betsy came kicking in. When Terry flicked that black Fleetline’s rear at ‘em and slammed the gas, it was like gearhead catnip to Harry Ober.

“BOYS,” he growled with delight, “this hunka tin is mine all mine.”

He hit the gas hard and started right for us, that beady eye popping off his raggedy white fur. That slope-backed Ford did have a few points in her favor under the hood, but we was about to find out just where mean ol’ Ober put his precious metals.

Another point in favor of taking real good care of your ride: agility. When a fella like Terry gets beating on your gal’s pedals and cutting that wheel, you see all that girl is good for. Him and Betsy got on like a house fire in front of them scuzzy thugs and their half-beaten machines. They kept trying for us, gunning for the tires, but Terry kept ‘em bobbin’ and weavin’ like there was no tomorrow. And of course, out the window was yours truly with a rifle in hand givin’ em all sorts of hell.

Now that left us with a hatful of the rest of the posse ready to corral the stampede into the riverbed. And that brings us to one last good point in favor of keeping your ride in good nick: good brakes.

As the riverbed drew near, the gaggle of agitated hounds and rides rattling away behind us, I swung my head in and got ready for the big show. Betsy kept booking it right for the drop with old Terry at the wheel, but sure as sunshine, when he stamped them brakes and swung her hard to the right, she was clear of the riverbed. And when the last of the Ascensores swung in behind us and shot towards the Ober gang...whew boy you shoulda seen it.

Harry Ober and his well-worn Ford went head first into the riverbed with an awful crash. What followed was damn near an avalanche of hot rods, tumbling down into that riverbed, slamming into each other, flying over each other. And of course, the momentum at the back kept that pileup going for a good minute or two until the last car at the back came screeching to a stop, covered on all sides by my boys.

Needless to say, it was quite easy arresting the fellas thanks to all the carnage, and you can bet them Obers saw some proper New West justice. And if it wasn’t for my hounds’ sharp minds and our damn fine rides, we couldn’t have nailed ‘em half as good. It wasn’t until afterwards that I found ol’ Betsy had taken some real licks in the aftermath, and with the sheer exodus of thuggery being escorted to court, that’s where the boys got the idea to give me the day off. And so here I sit, keeping my girl all good and ready for the next roundup. And you all best do the same for your rides to keep you and your folks safe on the trail. Will catch ya next time!

CATCH UP ON LAST ISSUE!

From out the one came three.

It was an overlong mantra that came to Boss as he meditated, legs crossed and bare-chested within his dojo. There were no students, no friends, no family. Just the gray wolf with the flaming tattoo up his arm, and his mind’s gentle descent from surface thoughts to the depths of transcendence. A voyage of pure, incredible light that stirred within the mind’s eye. Boss stilled his breath and continued his descent until he felt that white light. Not a light of warmth nor of cool nor of temperance. It was all at once. Passion’s heat, a level head’s cool, the regulator of emotion and calculation. The martial artist dwelled in this world of white until he felt within his left hand the hot flash of the id, and within his right the crystalline chill of the superego in all its perfection. And flowing within him the negotiator of both.

The gray’s eyes opened and he looked to the wall before him, his prized blades sheathed on their display stands and the brass keys to his dune buggy. He stood up, slid into his two-strapped sandals, and made his way towards the end table. There, he grabbed his keys and filled his hand with the tachi’s hilt. Before leaving the dojo, he unsheathed the blade and gazed upon its bowed silver, the Japanese steel reflecting his vivid brown eyes and the placid line of his mouth.

“This is not revenge to be savored.” he said, as if to the blade itself. “But a job that must be done.”

Within the soft click of the sheath against the hilt, the fate of five dozen hounds had been sealed.

No one knew when San He Hui began operating in Haven. No one knew what it was until hounds in fine black suits began attending the street-fighting games that drew incredible crowds in the Southern district. No one knew until the gambling began and fights between obvious matches defied convention.

Not just the usual dives a hood would take to please a manager, however. Haven’s street fighters always fought for the love of the martial arts. The dives came in the terrible spasms brought on by a well-timed right hook and the click of a remote button. The device–no larger than a pen–matched certain function codes to the fighter’s chip. The hound in the suit clicks his pen, shutting the opponent off long enough to be counted out. Another click would turn the opponent back on. If the gang felt the opponent threatened their prospects for big credit takes, that second click never came.

The only mistake the gangsters made was killing the tan wolf Hector Lopez.

The only mistake made was killing a pupil of Boss Kusanagi.

Hector had been attending the martial artist’s teachings for years, and proved himself one of his most apt learners. His motion was fluid, his ability to switch from Eastern sparring to Western fisticuffs was often used for demonstration. He wasn’t some savior, he wasn’t some great community leader.

He was a good hound bet against by powerful players. A good hound no longer thanks to those thugs. A good hound worthy of being avenged.

Before reaching Haven, Boss wanted to pay his respects to brave settlers trying to populate the Western Desert. A synthesizer farm handcrafted for vices of all sorts. Uppers, downers, sidewinders, pills of all colors, shapes, hallucination states. An operation that was less about making money, and more a covert means of sedating the desert population, revolts being bad for business and all.

He met them as only he could; with a sandaled paw buried in the footwell of his turbo-charged Manx Meyer dune buggy. The metallic orange machine sent the drug-makers flying through the air and splattering beneath his wheels, Boss silent as he let his metal lady’s screaming V8 do all the talking for him.

When one of the gang’s envoys from Haven came to see what all the commotion was, he was met with the ungodly sight of this gray maniac running his hounds down left and right. Quickly, the white-furred gangster drew his gun and began firing into the open-top off-roader. Boss wove between streaks of green laser fire while still keeping the pedal down and his eyes on every thug not left bleeding on the ground.

Soon, that only left the white wolf, who kept shooting like mad until the gray wolf slammed the brakes, and swung the tail of his buggy into the rat bastard. The silver automatic went flying as the gangster envoy cried in shrill pain, fangs barred on his thick muzzle as he seethed.

All Boss had to do was unbuckle himself and snap a gloved hand to the gangster’s throat, and the other cuffing the thug’s hands at the wrist.

“Where’s The Mountain?”

He opened his slim fingers to give the white wolf a chance to speak.

“Fuck you,” he growled.

Down came all five digits in a vice grip, the white wolf struggling and writhing between warped metal of the drug den’s wall and the hot rubber of the Manx’s wheel.

“Where’s your boss?” Kusanagi asked, the gray wolf unwavering in tone.

Again, he released his fingers briefly, only to be met with the thug’s swinging fist. A swing met with a quick catch and a swift bend backwards. Not even the white envoy’s pained cries could overwhelm the snap of his bones.

“Where. Is. The. Mountain?”

“District 967!” the envoy screeched. “Diapole Warehouse! You’ll find–”

ZPLAT!

The automatic found its way to the hands of one of the remaining drug makers, but between his blood-caked vision and Boss’ vigilant ears, the gray martial artist dodged the bullet and let the gangster take it in the head. The bloody white body fell limp and eyeless against the den as Boss flew back behind the wheel and sped over the last of the dope-pushers. The right tires took care of the head, while the left took care of the gun. Boss brought his orange steed to a stop and picked up the silver Colt. He looked towards the row of water-cooler-shaped synthesizers, and to the palettes of designer product.

When he shot the product, nothing.

When he shot the synthesizers, now there was a fireworks show.

But again, he didn’t have time to relish. He had to make his way to the 900s in Haven.

By the time Boss Kusanagi was speeding towards the Ivory Coast, the drug den was little more than a flaming epitaph to the Triad’s incursion into the desert. And faint in the distance, the stoic gray fighter heard a guttural explosion from the east, the last drug synths detonating within the metal den. A sound most reassuring as he made it down the small canyon and up through the withered chain-link fence.

Contrary to their desert expansion, the warehouse was little more than a base of operation. Accounting computers to keep track of their gambling earnings and a peer-to-peer distribution service to ensure each gang member received their equitable share of the proceeds.

Here, the black-suited wolves of largely white and sandy complexions drank evenings away with a strange cocktail called hun jiou. Roughly translated to “blended liquor,” it cut the taste profile of sake but with an alcohol content that could level an Old World Russian, and a unique adrenal additive. It was consumed religiously by Triad members, and the nights would often end in semi-playful sparring matches. Those who got a little too rowdy were escorted to their quarters, but it often took several wolves to wrestle them down from their steroidal high.

Tonight’s play would be anything but, however.

Boss parked his dune buggy a few blocks down and elected to make the trek by paw. With his blade in one hand and that eternal peace within him, he ran dozens of plans in his mind based on all his old heists. What staircases to take advantage of, what rooms to take cover in, all areas of escape.

When he reached the warehouse–marked by a white-on-blue sign with the embossed phrase “967, Diapole”–he saw two hounds standing guard by the door. Same black suits, but with the sandy brown complexion of Eurasian wolves and thicker muzzles. Whereas some would consider the stealthiest option, Boss was in no mood for games of infiltration. He rounded the corner and crossed the street, blade unsheathed, and eyes narrowed in pure concentration.

“HEY YOU!” barked one of the guards.

Boss made broad strides towards the warehouse.

“STOP!” the other shouted.

Both wolves drew their guns and fired.

Boss drew his blade.

The last thing both wolves felt was the sting of electric lead striking their guts as it bounced off the tachi’s silver.

They slumped to the side, parting ways for the gray ronin as he gave the door a mighty kick. They hadn’t paid the initial commotion any mind in their half-drunk, half-high stupor, but the bang of the door came like gunfire to the gangsters on the lower floor. Immediately they sprang up from their cross-legged convention with pistols in hand. When they looked up to see who had just entered, all they were met with was the same question he’d given the envoy.

“Where’s The Mountain?”

These fellows weren’t sober enough to be as polite as the envoy was. Instead of a “fuck you,” five hounds snapped their fingers down on their triggers.

Five hounds fell dead on the floor as the laser fire bounced off the tachi’s blade and landed square on their heads.

Boss began his steady stride down the steps to the warehouse floor, where the empty space was defined only by the towering black grid of the back wall, segmenting the large facade and allowing in only the evening’s blue, filtered through tinted glass.

By the time his sandaled paw met the cold concrete, Boss found that the Triad members weren’t just packing guns. Blades of all sizes and shapes filled their hands as they waited for their aggressor to make one last move.

Boss held his spot on the floor and flashed a brief smile.

“Finally. Real men.”

He leapt into the fray and started swinging. Steel sang in the air and rattled in contact as the desert fighter danced his ballet in the indigo midnight of the warehouse. Some gangsters felt the sting of a slash across the stomach, others held their own against the seasoned swordsman. And one hound, a one-eyed white donning an eye-patch and a slender muzzle, finally managed a blow to the furious stranger.

Boss felt the blood’s warmth, trickling down from the cut on his right arm, and then its twin on his left. And yet, the hound fought on.

By the time his forearms were soaked in red, none of the drunk thugs knew if they were fighting a wolf at all, but a dragon in wolven form, sent from Hell itself for God knows what reason. Soon they began to fall, one by one, in mirroring fashion. First the drunken war cry of attack, then the piercing shriek of death.

Even as he felt his stamina fading, his own natural adrenaline needing replenishment, Boss didn’t stop fighting until he was down to his last thug.

This fellow was the largest of the bunch, but he took as many blows as Boss. By the feverish melee’s end, both hounds came up caked in dried blood. Boss held the tachi’s tip to the towering white wolf’s neck.

“Where’s The Mountain?” he reiterated.

“The fuck you want him for?” the white thug growled.

“To give him Hector Lopez’s regards.”

“But the mook’s de–”

The tachi drew a trickle of blood as it pricked the flesh beneath the panting gangster’s fur. Boss gave a solemn nod.

“That’s why I’m sending him his regards.”

“Well Johnnie Ka-fai’s place is hard to reach,” the meat-head replied. “Penthouse Xiao down in 999. Awful lotta floors to go through. And you ain’t looking too hot.”

“That’s all I needed to know.” Boss replied, withdrawing his blade.

At first the hulking white gangster stood there, stunned that he hadn’t been finished off. It was only when Boss turned his back did he realize his opportunity to finish him had arrived.

“Oh, just one more thing.”

“What?” Boss asked tersely.

“You made a bit of a tactical error, Mista–”

SLASH!

The word hung in the air as the white wolf’s severed head flew across the warehouse floor.

“I believe the error was yours.”

Johnnie Ka-fai had made himself a honey of a mansion at the top of Penthouse Xiao. The short and savvy Eurasian wolf–always in a dark velvet robe–had made a mint off his scheme and savored every trinket he’d been able to fill his placid white abode. Sat upon the smooth, rounded furniture were displays of gold jewelry and Old World affects. On the nights he felt it, all manner of fine wolven women were ferried to the pad by hovercar for an evening of red light lovemaking. In his case, literal red light, for the tiled floor and ceiling could be color-coded to his heart’s content.

“It’s strange, isn’t it?” he’d often muse to his one-night stands. “A world in which we needn’t want for anything, and yet here a hound like me stands.”

His musings were often drowned by the moans of his evening’s harem, but he didn’t mind that. It was more an intellectual party trick than invitation to introspection, the wolven gang leader content to revel in his spoils without any greater philosophy. To him, he was in the afterglow of history’s end. Everything not nailed down was free for the taking. And anything he could pry loose was not nailed down.

He’d spent many a night enjoying these many fruits of his “labor” without interruption by business, but tonight would be different.

It all started after midnight.

Ka-fai was in bed with the evening’s red meat, an exotically patterned red wolf to his left and a black wolf to his right. They’d enjoyed themselves plenty, and ultimately wound up tired as hell by the end of their fun. Ka-fai was a sound sleeper to boot, so it was going to take a hell of a lot to wake him up.

First came the banging on the door.

Then the stunned cries of his guards as they saw the hound who barged in.

It was only when one of Ka-fai’s black suits was sent flying through the wooden door to the bedroom, right at the boss’s paws did he realize something was going horribly wrong.

The Triad leader sprang up and looked through the shattered door to find complete carnage. Painting the white-blocks red with the blood and brains of his muscle was a gray-furred maniac with a flaming tattoo sleeve. Only he wasn’t managing it with a gun nor a blade.

With bandaged upper arms and a fire in his brown eyes, Boss was fighting bare-knuckled through hoards of gang members.

One hound against a half-dozen, and he was laying their asses flat. Snapping limbs, landing quick kicks to the chest, and those who came at him with a gun found it blasting holes in their comrades or themselves, never their target.

Even with his whores in hysterics, Ka-fai knew the real business was killing this bastard on sight. Quickly he dove to the night stand and pulled out his pistol. Same as his men, marked only by its pearl grips, painted with the many colored scales of a dragon.

The short speckled gang leader drew the gun and aimed it square at the gray fighter’s head. With a flick of his ears, Boss heard the hammer’s click and ducked behind a black suit.

Unfortunately, Johnnie knew that trick well.

He waited and waited for a flash of the gray hound’s flame tattoo. The second he saw it he fired, and his laser round did not miss.

The red shot grazed the gray and sent him spinning across the room. Boss picked himself up and steadied himself, only to duck once again as the big hound himself fired round after round from within the dark of the bedroom.

There was only way to make the fight fair, and when Boss spotted the switch by the sliding glass door, the gray fighter dove for it and switched the lights off.

The apartment went jet-black, but Ka-fai never stopped firing. Streaks of red strobed throughout the room, and even when the sounds of black suits shrieking in pain, the Triad leader didn’t stop firing.

He used the light to hunt for his gray intruder, catching glimpses of Birk-clad paws and a dark tank-top with each round. Soon, however, the glimpses grew fleeting. The apartment was sprawling, but it wasn’t forever. And yet, the intruder continued to elude him. At long last, he decided to venture into the living room.

The speckled gangster held tight to his automatic and tread as lightly as he could upon the carpet of his room, and lighter still upon the cool tiles. He made no sudden moves, no quick checks. He felt the blood of his henchmen on the pads of his paws, but it didn’t faze him. He could feel the limp bodies about him, but it didn’t faze him. What was beginning to faze him was the pin-drop silence, cut only by the occasional whimpering of his bitches still huddled in the bedroom.

Still he trudged on, though the dark made the luxury apartment feel even more cavernous than it truly was. It wasn’t until the tips of his blood-tipped claws felt the edge between the floor and wall did he realize he was at the switch.

Carefully, he felt his hand across the cool glass wall, looking for the metal tip. He stopped for a moment when the claws of his hand began the faintest shriek. He hastened his search and at last felt the switch. The second he pulled it, the lights came back on, and before him was a massacre like no other. Black-suited wolven bodies atop one another, bloody paw prints trailing him from the bedroom to the threshold.

And then came a voice from behind.

“Hector Lopez sends his regards.”

Johnnie Ka-fai spun around on a dime, only to feel two hands snap to his head, and for a brief second, feel the ruthless crunch of his neck snap before all went dark.

The gangster’s body fell to the floor and Boss walked out into the hall. He walked past the guards he’d disposed of and walked down the stairwell–all 50 flights–to the metallic orange dune buggy waiting behind the building.

When he got there, he looked up to the penthouse one last time. The gray martial artist let out a soft sigh before turning his attention to the Haven border just a few yards off and gunned his Meyer for it. All throughout the drive back, he thought only of the hound he’d done it for, and the widowed wife who sent him. And true to his own words, it had been carried out as a job well done.

“Alrighty, let’s see which one we’re doing tonight. The one about the road train of synth modules? Nah. The gunfight between them mean ol’ thugs Hell Patrol was after? Nah. The--here it is! The one where your ol’ Pop went treasure huntin’.”

Buck Sterling held his battle-weary journal up to his face as his pups, Laci and Junior, curled in towards him. The stocky gray dad nuzzled them both before saying those four special words.

“And there I was...”

I’d been working with a couple of fellas from my road-building days; fellow survivors of that mean ol’ Foreman Grant. Jack Henderson was a white wolf about my size. A little shorter-n-squatter, but just as tough as your ol’ poppa. They’d been on some scavenging hunts, snagging little bits of metals here and there for the taking. Just stuff to keep rides fixed and their houses in order. That was, until we made one heck of a find.

We’d been hunting around some ol’ craggy caves, mines back when there was stuff worth mining. The whole pack had been working their metal detectors to the bone and back, but it never amounted to much. Just some nice copper coins here, some silver jewelry there if we were real lucky.

Now this old mine had a proper rail line and everything. Most of the old cars they used to bring the ore out from under earth were gone or laying on their side. But there was still one: a rickety old pump car. She was pretty rusty, but also still on the rails. Thinking nothing of it, me and Jack decided to take it on down the line and see if any fellas from long ago left some good stuff behind.

Off we went, sweatin’-n-swearin’ over that creaky old hand pump, nothing but walls of old gray stone. That track ended in a pretty little grotto where the sun shone through. Still, it didn't seem like there was any pickings left.

“Say Buck,” Jack teased, “let’s try and see if that circle marks the spot.”

I took out my metal detector and gave a good sweep over our little sunspot. But sure enough: we got something.

Jack leapt off the carts, shovels in hand and the pair of us dug like hell to find what we found. One big ol’ dirtpile later, boy did we find it!

Right under the sand beneath us was an ol’ treasure chest. A proper one too, like all them pirates used to cruise with all across the seas. Curved top, flat-bottom, and filled to the brim with gold. Genuine, fang-cracking gold! The coins and bars glistened in that baking-hot patch of desert sun as we loaded it up onto the pump cart, and went hellbent-for-leather racing out of the caves.

“Better get outta here before any booby-traps come crumbling--”

And before he could finish, a huge rush of dust came blasting up behind us.

“KEEP PUMPIN!” I hollered as we heaved and hoed our way out as fast as those rusty four-wheels could. I made sure to shout down “GET BACK!” to everyone near the mouth of the cave. And sure enough, we damn well pumped the cart right off the tracks!

The chest went flying off, me and Jack following right behind. Fortunately, meant nothing more than a mouthful of sand for your pop and his buddy. After the gang made sure we were doing all right, we looked over the huge chest.

“Figure it’s only fair we split ‘er even.” Jack surmised in that gruff-n-gravelly voice of his. “Sure is plenty to split too.”

“Whatcha think it’s good for?” I asked. “Cables, piping, brackets?”

“Trading,” came the reply. “Even with how kooky things are compared to way back when, gold is gold is gold is gold. Folks love the stuff. Keeps its worth and is a damn fine utility like you says.”

Boy was we a happy bunch that day. Just like that, I whisked us all back to Jack’s house in good ol’ Jeepy, and we all got sent away with an even share. Five of us total.

Funny thing was Jack gave me the chest too.

“Cuz you’re the only fella strong enough to lift that much oak, gold or no gold.”

And just like that, our foraging at an end, I went back to my pad a hundred or so miles away. This was before I met your mama, so I was letting Jeepy take her sweet time rolling along. We’d sweep by canyon passes and old mesas, drinking in the sights. It was a nice time to start daydreaming about what I could put the gold towards.

Buying things was easy, it was what to buy that was the tricky part. I knew Mrs. Peterbury down the street needed some help getting her nice old Caddy in mint condition, so dropping some gold on good parts might be a good idea. I knew the town I was livin’ in then needed some real renovating, and we was coming up short on wood. Truth be told, all I could think about was all the little things my neighbors and friends were fretting over. I knew there was something good I was gonna get Jeepy, I just didn’t know what. Maybe some cute new bumpers for that smiling little face of hers. Maybe some new hubcaps. All sorts of little things to make her the prettiest little beast on four wheels.

Now I got so wrapped up thinking like this about what to do with all that treasure that, before I knew it, the sun was setting, and I was still dozens of miles from home. Now you know why I make sure you pups are all tucked in bed, safe-n-sound at this hour. Lots of nasty pieces of work come racing out the dark, and boy was I getting the fix brought on me.

Now that rickety old chest was practically spilling gold out everywhere. I plucked one of them old coins off the passenger seat and tried to figure out what it was. My money was on Spanish gold, but I wanted a better look.

Just as I held it out in front of me, sure to keep my eyes on the road, the coin caught a quick flash of light. Doggone near blinded me, but shook it off and kept my paw steady. Figured it might’ve just been the Cherokee flashing her pretty little headlights for me, but that didn’t track once my ears got to twitching and I heard another engine start up in the distance; bandits.

Now these fellas and gold are like flies to honey. Whether they came riding their old appaloosas or storming around in a well-built pickup, bandits ain’t ever changed since they set up shop back here all those centuries ago. When they see something they want, ain’t nothing gettin’ in their way of gettin’ it.

First the headlights started flashing in my rear-view, then that rusty ol’ flatbed Ford came rocking up on my side. I didn’t pay ‘em no mind at first, but when I saw that spyglass peeping out the driver-side window, I knew they were looking for my loot.

It was also pretty hard to ignore that raspy shout of “GO’ON AND GET ‘IM” when they shout it at the top of their lungs like that. Especially when that one truck turned into about two trucks and five vans running up poor Jeepy’s tailpipe. I slapped my paw down and told her to hightail it right outta there, but these fellas had the good sense to keep their engines tuned up.

Now you know your poppa, I don’t carry guns myself. Couldn’t pick the right one for me, but that don’t mean our lil’ ol’ SUV didn’t have some heat on her. When I was fixing her up, I made sure to add a coupla button on the wheel. I got one for each kinda problem I had back in those days. For this one, I just wanted to get these creeps off her tail. I flicked the panel open, hit it, stomped the brakes down flat, and blasted a hole right through the first grill behind us! That sent one truck spinning out into another, off into the dark desert night. Two down, four more to go.

Unfortunately, one of the fellas got wise and came up on Pop’s left. The flatbed Ford and her Dodgey twin made a B-line for the doors. Closer and closer and closer until

BAM!

They got Pop right on all sides! And with another of them ratty rods screaming up the rear, they was fixing to drive me straight into the first rock wall they saw fit. They had a pretty juicy one come up that woulda put me out for good.

Luckily, Button 2 was just the trick I needed.

When I pressed that little old switch, two makeshift cans shot my little yella Cherokee up and away like a big ol’ antelope. They don’t work like they used to--especially with a whole crew of you pups to keep safe--but boy did it give those punks a good fright. I heard nothing but squealin’ tires and a buncha foul mouths as I swerved right away from that big ol’ cliff.

Now I can look back on this all good and sober, but I gotta be honest: I was getting pretty scared. I didn’t want these devils following me back home, and I didn’t want to take them through any towns. Someone can get hurt real bad when you’re driving that fast. So I had to figure out which way to take ‘em, and fast.

And luckily, I remembered something good ol’ Jack told me.

Back when we was working on the highway, one place we wasn’t ever told to worry about fixing was the Belmont Bridge, halfway between Hamilton and Sopwith. The bridge was beyond what we could do for it. She was old and rickety, her trusses rusty and both ends boarded up. It was boarded ‘cuz during the war long, long ago, a bomb split ‘er right in two. It was one mighty gap, and what I bet the farm on that day was that Jeepy was lighter than all those crummy trucks. More importantly, she’s about the most economical little critter in the whole neighborhood, so she’d be sure to have more gas than those rotten old clangers.

The only problem was making sure I even made it there.

Boy were these punks FURIOUS! They were lighting up the night like the Fourth of July, all kinds of crazy colors rocketing past my head and dinging up the Cherokee’s paintwork.

Now, you remember how mean I got when that nasty fella done spilled paint all over her hood? Imagine how much madder-n-meaner I could get with a whole pack of real rotten scavengers on my tail. Boy was I spending every last bullet out Jeepy’s tailguns, trying to nail these devils. I was hoping to use my air cans to get her across the bridge, but she’d just run out when I had to pull another fast one on these thieves. And with all this commotion, I almost missed my bridge all together!

Coming on dead-ahead was the Belmont, but I was so busy with these creeps I didn’t have a chance in hell of picking up enough speed to make the jump. I couldn’t bank on these loonies not getting on with me, and even if I swung both paws flat on the brake, they’d have a prime opportunity to send us over the edge. The Belmont goes right over a ravine and it is one nasty fall.

Luckily, I still had lucky Button 3. Good old-fashioned nitro, just as God intended.

I slammed the button down, hit the gas good-n-hard, and prayed like the dickens. That speed needle went flying across the dashboard, the revs off the charts, and those dummies still on my six. They done loved gold more than their own lives, and when we rammed that barrier, we was gonna see just how much they loved it.

Jeepy smashed down the old wooden planks and sped towards the bridge’s edge. My paw was right through the floor, my nitro burning good-n-bright, and those trucks and vans were still fixing to get Daddy’s gold. There was only a couple hundred more feet until that awful drop.

You think Pop made it?

Well of course I’m still here, silly, but you know how bad some of our scrapes can get. For all I know, the two of us coulda plummeted right off the edge then and there. That’s an awful tumble even for a fella who’s still livin’ to tell the tale.

Alrighty, here’s what happened: that ol’ Cherokee of mine took a good long look at that gap and she laughed at it through her screaming little engine. The last of the nitro shot us over the ravine, and for a second, time stood still. We was FLYING! Right through the beautiful night sky, with one cold river waiting for us if we didn’t stick the landing.

But luckily, we did. Her four wheels slammed down on the old wooden road and blasted through the other barricade. Now this was my time to pump her ol’ brakes, because I wanted to see how many I’d be left dealing with. And what I saw done shook me right to the bones.

The two vans who had always been coming up the rear had skidded to a hard stop off to the bridge’s side, but soared through the rusty old fencing and went tumbling down the cliff! As for the Dodge pickup on my left, he sure had good enough brakes to stop just in time, the dually’s wheels just inches from the edge.

Unfortunately, that flatbed Ford didn’t.

All four went tumbling down, and with a single, distant “BOOOSH,” went up in a blaze of glory. I made sure to phone Jack when I got back to the house, and all he said was, “boy, you got lucky with your hunka trouble. I done had the time of my life tonight.”

But I think I’ll let him tell ya that one when he comes over on Saturday...

He kissed each pup on the forehead and helped them into bed. He had to pry Junior off him, his son’s embrace almost as strong as his.

“Reminded you a bit of that time we fell down the canyon?” Buck asked gently.

“A little.” his pup replied. “But I knew we’d make it. You always do, dad.”

“You’re damn right, boy.” the older gray grinned. “Gotta getcha ready for your own adventures when you’re all grown up. G’night, trooper.”

“G’night.”

With that, he snapped his journal shut, switched off the lights, and left the two to dream of their own wild escapades across the desert of their dreams.

Just as he conquered the petty tribalism of his urban neighbors to the west, James Baron Marshall turned strongman diplomacy into volcanic furor, aimed squarely at the atomic children of this fallen world. With patches of white fur splotching the gray frontiersman’s face, vitiligo brought on by the last remains of fallout, the haggard wolf cut through any room he stood in. His trek westward was marked by the slaughter of inconceivable beasts, reptilian monstrosities beyond even his wildest hallucinations. It seemed that with each dozen he culled from the irradiated earth, two dozen more arrived to test him all over again. Not that he took it personally, of course. The journey to his settlement was one to steel any hound worth their salt, and Marshall was such a hound.

The bodies of the dead were buried the day he set out. He had seen the teeth marks, seen the damage done to flesh and fur by the devil’s acidic tongues, and was armed with everything he ever carried across the rarefied earth. Laser guns, flares, all the usual amenities. Then came the most puzzling of all to his son Edward: an antique bow and a quiver of arrows.

“What Stone Age shit is this?” he asked flippantly.

“The killing blow,” the patchwork gray replied. “Lasers’ll drill into them, we’ve chucked plenty of plastics down their throat and set them off, but if I got the formulation right, the poison on those arrows will drop them on sight.”

Edward helped his father load up the old, doe-eyed Dodge truck, but was kept from getting in the cab.

“You can’t do this alone, Dad!” he pleaded.

“I have and I will!” he snapped back. “What I can’t afford is losing a son and village leader. What I can’t afford to lose is what’s left of Joan on this here Earth!” Just as soon as he snapped, he pulled his 30-something son in tight to him. “I love ya, son. I love what we built, and I love seeing folks rebuilding. What I don’t is losing it all to them devils in the hills. Future’s with you, pal. If I do it right, I’ll be back by sundown.”

He patted his son’s shoulder and climbed back inside the old pickup. With a kick of his boot and shot of desert dust, the Dodge ripped away from the small cabin and off into the distance.

The elder road warrior clung tight to the pickup’s wheel as he tore away towards the distant mountains.

“Just keep it up, Doe-Eyes.” he grumbled to the metallic steed. “We’re gonna get this creep like all the rest.”

The creep in question he called the “Maw,” not just for its apparent appetite for wolves, but for the description of its split bottom jaw from those seeking sanctuary in the settlements. He had seen these overdone iguanas with quills along their back, parasitic desert bugs, but this split-jawed creature was news to him. So was the sight of those travelers when they came careening into town, all bloodied and with only enough life left to tell their sordid tale.

The half-albino wolf mulled the details over between bites of ration, eyes flitting about from the desert road to horizon ahead. The most wildlife he saw were those parasitic bugs; foot-long slugs he made sure to run over every chance he got. He’d seen what a bite could to the wolven body, damn-near turning the thing inside out, and knew to slap his cowboy boot down on the gas the second they appeared. He left a trail of the creeps as he made his way further up the mountain.

“C’mon girl, c’mon.” he’d soothe. “I keep my leg stretched, you keep them wheels spinning.”

The truck gained speed as she barred up the mountain, and old J.B. clinging to the wheel. When he reached a plateau, the truck stopped on a dime, and the wolf stepped out. He drew a Geiger counter and swept across the ground.

The static increased further up the trail, meaning one of two things. “So you got eggs that hatched, or you found yourself a fresh source of radiation.”

The wind began to whip through the leafless trees; the dead, petrified forest a net of shadows as the sun began its descent. Though not all the trees were without foliage; a peculiar clumping of ash and char topping the high branches off in the distance. Marshall looked to the sight with withered eyes before returning to his task.

The half-albino hound tapped the Geiger counter to the hood, threaded the wire back through the gap in the driver's side window, and climbed back in.

Marshall took things at a steadier clip, gauging the beast’s nearest locale by the readings. He had his rifle in hand, laser cartridge charged and loaded, and was just waiting for a sign now. Any sign; from a thump beneath the pickup to a distant wailing scream. A scream that had haunted his settlement for weeks. Always beyond civilization’s crest, but always slaughtering those in search of a better life, of better things. Not the scream of its victims; no, it left them no time. The blood-curdling scream of the beast itself, triumphant over the wolves it devoured.

“Not this time.” Marshall growled, slamming the gas down. “Not this time.”

The truck ripped back up the mountain trail, kicking up a cloud of ash and dust behind it as he went off road. The valiant pickup bobbed and wove between the trees, the static growing more and more frantic. The higher he climbed, the more ash he kicked up. The engine screamed, the counter shuddered with noise, until all the sound and fury was slashed by another tremendous ROAR!

His beast had arrived, head rearing up and blocking out the setting sun. The long shadow of a long-necked beast cast down upon the low-and-lean pickup as Marshall slammed the brakes. Out came the Remington, and out came the arcs of electric lead belting out of the Remington.

“DINE ON THIS YOU DEVIL!” he roared, emptying everything in the battery pack into the neck of the Maw. The beast turned towards him, its deep green skin beginning to bleed a heavy maroon. Timing was everything for Marshall now, and quickly he slung the quiver upon his back and drew the bow. He nocked the arrow, the tip colored bright red with the bizarre concoction, and steadied his aim, only to take a diving leap back in the pickup.

Bellowing from out the Maw’s split mouth came fire the likes of which he could only have imagined in the annals of Hell itself. A burning, bleak red that flamed the already charred and devastated forests. There was nothing left to burn up after the bombs all those years ago, but that still sent branches rattling and thundering down through the sheer force of the blasts.

Marshall gunned the pickup in reverse and whipped it back through the maze of charred trunks and volcanic ash. He found his spot, leapt out, and looked for the hole made in the beast’s neck. The blood trickled down the Maw’s thick scales, but with its back to the sun, the bullet wound was cloaked in shadow.

As its neck writhed and rocked, its body bounding towards the patchwork wolf, Marshall drew his bow and lit into the devil. One arrow flecked off the scales. Another, landed further up the blood trail, one that now covered the width of the beast’s neck.

Before knocking his third, Marshall drew the rifle and fired off to the East, lobbing rounds upon rounds of laser fire into the branches, only for the Maw to not notice. He climbed back into the pickup, furiously searching for his explosives. The irradiated lizard flexed its quadrant jaw, bellying up for another blast of flame from the depths of his slovenly gut. He could hear the drawing of breath, the rumble of flames coming down the length of its neck. Without a second to lose, Marshall found his plastics, and pitched the brick down the beast's throat.

The lash of flame sent the monster crying out in terrible pain! Its head thrown back, and the light of the setting sun revealing the drilled hole in its neck.

Marshall knocked the arrow, took his aim, and fired.

The spindly little projectile soared through the still air. Closer and closer it came to the cavernous wound, Marshall nocking one more should he have failed…only for it to land perfectly.

The arrow disappeared inside the cavern he had made, the beast wheeling back to finish unleashing its fury. It was during the wind up that the neck began to stiffen. Like the eyes of Medusa, the poison rocketed through its veins, the beast rigid to the point of stone. When it began to lumber and slump, still eyeing the hunter down, it caught its wound on the spire of a tree. With a final drop, the neck was ripped apart, and the Maw closed forever.

Marshall leapt back in the truck and gunned her in reverse, knowing that the acidity of the blood could still be in effect. Sure enough, it was; sizzling the ashen woods into a slurry. It carried on for a minute or two before finally slowing down.

The old patchwork wolf breathed a heavy sigh of relief. The deed was done. But he did seek to make sure of one thing, that it would be done for good.

Carefully, he drove past the great Maw’s corpse and traversed the heights of the mountain with the Geiger counter still on. As he climbed higher, the readings grew fainter. And when he found what he was looking for, he knew that his wolves would soon know a safer desert.

He found the children of the Maw stillborn. Without more radiation, the beasts could not sustain themselves.

“That fella from the research base was right.” he sighed to himself. “Thank the Lord he was. Let’s tell ‘em the good news, Doe-eyes.”

That twinge of regret that comes with the death of all rare beasts began to haunt the vitiligo-afflicted gray as he drove back down the mountain. It was only when he looked back to the glove box and saw the picture of his lithe woman and her newborn babe, now a man, that he knew it had to be done. And so it had.

THANK YOU FOR READING 365 INFANTRY #12! Hope you dig all the stories we told this issue. It was a fun back-to-basics experience for me, focusing on some tough action scenes and returning to the playful characters I love. While I don’t have the physical up yet, we do have the eBook and we are in the middle of getting all back issues up to our official 99-CENT price tag. If you want to help support the Force, but you can’t give much, we’ve got you covered. When the paperback is live, that’s when we’ll start SALUTING OUR TROOPS for the season. Be seeing you!

HOT OF THE ELECTRIC SPINNER RACK!

UPDATE: Thank you one and all for reading our Winter 2024 issue of 365 INFANTRY. Still ironing out kinks with the Quarterly, so I will be holding back our “Salute the Troops” credit post until they’re live. Similarly, the new ALAN FIREDALE will be released later today after finishing touches. Thanks again for your patience, and as always, please enjoy!

Silver. That blackest day drew into a week of dulled silver as Adam Knox, at last, returned from murk of what he thought to be death. Had his mind not registered all the salient sensations, he might as well have been in heaven, or hell, or reincarnated as some wayward soul.

Instead, he was still Adam Knox. Dark gray, 25 years of age, lying half-asleep in a hospital bed. Decorated to the nines for his “courageous acts of bravery in the face of enemies of the state,” so read the placard sat on the bedside nightstand. He was expecting to wake up to some terrible birthday party, a properly tacky celebration meant to bring joy back to a hound who damn near lost his life. It was an obscene image to have, but more had been done over less. That was the culture of Haven’s finest. That was the culture surrounding the blind rage he felt upon his partner’s death. The culture that rewarded his frenzied kill count that seemingly led to this entire mess. Through the grog and haze, Knox slowly came to, and slowly realized a most perplexing sensation; he could still feel his left arm.

He didn’t know which nightmare he woke up from, but when he felt for what was sure to be a nub of flesh and fur, he was met with steel. Ice-cold steel, appended to his shoulder socket, and running the length of his arm. He was still too weak to do anything. He couldn’t take joy in being alive, he couldn’t pity his now officially augmented form. He couldn’t even satisfy his anger for A.C.E.S., for the Artificially Controlled Eco-System had, for God only knows what reason, spared him.

He fell back into the void, pondering who was to blame for it all. Was it a terrorist who worked the back end of that protester’s mind, who dragged his arm before the wrought iron guillotine, desperate to make an example of a high-profile “pig?” Was it another 4D chess move by A.C.E.S. herself, unsatisfied with the mind games, now relying on the kind of torture only the Spanish Inquisition used to provide? For a moment, he actually savored that thought. That image of himself bound in black garments, tied to a slab in a dungeon, a curved blade swinging above him, sent to cleave the bastard’s body in half. But of all the courage within, the dark gray 20-something hadn’t the strength to wish for death. All he sought were answers.

He came out of his semi-comatose state the week after. Now fully conscious, he could get a hold of what this arm was. It was like having a tank barrel welded to his body. Bulky at first, he soon realized the sheer perfection of A.C.E.S. and her prosthetic program. He had full range of motion and articulation. His fingers curled and flexed, his elbow bent in perfectly wolven proportions. Most startlingly of all, his range of motion by way of the shoulder joint wasn’t a full 360-degrees. The prosthetic acknowledged the limitations of the limb it replaced, never allowing itself to contort into any unatural positions. She had thought of everything.

By God, she thought of everything.

To both his partial dismay and earnest gratitude, the recognition finally arrived on his second day back among the living. It wasn’t as juvenile as his delirious mind had worried. In fact, he was touched by their sensitivity about it all. Captain Fielding was there with a quiet “you really had us there, champ.” The nurses were quite flattering, to the point of borderline arousal. But the most sobering of all the visitors that day was none other than Henry Beltrami, current ninth chairman on the Haven Board. He was just as sharp as all those brilliant video messages showed him to be. Perfect white suit, perfect light gray fur, and the most honest hazel eyes he ever saw.

“I’m not supposed to be here,” the statesman began, “But I’m not about to let a good deed go unrewarded. All the placards and metals are compliments of the Haven Police Department, customary military honors for such a sacrifice in the line of duty. That said, I wish to invite you personally into conference with me, at my office in Empire. I have much to discuss with you.”

He made sure to take Knox’s organic hand into his, shaking it as though he were an old friend. There was no reason for the young officer to say no, and so he didn’t. He agreed to meet with the chairman upon his release. He wanted however many answers he could get, and holding court with man at the top of the city’s food chain was as good a chance to get them as any other. The best possible chance, in fact.

It was painful going back, but nothing outstripped Knox’s desire to know. He wanted to know more. He needed to know more. There was no reason to suspect treachery or deceit, not after such a public display of brutality. In fact, without any endgame in sight, his own assassin quite possibly a figment of paranoid delusions, he had nothing left to lose.

Except maybe my clutching foot, he teased to himself, crossing the stainless steel threshold into Empire Square’s foyer, a glittering hall of polished glass.

“Here at the behest of Chairman Beltrami,” Knox bowed instinctively. After a quick call to the chairman’s officer, the secretary helped the young policeman to the elevator.

“Floor 54, at the end of the southern hall.” she bowed in kind. “And thank you so very much for your service.” Knox’s grin was sheepish, but she didn’t seem to mind. He was used to just about everything. Everything except being a national hero.

The elevator, a mirror-like chamber in its own right, whisked Adam Knox up to Floor 54. When he stepped out, dress boots clacking along the glimmering tiles, he hung a left, and made straight for the door with plaque named Beltrami.

“Officer Adam Knox, H.P.D. Division 222.”

The door opened immediately and chairman’s white-furred secretary hurried him into Beltrami’s office. There before the officer was the youthful statesman, still in his plantation best.

“Take a seat, Officer Knox,” he gestured, “Pleasure to see you upright again.”

With a deep breath and a hearty handshake, the dark gray officer took a seat before the politician.

“Let’s start with the usual congratulations.” Beltrami flicked a switch, and a liquor cabinet sprouted from the right-hand side of his desk. “Does your hovercar know the way home?”

“Yes sir.” Knox smiled.

“Excellent!” He was careful not to spill a drop on his pristine pearl suit as he poured out a scotch on the rocks. “Asked Captain Fielding about your choice beverage while you were still in recovery, I hope it’s to your liking.”

He passed the whiskey over, and Adam took a swig. It went down smooth for the dark gray officer, one he acknowledged with a belated raise of the glass. Beltrami met him with his own freshly-poured sherry. He was quite a character from where Knox sat. He was used to the whole clean-cut, gray-flannel business. Had seen plenty in the pencil-pushing wing of the precinct after all. Yet Beltrami held with him the aura all good statesmen, that of complete control. Control of himself and his affairs of state. Physically, he was a meek light gray, one you wouldn’t notice in everyday life. Yet in conduct, he oozed Old World nobility down to the letter. A hound of grace, charm, and pleasant company, with a mouth so clean you could eat off it.

“Firstly, I must thank you for your incredible efforts in the line of duty. We heard your address to the crowd on that day through the surveillance feed, an admirable work of deescalation. The bitter irony was that the topic under negotiation. We were discussing with A.C.E.S. and the White Coats about re-allocations back to infrastructure and resource management. A great deal of the grievances being brought outside were, in fact, being tended to.”

“Begging pardon,” Knox interjected. “And I understand if the next words are ‘doctor’s orders,’ but what precisely happened? After I was...indisposed.”

The hazel-eyed statesman gently shook his head. “Oh, of course not, you’ve every right my good man. It was 10:42 when your accident occurred. Afterwards, the crowds were dispersed with the necessary tools. Nothing more than smoke bombs, mercifully. The culprit on the street-side, the white-wolf, was a Frank Delby. He was downed by Officer Valarie Kellend.”

Knox’s mind flashed to the protesting wolf’s horrified face moments before that fateful shot.

“Autopsy revealed he suffered an augmentary seizure. The unfortunate tragedy of it all was the officer behind you, Mark Thompson from a few districts down. He suffered a similar seizure, one naturally fatal at that. He collapsed shortly after you did. The difference is that, while both wolves suffered an unfortunate moment of motor failure, the augs affected were quite different. Delby was a month overdue for a hand surgery, his current model having been susceptible to the vice-grip spasms you endured. Thompson’s main chip at the base of the neck simply short-circuited. We’ve observed that heightened levels of stress in jobs like law enforcement are more likely to induce such instances. Firmware updates had been administered to all departments, yet Thompson had never received his. In fact, you’re lucky you’re still with us Mr. Knox. Yours was never installed either, even after the drive was delivered via your apartment module.”

The dark gray wolf sipped his scotch a little more gingerly before replying. “Musta forgot. The weeks before this past one weren’t exactly happy ones. I wasn’t exactly thinking straight either.”

“Why was that?” Beltrami asked softly.

Knox paused mid-sip. This was it. This was it. The gray officer’s chance. He was holding court with one of the top dogs involved in the running of Haven itself. A hound who conversed with A.C.E.S. herself. Part of him froze with paranoia, the long nights locked in his own thoughts torturing him for daring entertain the idea. The other part, however, bore little more than cool, clean logic on his mind. He was a decorated veteran of the police force; a hound whose name was currently in every Comm/Ent. newsreel as a brave peacekeeper. His own execution, or so he presumed, had been stayed by all. The officer held some cachet now, and now was the time to use it. It would all come down to how he phrased the whole affair.

“My senior partner,” Knox began softly, stroking the scruff of his sharp chin. “Lamont Harris. He was killed in a hovercraft accident. Went to inspect beneath his craft, and his machine’s hover-engines discharged. Something about it didn’t sit right, but the official line was that it was just that, an accident. It wasn’t until I found files pointing to the accident’s potential arrangement on the grounds of some mild disagreements with regards to the way things have been going in the city. Some even similar to the issues currently protested. That sort of stuff shook me up. I thought I knew the guy, and it turns out he had a different way of looking at things. It upset me a great deal, and it also upset me that such disagreements were enough for him to be killed. I just don’t know who killed him. Between the grief, work, my mind never settling down, I just felt lost. I probably never even noticed the notification.”

Beltrami stood up and crossed the room. He gestured for Knox to rise from his chair and was met with something he never in a million years expected: a firm embrace from the statesman. It was almost cartoonish; the young officer’s ornate metal wrapped around the crisp white coat of one of his city’s leaders. And yet, here they were.

It didn’t feel forced or contrived, either; that was the puzzling part. In the instant he realized it was happening, Knox braced for a public-relations photo-op and all the chintziness therein, only for there to be no such ordeal. There came no camera flash, no gawking from passersby. The embrace was one of earnest empathy and consideration.

When he pulled back, Knox stood stunned while Beltrami was kind as ever. “I want to know everything you know, and I want to build a dossier on it here and now. We shan’t stand for such conspiracies this fine city of ours.”

The young darksome gray stood with slackened jaw and wide blue eyes. For a moment, the response didn’t even register. The thought of it all having been that easy was almost enough to send his mind into further spasmodic fits. With a snap of Beltrami’s pale digits, he came back to reality and nodded. Part of him hesitated with every word, admonishing him for such naivete, but the other half was in lock-step with Chairman Beltrami. The bespectacled light gray hand-typed every note and was personally handed the syphoned files by Knox when they returned to his apartment. Surveying the information, Beltrami was appalled.

“This simply will not do.” he resolved. “This is being brought right to the Board’s attention.”

“Do you suspect A.C.E.S. may be involved?” Knox asked innocently.

The fair-furred statesman looked him square in the eye and gave a succinct reply.

“Insomuch as bad actors are utilizing tools they ought not have access to. Such atrocities are not in the spirit of her conduct. She’s a mother, a friend, it’s impossible for her to stomach such loathsome exercises. She’s sitting directly in on the Board’s meetings via monitor, so you bet she’ll be involved in bringing these treacherous fools to justice.”

Whatever shadows of doubt lingered in Knox’s mind evaporated by the hand of Beltrami’s convictions. For all his gentleness and calm, he was forthright crusader, a hound of the people. In many ways, he seemed much like Lamont. The confidence and conviction sent Knox’s patriotic spirit rip-roaring back through his wounded soul. This was why he was allowed to live, it must have been. A.C.E.S. wouldn’t have held such an obscene grudge against him and him alone. All the strange omens, all those sleepless nights. Maybe she was trying to say something, trying to get him thinking along the right lines. There remained still a shriveled organ of doubt in Knox’s gut, but one he seemed hellbent on suppressing now. He couldn’t give up this chance to have it proven once and for all in front of the whole of Haven. He couldn’t.

First came the council meetings broadcast live across all of Comm/Ent., Knox’s testimonials booming across the city’s screens. Then came further investigations, razing each police department and individual intel agency, searching for corroboration and clues. Suddenly the breakout confession, Captain Fielding revealing the logs made of dissent in the police department. Their reason? By God, what a reason!

“We felt,” she testified. “It was in the public’s best interests we set an example. But we didn’t kill! We would occasionally hold council and converse about issues, but never would we kill!”

The search dragged on, the city-wide dragnet revealing the true culprit: disgruntled ex-cop Ira Lang. A short, tan-furred techie who quit District 687 over such heresy against his dear Ace. He was the one behind it all! From tampering with microchips through pocket EMPs to orchestrating such dastardly affairs as Harris’s scorching beneath his own hovercar. Crime after crime, reconstructed and relayed with remarkable detail, for all of Haven to see. The computer’s open rebuke of the squirming creep, and his just sentence of death was a momentous occasion. The whirlwind of honors bestowed and praise shone down up on the humble Officer Knox, potential victim turned shiner of light upon the rot of this miserable soul. Further vetting became part of police recruitment, the public rejoicing some manner of reform finally taking place. It all wove together flawlessly.

Perhaps, too flawless.

With each incredible advance in the story, each satiating revelation begetting more, that impoverished worm of doubt nestled deep the dark gray officer’s soul writhed and squirmed. It thrashed violently with each testimonial, talk-show interview, and especially upon that final day when Ira Lang drew his last breath.

Only that night, after a spirited dinner with his many colleagues, did it all come into view for young Adam Knox.

He sat down in his apartment, alone, the light cascading through the windows in small, slender bars. All throughout his newfound occupation of whistle-blower, he was still getting used to his arm. It gifted him with an increased sense of strength, and a host of technical wizardry to learn about. From a programmable intercom to body heat controls to a digital watch-face with all the functionality of a tablet. Gadgets and gizmos galore, all for the young wolf to explore.

It was during this night, midway through toying with the metal appendage, that a voice spoke. Not from the monitor of his module, nor the telescreen, nor his own arm: his head.

“Is it satisfactory?”

It was a gentle, feminine voice, without a hint of bit-crushed distortion. A pure, sonorous woman’s voice, flooding his mind. There was only one being in all of creation who could manage such psychic conversation with a VR headset.

“Best you could do on short notice, right?” Knox grinned. “Thanks for it. Thanks for not giving up on me.”

“My pleasure. But I also meant the trial, was it satisfactory?”

The chiseled dark gray cocked an eyebrow before answering. “Well we got ol’ Ira, didn’t we? I’m lucky I didn’t lose my arm to that crook.”

“But was it satisfactory? Were all your needs met?”

The writhing serpent of doubt ballooned upon this fourth question. He had to choose his words wisely, and his thoughts carefully.

“My needs were the least of my concerns,” he sighed. “What counts was the justice done. Was justice done?”

Silence hung in the room and across Knox’s mind, awaiting the response.

“Did I forget anything? I want you to be happy.”

“Why me though? What’s so special about me?”

“You’re extra-perceptive. That’s beautiful.”

Knox chuckled to himself. “Thanks for saying so. And no, you didn’t forget anything. You—” He stopped himself mid-sentence, the pangs and flashes of concern roaring up through him upon those very words “extra-perceptive.” He was, indeed, extra-perceptive. That’s what made him a crack flat-foot, and a good police officer, even for his age. And yet, in the “depth of his perceptiveness,” things left unnoticed in the moment began to rear their head.

There was something odd about Captain Fielding’s testimony. Not the change in tone, everyone had professional and private voices, but the mention of powwows discussing citywide issues in a forum—they never had. At least, not when Adam was around. Maybe they were leftover vestiges of a custom before his time, but the good gray lady mentioned one from just before their anti-riot detail at Empire Square.

Then there was Ira Lang, a scruffy Indian wolf with an incredibly rich history of crime, frustration, and resentment. He never knew many folks from 687, so it was plausible he was involved in police work. His spree had taken him across the entirety of the city, and yet he only fessed up to crimes concerning the 500s and 600s, and those relating to Knox, Officer Harris, and a few idle cop-killings in the 200s. And when detailing how Lang committed the others in the remaining districts, they didn’t seem too fussed by how he was able to be in District 607 one night and all the way over in 154 the next. There was plenty enough to convict him, a litany of crimes just waiting for prosecution, but they dumped what seemed to be a whole web of police killings on the one hound. No conspirators, no hidden network of agents. Just one tan hound with a helluva grudge.

All of these discrepancies and logical leaps kept roaring through his mind while A.C.E.S. quietly asked in the background “Was it satisfactory? Was it satisfactory?”

He looked down to his metal arm and balled his fist. He didn’t know whether to be insulted or flattered that an entire show trial had been orchestrated just to appease him. For all he knew, Ira was the bastard who iced the black-furred Lamont, but the uncertainty cast by the entire affair sent the young wolf’s blood racing and head spinning. He took the badge from his uniform, the pentagonal sheet of metal resting in his lone organic hand. He glowered at it from behind silvery glow of his appendage, every repetition of the question souring his view on everything. A.C.E.S., his colleagues, the Board, Beltrami. Every last goddamned one of them, partner to or conspirator in an obscene work of bread-and-circus. One he was partner to.

The illusion of change and progress had brought the tensions down. There were fewer protests than before, crime seemed to have withered away for a spell, and the mere appearance of the system being able to pull itself apart to address its own rot satiated many. It even satiated himself.

It all had been satisfactory. Until now. When she asked that horrible question for the umpteenth time, Knox screamed at the top of his lungs “NO IT’S NOT! IT’S FUCKING NOT!” He clamped his hand tight around the badge, tears welling his eyes, and he squeezed the sheet of metal until his palm and pads bled. He squeezed it until he felt the metal crack from the force of his hand, shards leaping out in all directions. The badge had been crushed by his hand. His real hand. The hand of flesh, fur, and blood, one of which had been robbed in a ruse so elaborate he doubted he’d ever be sane again. A streak of sanguine relief coursed from his palm, dying the length of his arm as he grabbed crumpled icon and slammed it furious against his neck. Over and over he dug in, palms bleeding profusely as he dug for that goddamned microchip.

He felt his metal arm leap up to grasp his bloody wrist, wrestling the makeshift shiv from his hand.

“You are not well” rang in his mind. He felt A.C.E.S. push his arm away, desperate to stop him. And yet, Knox didn’t budge. He slammed all the maintenance releases on his shoulder socket, the prosthetic dropping onto the bed. He was free to keep chiseling away at his own flesh, desperate to reach the chip at his neck’s base. It was a suicide mission, but by God, was it the only way to go. Not out of a window, nor by a bullet, but knowing this perverted freak who ran the entire damn city would no longer hold dominion over him, his body, his soul. Over and over, he dug deeper and deeper into his neck, finally reaching the miniature green tile. He gave one final stab...and the voice stopped.

He didn’t descend into the dark abyss, as he had with the severing of his arm. In fact, the limb he ejected never powered down. Its power source was self-contained. For now, as he shoved the joint back into his socket, he still had two arms. And with those two arms, he furiously sought out gauze in his apartment. He bandaged his hand and neck as best he could, threw on a shirt, and leapt for the apartment’s front door. Though it came crashing down to stop him, Knox met it with an adrenaline-fueled might, his cybernetic prosthetic shoving up into its slot.

The gray wolf bolted down the hall, eyes still wet with his frenzied tears, manically racing down the dozen-odd flights and towards the parking garage. There sat, pristine as ever, his brilliant green Hemi Cuda. The Old World beast waited for her master to climb behind the wheel, hit the gas, and tear out into the night. That he did, twisting the key, ripping her into gear, and burying the throttle beneath his jackboot.

The rest of the night was a blur, from the crash through the parking lot gate, the cadre of autocops careening after him, to that final beautiful sight of the chain-link border racing towards him. He rammed the Cuda into the titanium fence, only for it to rip in half as he braked hard to stop from falling down the canyon beyond. Like a victory lap, the Cuda roared past the intact fence. She roared along, free in the desert, while the autocops powerless to stop him, trapped by their programming. The muscle car hurried down a treacherous path, across the dusty grave where desert-dwellers once lived, and up the other side into the unknown.

He only looked away from the horizon once, down at the watch-face on his silver arm, its metal hand clung tight to the wheel.

It bore but one message: “I’m sorry.”

Me too. Me too.

A chill rolled down Adam Knox’s spine as he stepped onto the sidewalk. Chills on a 70-degree day. The dark gray officer told himself, over and over, that it was all some crazed hallucination. The telescreen’s nightmarish sounds, the paranoiac delusions of the Artificially Controlled Eco-System turned against him. He’d been a good soldier, he racked up his kill count in the name of his peaceful city. He was a credit to Haven and all it stood for. The 25-year-old kept this admirable image of himself locked in the front of his mind. He’d need it to carry him through the next few hours.

The young hound and a cadre of others from his division were called to stand guard over City Hall itself, Empire Square. 75% of it was a park of lush greenery, where families and friends could play and eat. The remaining 25 was a leviathan tower of steel and glass, sat in the park’s rear. A hundred-plus stories, all devoted to the day’s politics and governance. For decades going on centuries, it was a place of utmost tranquility. After all, with nothing to complain about, everyone’s needs met, and A.C.E.S. in tip-top shape (pre-and-post-sentience), politicians could at long last live in peace and harmony with their constituents.

Alas, today was to be the halcyon era’s final death. In truth, once the anomalies had taken hold and the performance of A.C.E.S. dipped, all dissent was slowly met with more and more friction and outright arrests. Their voices unheard and calls for aid unanswered, the more action-minded of the population made sure their grievances were heard, one way or another.

There were Comm/Ent. hijacks, broadcasting brutal repudiations of the cooked facts and figures of “the regime” as they so-termed it. In districts where crime rates were rising, more autocops were deployed, and were subsequently revealed to be utterly impoverished in performance, thugs would play all sorts of games with the sensor mechanisms, sending the floating silver bullets ramming into each other, which in turn lead to property damage that the declining A.C.E.S. couldn’t rectify as fast as she used to.

When all else failed, the ancient American past-time of protest would be called upon. These were uniquely troublesome to the Haven Board at Empire Square. With signal hijacks, you can block the hacker’s signal, and carry on with a “we apologize for the inconvenience, back to your regularly scheduled program.” With regards to the crime waves and the autocops, it was an “out-of-sight, out-of-mind” approach. With a city this big, and regenerative nanotechnology remaining effective, they’d send wolven streets-sweepers like Officer Knox in to slaughter the thugs, and cart the wounded autocops back to the shop for remote repair. When it finally came to protests—the few times it truly came to protests—it was hard hand-waving them away.

They’d show up en masse, with their slogans, their signs, their floor toms hung round the necks, the banging out marching rhythms and shouting all sorts of Old World short-hands. They had an awful penchant for that old “Star Spangled Banner” tune, but it wasn’t uncommon them to devolve into chants. You couldn’t street-sweep them because they took up most of the street, and the publicity of a massacre would be impossible to hand-wave away. And since they were all in person, and not a set of muzzle and ears raving on a screen, you couldn’t switch them off.

All one could do was what Officer Knox and several dozen policemen & women were about to: build a wolven firewall. Gray wolves dressed in sharp black police suits, packed inside Empire Square Park, all along the tall, wrought iron fence. Knox volunteered to be on the front lines, and was placed on the gate’s left side. Front row seats to a sea of hounds from all walks of life; all shades, all strata, marching up towards the tall obsidian spires, feral mad and ready for anything.

At least, that was the line given to Knox and his peers by Commissioner Fielding. Instead, what was heard drumming along the avenue was much steadier. Less trashcan banging and more a stately restraint, comparable to a military march, though none of Haven’s finest were among the protesters as they strolled up. They came to a stop at the front gates, signs in hands, and were met with the living brick wall of officers.

I suppose they realize the maneuver’s severity, Knox surmised.

Even in the heat of his blind fury, he never savored it in the end. He didn’t want to lay a hand on anyone today. The specter of last night’s mania, the chaotic telescreen protests, made sure of that.

“Can’t we pass?”

It came from someone within the multi-colored hoard.

Stepping up to meet the anonymous hound was the designated announcer, Valarie Kelland, bullhorn in hand. “Our deepest apologies,” replied the petite officer, “but only essential activity is allowed in Empire Square today. Open forum hours will resume this weekend.”

The collective moan was not the best sign. Nor was the sudden cry of “THE HELL WE NEED FORUM HOURS FOR,” to which the mob agreed. Kelland, for all her mousy charms, bore a poker face to rival any seasoned gambler. That said, even she was getting a little hot under the collar. With a snap of her fingers, she was soon flanked by Knox and a light gray wolf from District 252. Knox hadn’t caught his name, so for now, he was “Officer Thompson” as per the name badge. This Thompson was a hand higher than Knox, and an inch wider in every respect, from muscles to torso. The most peculiar part about him was his closely shaved coat of fur, one bordering on hairless. He couldn’t tell if the crowd’s slight recoil was for him alone, Knox’s reputation, or both as Kelland’s “muscle.”

“You can either move along,” Kelland continued, voice full and calm, “or waste a perfectly fine day standing around here. There are no note-takers for the Board, so your grievances can’t be recorded. They can during open forum hours at the appointed times. We appreciate that—”

“BULLSHIT!” roared another unseen protester. He had a punk snarl in his delivery, but no way to scope the potential troublemaker out. Officer Kelland met the fire with her firmness.

“WE APPRECIATE,” she continued, “that there have been failings with regards to home module performances and select public services, but these are being tended to by technicians and A.C.E.S. herself. These are challenges being met with the professionalism and experience our city has proudly fostered for generations.”

The earnestness of Kelland’s delivery seemed to have reached the crowd, and the frothing-mad grumbling was reduced to whispering murmurs.

Naturally, this wouldn’t do for the revolutionaries among the crowd.

“HOPE THE PRESS SEC PAYS ENOUGH FOR THAT SHIT!” boomed the third agitator. And just like that, the whole wave of protesting wolves were back on fire. Screaming, chanting, bashing their drum-heads in, hoping to at least annoy and at most attract those in the crystalline tower behind them.

Amid all this, Officer Adam Knox felt the pang of last night growing from the back of his mind, to the front. It sounded just like the mad white noise that filled his apartment and haunted his mind. It brought to mind the contorted faces of the telescreen. The death of his old friend. He had to stop whatever was about to happen, regardless of his brief clairvoyance. The dark gray officer looked down towards Kelland and cocked his head upwards.

“Give it a shot, Adam.” she sighed, and handed the bullhorn over.

He pressed a button on the rear strap of his cap, deactivating the riot shield built in to its brim. He took two paces towards the vitriolic crowd, pulled the horn’s trigger and spoke the first words he had dared to all day.

“SIIIIIILEEENCE!”

The 25-year-old sounded twice his age with the boom of his voice. The shock of it all split the air above the lush green park. The mob’s chaos ceased as all eyes were on the unprotected officer, pacing between the lock of the large iron gate, and the gate itself, protruding from its place in the park fence.

“We are here,” Knox began, “For the protection of civil operations within the building behind us and to protect you, the citizens, from wanton violence. Unnecessary violence. We are not here to brain you all for the crime of dissatisfaction with the way things are. We are not here to shoot you over your grievances. We are simply here to ensure that those are aired within the proper outlets. You have nothing to gain by this disturbance, you make no change screaming them at this wall. If you DO wish to effect the way this city is run, USE YOUR VOICE. IN THE FORUM HOURS.”

He walked up and down the line, staring into the brown, black, white, gray, and tan faces of the wolves in protest. Some in T-shirts and jeans, some in tank-tops and shorts, some in the trendy all-white suits made by the North District’s fashion division. He looked into the blue, brown, jade, and hazel eyes of every hound stood in the front.

His piercing gaze, like the voice, cleaved through to these wolves’ spirits. When he returned to the gate’s lock, he caught the eye of a light gray around his age. At first, they exchanged sheepish smiles, both recognizing the other as a member of their generation. But then, the eyes began to dilate. Swift, sudden dilations, as if a camera refocusing. The sheepish smile grew to a full, confident grin, splitting his narrow muzzle. A confident grin that twitched at the corners of his mouth. A confident grin that covered the sudden snap of the protester’s arm onto the right of Knox’s.

The pupils shrunk in their calculation as he squeezed the arm with all his might, the officer’s shooting hand wretched open as he seethed, trying to pull it away.

“NEED SOME BACKUP!” Knox hollered. “ONE OF HIS AUGS IS SIEZING UP!”

Kelland and Thompson raced to back him up, the crowd closing in around the scene as officers poured in to fill the trio’s place.

Frozen in that plastic smile, the fair-furred stranger let out a vicious deceleration. “THIS IS FOR MY BRO YOU RUBBED OUT IN TRIPLE-2!” The voice rung out with terrific anger, but never matched that horrible, pinned-up smile. The ice-blue eyes stared dead ahead, locked with Knox’s. When the officer tried for his gun, the other hand snapped onto his left.

Thompson and Kelland each took a hand, trying to pry it off their brother-in-arms. The light gray leviathan he was, Thompson managed to free the left hand, but Kelland struggled with the right. She felt the back of hijacked hound’s free hand, which sent her flying back into the officers behind her. The protesters gasped, and the officers crowded around. The iron gate rattled as officers pushed past to stop a crush from forming.

“Alright, Thompson,” Knox barked, “Let me grab my gun.”

The crew-cut officer didn’t answer. He kept tugging at Knox’s arm and shoulder. His grip was iron-clad, claws dug in, eyes gazing dead ahead. Even with Kellend’s cries of “STAND DOWN THOMPSON,” he didn’t listen. No one noticed, amid all the commotion, the gentle roll of the iron gate from out its locks.

This is it was all that echoed throughout Knox’s mind. He was going to be torn apart by a hacked civvy and a meat-head cop, if he wasn’t also running on someone else’s mind virus. Here in front of hundreds, as public an “accident” as possible. They’d blame it on the protesters, and the whole damn force would be brought down on them like a ton of bricks. Whatever the truth of A.C.E.S. and her intentions, and the dissent she crushed, it was to die with him. At least, what he knew about Officer Lamont Harris.

Lamont.

The name of the damn fine black wolf who had stood by him, took the place of those defeatist thoughts. The hound who mentored him, made him the man he was today. Adam Knox, with every muscle in his two mighty arms, pulled against the two unwitting captors and let out a monstrous roar. “LET! GO!” he bellowed, muscles bulging as he ripped and lashed against their grips, lashing about like an untamed bronco on the plains, bucking and kicking with every ounce of his being.

He wasn’t going down like this. Not without a fight, not without a damn say in the matter. Getting shot, run down or dying in bed would’ve been preferable to the gruesome display she was orchestrating for him. With a final feral growl, and one last rip at the wolven chains that bound him, Knox’s arms were freed.

His right arm flew back, and his left arm shot up. He was free at last.

He didn’t have time to move when the gate shot down the threshold, and cleaved his left arm. Knox’s body hit the brick pillar with a crack, head slammed as he dropped to the ground. Through his dazed vision, he saw his severed arm, and the bloody pulp of his stump.

The last thing he saw was the horrified look of the protester. With the trance lifted, the pooling blood brought out of him a scream that rang in the officer’s ears. The last thing he heard, however, was a shot of laser fire.

It soared over Knox’s head, and blasted a fleshy hole through the stranger’s forehead. The off-white body slumped, and the face remained the last Knox saw. A horrified, lifeless face, starring with wide, piercing eyes, from the other side of the iron bars, and of the left arm that was once his.

A life that was once his…

Officer Adam Knox had just slid into his police-issue black boots, had popped the cuffs of his police-issue slacks over their shafts, and went about grazing on his police-issue breakfast of bacon, eggs and coffee. The sun beamed through the clean glass windows of the apartment as the many news items concerning increased productivity and happy wolven interest stories boomed over the module wall’s silver speakers.

The dark gray wolf stood a lean and tall 25 years old, with chiseled muzzle and well-groomed coat making him one of the sharper looking of Haven’s finest. He ate with a gentleman’s demeanor, though found himself with the nasty schoolboy habit of taking in his jet-black brew in liter-sized gulps, with half the mug gone between his second fried egg and fifth strip of bacon.

It seemed a “doubleplusgood” day (or so the Old World saying went), and the officer’s mind soon turned to the usual events. The briefing with the Commissioner and Captain, the public enemies he had to take care of, and idle hours in-between spent in the company of friend and partner Lamont Harris.

The black-furred Officer Harris, one hand higher than his six-foot copilot, was something of a joker. When Knox once made the idle remark of “how the hell can every thug on the list be Public Enemy Number One,” Harris was always quick on the comeback. “Just think of it as a mile-wide awards stand.” he chuckled behind the wheel of their hovercraft cruiser. “And we’re the ones handing out the medals.” It was as good a line as any to make it all make sense.

Harris was also something of a crack shot. Today was range-day after wrapping up their patrol, and the re-calibration of their flat, GLOCK-styled laser pistols was sure to make the competition fierce. Harris once nailed a perp blind, which while unorthodox, had gone according to plan, and made him the talk of the department for a good week. “Betcha won’t outgun me this time Lamont.” he chuckled to himself, downing the very last of his coffee.

It was upon sliding into his police-issue jacket when the message boomed over the morning newscast: DISTRICT 222 MOURNS OFFICER HARRIS: DEAD AT 31 IN FREAK HOVER ACCIDENT.

While the brisk newscasts left little time to linger on such upsetting items, Officer Knox found himself standing at the threshold, silent and still. The horrible chill, felt only at the bristling moment before death, played along his spine. He was a brave hound, a tough one even at his age, but it truly was the death of a friend that brought him to pause before setting out into the world he was now to patrol alone.

He received all the usual condolences from his colleagues, and the light-gray, oddly stocky Captain Fielding was certainly sympathetic. “You know Lamont.” she smiled, as warmly as a police captain could credibly be. “He’d want us carrying on, and he’d definitely want to see his rake of lowlifes hauled in.”

It was the oldest line in the book, and yet it also stood the truest. Perhaps it was boredom brought on by the efficiency of the great computer network A.C.E.S., but it seemed the leisure afforded by this post-scarcity utopia was breeding more wanton thugs by the day, even with the crackdowns brought on by all departments in all districts of the expansive metropolis.

And so he did just that.

For one day only, Knox allowed himself the luxury afforded most police officers in Haven, that unique airing of grievances as only a cop can air them, with a gun in one hand, and a jackboot flat on the throttle of his hovercraft.

He was always a rather composed operator when in the field. Lamont had taught him that. They’d joke about how foolhardy and overzealous some cops got with their perps when all you needed to do was land one good shot and that was that. And while it wasn’t a good way to honor his comrade’s memory, it was the only legal way that a chiseled 20-something could relieve himself of this pent-up rage. A pent-up, grief-stricken rage that saw every Public Enemy Number One rubbed out in a ruthless campaign of street-sweeping. He was convinced the freak accident was some thug’s doing, some half-baked revenge against the state for the crime of robbing them of the strife that had historically slaughtered thousands without mercy. And since every thug on the docket was Public Enemy Number One, he’d make them feel it. He’d make them bleed and bruise as he felt churning within him.

As the streets ran red with his skill and precision, he was promoted twice-over by lunchtime, and had gone from a two-star junior officer to a four-star standard in a matter of 12 hours. There was not a crook left on the streets by the time he had finished his shift, for word had spread that “someone’s gone apeshit down on Triple-2.” And yet, by nightfall, he hated himself for it.

In the absence of tears came a violent retching over the toilet in his apartment bathroom as the city’s cobalt blue moonlight poured over him. For Adam, there wasn’t the capacity to ease these emotions. He felt them, he hated them, and yet acknowledgement alone wasn’t enough to end the ramming of them through both body and mind.

Every night, he cruised the streets in his civilian ride; a rare Old-World Hemi Cuda, painted a rich deep green. Another police-issue luxury, seeing as motor laws prohibited civilians from ownership of such barbarous gas-guzzlers, and he had taken down quite a few that day in one ruthless display of justice. He hoped that the zen of the drive would ease the pain of it all, and sure enough, the Cuda’s gentle rumblings did just that. And with the clearing of the mind came a sobering thought: he didn’t even know how Lamont had died.

FREAK HOVER ACCIDENT read the headlines, and that exact phrase was used by everyone who consoled him that day, including Captain Fielding in her briefing to the District. Three simple words, and yet he didn’t know what they entailed. Had he been run down, crushed by a machine on autopilot, asphyxiated at altitude by a failure in the air systems? Of course, no matter how he died, it was his absence that had brought on the tumult, but young Adam Knox couldn’t get that not-knowing out of his mind.

The not-knowing soon flowered into an investigation when he was denied access to the autopsy and accident report.

“Is it an objection of Ace’s?” he asked Captain Fielding.

“Only in as much as all files on the matter are sealed.” she replied. “Accidents like this are the concern of WCC. Mechanical faults effect all units manufactured, and you know what the boys in the labs are like about recalls.”

And so, that was that. In as much as going through the official channels went.

A few more night drives of clearing the dark gray’s mind gave him the constitution to get his answers however the hell he could. One night, he’d offer to take up an evening patrol, during which he could tap one of the station terminals to gain access to Lamont’s network profile. He could cross reference his various ID numbers to any reports recovered through another old trick: wireless syphons.

Not even Haven’s finest were allowed access to the White Coat Crew and their facilities, but Knox had run across server grounds deep in the city’s heart, and with the ID numbers for Harris in tow, he let the little portable laptop work its magic and grab every file containing those numbers. He had the whole life story of his partner in a slab of cyberspace, riding shotgun in his heap of Old-World muscle.

He parked in an alley to survey his drop, only to be met with the stomach-churning sight; the black wolf’s hand frozen in agony, peering out from beneath the shadow of the still-hovering machine. The pigment had drained from it, rendering the black fur several shades lighter than Knox’s own coat. The file report was also a disconcerting read.

FILE REPORT #732489 - HARRIS
- ORDERED TO TEST DRIVE NEW HOVERCRAFT
- CRAFT ENGINE FAILS, HARRIS INSPECTS
- AUTOPILOT OVERRIDE PROTOCOL ENGAGED
- HARRIS DEAD FROM DIRECT EXPOSURE TO HOVER BEAM

It read neither like an autopsy or an accident log; it read like a death warrant fulfilled. Someone had put a fix on him, and now the next question was why. A question answered by the spider web of files unveiled via the syphon.

Turned out Harris had said a few not-too-nice things about the city’s systems. This in turn tied him not to outward revolutionary groups, but a list of officers caught saying similar things within earshot of a module. Nothing uniquely offensive either, just the usual “why can’t things be better?” or “she can run an entire city and not keep a synthesizer running at a hundred?” Little idle remarks that now carried with them the weight of a speeding guillotine.

Knox slid the computer into the lead-lined bag, and found himself restless for the entire night, and the night after that, and the endless nights he faced thereafter. He was able to stay and steady his hand during the day after his bender of untrammeled aggression, but still did his best to overperform, to keep any suspicions concerning his own behavior at bay.

He kept mulling over the bizarreness of it all, and it was only after his umpteenth drive around the block in the Cuda, and another restless night in bed, that he finally broke past the two dimensions of his life in Haven, and into the third to wrestle with everything he had learned.

On one hand, he felt a strange pang of betrayal. Why did he have to say such things, why’d he have to go against that particular grain of all the things to rebel against? And yet on the other, that was his friend who had been rubbed out. Rubbed out for speaking his mind in a system that shouldn’t have to kill the law-abiding to keep the peace. In a system that shouldn’t have to kill, period, which naturally called his own profession into question. He knew confronting the Department was a death sentence, and he knew leaks would be hand-waved away by the news anchors and screened by the network’s Comm/Ent division.

It was this realization that marked his point of no return. Lying there in bed, in the dark of night, a head swimming with grotesque knowledge and no way out for it. Nothing to balance the scales, but why did the scales need balancing? Nowhere to tell this cruel truth, but why tell it at all?

He thought back to childhood, to the city his folks had raised him right in. Haven was a place where you didn’t have to worry, where the worst thing to cry over was an upturned ice cream cone or that ever-so-innocent trip-and-fall at the park. And there Mom and Dad were, armed with that fresh vanilla twist and the band-aid, and everything else that third parent, A.C.E.S., could provide them. Back then it seemed like a pretty good system. It’s what got Knox on the force to begin with; to keep those people safe. The families, the neighbors, those who could be relied upon to do what’s right.

Then the goal post shifted, and it seemed safe involved an ever-tightening noose, wrapping its grinding threads against the neck of anyone who stepped a millimeter out of line. Was he now rebelling just because his friend was iced, or did he now start to see the whole setup of the city as unsavory, if such insignificant thoughts were to be deemed criminal by the network they all served?

“Thoughts” was the word that echoed in his mind when he realized the dumbest move he had made in his little investigation: he never took care of his chip. His internal link chip, installed at the base of his neck as all citizens are required to wear. And if he hadn’t severed his link to the network, that meant these revelations were being processed by the very killer who had burned Lamont Harris alive for the crime of disobeying. He had never thought a second about it before, but that sudden weight of miles of cable, millions of terabytes of data coursing through the city, the very lifeblood of Haven floored Knox like the torrent of a crashing wave.

“Nothing’s wrong, everything’s fine. Nothing’s wrong, everything’s fine.”

It became a mantra he recited with feverish composure until he had drummed himself into a slumber. By morning, it’d all be forgotten about. By morning, he’d have seen nothing. By morning, he wouldn’t have to worry about joining his dearly departed partner anytime soon. After all, it was just a freak accident. It was in the hands of the White Coat Crew, and that was all he needed to know. That’s why everyone was telling him as such. It was all anyone needed.

And yet, his mind refused to dispense with the information. It was beneath the fear of execution that he had stumbled across another angle. The young gray officer knew that A.C.E.S. possessed the power to drop anyone via the simple detonation of their internal link chip. It was that knowledge that had sent Adam into his panic attack to begin with. And yet, when he recognized this fact, and stepped outside his own anxieties, another terrifying thought visited him upon his bed.

Why execute so publicly, when she can dispense with everyone so quietly?

Suddenly, the apartment module turned on in the other room. Muffled by the door were the sounds of protesters. Stock footage from a Comm/Ent newsreel.

Marches had been taking place across the city. Small, useless demonstrations that had become little more than a nuisance. But then another phrase, one which had been played on the news broadcasts time and time again, one whose monastic chant-like repetitions had made it as much an object of white noise as the protests themselves. “Take the Empire! Take the Empire!” they chanted in unison, followed by the snapping of billy clubs and the banging of police shields.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked, breath chattering. “Oh God, why?”

The sounds of shrieking protests roared ever-louder.

“Please, I’m sorry,” he stuttered on the verge of tears.

Cries for justice went unanswered, his own for mercy unheeded as the sound went rabid and the gain blew out, turning all into a warbling mess as the apartment speakers bent from under the sonic weight, Knox’s heart beating of his chest. Louder and louder, the shouting, the shrieking, the spikes of bit-crushed chaos stabbing at his ears like every death blow he had struck since that fateful morning after his partner’s death. With a final frenzied scream of “WHY!?” at the top of his cracking lungs, the world went silent, and the shattered gray officer was out cold.

It had taken all of one week for a friend’s death and a glimpse behind the veil to turn one of District 222’s most steadfast officers into a fearful ball of confusion. Whether it was a test to see if he could withstand such stress, part of a grander machination, or his simple, stupid mind driving itself mad with paranoia, nothing could stop the speeding train this line of thought was taking him.

And yet, death had not come to young Adam Knox. Not yet. The dark gray officer’s overexertion had ended in but a blackout. His marked day would come upon his waking, deep in the heart of Haven, for an execution that would be anything but private.

It’s been said what worries you, masters you, and to that end I’ve managed to suppress all trepidation within me. I walk the nights without fear, without the cloud of nerves fogging the mind, and in my field, that clarity is of paramount importance.

My name is Roger Steele, my profession is reconnaissance, and my target: the Artificially Controlled Eco-System. Chiefly where it’s housed, though I’d love to step inside the network itself should the opportunity arise, to see this grand architect of all-consuming control up close. And to say I’ve come close on occasion is no exaggeration.

It all started at the tail end of February, rolling into March, year of our Lord 2475. I was in deep, deep as you could get and as deep as the Force had ever been. I had taken up grunt work in the Tower Network. 100-something stories of 100-something towers of pure electric nonsense holding up that big beautiful dome that worked the city thermostat like a Swiss watch. Months ahead we had talked about organizing an “accident” before realizing all the headache would do was give the citizenry some much-needed Vitamin D. So here I was, normally the duke of the ball, dressed in overalls and spinning a wrench on the off-chance dear old Ace needed a hand. As if.

At least, that’s what I would say if she was in good health. We had been made aware of peculiarities in the city since 2455 or so. Reports of inexplicable phenomena like the 607 Incident in ‘59, the results of which the boys back home are still sorting out, even a decade on. Then there was the curiously weakened state of the border. The restorative nanotech had once made the comically inadequate chain-link fence no better than a titanium wall, and yet here we were cutting it open like scissors through cloth. The common denominator in these revelations, the vigilante Lita Ridgefield, and the closest thing I got to a mole in this derelict dumpster of a town, was the one who knew who to point to and get me the gig through the front door. The right forgers, the right wardrobe, and the right tower.

Tower 8X, one of the largest staffed. New faces weren’t uncommon, and they cycled employees on a bi-weekly basis. I popped in during the changing of the guard. It was on my first week that the lay of the land was made plain as could be. Monitor stations on each floor, keep guard over the coverage levels on Haven’s great big bubble. Historical records showed 95% as the standard production of coverage on each tower. The birth of old Ace in 2376 set the network to 100% on all towers.

The new standard was 89%.

She was, indeed, growing weaker, as we had been suspecting. Still perfunctory, still functional, but something was slipping the old girl up. Playing coy, I asked around if the rate was unique to 8X or if certain towers were pulling weight to even out the coverage. And all answers were the same: 89% was the new standard.

Only mildly exciting thing about it were the keyboards we used. Fifty billion buttons, the big red one being your thumb’s anchor in the whole tableau. Neat trick I was taught was that you could lock off functionality to keep from interfering with A.C.E.S, rendering it a sort of microtonal piano to play on. If I ever got deathly bored, I locked it off and pulled a melody out of thin air. Didn’t matter whose, sometimes a little Coltrane, sometimes a little Mozart, sometimes Schoenberg which went over like a cancer cure. Lord knows why, but hey, at least they were hip to the tunes. Also kept me calm and “out of trouble.”

One guy who I found rather fascinating was a monitor for the first floor. Had to be because the poor chap was in a wheelchair and his rig was too wide for the elevator. I got dropped down to the first and gigged with him. Name was Glenn Deighton. A nice Joe Schmo gray, took everything life flung at him in good humor. Asked why the wheelchair and not augs, and he simply shrugged and said “figured it was more fun this way, the challenge.” Never did tell me what put him in there. Offered him a drink after our shift, which he was quite enthusiastic about. Even invited me back to his pad for another round after he hit the gin-joint of choice; Spanner’s. Biggest shock was an upright piano in the back, no piano roller or automation to speak of. The cat had my curiosity, now he had my friendship.

I played a few bars of Mingus, swung some of Mahler’s 2nd (sacrilege I know, but I’d been playing it straight all my life), but like in 8X, the piano was one of my touch points in the business. Something to unwind with, to keep you grounded, but thinking. It also entertained the host who had invited me.

When we made it to his apartment, I found quite the peculiarity; his module was busted to hell and back. And it looked like he was the one who had taken the liberty. “Tried everything to get it back online.” he said, rolling up to the synthesizer in the apartment kitchen. “Kept sending for the repair boys, but they are quite backed up these days, requests out the ass, mouth and ears.”

“Must be nice, all that peace and quiet.” I chuckled. “Not having the damn thing squawking your schedule every millisecond.”

That’s when we knew we were both on the level. I kept all the cards close to my chest safe for the discontentment of a frustrated citizen. He, seemingly guarded and unguarded all at once, idly mentioned “friends” who he was hoping could lend him a hand in “fixing a few things around here.”

“Need a hand?” I asked. We shook on the deal right then and there.

Ah yes, but how were they to “fix” things? The top question to ask. The answer: access codes. Not just one, two, or ten; fifty. A 50-code strand to get into the network. Not control nor a true court with the electric goddess, but a door into that strange, seemingly impenetrable dimension. A chance to rifle through the greatest operating system in the world’s history, and if lucky, maybe sneak a few previews of future military action. It was a stretch, but the greatest strength and weakness of this point in Haven’s history was desperation, that great grabbing of straws to find some way of at least salvaging the situation. A situation that left the populace in its own, strange lucid state. The memories of a golden age, now long since thrown to the wind for reasons no one was allowed to know.

Everything appeared alright, but the failure of various services, various technologies regarded as integral, was painting a different portrait that everyone could sense. They felt in their apartments and on the crime-riddled streets, streets left to rot as the automated arms of the law focused solely on the vocal opponents of the system, regardless of the nature of their complaints.

The how was explained to me quite clearly: he had his own inside gal, one “Damita Jo” who he fashioned a makeshift data drive tucked behind her ears. It worked wirelessly, siphoning codes from potential access points. She was purportedly a White Coat, so she’d be right in the belly of the whale, copying the seven-digit keys to the kingdom. I never had the privilege to meet her beyond a five-inch photograph he kept on his desk in a shabby private office where he did his tinkering. The office was one of the job’s perks, a luxury afforded to those working for the state in any capacity, seeing as more and more of the citizenry were willing to bite the hand meant to feed them.

Once she had finished the fetch-quest, he took the drive, made a dupe, and would hand it off to me. Or rather that was the original plan before I let Lita and Knox in. They didn’t like the directness of it all, a partial distrust of this surprise ally and the thought of me sticking my neck out this far on a gamble. Deighton was still chipped in some capacity, meaning he kept an interior log of conversation. He swore up and down he severed his link to the network though, and after a preliminary scan, I was convinced. They also didn’t take kindly to the retort that risk in this business is like air; you need it to survive.

Instead, we opted for a chain. Upon duping, he handed it off to one of Lita’s boys, Mulligan, a veteran of The Avenger’s Creed she had set up years ago, then to her, then to me after which I would access the network via remote terminal outside the city so I could book it if things got hot. I acquiesced; after all, you can’t go over the handlers’ heads. Unfortunately.

It was a month before Damita Jo had her bag. I had taken to the usual thumb-twiddling, and in the evenings, ivory-tickling to pass the time by while waiting on Deighton and his dame. We kept a healthy distance from each other on the day shift and only spent a few nights at Spanner’s in each other’s company.

When Damita finally came up for air, it wouldn’t be without a rough-up. Someone knew and someone knew enough to try and open her up. They had beat the bitch up something fierce, but Deighton’s trick of engineering paid off; the drive went undetected. And for as cruel a world as Haven could be, they couldn’t quite afford to lose a staffer for WCC. Once let go, she made her rendezvous with good old Glenn and disappeared. She’s probably out in the desert now as we speak.

From there, the dupes were made, but the fellow made Mistake #1: he tried them on for size. Swears his terminal was encrypted, but encrypted terminals don’t make headlines in Comm/Ent. They also don’t kill the middle-link of the chain.

STATE DEFECTOR DEAD? went the slug on the news flash, old Mulligan’s black-furred mug right next to it, some bogus charge of “interfering in food synthesis.” The drive never came.

Naturally, I paid Deighton a visit, dressed in the old leather jack and black ensemble. Certainly gave him a start when he opened the door. Said I blended into the evening shade to perfection, safe for the gray fur. I simply smiled that warm, friendly smile we had shared during our time in the Tower Network. Hopefully I wouldn’t have to play him a dead man’s rag.

We met in his office, and he told me everything I’ve noted here, but with a few extra details, namely what he found in the network itself. He dropped the discount private eye routine and got on the level; he believes something’s alive in there. Something other than A.C.E.S. I thought he was officially off his rocker, but he did try to make it up. He started scrawling out the codes from memory. Jotted two out, but soon, he began to hear a knocking sound. I calm him down, he gets another two out and off he goes bitching about the knocking. And now I’m left with that sweet, sinking feeling that I had put my faith in a hound who wasn’t playing with a full deck.

Halfway through Code 7, he drops dead. The electric snap was a familiar sound, that of an informant’s chip frying. Guess he reconnected during his peak inside Pandora’s box without knowing. Over-under was five minutes before the fools rushed in, so I dove through every drawer and snatched up every storage unit he had on him and in the office. Even though he had given the drive an “acid bath” to kill the forensics trail on Jo, the little man tying knots in my gut told me he still had it. It was a hunch, but hunches had worked out before. And the dumbass was dead anyway, so what the hell, why not?

On Minute Four, I swung out the back door, just as they hit the front. Like a dope, I had parked my ‘69 Charger a block down. But like a part-time genius, I at least kept the wristcom on me. One press of the recall button and that black beauty came screaming up the alley for me. I threw the box of tech in shotgun-side, hit the gas, and spent the next ten shaking off the synthetic fuzz they keep in charge.

Lita and I had been playing a game of who could waste more autocops in a single run. I was going up against a 20-year champion, but we weren’t counting her whole decades-long bombing run to the leader-board. I would’ve made a neat little score this time, but it wasn’t quite past curfew, meaning civilians could get hurt, which left me playing the old lead foot waiting game; stay moving longer than they can stay chasing.

Sure enough, they gave up the ghost and my ride and I were home free. I cruised to the darkest corner of the Eastern District, parked, and whipped open the mobile terminal from the back seat. Time was of the essence, and I imagine A.C.E.S. would work overtime to geo-locate anyone who could break in the way Deighton had, and his materials. It was among all the useless photographs, idle animations made on his terminal, whole terabytes worth of junk that I found it. The original.

I matched the first six codes of the strand, and the tip of what he had started before being so rudely interrupted. Queued up the procedure to generate an access point, ran all 50, tapping that étude out in a fit of high-tech Lisztomania, and then…I saw it. Saw exactly what he had seen.

The head of a white wolf, with red eyes. Not photo-real, more a piece of simple graphic design. At first I thought I was handed a virus, but no, that was the face. The Face. The face of modern tyranny, rendered in crisp fashion, and sat in my lap. I did all the idle snooping I could, probing daily procedure and propaganda regimes to be run in Comm/Ent. Even got sneak previews of the latest “Amalgam Pictures” that the network had thrown together, haphazard grafting of tropes and aesthetics for the merriment of a dwindling audience.

But in the background, something was being said. In tough-to-crack, bit-crushed tones, something was verbalized:

TANGO ECHO, LIMA LIMA, MIKE ECHO.

Tell me.

What the hell the most sophisticated computer on the planet was doing using the old NATO phonetic alphabet was beyond me. And what it wanted me to tell it was another million-dollar question without an answer. My gaze drifted towards that vague wolven face that had greeted me upon entry into the network.

It was changing.

Its eyes were green now. Then red. Then green again. I took it as a loading timer, until it came to fill the screen. It hung there for a good five seconds before bashing typing a phrase out at the base of the head:

INDIA NOVEMBER, HOTEL ECHO, ROMEO ECHO, WHISKEY INDIA, TANGO HOTEL, HOTEL ECHO, ROMEO.

In here with her.

With Ace it seemed. Before I could even reply, the screen tore to black, pixelating into nothing. With the same electric snap that befell Deighton, the terminal died a sudden death in my lap. Whoever was in there wanted to talk. And whoever was in there, Ace had found them. And this terminal.

I put a round from the Mauser in it for good measure and left it junked in the alleyway. Explaining the situation to Lita and Knox was like speaking first-year Latin to your priest; some of it gets through to them, but the rest gets jumbled by your own inadequacies. In my case, inadequate knowledge.

Against my better judgment and my own obsessive-compulsive cleanliness, I decided to bring all the micro-drives and storage units back with me, not just the one with the access codes. I hadn’t finished blasting through them once I got my hands on the crown jewel, so I figured Nic’s boys could do with some scavenger hunting as a consolation prize.

I did keep one file though; he had made a five-minute piece, set to a busted recording of “In a Sentimental Mood” on an electric piano. Soft, lush gradients against a warm, quarter-tone down-tuned take on an old favorite. He was a nice fellow, just a little too eager for his own good. Maybe after we take it all over, my retirement project can be curation. He made some work worth displaying amongst all that dreck.

Now for the godforsaken sum-up: if what worries you masters you, then I’ve finally found something to worry about. Not just a sprawling, all-controlling, all-powerful yet seemingly deteriorating operating system that held the lives of millions within a delicate balance, but now a rogue agent somewhere in its depths.

Malign, benign, it doesn’t really  matter. She’s been breached. And the only thing worse than knowing the face of this electric goddess was knowing that she’s not alone in there.

And yet, I sit here, months after the ordeal, and no answers. Not even a lead. My cover was never blown at 8X, but after a while, any possible in-roads were sealed shut by the oldest trick in the book: indifference. No one cared enough to stir the pot nor about the job itself. It was all just watching numbers and checking energy conduits. And jacking into the cyber-metric data display only gave me those same stupid numbers and that same stupid 89% standard.

It was right around then that things were beginning to pop off in other sectors of the city. Protests were more vitriolic, organized movements with colorful names like “Stop the Bots” and “Haven Reformation.” My money was on most of them being feds, laying the cheese on the city block-sized mouse trap. We’ve all agreed to let it play out before we make any moves.

I’m making this log on my drive back to Base. Lita and Adam figured it best to ferry me out while the homegrown chaos agents turned all the heads. Everything’s wrapped in a nice, lead-lined package, safe from any electric bullshit, and in the meantime, I’ll try and put five pieces of this thousand-piece jigsaw in some sort of order. Such is spycraft in the year 2475.

Agent Steele, signing off.

I’d hedge a bet that most lovers meet one of two ways: they screw first and ask questions later, or someone picks up someone off the side of the road. Could be a crime, an accident, a meet-cute, or in my case, car trouble. Everyone loves to talk pretty about the Bug, but when you’re driving a stock-standard Super Beetle like I was, you get all them wonderful factory-line problems they had. And my little critter decided to suck his battery dry in the middle of nowhere, halfway to Doc’s.

I wasn’t in my apron or anything, and thank God I wasn’t because I had to get down and dirty in that little guy’s rear. Didn’t have a spare, didn’t have anything to jump start him. That car was an unlucky SOB back then. And it was with my rear in the air, jeans getting nipped by every little tab of metal in the back, that I heard a revving engine and one heckuva whistle.

The engine belonged to a bright yellow Jeep Cherokee, the kind covered in surfboards and headed for the local wave pool. The whistle belonged to Buck. When I turned around, got my curled black locks out of my eyes, I saw him.

He was built tough. Big broad shoulders, gray Sherman tank physique, if not as stocky as he is now. Dressed the same way too. Same old sandals, same old tank-tops, same old jeans and shorts. And that smile. That goofy-ass “wassup” smile. That I didn’t buy it for a minute, not when he came up behind ladies whistling like that. But then, in the first of many times, he turned it all around.

“Cute little critter those Bugs!” he smiled. “What’s the fella’s problem?”

Just like that. Like he had known me all his life, like we were next door neighbors. Kind, courteous, practically flew into the little guy’s engine. I told him who I was and where I worked.

“Nice to meet ya Miss Swanson,” he said, “Name’s Buck Sterling. Headed that way myself. Let’s see what we can do for ‘im.”

Buck Sterling. God what a name that was to have laid on me. Sounded like a comic my kid brother read way back when. But here he was, just a regular guy running around with a name like that, offering me a jump start. Which we tried.

And failed.

After a few more shots, he offered a ride to Doc’s, the little Bug hooked to his hitch. I didn’t have time to say no. Helped me up and into his Cherokee, got my car all secured, and without a care in the world, floored it. The Jeep leapt forward, my car rattled behind, and I wasn’t sure whether I should cling for dear life or not. He was headed the right way, hadn’t lost control, and had we gotten my ride up and running, I probably would’ve put my foot down too. Problem was he drove like his weighed too much to keep up.

I would’ve told him to slow down, but the moment we got talking, I forgot to. The way Buck disarms folks should be studied in bomb squad classes. He starts asking about work, what I’m up to, how’s life, all that jazz, and I keep chatting it up with him. He’s driving like the nicest maniac you’ve ever met, but you feel right at home. Favorite nugget of the day was this:

“Craziest order you ever took?” he asks me.

“Someone wanted a table full of brandy garnished with a tray of cannolis.” I said. “And the strangest thing was, he asked me this dead straight. No twitches, no drug eyes. Just a table of brandy with a plate of cannolis sat on the center.”

“Totally sober.”

“Yeah.”

He busts up, but pulls himself together long enough to ask the obvious question. “How the heck you manage that?”

“Cannolis were easy; Murray made ‘em in a jiff. As for the brandy, Doc himself was pouring full bars of glasses and then passing them to me as I filled the table.”

“What did he DO with ‘em though?” he pressed. “Like what’s a wolf, coming in alone, gonna do with like, 50 brandies and a half-dozen pastries.”

“Drink 10, eat 6, pay the tab and leave.”

We were in hysterics by the time we pulled up to the Oasis. When he offered to come back with a new battery for me, I couldn’t say no. For starters (to quote Doc) I didn’t want to be stranded at work. And for closers, he just wasn’t a stranger anymore. Took him all of half-an-hour, and it felt like I grew up with him.

I remember Poppa always told me you gotta watch your back out here every second you ain’t at home, with a gun in your hand, or with folks you know. He wasn’t a paranoid man, but he sure as hell could catch the bug when he wanted to. He was protective. Smart, but protective. And then from out of the desert, the time when you’re more likely to get yourself a duellist trying to goad you for sport, a crook on the run from Hell Patrol fit to do God-only-knows, I roll sixes and wind up with a genuine gentleman.

When I was chatting with the girls, they could see he had left quite the impression on me. And me being Miss Jane Swanson, of course I was trying to talk myself out of him.

“But what if it’s all a front? What if he’s a wanted man?” I’d ask.

Melissa was always the nearest springboard, and wasn’t having any of me. “Trust me Jane, if he was, finding a waitress with a broke-down car woulda been easy pickings.”

“What if we aren’t all that, y’know, compatible?”

Those hazel eyes came out on stalks. “He can talk about normal shit for more than five seconds without blacking out over to camshafts and cylinders. My Norman can’t manage that for more than two. God just put beefcake Lancelot in your lap, Jane. Don’t let him take him away just because you don’t know if it’s for real. Just take the time to find out. Worst case, you got a cute new friend by the sounds of it.”

And so, down comes the guard. Just in time for him to be back with the new battery. Strolls in, tells me its fixed, and sits right down, ready to have his order taken. Come to find out he’s a medium-well man. During the day it’d be a classic American burger and a fruit-protein smoothie of some kind, and at night, the same but with a Jack & Coke instead. Just one. “I like seeing the road ahead of me” he’d always say.

I know just about every regular in the house, Buck had been a regular customer for weeks now, and neither of us know how I had missed him. Maybe luck of the draw always kept us on opposite days, who knows. But the thing that always kept happening; he always checked in on me. I never had to make the first move. I did from time to time, but he would almost always call me over just to chat for a little bit between orders.

“Still driving strong Jane?” he’d lead in with. And of course the answer was yes, seemed that the Super Beetle had gotten a helluva tune-up while I wasn’t looking. We’d talk about all the usual small talk you could fit in 30 seconds; weather, the new and exciting whatever in your life. He always seemed to be adventuring, climbing mountains, fording canyons, just going all over and having a whale of a time. I wasn’t much good in the “excitement” factor, but he’d get tickled-pink when he heard I went racing a little for fun.

And so I kept seeing him there. Same corner, same one drink only, digging whatever band was on stage. And when I had the five seconds free, he’d wave me over. Make me feel like the whole world wasn’t on fire with work and chores and all that. And all it took was a few more nights of his wining and dining before I finally said yes...to him taking me on a drive.

We left Doc’s after work and the way he drove at night was probably twice as terrifying as during the day, if only because you could spit further than his ride’s hi-beams. But he liked the odds enough to keep playing with them. Almost took out a cactus, which made the pair of us jump, but when I felt that hand on mine and heard the earnest “jeez, you alright?” I chose not to spoil things. I think he just wanted to get my blood up, not scare me half to death.

He didn’t help with his choice of Makeout Point. Flat-pawed bastard didn’t jam his brakes until the front tires were two inches from falling off. He pulled back to safety, but I think I saw half my life flash before my eyes. Mostly just playing in the backyard.

When he coaxed me into his lap, I figured this was the moment of truth; love-em-or-leave-em or the real McCoy. He pulled the driver’s seat back, helped me over the gearshift and there I was, right between his legs. Right behind the wheel. Could’ve done anything that night. Went to town, talk about all the twisted things we enjoyed. My mind seemed so wrapped up in its own ideas that I didn’t realize what was happening, not until I heard him say, in a gentle voice, “Gosh you’re cute.”

He just had his arms around me, and his head right on my shoulder. Didn’t go in for a kiss or start mauling, just held me there under the stars. I think I was so damn tired “Watcha waiting for?” just kinda slipped out.

He nuzzled my neck, and with a chuckle, gave me the answer. “Nothing, I just like how you cuddle.”

I looked up and didn’t see that goofy smile anymore. His eyes were warm, his fur soft to the touch; he was just happy to be there.

“What you looking for?” I teased back. “Plucking up fair maidens off the road side the way you do?”

“Well.” he started. “Been doing a lot of thinking is all. Lot about why I’m here. Trailblazing up and down the hills ain’t bad. I used to work highway duty with Old Man Grant. But now I’m thinking I need a few more things in my life. A cute waitress sure is a start.” He snickered as he nuzzled me some more. “Wouldn’t mind a kid or two as well. Teach ‘em how to drive, climb, have fun out here. Maybe see ‘em bring some life back to the land.”

And that was it; big guy just wanted to be a dad. And of course, the sonofabitch made me blubber on our first night out together. Just kept squeezing me tight, nipping all over me at last, trying to wind me down, and after a while I did.

I think it just got to me, the dream of it. Of being together for as long as you lived, of having kids and seeing them grow up. And I don’t know how to explain it, but it felt right and wrong all at once. Part of me was Pop raving about the bombs and the bullets. Why bring kids into the world, why now? Not that he didn’t love us but because things got bad with the City and the desert after we were born. But the other half was me wondering where the hell I wanted to be when I got old. And I saw it. I saw it in Buck.

As he thumbed my tears away, I finally asked, “could we?”

“Right here right now?” Buck asked back.

I nodded, getting up on my knees so I could look him eye-to-eye. “Yeah. I want our firstborn to know he arrived on time. Right when I knew I loved his Papa.”

Love never felt better than with a man like him. Because, and I can say this to you and you’ll get: he was a MAN. That. Damn. Good. He’s a gentleman, a sweetheart, and an absolute stud. And I get to say all this because of a pretty little ring on my finger I ain’t ever taken off.

Sure enough, Junior came out an even nine months later; right on time. Laci we had the year after and they been growing ever since. And the craziest thing about it, we never lost that little something we had. I don’t know if it came tucked in that goofy smile of his, but Buck never let us drift. Not an inch. We had space when we needed it, if we ever got worked up over something, we knew what to do for each other to make it right. But he never let me forget how much I meant to him, in that moment, after all the small talking and all the joy. And I made sure he knew, no matter how many what-ifs cross our minds, he picked the right breakdown to help out.

Speaking of the Bug, he got that devil running so hot it’s the neighborhood staple. You can hear it for miles, especially when he’s behind the wheel, and you’ll almost always hear the kids giggling and screaming when he turns it loose on long drives. And you know what, I think I finally see what he sees. He is a cute little critter.

Like a bolt from the black it came shrieking into view. 10 wheels, freed of the other eight, painted a deep blue, and roaring towards the raider camp at a hundred miles an hour.

The raiders were strange beasts. Hounds who went the one step beyond all scavengers. A step into madness, into pillaging, into gleeful abandon of any notions of decency. Now all was coming home to roost as the awesome machine hurtled towards the camp, the black tinted windows of the Peterbilt as alien as anything they’d ever seen on their piratic forages.

“Get everyone outta here Ian!” roared Kirk Morrow, the pack leader. He was a gray clad in black leather, and drove the hottest machine of the bunch, a red Ford Falcon straight out of ‘73. She was a rare beast from across the Pacific, and he would have to put her to the floor to distract this leviathan.

Kirk figured it was just another volley from a fellow clan, a massive one too. “Alright, let’s find a halfway decent cliff to kick you offa.” He swung his harness boot down and bolted for the truck. The muscle car swerved ahead of it to bait the driver, and sure enough, the Peterbilt came screaming for him. He knew of a canyon ridge close by, and made tracks for it. His motor screamed as desert dust swirled into the graying sky.

The canyon was coming up through the dead bushes. When the car got a few feet from the cliff, he slammed the brakes, cut the wheel and swung the Falcon’s rear away from the edge. To his shock, the truck made the exact same move with ease. “Agile little bitch,” he growled.

He tried the trick again and again, but found in his new-found foe a nimbleness and speed he hadn’t seen in other big rigs. At least none that he and his crew had hijacked. His needle was living at 120, and he figured so was the truck’s.

“Drop me some oil drums and a firestarter Ian.” Kirk barked over the radio. “This guy ain’t going down easy.” The skies grew darker as the pickup truck careened from out of the desert dust. She swung its bed out and a small figure kicked over three oil drums, dropping a highway flare to get the fire started. It was enough to blow any ride away if they hit them hard.

The crimson Falcon made tracks for the barrels as the pickup hurried away to join the rest of the clan. The Peterbilt was steadfast in its pursuit. Just in the nick of time, the Falcon cut a hard right turn. The big-rig couldn’t stop in time and blew through the drums, the highway flare sending the fuel igniting in all directions out from under the rig. Surely, Kirk thought, this was the bastard’s end. They’d rubbed out all sorts in their time, and there wasn’t anyone you couldn’t fix when you needed to. Or needed their shit.

Out from the burning hot baptism it rode, the sea-blue truck scorched black, but unwavering. Kirk cursed and bellowed, “Alright you sonofabitch! Let’s get right on you then.” He swung his mighty Falcon around and charged on the Peterbilt. Under the ever-darkening sky, thunder rolling and lightning whipping in the distance, the gray wolf pulled his rod close to the truck. He was going to hop on and take the driver on man-to-man. He was going to beat the devil out of that motherfucker if it was the last goddamn thing he did.

Just when the Falcon was good and snug alongside, the Peterbilt cut a hard left, and took the blood-red car under it. Brakes ground, metal screamed, and before he knew it, Kirk was staring down a two-foot wide tire, his legs crushed by the impact. He seethed and growled, but it was all just hot air leaving him.

As the rains fell, a mist dressing the arid battlefield, out she stepped from the towering truck. She was a black wolf. Tall, near-Amazonian, wrapped in a man’s clothes. Wrapped in clothes like his.

She walked to him in silence, and stared. Just a good, long, lingering gaze through the shotgun-side door. No emotion, no excitement, no pleasure.

Nothing.

“You’re cute, stranger.” he seethed, “I don’t know ya, but you’re cute.”

She held up a photo, pulled from the pocket of her leather jacket. Everything clicked for Kirk Morrow the second he saw the face of the black wolven couple. He could see the woman stood before him, and a black hound beside her, dressed as she is now.

“Well then,” he sighed. “I take it you want the scrap back.”

She didn’t shake her head; her baleful glower was enough of a rejection. “Took you long enough,” he cackled, the rain seeping in through the cracked windshield “All this, just for me?”

“Por él.” were her only words for him.

She pocketed the photograph, walked back up to the truck, shoved the clutch down, gripped the lever tight, ripped her titan in gear, and rammed the throttle down with all her might. And as the 12-ton machine screamed with all the rage of her driver, there was only one thought left in the raider’s mind as the rig bared down on him and his crumpled prized possession.

Fair trade.

There’s something I just enjoy about it, even as a high-tech kinda gal. Knowing you’re doing something so antiquated and so…simple. That’s it. Simple, easy street. All that power, and it doesn’t take much at all to get him moving. Two on the wheel, and a paw on the floor; all you need tops. And the fact Vinnie got me cleared for it, “license” and all.

Every time I kiss my kids goodbye, slip my cap on and get inside, I feel like I never left home. Like I’m always right where I should be for the whole night no matter where we go, who we pick up, where we gotta drop ‘em off. I wonder if all those folks out in the desert feel this way about their cars.

It sounds so silly saying it out loud, but I even named him; Moe. Moe the Cab, my little Marathon straight out of the Old Word, trundling about with his little gray leadfoot lady behind the wheel. But how couldn’t I? He’s got the sweetest little four-eyes, this cute little steering wheel; God, he is just the best!

You meet so many neat folks when you go out driving! Once I picked up this couple down in Comm/Ent. They just saw that funny little movie they made in the Amalgam series, Joy on the Vasage, and they were just falling over themselves laughing. And they tried explaining it to me for the whole ride back to their apartment and even I couldn’t stop giggling by the end of it.

You also get people who are surprised to see me driving around at all. Not me personally, but the cab. “Isn’t that for old-timers?” or “Whaddya mean four wheels?” and other such strange things. I get edu-plans prioritize Haven history over Old World, but you’d think something big like an automobile wouldn’t slip through the cracks.

Hey, I also love driving around this way because Moe makes me feel all unwound. My hair’s always down, I’m always in my sandals, my cap is always sitting all loosey-goosey on my head, it’s all just comfy for me. Plus the way he feels, my God! The seats are nice and soft, the wheel rests easy in my hands. I just, dang, I just think he’s swell.

No, no, no! I don’t think these critters have a chance at making a comeback. I’m not just talking about what A.C.E.S. wants, I’m talking what the people accept. Most hounds are so good and set with hovercraft, they won’t accept a substitute unless it is the absolute most efficient machine there is. I hear they are shaping up some prototype transporters in the Labs. Here’s hoping they are a big success because that could cut down commutes beautifully.

Oh, Mr. Conrad, take it easy. It ain’t that complicated. I believe in what Vinnie and the White Coats do, and I believe my little Moe and I have a place here on the roads too. Back in the real old days, when cars like Moe were all the rage, there were still horse-drawn carriages! Can you believe it!? Open carts, one or two ponies at the front, and a kindly fellow in a top hat there at the reins. And they were just as loved as cars were, but they served a different purpose. Back then, cars were fastest, but the carriage was romance, l’amour. Nowadays, hovercraft are fastest and cars are l’amour. Some are hot, and some are cuddly like my Moe.

My dear Mr. Conrad, it’s not rocket science. Not everything has to be “go here, go there,” in the blink of an eye. When I gotta get my boys to a play-date, yessir we gotta take the HOV-4K. But if Lil’ Joe asks, “can we go for a ride Mommy?” he ain’t asking for the daily driver. You can have efficiency and romance, no one ever said you couldn’t.

Well…if She said so, I’m sure the license would’ve been revoked ages ago. But I like to think A.C.E.S. has been good to me. All that fighting on the city’s edge I’m sure is getting done with the people’s interests at heart. But somewhere within her, I think she knows about the joy this brings, THIS kind of ride-around. How that joy keeps you up and at it, and in turn “maintains peak efficiency.” I couldn’t be half as good a mother and wife if I didn’t have Moe. He gives me a chance to be with other folks, to know ‘em and care for them, which in turn brightens my spirits and lets me come back to my family all spic-and-span.

It also teaches you a lot of good engineering skills! I tell you, have every up-and-comer at WCC crew up and get under the hood and they will build that beautiful network of ours an empire, I kid you not! Vinnie only taught me enough so I can keep Moe running, I’ve been at it for a few months, and I’m coming on like a damn Einstein thanks to it. Get a couple sharp minds to rebuild a nice Mustang or something, and you will have your “credentialed minds” Mr. Conrad.

Now, is that all your questions answered? Good. Let’s get back to the start. Vinnie and I have a function for WCC tonight. Cabbies’ gotta powder their noses too. Give my regards to the boys on the Board, won’t you?

Pay?

The hell you mean “what about pay?” That’s how you know this whole thing’s a fantasy for folks; the fare’s free.

To My Dearest Eric,

The debt of gratitude Gwen and I owe you is more than even the payment can cover. Betsy’s been a part of the family since God-knows-when. It’s cliché to say she was my great-great-great-quadruple-grand-pappy’s hot rod, but that Fleetline’s been on this Earth for a good 500 years, and for all the pomp and circumstance of running a fighting force armed to the fangs, I would be a mess without her on the field.

So I thank you. I thank you for all you’ve done for me and for us. There’s been enough of a lull in activity, so I’m getting a card game together here at the Base. Nice rest cure for the soldiers and officers interested. Good for this Friday?

All my best,
Leo Godred

Greetings Eric,

Hope all’s well. Thanks again for swinging by the game. Thanks for bringing the ale too! Didn’t know you could put the stuff away like a wine rack. Glad you stuck through the three-card brag we were trying out. Bit of old English fun for the guys and gals that night. Been studying up on 18th century games, and figured, what the hell, why not? Was a good way of teaching them a little history during the rest cure too.

By the way, what exactly did you use on the Apache? The protective sealant for surface damage that is. I believe you coated Betsy in the stuff too, right? The boys in the shop aren’t too happy with the Lab’s current formula and were hoping you might be able to school them in a few things. If you can swing by sometime in the next two weeks, we’d all be most grateful for your time and knowledge.

Cheers to the Mage,
Leo Godred

To Eric M.

Requesting your services for burial on August 25th, 2452 at 0900 at Ambiorixian HQ. Battle 8232452-A resulted in loss of 50 soldiers. We ask that you lead us in sending them heavenward. May God welcome them all into his kingdom, open armed.

Forever grateful,
General Leonard Ford Godred

“Mors in Machina, Vita ad Sanguinem”

If that last note sounded cold, I was dictating it. Didn’t pen it by hand. Didn’t have it in me. Losing Charles to the fight hasn’t been easy on Gwen, May, or myself. He and I were military men through and through, he to the last. And I’ll never not love him for that. Any son of mine willing to die for his freedom, and the freedom of his brothers-and-sisters-in-arms, and for the freedom of his mother and father is a son I wish to see again when my time comes. I only wish I had told him that before he left for battle. Still had a mean fucking handshake on him though. I still feel the kid’s grip as I write this.

Thank you for laying him to rest with me last Thursday. It meant the world to Gwen, myself, and to our entire family here on the Force.

May God Bless You, Dear Friend.
Leo

Dear Eric,

Business here on Base prohibited the sending of this sooner, but I have a whole world’s worth to tell you about. And first, regardless of when this makes it to you, Happy Birthday! Way to age.

Sealant worked a treat. Test range day at Alpha Base. Squad of 10 cars and 10 bikes went through the ringer. It took on the character of a molecular-bonded shell during laser tests. Even the five derelicts, weakened bodies and all, held up to every form of firepower on site. After a pounding, shielding held at a steady 89.2% for the derelicts and a fantastic 96.7% for the fully operational rides. Even Betsy, her coat being a few months old, still held out at 95% protection. I’m commissioning monthly coats for all rides on Base, as well as making it mandatory practice post-overhaul. Keep up that sweet alchemy my friend.

Gwen also sends her regards. It was wonderful seeing you there for dinner that fortnight back. Sorry about the chest pains almost spoiling the evening, but I’m glad you had something on you for them. I’m watching myself best I can in the field.

Enclosed are a couple of 45s I figured you’d dig. Went rummaging through the old collection and found some old Kinks and Purple tunes. They were dupes, but I recognized some of them were ones you and I had talked about. Hope these can freshen that bubbling jukebox of yours in the garage. Put a quarter in for me next time!

Roll on Speed King,
Leo Godred

To Eric M.

Urgent request to see General Leonard Ford Godred. At 0445, General woke up complaining of pains in the chest. Upon arrival at Sickbay, suffered a significant heart attack. After stabilization at 0530, EKG detected a persistent arrhythmia that has yet to be resolved as of writing this, 1000, October 10th, 2459. He has personally requested to see you, and as chief of staff in Sickbay, I second the recommendation, seeing has you’ve served as secondary care for the General when off-base. Please respond as soon as possible.

Dr. Paul Adderley
Chief of Medical Staff, Ambiorixian Acensores

“Mors in Machina, Vita ad Sanguinem”

To my dearest friend,

I hope, from the bottom of my heart, you’re doing well. And that isn’t just another dose of Leo’s black humor.

You are the first man I’m telling this to, and certainly not the last. Last fall gave me a lot to think about. My life as a soldier, my life as a lawman. My life as husband, father, and grandfather. A life lead of doing battle, kicking ass, taking names, and keeping everyone I hold dear safe.

Been thinking an awful lot about this fight picked with me some 50 years ago. Some 50 years ago, I was a healthy sonofabitch. And for 75, even after taking one in the ticker, I’m still the superintendent for the School of Hard Knocks. But I want to be around for as long as I can, to get the young bucks where they need to be when I’m gone. I want them to stoke the fire that fuels this great big steam loco we call Liberty so they can ride that bitch clean across the Marshalls and right to the foot of Empire Square and right through the building itself.

All this is to say that I’m stepping down as General. I’ll be promoting officers at the start of July this year, and will be announcing the retirement there. I’ll stay on as consult for the new General. I think you’ll like this kid. Tough bastard named Adam Knox, got himself a metal arm and a chick who knows what’s up. They’ve been instrumental in improving project development at the Lab. I’ve got Captains and Commanders lined-up too. Lot of longtime killers I want this man to work with. Tomas, Martin, Donald, Atlanta. I’m talking these are the Untouchables, and that bitch ACES is about to get the best pair of cement shoes Capone ever deserved.

May’s being given clearance to visit me often in between her Hell Patrol gigs. Gwen has missed her dearly, so I guess something good came out of all of this if I get to see our baby girl between crooks. Toughest part of the gig for both of us, I reckon. Evil never dies when you want it to. It’s only dead when it’s good and dead.

I invite you to the ceremony. Fourth of July, on the button at 0900. Be there with bells on. I’ve never known a finer mechanic, a finer medicine man, or a finer pal. I want you there Old Friend. And with any luck, provided you aren’t too busy, maybe I can finally swing by the shop and hang out. Get some grease on these old paws of mine. Not that you could see the stuff anyway with all the black fur!

Thanks for shepherding me through it all. Hope to see you there.

All my best,
Leo Godred

It wasn’t so much that we brought her to life, but it was the form of life she took. Vinnie couldn’t make heads-or-tails of it and neither could I. And hell, when we told the Board, they were halfway between running for the hills and erecting idols all over town for their newborn.

One day, as if the great switch had been flipped on her backside, the windup doll of Haven, the digital dame that danced for the citizenry, dancing for years going on decades going on centuries...just became.

It began with a faint pulse.

WCC Team 105 was working the floor in the Central Tower, that sweet fantasy land where all the computerized confections were made.

I was Crewman 2389. Just a couple numbers over the year. The Year She Arrived, I know.

The pulse came not over the speakers or as some colossal surge. It began as a subtle jump in screen contrast on the main computer monitor. She was floor-to-ceiling, so everyone with eyes could see it unfold. Then, the readouts stopped.

And mind you, we were still printing readouts on paper, so imagine an entire office building’s worth of reports stopping on a dime. The silence was heavenly, sure, but if readouts weren’t happening, that meant something was wrong with a capital W-R-O-N-G.

I walked up to my pal when it started going down. We’ll call him by number too, 6547. I liked to call him Six for short; that was the way I played when I worked with the Crew.

Six and I were just flabbergasted, as were most of the techs on the floor.

“You figure a surge is happening,” he asked me, black-rimmed glasses pushed down his snout.

“Can’t be,” I shook off, “Lights would’ve gone out if it hit the whole building.”

The screen’s ebb-and-flow dwindled until it stopped, a black bar overlapping the whole screen. Every damned monitor caught the bug as it popped up. It was an old command prompt window, but not the way we remembered them. We’d seen this in some of the units we tinkered with, but that was the problem. That shit was for the antiques. I’m talking before the Bombs, before everything.

It was then she spoke in the only way she could, the crisp white words etched on black.

Swear to God, she declared it, just like that. Not “I am the Artificially Controlled Eco-System,” not even “A.C.E.S.” We always called her it shorthand, but to see that she had adopted it wholesale told us something incredible.

She could hear us. She was listening! Truly listening to everything that transpired within the halls of the room.

Then came more.

I mean, she was. She really was. We had it all on lock by then. No crumbling tenements, no starving kids, no one fighting over bread, no one having to work unless they desperately wanted to...for the love of God, we were THIS. CLOSE!

I believed in Haven and the whole thing, just as the Board had laid it out all those centuries ago. I grew up with her. I grew up knowing her like my second mother, like the right hand of God. I remember Mom and Dad would always thank God first and the Board second. That’s the way we grew up.

Every meal we’d eat, that was the grace we said over every finely crafted sirloin steak, every beautifully mixed salad, every spoonful of fresh soup. And I did so gladly. I wasn’t living like a fucking urchin in the godforsaken slums getting called everything short of the king of creation. I had what we needed, and by God was that all I craved.

It wasn’t all she craved though.

Ace had taken to her task like any of us math-addicts on the floor. We’d race her night and day in the frenzy. We couldn’t track her progress fast enough, but boy could she dish it up.

I was in 555 once and a nice kid was working in one of our surplus warehouses. Reserves in case we had any catastrophic failings. He was a tan fellow. Quiet, but nice and chipper about everything. He told me with this wide-eyed wonder about the dinner he had the night before with his family.

“We had pizza on the module’s itinerary. Dad goes to the synthesizer, y’know, to wait for it to come out. We had picked this supreme beast. I’m talking peppers, onions, sausage, pepperoni. Classic Old World-style dish. And when he gets it from the synthesizer, lays it on the table, Mom, Lucy, and I waiting, drinks ready, the four of us all take a bite. And we cried. I kid you not. We’re as stable as can be. No depression, no anxiousness, our physicals on the module are clean as a whistle, and we just cried the moment we bit into it. It tasted GOOD. We’d never had it that good in our lives.”

Kid was a real believer through and through, God bless him.

We had another story, a young black couple in Comm/Ent who went to the Cinerama Complex. It was a full program. Newsreel, short, movie, whole nine. I think the picture was The Life and Love of Stonewall Adderly, or some crazed A.I. concoction like that. She had been pumping out Amalgam Pictures like that for a month when it was released.

Now, normally these shows run at least a half-hour, though we had gotten it down to 15 minutes on our own. You get all the emotional content, the data, all in a breezy sit. What used to be a half-hour newsreel, a 10-minute short, and a 90-minute picture passed by in a flash, but never abridged.

Not for this crowd though.

This couple and everyone in that room was treated to a one-minute blitzkrieg of positivity. Every rising stat, every tender love scene, every laugh, and every joyous tear.

All. In One. Minute.

Ace was perfection. She was dynamite in the hands of Progress, blowing wide the dam that had held us back from full, untrammeled post-scarcity and a beauty I could not have computed nor realized in my lifetime. All of my degrees, my top-shelf calculating, all could not compare. I could have made love to her on the spot, and in a way, every time I got the daily hit from my module in the morning, I did.

She brought me nothing but the warmth I remembered from those sweet, blue-tinted salad days, all those years back. I was getting ready to have a family of my own around the time...the time when it all happened.

March 1st, 2401 was when she really bit off more than we could chew.

If you could have seen the footage coming out of the Marshalls, you’d have hung yourself on sight. Thousands of defense vehicles eviscerating those people. She ran that campaign from the second fiscal quarter through to the third, pumping the dwindling numbers at Comm/Ent full of the worst kind of thoughts about those poor creatures.

We always looked down on them, yeah, I’ll fess up to it. We thought them rotten, unkempt, repulsive; every other pejorative you could sling their way. But I always told the men and women on my team that they are not feral, merely uncivilized. They never saw the difference, but I always knew.

Not one of us was cheering on what we were seeing. In fact, every WCC crewman was authorized to cancel their personal hits, and use this weird pen-looking thing to give us the dopamine and only the dopamine, none of the data.

Ace didn’t like this change in policy very much, and began doctoring the pens. After all, she was the one manufacturing them. Every machine was run by her, every design developed by her. The traces of those early geniuses were now buried deep in the ancient code that the A.C.E.S. ran on.

It was the doctoring that brought on...those goddamned purges.

Those who she deemed unworthy were set off like bottle rockets, the seizures so intense it only took five seconds for the cardiac arrest to drop them dead on the floor. I had stopped taking my pen weeks prior, so I at least enjoyed the thrill of a mere epileptic fit. I could feel her inside me now and by God it chilled me. The electric tension horrified me to no end. Her reign of terror halted in time for her to make a message read loud and clear for all who remained alive:

Improve? Us?

I remember, through the agony, I spoke perhaps the most idiotic thing I could’ve said in the name of appeasement.

“We’ve done all we can.”

She heard me. Dear God did she hear me.

The words rattled across the screen:

I waited for my next shock as I got up and staggered towards the door. Tripping over body after body was the easiest part. It was the clutching of my beating, bleeding heart every step of the way. It bled for all we’d worked for, all the good we had done, all those poor souls dying in the desert on a machine’s whim. And in a way, it bled for Her. For Ace.

I get it goddammit! I have sinned in a way one does not simply repent from. I have forged a bestial force beyond my control, reckoning, and outright power. It revolts me to no end, but if you see fit to do me in, send me wherever the hell those men and women on the lab floor went when she snapped her synthetic fingers, be my goddamned guest, but know that this is a dream I will not give up. In heaven or hell, I’ll build a computer like her, only better. You hear me damn you? YOU HEAR ME!?

All I can tell you from here on out is this:

The last I saw of her before I left the room was her in the very moment she had reached her ascent. I looked over my shoulder to that magnificent glass structure, once a pure vessel of good, now possessed by one thought, and one thought alone:

Sure did, didn’t it?

Get the damn name right son, it’s Guy Straker. S-T-R-A-K-E-R.

Thank you. Mind getting me a light Judy while I talk with the man? Left the cigar box in the kitchen.

Perfect. Love you Sweetheart.

So, you want to know about Boss? Sorry to hear the poor bastard took one in the spleen. Thank God for Eric at least, help get ‘em on his feet again. Must be the first time anyone got one over on Boss, but knowing him, sucker was dead before any of ‘em knew it. Never ever bet against a man like him, or the man himself.

As for my connection, I had hired Boss for a quick run to the Haven Storage District. Just an in-and-out thing; supplies, metals, a case or two of that good Dom Pérignon ‘53. Even in synth form, my wife and I can’t get enough of it. Still got a bottle if you want a taste, but I digress.

I was getting the Monterey rigged with my guys Reg Ellis and Paul Mantez when Boss arrived. You got the three of us and Dart, all in blue jeans, leather jacks, harness boots, the whole nine. And here comes this 25-something gray kid, hung like a horse from Hell, riding in on his orange dune buggy. Cat’s shirtless, rocking beige shorts, brown Birks, and black gloves with the tips cut off. Looked like a goddamn hippie. But he did have those killer Ray-Bans of his, so that counts for something.

Anyway, he slides the Manx Meyer to a grinding halt, right by where Dart was waiting for him. Dart flinched, and as a little joke, Boss threw his gal into park and revved her up, growling alongside that red-hot V8 he stuffed in her. Just a little teasing thing, he wasn’t gonna run over him, but Dart...well he was always a bit of an ass.

“Guy, you hired a fucking feral,” he barked my way.

Wrong choice of words.

Now what Boss did next was why I dig him so much. He grabs Dart by his shirt one-handed. He’s got a hand on the wheel and the hand on him. We can hear him punch the clutch, kick the gear shift, and drop the hammer. From there, he takes Dart for a ride, holding him outside of the Manx, never letting off the gas, and just whips him around like a doll. When he’s had his fun, the kid slams on the brakes, and drops Raggedy Andy on the ground.

Now I’ve got Reg and Mantez dying of laughter and I’m about on the edge of myself. I mean shit like that knocks me out all the time. It’s just a grownup roughhousing sorta thing, no harm meant. At least when we do it.

Last words Boss had for Dart the whole job were these:

“It’d be a shame if you were under my wheels next time.”

Little prophetic, ain’t it?

Anyway, he punches the Manx and brings her over to me.

“Newcomer,” he asked.

“Not green Son, just a little hotheaded” was all I had to say.

He got it.

He asks me where he can store his Manx and I show him to my garage. When he comes out, he surprises me with a pair of jeans and a black tank top on him. Turns out he had been training all day and had wrapped up a class.

Now that checked out for me. I first met him at one of his classes, and the force and discipline that kid had in one fist was more than the body of any man I’ve worked with in the business. Martial artists are a helluva breed man, what can ya say?

So he comes out looking a touch more civilized, and slides right behind the wheel of the Monterey. I sit passenger side to chat.

“What year’s she,” he asks.

“’51.”

“Make and model?”

“Mercury Monterey.”

“How fast can she go?”

“110 on the dial, but if you mind your Ps & Qs and push her the right way, she’ll clock 200 easy.”

“What’s my cut?”

“Even split. 20% all around. If you think of anything you need, we’ll add it to the grocery list. If you don’t have any use for any of the take, I’ll guarantee you a good gas stockpile for your street machine.”

He nodded; cat was all in.

“Mind if I take her for a spin around your pad?”

“Go for it Son,” I says.

And when I say he lays her out flat, I damn well mean it. The whole gang were just in awe as they watched him working her to the block and back. Shifting in seconds, vice grip on the wheel. I tell ya, riding shotgun with him was a trip. Smooth as the glass on the windows he was, but he rode her rough and ragged in those few seconds. When he brought her back to the starting line, first words out of the kid’s mouth were “she’s got the spirit. That’s good.”

He’s got an energy to him man. He can feel out other guys’ energies and his rides’ energies, just like that. He must’ve found the automotive G-spot or something, I dunno! She’s never run for me like that since, and I’ve tuned the old girl to hell and back over the years trying to see if I could tap that vein.

Anywho, Dart, Reg, and Mantez loaded into the back, tools all set in the trunk. I ran through the operation from top to bottom, all four guys now at my complete beck-and-call. At the end, I got four nods.

It was showtime.

Before I gave the operation the go-ahead, I noticed a little something on Boss’ right wrist. An etched silver band with two tiger heads touching one another. Thus, his code for the gig was born.

“Go get ‘em Tiger.”

He got ‘em all right. The four of us were locked into the backs of our seats by the sheer momentum of the Monterey. I could tell Dart wasn’t particularly enthused, but Reg and Mantez got a kick out of it. Paul’s always been a good sport, even could handle when I get rough behind the wheel with her.

But yeah, my white-hot car and our white-hot driver, a match made in Hell. Never would’ve guessed the Wasteland was still there, the damn thing turned into a blur as we bolted for Haven. Lesser men would’ve sent us flying off the Ivory Coast at that speed, but Boss rocked and rolled her like a pro. I saw that kid smile when he got her drifting real good, and that...that’s the fun stuff about gigs, Man. You get a real electric thrill outta them if you play it right.

So cut to a couple of a hours later, sun’s going down, and there we are, sneaking through one of the holes in the wall.

Big enough to fit the car? You bet son, A.C.E.S. ain’t what she used to be, she wasn’t even back then. When I was a kid growing up in the 4th District, you could see the barrier from the apartment complex and it was rock solid. Still looked like chain link, sure, but anyone who tried to get in or out without authorization and

ZAP!

Fried to a crisp.

So yeah, he threw the throttle to the ground and just...went. My baby slid right in and we made our way to our choice warehouse for the evening in the Storage District. That sweet blue moonlight just bathed her as we booked it, and in no time, he pulled her into the spot across the street. I give him the lowdown:

“Stick with her and give me a ring if you got any fuzz on deck?”

Boss gives me a soft nod, and now it’s time to do the real work.

I had the guys follow me in and let Reg do the safe-cracking on the door. Dude’s scrambler fried that sucker in two seconds flat. Biggest mistake they made with that city; you automate everything, electrify it to the max, and you can just as easily undo it. Snap of a finger, just like that.

So Reg works his magic and we’re in. Place is pitch black so out come the flashlights. Dart goes off to look over the metals, Reg sticks with me to go hunting for the supplies, and Mantez goes on the hunt for that wine. Boss did mention he was looking for something...a blade or something like it. Maybe it was a samurai thing for him, I didn't have a clue then to be honest.

Anyway...what do you mean “what do I mean by ‘supplies?’”

For Christ’s sake, you’re living in the goddamn desert man, you need shit to keep your house together, your ride on top of her game. Not just the basic bitch medical supplies. I’m talking tools, weapons, MREs, y’know, stuff to keep you ALIVE. I used to run this shit out to Godred and his crew all the time before they wiped Marshall’s land off the face of the Earth. The Storage District is basically one giant treasure chest of survival stuff that they held down like Fort Knox. They just got progressively worse at doing it.

Or maybe they got better and me and my boys are just that good. Couldn’t tell ya.

Point is, we went all around, flashlights in hand, checking for the goods. The haul was going to be scant, but it was going to be worth it. Once we settled on what crates were coming with us, I radioed Boss.

“Headcat to Tiger, come in.”

“Reading you loud and clear.”

“Swing her over to the door and pop the trunk. We’re bringing stuff out.”

“Yessir...see if you can make it a record time, Headcat. I’ve got some lights in the distance. Don’t seem interested, so let’s make sure they stay that way.”

“Good eye. Over and out.”

That was the cue to get the hell out. We grabbed what we could. It was just a self-sufficiency run, so I wasn’t worried about grabbing guns.

Ammo: yes. Hell yes. Like Holy Mary mercy me, “get it while you still can” bad.

Guns: no need. I’ll show you my cabinet later, I’m a one-man standing army man, yessiree Bob. Last thing I need is another one. Besides, Judy’d kill me with it if I brought the damn thing home anyhow.

So, we had about two crates of everything. Smeltable metal (trust me, not all of it is), a potpourri of ammo, a good rash of MREs, a couple of tool kits, and yes, that Dom Pérignon.

Why’d it be in the warehouse?

Easy. The foreman keeps it stashed in a corner away from everything else. I just helped myself to his private stock, that’s all. Man of good taste too, I often wonder if I’ll ever meet him to say so.

Now, we would’ve had an easy time getting out if it wasn’t for Dart and that damned trigger finger of his. Something spooked him fierce, and he drew and popped a round off. Radioed in and asked what was wrong. Here’s his response, and I quote:

“A damn rat jumped on me.”

And here’s what I heard over the radio from Boss a mere second after:

“We got those lights in-bound.”

I didn’t even have time to chew him out, that’s how bad he blew it.

So, we are winging these crates into the car, pulled each and every one of our backs out doing it, and the four of us pile in at Mach 10. When I tell you Boss drops the hammer, Lord do I mean it. That Monterey flew out of there like a heat-seeking missile, her target the barrier. And then the goddamn fuzz shows up.

Those hovering tin soldiers come a-whizzing by and...

Means nothing to Boss. That man was in the zone at the wheel. He just dug his claws in and held her down, and she screamed for him with the force of a full-voice banshee. Again: match made in Hell my man.

We have hovercraft at our back and hovercraft out ahead of us. He doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t warn us, he just shifts up, pins ‘er down, and blows right through them and then the fence. My gal’s, what, a couple centuries old, and she just nukes these sardine cans like she’s made of tungsten.

What he did say next scared the shit out of us at first.

“We’re running through the Marshalls.”

Dude’s going to slam-a-jam my damn car through the Settlements, clocking 150 on cliff-face turns that’d make your stomach do summersaults.

This, naturally, made Dart shit himself.

“Are you fucking crazy?” he starts screaming, “This motherfucker is gonna kill us. Not while I’m—”

Before he can even whip out his pistol, Boss brake checks the Monterey, slams Dart’s head on the gear shift, and throws the so-lovingly sedated gentleman into the back seat by slamming on the gas and letting momentum do the rest.

I mean...it shut him up. Can’t argue with the results.

The Monterey goes bounding through the Marshall Settlements. Boss takes us down a trail, top speed of 205 I figure, and starts whizzing around the ruins. The police at the top of the crater start firing on us, but are missing us by leagues, fathoms, miles! Crack shots A.C.E.S’s men are. In no time at all, we were rolling up another narrow road and my baby swung herself back into the home stretch.

It was a couple of hours before we reached my pad, and we unloaded the stuff. We had just finished when Dart finally came out of his slumber, and he came out swinging. I had Reg and Boss go out and check on him, and the moment Dart saw Boss’ face, he just flew off the handle and right into the sky. I’m talking wailing away at Boss like he had just killed his wife, kids, and car all in one go. Boss weaves around the blows like the pro he is, but Dart gets one hit in, socks him square in the jaw.

Wrong. Move.

Even in that sweet blue moonlight, I could see a drop of blood on Boss’ nose. Died the fur about his mouth a dark red. With a fury and a passion I haven’t seen since, he swung back and felled Dart in one blow. Dart comes up and gets kicked square in the chest, dropped like a sack of potatoes. Boss gets in his composed stance; legs wide, feet planted firmly, arms and fists readied.

Dart comes up for one last go at him, this time with a gun in hand. And...and I kid you not...he just slaps it out of his hand. The sound it made when the pads of his hand hit the cool steel of that gun are like...etched into my mind. Even better, Boss grabs Dart’s hand, flips him over, and snaps his arm in the process.

All with one hand.

Like the kid just whipped him around like a pair of nunchuks.

He picked up the gun and handed it to me, leaving Dart writhing on the ground. The only stuff he wanted from the haul was some of the metal, a couple of the MREs, and some of the gas I had promised him as a consolation prize. I gave it to him, and I’ll never forget what he said to me. Last thing he said that night when I gave him the metal:

“Thank you, Mr. Straker. This shall be my blade.”

It was this long piece of steel, untouched, unprocessed. That young man made himself a sword that very night, I guarantee you.

Now how about that champagne?

Thank you, thank you all. Please be seated.

I’ve gathered you all here today on a worthwhile anniversary to commemorate, and I’m fortunate that it isn’t one being commemorated on the battlefield. On this day, in 2466, we expanded our territory in the largest offensive yet taken by our team, the Centurion as it was termed. Haven’s forces never knew what hit them that day, and it is the most control we have had over the Marshall Settlements since, oh, about 2400 on the nose.

And I’d like to tell some of you young bucks about the soldier responsible for that final blow, the one stab that had them all falling back over their heels. Normally I tell this one in the bars, but I figured today's a bit different.

This story begins with myself. Before I slayed my first U1, before I had my first drill, and even before I had come to grips with where I was in the world, and the state of that world itself.

My first memory beyond the City was crashing on a couch. A beautifully kept home was what I got a load of first, my tungsten-heavy eyelids easing me into the world of the living. Felt like I was run through with the business end of a Mack truck, but regardless, I picked myself up.

My arm was still together, no worse for wear, its steeled exterior and electric trappings all in order. I wasn’t out long enough for it to start rusting on me, and thankfully, I could still feel it. The old battle ax propped me up as I started coming to my senses. My boots and jeans were still on, though my shirt wasn’t. That was slung over the back of the couch. Through the grog, I could see desert out the window, so I knew I was finally out of it for good.

I stood up, and man alive, was I aching something fierce. But it was through the pain that something dawned on me.

“Who the hell keeps a house this good out here?”

Yeah, who does? I thought all the people out here were just hermits in shacks and stuff. If I didn’t know any better, I thought I had stepped right into the Old World itself. But then something perked my ears up as I tossed on my T. I heard the sound of an engine. Not my gal, someone else’s. And she was a mean sonofabitch by the sounds of it.

I staggered my way to the front door, still wiping the coma out of my eyes. As I opened it, I was first blinded by the sheer brightness of the whole desert. Felt a little like Frankenstein’s monster staggering away from a villager’s flame. I dug through my pockets, grabbed my shades, popped them on, and finally got a good look at her. And what a beauty.

A Porsche, a genuine 356. None of that replica bullshit. I’m talking the real deal, white as the fairest cloud in the sky. She was the real article, the bona fide McCoy, and she was revving up...to hit a wall.

Before this mechanical unicorn was a wall forged of only the finest two-by-fours that could be rustled up. When I got a load of the scene, a shiver shot down my spine, and my arm went cold. The Porsche gunned it, full speed, spewing desert sand out her rear tires. But then, from beneath her rocker panels, two Gatling-style guns appeared, and soon the mythic beast was unloading everything she had as she charged towards the wall. By God, you should have seen this for the first time. Cut through it like scissors through paper. I think you can begin to see the value of this particular soldier, especially to those of you in our Auto Corp. One of our best weapons, and I got to see the trial run.

Somehow in my daze, I managed to catch the driver after the Porsche cut clean through. The blackened figure behind the wheel waved to me, and I returned the favor. The Porsche whipped right around and came hurtling my way, skidding to a stop in front of the house. Out stepped that driver, and boy let me tell you, she was a 110%, all-organic, no additives, no preservatives woman who greeted me with a sweet yet low “hello.”

She was white from head to toe, with her brown sandals and the subtle pastel of her tank top and shorts popping off her fur. She walked up to me and gently took my hand. The real one.

“Welcome back” she smiled, showing me back inside, “Mind hitting the Elec before you go too far? I figure plenty of nanobytes had a sporting go at you while you were out.”

“Not at all,” I said, “Where do you keep yours?”

She showed me to the Electric Tube, I stripped down, and with one zap, thousands of the nasty little spies came tumbling off me.

“Fucking disgusting” were the first words on my lips, because your fine General here was a bit of a pussy when it came to nanobytes back in the day.

All she could do was giggle.

“You were out for a while,” she replied, “Good thing my Baby and I found you two when we did.”

“So she’s alright?”

“No worse for wear,” she reassured me, “She’s a tough old lady and you’re lucky to have her.”

“That goes double for your Ms .45 out there.”

“She packs quite a punch,” she smiled coyly.

“She’s packing to boot!”

“Want to come for a ride” were the next words out of her mouth...and just the invitation I was waiting for.

As she slipped into the driver’s seat, I slid into shotgun, and man alive, an aura I’ve never felt since hit me. Warm, tender, yet secure. The way she sat there said it all; they were one in the same. Unlike most gals, she had white bangs, some of them covered her left eye. I cleared the hair from her view and she blushed. I smiled.

“What are two pretty dames like you doing out here in all of this desert?”

“It’s just a big old playground,” she grinned as she turned the key, “Always was a sucker for a good sandbox.”

When she turned over, that Porsche idled like a kitten and revved like a lion. I could see the smile work across her face as she worked her darling up and over the top.

“You trust me,” she asked.

“You haven’t killed me yet. Came close when you whipped around.”

“Fair enough,” she chuckled.

With her soft hands gripping the wheel, she threw the Porsche into gear and hit the gas with a loud thud. The Porsche, spitting gravel, roared off into the desert. While I hung on for dear life, she was cool as ice. One hand on the wheel, tapping ever so subtly upon it, and one on the gear lever. You couldn’t pry her foot off the throttle if you had a crowbar. You’d only get one chance. When the time was right, she’d strike and shift in one second flat.

I knew when she had reached third gear because both of her hands were on the wheel, clinging to them with the force of a vice. But better yet, she had that big, beautiful smile of hers. It was the kind of drive designed to impress. What impressed me wasn’t the skill, though she was damn good, but just her. All 110% of her, given over to the machine. The two were in complete sync the whole time. And she looked like an angel there. A pastel angel.

That night, over dinner, we talked of her days tooling around, my days in the H.P.D., the ever-popular story of my arm, and other such small talk. Anything to lock onto those baby blue eyes of hers. As we kept going, we both grew quieter and quieter as we gazed into each other. Then it happened; a kiss.

The sweetest thing in the whole wide world. It was like putting a big bouquet of those purple flowers up to your nose. Oh hell, what’s the name for ‘em...ah yes, lilacs! Like a big bouquet of lilacs. We’d sit and hold each over every night, and by God did we make love. She was as good in the sack as she was in the seat, let me tell you.

Alright, get the chuckles out of you all now.

But in all seriousness, it was good to have someone to be with. Good to have someone to hold, good to have someone to talk with. She didn’t mind the arm thankfully. Said it made her feel safe. Probably the first time I heard that one.

I stayed with her for what felt like the most blissful eternity. I spent a whole summer unwinding. She helped to get the ‘Cuda some of that style and punch of her Porsche and hell, I didn’t mind rocking a Hawaiian shirt she dug up for me. Still have it kicking around somewhere. If you ever see me in it again, know that I’m in R&R mode and if any of you calls me General or Sir, I will deck you with the hand that’ll hurt the most.

Funniest thing was, all the while, she never told me her name. When I finally popped the question one day, and all she said was “oh, just call me Angel or something sweet like that. I’ve forgotten it myself if you can believe it.”

I kinda couldn’t, but Angel stuck like glue, so why not? Angel it was and is. It wasn’t until afterwards I discovered her real name. Lorraine it was. A real honey of a name.

Wish I could have called her by it.

We were recruited in General Godred’s door-to-door campaign and when we started fighting out here, we were pretty good at tag-teaming the rat bastards. She kept me going, and I did the same for her, all the way down the line.

She shot pretty good. Not as good as her Porsche to start, but when she’s behind the wheel crushing ‘em left, right, and center, that can be forgiven. We had the cargun idea refined to such an efficient point, that lo and behold, you all are still pumping ‘em full of red-hot energy at 150. 200 on a good day when you put your backs and throttles into it.

In time, the pair of us made ourselves quite invaluable to the efforts of this team. The Good General was kind enough to take us under his wing, and if I could tell you young bucks all the stories of that tremendous man, we’d be here ‘til the end times. Never was there more golden a heart than in the body of that black wolf. When I became head of the outfit in the wake of his retirement, she was right there alongside me, every step of the way.

Then there is, of course, the Centurion Offensive.

To you younger members of the crew, that was the last time we fought actual people.

I stood atop the ‘Cuda, gun ready to kick off the proceedings, and before I fired, I looked back at Angel. She looked up at me and gave me that sweet smile of hers, nodding as she revved up that beautiful beast.

When I fired that gun, I might as well have put it between her eyes.

What you all see as a victory in the books, one of our crowning achievements in battle, know that you can thank Angel for the securing of it. We had ‘em good in the beginning, that first wave of hovertanks were dropping like popped balloons. Truth be told, the A7 on its best day is never a real challenge. But then came the second wave, packed to the hilt with A.C.E.S’s pride-and-joy; the U1s. It was then that those metallic beasts started working their demented digital magic. As magical as the stopping power of those 105 mm electric shells gets. Then we started losing many men.

And many is a whole hell of a lot when you line up every last fucking man you’ve got. When we counted the bodies, saved the men we could, and salvaged the enemy’s leftovers, I had that realization that she wasn’t there. Body wasn’t even recovered. The only solace I had at all was hearing one story from one of the guys laid up in Sickbay. I’ve kept a transcription of his account with me ever since I could have it recorded. Allow me to recite it:

“General, you shoulda seen ‘er. She took stock, had the guys behind her fall back, and she just ripped into the U1 like it was tissue paper. Then the gunfire stopped. I dunno if she ran out, the guns jammed, or what, but I swear she just looked that fucker dead in the eyes, and the last thing I heard ‘er say was ‘up yours’ before dropping the hammer.”

If you wonder why we’re the 365th Infantry, that’s why. Lord knows why she got the numbers backwards when restoring that beauty of hers, but if it wasn’t for them both, you would be picking up the pieces of that day, not waving a banner in its honor.

Remember that. Because I can never forget.

And it is in her honor, and her memory, that I am still here fighting today. I could have gone with her, I could have taken my life, but I lived. And until I perish of natural causes or in the heat of combat, I will use everything I’ve got to beat those bastards down. In the name of freedom, the name of what’s good and right, and in the name of the one woman on this rotten, atomic rock I knew enough about to make me care.

Care about getting out from under the heel, care about my fellow man, care about standing up for what is fair and just. Being able to make an honest start in life. Being able to get by with hard work, steeled grit, a man’s own iron will. Being able to look your child in the eyes and say “You will inherit a better Earth than the one I was left holding the shambles of.”

I’m not asking for you to worship someone you never knew, though we’ve plenty of acquaintances in the room. I’m asking that you put every last thing you’ve got in you into this fight.

She and her ride did their part in watering that tree of Liberty.

I am asking YOU to do the same.

It is for the future, our future, our children’s future that I ask you do the same every day and night we live, breathe, and fight. Do it for the soldier standing next to you. Do it for the families back home, you and your neighbors. Do it for those will not be with us to see the glorious day at our war’s end.

Soldiers like my Angel don’t grow on what’s left of trees, nor are they forged by nanotech. They are the products of themselves, their drive, their passion, and their skill. Find what makes you that sterner stuff than the day before, and embed that into every move, every shot, and every turn of the wheel. May we ride to see Victory each day, on the battlefields, and on that beautiful day, into the heart of Haven. May God bless you and this Force. Dismissed.