Chapter 13
ZION APOCALYPSE DUB
The next day Barcelona Metro authorities slammed a lockdown on our zone and sent the policia out prowling the streets to enforce it. Transport hubs came under heavy restriction, checkpoints were set up on all major roads, and a curfew went into effect at 2200 hours until further notice. Rumor had it a large contingent of Dawson Hull corporate troops were acting as “security advisors”, and that they’d run dozens of no knock, sweep & clear operations in the south. They were fiending hard for something. Someone. It looked like they were gearing up to do the same here because we spotted the black bellies of surveillance drones circling in the sky like vultures, pinging anything that moved, and heavy troop concentrations building up at the local stations. The Newsnets began streaming info-alerts every 15 minutes, and Tam and I guessed those had at least a million impoverished citizens peering out their windows hoping for a chunk of government reward money. Paranoia Lotto – Free this week! Play early. Play often. Once we were sure all that was in place, I got tapped to make the run on the upcity hospital.
We were all sitting tight in the cellar, recouping from the brawl at the fight pit when it was decided. “Love it when I volunteer.” I said to Tam. But he just grinned and went back to pouring over the district map. Reality –wise, there wasn’t another option: the Triplets would be picked up in a heartbeat; there was constant chatter on the wire about the Asian male suspect from the “massacre at the mosque”; and I was good at stealth ops.
To really crank things up a notch, for a moment I thought I wasn’t even going to make it out of the apartment because Carmen looked ready to shoot me. Actually, she would have shot Alejo first, then me. I made one little comment, just thinking out loud, about a guide up into Old B. Then Alejo suggested Curro. After all, he was capable, trustworthy, and he knew all the back roads and alleys from temp work at Global Express delivery. The atmosphere snapped taut all of a sudden, and our little tête-à-tête went downhill from there. I felt like I’d stepped between a mother bear and her cub. It was Poet who saved me: Carmen looked over to him laying there on the bed pallet, breathing shallow and steady in sync with the autodoc pulse tone and she relented. Curro could make the run with me. I watched her expression soften, and after a long look, she kissed him on the forehead, shot me a warning glance and a thin smile, then went upstairs without another word.
“She’s going to pray.” Alejo said watching her go.
“I’d be praying if I was you.” Tam said after the upstairs door clicked shut.
“Oh I do!” he laughed, and got up out of his chair.
“Are we going in the suits?” Curro asked, fixing his eyes on at the Mitsubishi rigs stacked in the corner.
Tam shook his head, “Can’t do it. Suits are less than 50% charged, and we’re going to need juice to slip out of here when we’re ready. It’s time for an old fashioned B&E.”
“This gets better and better.” I muttered. “We’re going regimental.”
“Hah! Not quite. Lucky for you I kept a few of my things.” Alejo said, waving us over to another stack of crates. “For sentimental reasons,” he winked. “Curro! Come help your papa. This one here. And here.”
Together, they started piling equipment on the floor in front of us. All of it was old school, but in pristine condition: thermal masking body gloves, formfit Kevlar tac-vests, night vision sets, gecko pads for climbing, electronic lock picks, even smoke grenades and knockout gas canisters. They set it all out carefully, as if on display, then last of all, Alejo pulled out a plastic double pistol case, faded and worn gray at the edges.
“Now you shouldn’t have to use them, but this is an important run.” He paused and ran his gnarled hand over the case gently. “So I will let then out of the house. My babies.” He said reverently, and clicked it open. Tam and I both stared. There, snug in blue foam, lay two custom Walther P99 silenced pistols.
“They’re still bang on. Almost perfect condition.” Alejo crowed. “I had new firing pins machined last year. And the barrels are new too. I even have 4 extended magazines for each and it all goes in these leather shoulder holsters.”
He held the case in front of him and offered it to us like a communion plate. I saw Tam hesitate, then reach out and delicately lift one from its cut-out. “Beautiful,” he sighed.
I snorted, rolling my eyes, “Tam, you’re such a gunporn wanker. No offense Alejo, antiques are nice but I’m bringing my Blizzard. Those things belong in a museum.”
Alejo & Tam both turned to me at the same time, looking shocked as if I’d farted in church.
“What? It puts lead in the air. And I’m a fan of microchip targeting.”
Alejo snapped the case shut, and said in mock outrage. “Bah! Such a heathen blasphemer. Why do I bother?” While Tam just looked away shaking his head, Curro reached past and plucked the pistol out of his grasp. He deftly ejected the magazine and racked the slide to check the chamber, then picked up a clutch of spare mags and a holster.
“You bring that back to me. You hear me, Curro?”
“Yes Papa. I’ll bring it back.”
“And listen to Jace. Do what he tells you. He is more the expert than you are in this and knows- “
“Papa, I understand.”
Alejo grabbed his son in a huge bear hug, holding him tight for several seconds. “This is for a good cause – to save a life. God’s love go with you. Remember what I’ve taught you and He will watch over you. Bring you back safe to me and your Mama.”
“Yes Father. I will remember.”
I leaned in, “Hey, Al. He’ll be fine. It’s just a little B & E right? I’ll bring him back. Promise.”
“I know, I know,” he coughed gruffly. “Now. Everything you need is here.” He gestured over the two piles of gear. “After all…who breaks into a hospital, que? Pharmacy’s the only place they’ll have any real security. I think they will have a close circuit system for monitoring patients, but it’ll be a walk in the park. Toughest thing will be getting into the Old City itself. Once you’re over the wall, just avoid the patrols and it’s a straight shot down Ronda del Dalt. Easy!” He clapped me on the back.
“Easy, he says.” I looked at Curro, who just shrugged and started stripping down in order to put on a body glove.
“So, you’ve done this before?” I asked. He nodded once, smiling a thin smile like his mother, and kept getting ready.
I turned to Doc Kalahani who’d been silent in the corner watching all this. “So once we’re in, then what?”
He stepped forward, his thick eyebrows knitting together. “You’ll want to find the cybernetic surgery department. Check in storage or one of the O.R.s.”
“How big is this thing?”
“Shouldn’t be too big.” He held his hands up vaguely.
“How big?”
“Not that big.”
“You don’t know do you?” I stared at him.
“Not exactly. No.”
“Outstanding.” I said dryly and started suiting up.
Later that evening the sky slipped from red veined gold to mercury glare under the mirror of nighttime smog. Full dark hadn’t hit, but the shadows were hardening fast. Curro and I made our way into the “Red” district just outside the Old City Wall where we’d make our climb. Funny, but it didn’t matter what country you were in, what city it was or what zone; brothels and bars always cropped up in the border sectors. Ticks clinging to the pocked, Upcity duracrete hide.
The plaza was thronging with people. You’d never know there was a lockdown in effect here. It was a mindless bedlam of house mix beats, drunken shouts, and neon holo-ads. Packets of tangled noise spilled out into the crammed streets with every swarm of pub crawlers staggering to their next stop, and lining the gauntlet were hawkers and hookers for every persuasion, their pimps and drug dealers standing sentry in the alleys. All of them eyed the clusters of rich kids down slumming for the weekend. Those drew together for mutual protection, drawing even more attention as they chattered flush faced and colorful like schools of tropical fish going cross current in a swamp. Every now and then, I spotted the shaved heads of mirror-lensed private muscle topping the crowd as they guarded their spoiled wards, herding them away from the more dangerous predators. Curro and I skirted the edges, threading our way through the mass.
We passed one of the warehouse clubs - El Moderne 7 – and out through the doors surged the chest thumping bass lines of Jahmdi Mel’s Zion Apocalypse Dub. On cue we both sang the chorus, laughing at each other for knowing it:
Insanely popular, the strutting Moroccan rhythms immortalized the final Arabic attack on Israel. Even Na’ilah the Nuke got a few lines. It was a bizarre epitaph: a sort of death jingle for 5 million souls.
Curro pushed that thought further. “How’d you meet Doctor Kalahani? Mama likes him – said he’s a good man.”
“Your mother’s right; Doc’s good people.” I paused. “He was Israeli - a military medical scientist with the IDF back in the day. He was on loan to the Americans, consulting with their D.I.A. and on his way back when Hamas glassed Tel Aviv. That was home. He lost everything – family, friends, work, all vaporized in one hot second as he sat at 35,000 feet. Hell, he lost his whole country a couple days after that.” I shook my head, remembering the day news of the attacks broke over the Net. “His flight got diverted to Belfast International and Tam found him getting jumped by some skinheads in Aldergrove. He’d wandered out of the jetport, alone at night, in shock. He was just laying there getting beaten. Like he didn’t care. There were five of them. He wouldn’t have lasted another minute if Tam hadn’t put an end to it. After, he carried him back to our place.”
I remembered Ibram those first few days: bruised purple black, swollen shut and shattered beyond words in the jigsaw confusion of anguish and loss. He wouldn’t talk for two weeks.
“He stayed in the Belfast District. With us. Opened up a little clinic and assists at Royal Children’s twice a week. They’ve offered him full sponsorship don’t know how many times. Wanted to make him a department head and everything, but he keeps turning them down.” I hopped over a pool of sidewalk vomit. “What’s the name of this place again?”
“Sant Honorat. Big white buildings off the del Dalt, on Avinguda Tibidabo.”
“You say you know a way in.”
“Si. The garage is monitored for thieves but not the loading docks by the kitchen.”
“And the OR’s are one floor up in C & F wing?”
“Hoy! You boys looking for a good time?” We must have wandered too close to the mouth of an alley because two raccoon painted prostitots – both female – came clicking out on spike heels aiming their bodies our way. Neither of them was older than 16, wearing little more than shiny black pleather straps and spray on glitter tops. “We know a great place to party.” The one with lime green hair winked at me, a small sharp tongue darting out to lick a gash of goth blue lips. The other girl with fire red hair reached out towards Curro, but stopped short in a hurry.
“Curro?”
“Ria?” Curro was looking hard at her in the streetlight, not quite sure. “That you?”
We were standing still, and recognized. Not good. I tugged gently at Curro’s sleeve. He whispered back, “Wait. I got it.”
The girl had changed, teetering on her shoes. She threw a quick pout, frowning down at the cracked and littered sidewalk. “Curro… shit! Look, I was kidding OK? Don’t ” She approached him again, impossibly young now. He held up his hands.
“Ria. Hey. Don’t worry. None of my business, right?”
“Yea, umm. Sorry. I mean – damnit. I didn’t -” Ria latched onto her friend and started backing into the alley again. “Don’t say anything. ’K? Please Curro. I mean it, don’t say a thing.”
“No, no. No worries. Look, Ria.” He glanced at me then lowered his voice conspiratorially. In a quick motion, he leafed a 50 Euro bill out of his jacket pocket and followed after them. “Tell you what Ria… I gotta pick up something for a friend. I won’t say anything about you, if you…” He gave her a nervous little smile. “And this is yours for a bit of data.”
“What data?” she asked warily, eyeing the folded bill in his hand.
“Nothing big. Nothing big. I figured you might know what the patrol rounds are around here. Like on 2nd & 3rd streets. You know, you might have noticed.”
He let the bill dangle a little. Her eyes flitted between his hand and a deep doorway across the street. I’d already spotted the punk hanging back, leaning on the lintel watching us. Her pimp. I moved to block his view.
“Yeah. I might have heard something, y’know?”
“Like?” he stepped in closer.
“Well, down here they run about every hour and a quarter, depending. Last one just went by.”
He handed the bill to her. It vanished. “Depending on what?”
She rolled her thick painted eyes. “On how busy the watch commander is. He takes it out in trade to let things run normal here, y’know? Some nights, like if gangs are moving weight, the patrols don’t even come ‘round.”
“Thanks Ria. You’re a sweetheart.”
“I am.” Lime green goth girl winked over her shoulder at me and disappeared back into the gloom.
As we made it out of the club crowds, I looked over to Curro. “Smooth. Where’d that come from?”
“Papa gave it to me. He always says you never know when it might come in handy. That seemed like one of those times.”
I just nodded and we walked on. My estimate of Curro went up with every step: Alejo might be right. We made past the last of the club crowds without any more incidents. Four minutes later we slipped onto the narrow streets that were cramped in the shadow of the dividing wall and our outer clothes disappeared behind a dumpster. Together, we fastened on the NV sets, the gecko pads, and started climbing into Old Barcelona.
*The lyrics to this song are from a poem by Margaret Atwood.
The next day Barcelona Metro authorities slammed a lockdown on our zone and sent the policia out prowling the streets to enforce it. Transport hubs came under heavy restriction, checkpoints were set up on all major roads, and a curfew went into effect at 2200 hours until further notice. Rumor had it a large contingent of Dawson Hull corporate troops were acting as “security advisors”, and that they’d run dozens of no knock, sweep & clear operations in the south. They were fiending hard for something. Someone. It looked like they were gearing up to do the same here because we spotted the black bellies of surveillance drones circling in the sky like vultures, pinging anything that moved, and heavy troop concentrations building up at the local stations. The Newsnets began streaming info-alerts every 15 minutes, and Tam and I guessed those had at least a million impoverished citizens peering out their windows hoping for a chunk of government reward money. Paranoia Lotto – Free this week! Play early. Play often. Once we were sure all that was in place, I got tapped to make the run on the upcity hospital.
We were all sitting tight in the cellar, recouping from the brawl at the fight pit when it was decided. “Love it when I volunteer.” I said to Tam. But he just grinned and went back to pouring over the district map. Reality –wise, there wasn’t another option: the Triplets would be picked up in a heartbeat; there was constant chatter on the wire about the Asian male suspect from the “massacre at the mosque”; and I was good at stealth ops.
To really crank things up a notch, for a moment I thought I wasn’t even going to make it out of the apartment because Carmen looked ready to shoot me. Actually, she would have shot Alejo first, then me. I made one little comment, just thinking out loud, about a guide up into Old B. Then Alejo suggested Curro. After all, he was capable, trustworthy, and he knew all the back roads and alleys from temp work at Global Express delivery. The atmosphere snapped taut all of a sudden, and our little tête-à-tête went downhill from there. I felt like I’d stepped between a mother bear and her cub. It was Poet who saved me: Carmen looked over to him laying there on the bed pallet, breathing shallow and steady in sync with the autodoc pulse tone and she relented. Curro could make the run with me. I watched her expression soften, and after a long look, she kissed him on the forehead, shot me a warning glance and a thin smile, then went upstairs without another word.
“She’s going to pray.” Alejo said watching her go.
“I’d be praying if I was you.” Tam said after the upstairs door clicked shut.
“Oh I do!” he laughed, and got up out of his chair.
“Are we going in the suits?” Curro asked, fixing his eyes on at the Mitsubishi rigs stacked in the corner.
Tam shook his head, “Can’t do it. Suits are less than 50% charged, and we’re going to need juice to slip out of here when we’re ready. It’s time for an old fashioned B&E.”
“This gets better and better.” I muttered. “We’re going regimental.”
“Hah! Not quite. Lucky for you I kept a few of my things.” Alejo said, waving us over to another stack of crates. “For sentimental reasons,” he winked. “Curro! Come help your papa. This one here. And here.”
Together, they started piling equipment on the floor in front of us. All of it was old school, but in pristine condition: thermal masking body gloves, formfit Kevlar tac-vests, night vision sets, gecko pads for climbing, electronic lock picks, even smoke grenades and knockout gas canisters. They set it all out carefully, as if on display, then last of all, Alejo pulled out a plastic double pistol case, faded and worn gray at the edges.
“Now you shouldn’t have to use them, but this is an important run.” He paused and ran his gnarled hand over the case gently. “So I will let then out of the house. My babies.” He said reverently, and clicked it open. Tam and I both stared. There, snug in blue foam, lay two custom Walther P99 silenced pistols.
“They’re still bang on. Almost perfect condition.” Alejo crowed. “I had new firing pins machined last year. And the barrels are new too. I even have 4 extended magazines for each and it all goes in these leather shoulder holsters.”
He held the case in front of him and offered it to us like a communion plate. I saw Tam hesitate, then reach out and delicately lift one from its cut-out. “Beautiful,” he sighed.
I snorted, rolling my eyes, “Tam, you’re such a gunporn wanker. No offense Alejo, antiques are nice but I’m bringing my Blizzard. Those things belong in a museum.”
Alejo & Tam both turned to me at the same time, looking shocked as if I’d farted in church.
“What? It puts lead in the air. And I’m a fan of microchip targeting.”
Alejo snapped the case shut, and said in mock outrage. “Bah! Such a heathen blasphemer. Why do I bother?” While Tam just looked away shaking his head, Curro reached past and plucked the pistol out of his grasp. He deftly ejected the magazine and racked the slide to check the chamber, then picked up a clutch of spare mags and a holster.
“You bring that back to me. You hear me, Curro?”
“Yes Papa. I’ll bring it back.”
“And listen to Jace. Do what he tells you. He is more the expert than you are in this and knows- “
“Papa, I understand.”
Alejo grabbed his son in a huge bear hug, holding him tight for several seconds. “This is for a good cause – to save a life. God’s love go with you. Remember what I’ve taught you and He will watch over you. Bring you back safe to me and your Mama.”
“Yes Father. I will remember.”
I leaned in, “Hey, Al. He’ll be fine. It’s just a little B & E right? I’ll bring him back. Promise.”
“I know, I know,” he coughed gruffly. “Now. Everything you need is here.” He gestured over the two piles of gear. “After all…who breaks into a hospital, que? Pharmacy’s the only place they’ll have any real security. I think they will have a close circuit system for monitoring patients, but it’ll be a walk in the park. Toughest thing will be getting into the Old City itself. Once you’re over the wall, just avoid the patrols and it’s a straight shot down Ronda del Dalt. Easy!” He clapped me on the back.
“Easy, he says.” I looked at Curro, who just shrugged and started stripping down in order to put on a body glove.
“So, you’ve done this before?” I asked. He nodded once, smiling a thin smile like his mother, and kept getting ready.
I turned to Doc Kalahani who’d been silent in the corner watching all this. “So once we’re in, then what?”
He stepped forward, his thick eyebrows knitting together. “You’ll want to find the cybernetic surgery department. Check in storage or one of the O.R.s.”
“How big is this thing?”
“Shouldn’t be too big.” He held his hands up vaguely.
“How big?”
“Not that big.”
“You don’t know do you?” I stared at him.
“Not exactly. No.”
“Outstanding.” I said dryly and started suiting up.
Later that evening the sky slipped from red veined gold to mercury glare under the mirror of nighttime smog. Full dark hadn’t hit, but the shadows were hardening fast. Curro and I made our way into the “Red” district just outside the Old City Wall where we’d make our climb. Funny, but it didn’t matter what country you were in, what city it was or what zone; brothels and bars always cropped up in the border sectors. Ticks clinging to the pocked, Upcity duracrete hide.
The plaza was thronging with people. You’d never know there was a lockdown in effect here. It was a mindless bedlam of house mix beats, drunken shouts, and neon holo-ads. Packets of tangled noise spilled out into the crammed streets with every swarm of pub crawlers staggering to their next stop, and lining the gauntlet were hawkers and hookers for every persuasion, their pimps and drug dealers standing sentry in the alleys. All of them eyed the clusters of rich kids down slumming for the weekend. Those drew together for mutual protection, drawing even more attention as they chattered flush faced and colorful like schools of tropical fish going cross current in a swamp. Every now and then, I spotted the shaved heads of mirror-lensed private muscle topping the crowd as they guarded their spoiled wards, herding them away from the more dangerous predators. Curro and I skirted the edges, threading our way through the mass.
We passed one of the warehouse clubs - El Moderne 7 – and out through the doors surged the chest thumping bass lines of Jahmdi Mel’s Zion Apocalypse Dub. On cue we both sang the chorus, laughing at each other for knowing it:
I am the cause, I am
a stockpile
of chemical toys.
My body
is a deadly gadget.
I reach out in love.
My hands are guns, all my intentions
are completely lethal.*
a stockpile
of chemical toys.
My body
is a deadly gadget.
I reach out in love.
My hands are guns, all my intentions
are completely lethal.*
Insanely popular, the strutting Moroccan rhythms immortalized the final Arabic attack on Israel. Even Na’ilah the Nuke got a few lines. It was a bizarre epitaph: a sort of death jingle for 5 million souls.
Curro pushed that thought further. “How’d you meet Doctor Kalahani? Mama likes him – said he’s a good man.”
“Your mother’s right; Doc’s good people.” I paused. “He was Israeli - a military medical scientist with the IDF back in the day. He was on loan to the Americans, consulting with their D.I.A. and on his way back when Hamas glassed Tel Aviv. That was home. He lost everything – family, friends, work, all vaporized in one hot second as he sat at 35,000 feet. Hell, he lost his whole country a couple days after that.” I shook my head, remembering the day news of the attacks broke over the Net. “His flight got diverted to Belfast International and Tam found him getting jumped by some skinheads in Aldergrove. He’d wandered out of the jetport, alone at night, in shock. He was just laying there getting beaten. Like he didn’t care. There were five of them. He wouldn’t have lasted another minute if Tam hadn’t put an end to it. After, he carried him back to our place.”
I remembered Ibram those first few days: bruised purple black, swollen shut and shattered beyond words in the jigsaw confusion of anguish and loss. He wouldn’t talk for two weeks.
“He stayed in the Belfast District. With us. Opened up a little clinic and assists at Royal Children’s twice a week. They’ve offered him full sponsorship don’t know how many times. Wanted to make him a department head and everything, but he keeps turning them down.” I hopped over a pool of sidewalk vomit. “What’s the name of this place again?”
“Sant Honorat. Big white buildings off the del Dalt, on Avinguda Tibidabo.”
“You say you know a way in.”
“Si. The garage is monitored for thieves but not the loading docks by the kitchen.”
“And the OR’s are one floor up in C & F wing?”
“Hoy! You boys looking for a good time?” We must have wandered too close to the mouth of an alley because two raccoon painted prostitots – both female – came clicking out on spike heels aiming their bodies our way. Neither of them was older than 16, wearing little more than shiny black pleather straps and spray on glitter tops. “We know a great place to party.” The one with lime green hair winked at me, a small sharp tongue darting out to lick a gash of goth blue lips. The other girl with fire red hair reached out towards Curro, but stopped short in a hurry.
“Curro?”
“Ria?” Curro was looking hard at her in the streetlight, not quite sure. “That you?”
We were standing still, and recognized. Not good. I tugged gently at Curro’s sleeve. He whispered back, “Wait. I got it.”
The girl had changed, teetering on her shoes. She threw a quick pout, frowning down at the cracked and littered sidewalk. “Curro… shit! Look, I was kidding OK? Don’t ” She approached him again, impossibly young now. He held up his hands.
“Ria. Hey. Don’t worry. None of my business, right?”
“Yea, umm. Sorry. I mean – damnit. I didn’t -” Ria latched onto her friend and started backing into the alley again. “Don’t say anything. ’K? Please Curro. I mean it, don’t say a thing.”
“No, no. No worries. Look, Ria.” He glanced at me then lowered his voice conspiratorially. In a quick motion, he leafed a 50 Euro bill out of his jacket pocket and followed after them. “Tell you what Ria… I gotta pick up something for a friend. I won’t say anything about you, if you…” He gave her a nervous little smile. “And this is yours for a bit of data.”
“What data?” she asked warily, eyeing the folded bill in his hand.
“Nothing big. Nothing big. I figured you might know what the patrol rounds are around here. Like on 2nd & 3rd streets. You know, you might have noticed.”
He let the bill dangle a little. Her eyes flitted between his hand and a deep doorway across the street. I’d already spotted the punk hanging back, leaning on the lintel watching us. Her pimp. I moved to block his view.
“Yeah. I might have heard something, y’know?”
“Like?” he stepped in closer.
“Well, down here they run about every hour and a quarter, depending. Last one just went by.”
He handed the bill to her. It vanished. “Depending on what?”
She rolled her thick painted eyes. “On how busy the watch commander is. He takes it out in trade to let things run normal here, y’know? Some nights, like if gangs are moving weight, the patrols don’t even come ‘round.”
“Thanks Ria. You’re a sweetheart.”
“I am.” Lime green goth girl winked over her shoulder at me and disappeared back into the gloom.
As we made it out of the club crowds, I looked over to Curro. “Smooth. Where’d that come from?”
“Papa gave it to me. He always says you never know when it might come in handy. That seemed like one of those times.”
I just nodded and we walked on. My estimate of Curro went up with every step: Alejo might be right. We made past the last of the club crowds without any more incidents. Four minutes later we slipped onto the narrow streets that were cramped in the shadow of the dividing wall and our outer clothes disappeared behind a dumpster. Together, we fastened on the NV sets, the gecko pads, and started climbing into Old Barcelona.
*The lyrics to this song are from a poem by Margaret Atwood.
