Date: 2015-02-17 00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fiction; Science Fiction; Action & Adventure; Apocalyptic & Post-Apocalyptic; Thrillers; Suspense
Description: A enchanting new short story from Hugo Award-winning author Will McIntosh. Enter a world of moving cities. The war is over and Hitler is dead, but rumors are flying that Chicago has just attacked Boston. That Moscow has crossed into the US and attacked Chicago. And New York is on the way to chase down the Windy City. Some cities are rumbling that they don't feel like part of the USA anymore. But what form of energy is giving them the power of locomotion?
Publisher: Orbit

City Living

Will McIntosh

www.orbitbooks.net
www.orbitshortfiction.com

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City Living

“Hey.” Willard grabbed my shirtsleeve. “Would you look at that.” He pointed at a white truck parked down the street. It had a big, square back end with Good Humor Ice Cream on it, along with a picture of an ice cream on a stick, dipped in chocolate. The truck was surrounded by kids with cute little dirty knees, their eyes round. “Ice cream on a stick! I seen that in Life magazine. I want to get me one.”

Willard pulled me through the crowd toward the truck. “Ice cream on a stick. I guess you gotta eat it fast before it melts off.”

We each bought one for ten cents. In Siloam you can get a cup of hand-scooped ice cream for a nickel, but I reckoned it was worth an extra nickel to tell folks we had ice cream on a stick in New York City. We stood on the sidewalk, happily gnawing the chocolate off to get at the ice cream. Willard kept holding his up, showing it to others who’d bought one, like we were part of a special club or something.

I took the opportunity to soak the people in—what they were wearing, what they did with their hands while they stood, how they talked. My neck had been bent back looking at the giant buildings when we first came through the gates, but now I was fine-tuned on the littler things.

I was eyeing a perfect New York City woman (small and stylish; her hair short so her earlobes poked out underneath dark curls) when a loud honk startled me out of my boots. It sounded like a giant goose. A second one followed, then a third, calling back and forth to each other, coming from the tops of the buildings.

All around us people sat down in the street. Every one of them, right down on the pavement.

“Sit down,” an old geezer near me said. He reached up and tugged my shirtsleeve so hard he partway untucked my shirt.

“What for?” I asked.

“The city’s about to move.”

I nearly dropped my ice cream. “What do you mean it’s about to move? It ain’t supposed to leave for two days!” Willard said, taking the words right out of my wide-open mouth.

“It’s the emergency signal,” a yellow-haired woman said, sounding a mite impatient with having to fill us yokels in. “It was installed during the war.”

I could just picture it: soldiers pouring out of the buildings carrying rifles, Berlin barreling toward New York with its big guns booming. Hard to believe that was only four years ago. Seemed like a lifetime.

I took a seat on the sidewalk, shifted when I came down on some man’s ankle and he bellyached about it. “How long until we start moving?” I was excited as all get-out.

There was a commotion down the street, all the people talking at once to the people around them. A man poking his head out of a phone booth seemed to be at the center of it.

“Chicago attacked Boston,” I heard a man in a brown fedora say to the woman sitting next to him.

“No way,” I said to Willard. “Not possible.” Someone down the line must have gotten it wrong, like happens in a game of telephone. “An American city attacking another American city?” Some of these cities were rumbling that they weren’t quite part of the United States no more, being as they could mosey down to Mexico whenever they felt like it, but no way Americans would spill the blood of other Americans. The war was over, Hitler and Tojo was dead, but, no way.

The honking stopped. The last honk echoed across the skyscrapers, then that got drowned out by a downright deafening rumble. It reminded me of boulders coming down in a rockslide.

The street jerked underneath me. It jerked again, and I was thrown backward, like I was on a train that was pulling out of the station full-steam. I almost fell on the people behind me—it didn’t help that Willard grabbed hold of my collar to keep from falling back himself. The pulling went on for a few seconds, then everything seemed to get still again.

A stiff wind was blowing down Madison, but besides that and the rumbling, you’d never know you were on something that was moving. People were standing, brushing off their behinds, and going back to heading wherever they were heading. The only difference was that instead of wearing their hats everyone was carrying them, on account of the stiff breeze. New York City was on the move, and I was on it. I let out a whoop of pure pleasure.

Willard looked at me like I was nuts. “How are we gonna get back home if New York is leaving?” he asked. He looked downright scared.

“Relax. We’ll hitch back. Give us a chance to see more of the country.” I started walking, not sure where I was going but liking the feel of city pavement under my country shoes. Even if Chicago had attacked Boston (which they hadn’t) there was nothing for me to do about it, so why not do a little sightseeing?

Willard huffed. “That’s easy for you to say. All you’ll miss is a few medical classes.”

“If I end up being your doctor you might wish I hadn’t missed those classes,” I joked.

“I don’t show up for work, I don’t get paid.” Willard stopped. “Where are we headed, anyway? I thought we was going to see the Yankee game.”

What I really wanted to see was the engine under the city. They didn’t give tours, but I figured there must be some way down there.

A fetching young woman hurried by. “Excuse me.” I trotted to catch up with her.

“Now where are you going?” Willard shouted at my back.

The woman glanced at the steel bracelet on my wrist, which they put on you at the entry gate when you pay your two dollars. She kept walking.

“Pardon me, but can you tell me how a curious country boy might get down to see the glorious engine that runs this fair city?”

“He can’t,” she said. She was walking darned fast. Her high heels clicking on the sidewalk made it sound like a tiny horse was running alongside me.

“Not for just a minute or two?”

“I’ve never seen the navigation center. No one gets down there.”

“Oh.” I tried not to sound disappointed.

“If they let people see it, the design secrets could get out. The designers don’t want that.”

“The designers,” I said.

“Yes. The dream team.”

“Tesla, Crowley, Gurdjieff, Bohr, and Jung.” I ticked them off on my fingers.

She gave me a puzzled look, like she’d just heard a steer sing opera.

“So is it true that y’all give blood to keep the city moving? It said so in Life magazine.”

The woman smiled her city smile. “Did it?”

“Yes, ma’am.” When the war ended, everyone thought they’d just put the cities back where they’d been, the residents who’d been temporarily kicked off would climb back on, and that would be that. Then the mayor of Chicago got his city moving, and of course everyone else had to follow.

Willard’s cheap old pocket watch was suddenly six inches in front of my nose, blocking my view of the street. It was quarter till one. “Joe DiMaggio is taking batting practice right now. If I’m gonna get stranded in Texas or California or wherever we’re headed, I want to see the New York Yankees while I’m taken there.”

I sighed through my nose. “Fine. We’ll see the Yankees.”

The subway was lit bright, but smelled cool and damp like a cave. We waited by the tracks until we heard a whistling sound, then wind rushed through the tunnel, bringing a whiff of something dead with it.

I couldn’t see anything through the train’s windows, which was disappointing. I once read that there were all kinds of tunnels under New York, dug for sewers and electricity and trains, and that people lived in them and ate rats and never came out of them. I would’ve liked to see one of those people.

When we got aboveground again, Willard rushed us along toward the gates of the stadium. “Come on, I don’t want to miss Joe Di’s first at-bat!”

“Game’s been canceled!” a newspaper seller shouted at us. He was a fat man, with hair poking out at the neck of his collar.

“Oh, no,” Willard moaned. He snapped his fingers. “Dang it.”

“Due to the emergency.” The newspaper seller pointed at the stadium. “They set up a sixteen-point event instead.”

Willard and me looked at each other and shrugged.

“What’s a sixteen-point event?” Willard asked.

The newspaperman frowned at us, then noticed the steel bracelets we were wearing. “Oh. Never mind. City business.”

“I wouldn’t mind seeing a sixteen-point event,” I said.

The newspaperman laughed. “Trust me, you don’t. Anyway, they won’t admit you.” He gestured at the bracelet.

I looked down at the danged bracelet, then at the gate into Yankee Stadium. “I’ll take one of them newspapers, if you don’t mind.” I pulled a nickel out of my pocket. Then I moved Willard out of range of the newspaper seller’s ears. “I’m gonna see what’s going on in there.”

“Now why would you want to go and do that? The man just said you’d be sorry if you did.”

“Never mind.” I clapped him on the shoulder. “I’ll be back in no time.”

I put the newspaper over my hand to hide my wrist and stepped into line. There was no admission, we just waltzed right in, no tickets or nothing. I wanted a seat up high so I could see everything. Even if there wasn’t gonna be a ballgame, I was still at Yankee Stadium.

It sure seemed like a game was about to get started—boys were climbing up and down the rows selling hot dogs and sodas from steel boxes strapped around their necks, and music was piping from loudspeakers set all around. “You Oughta Be in Pictures” was giving way to “Moonglow” as I grabbed the railing and headed up.

I picked a row, scooted sideways past people already sitting, my feet crunching peanut shells on the floor. The whole place smelled like old hot dogs. I hiked up my trousers and took a seat, wondering what this was all about.

There was a commotion twenty rows below. People were standing and pointing, grabbing their friends by the shoulder. I bent left and right, trying to get a look, and then I saw what the commotion was about, and I plopped down in my seat, my mouth hanging wide open.

There was no mistaking the man making his way up the stairs. It was the old Bambino himself, now the Yankees’ manager. Babe Ruth was dressed in his pinstripes, smiling and waving, a bigger man than I’d’ve guessed from the pictures I’d seen, with skinny legs but a big middle. Two men in dark suits were with him, and as they made their way up to my level one of them gestured for the Babe to sit, just one row in front of me and a mite to my left.

“I guess this spot is as good as any,” Babe said. “Seems like I shouldn’t have to come to one of these things. I do enough for this city.” The Babe looked uneasy; there was sweat in his eyebrows, and that bulldog face of his was twitching. Now that I thought about it, a good helping of the crowd looked nervous.

One of his companions leaned his head close to the Babe’s. “If it wasn’t at the stadium I could’ve gotten you out of it, but for something held here, in place of a game, it would’ve looked bad.”

The music went out and everyone got real quiet. Babe looked at the man beside him and whispered, “I sure hope your hunch about picking a random seat is right.”

Now I spotted the New York Yankees ballplayers. They were sitting in the front row along the first-base line, all in a neat line in their crisp white uniforms.

“Here it comes,” someone said.

“What?” I asked, looking around. Everyone was looking at the field. I squinted; the dirt between the pitcher’s mound and second base was swirling like there was a little tornado on the field. A dark hole opened up, right there in the field. I stood, wanting to see better.

“Sit down, you idiot!” someone shouted. “You want to draw its attention this way?”

I sat. Draw its attention? I shook my head. I was confused as could be, and didn’t want to draw too much attention to my own self. I didn’t know if I could get into trouble for crashing a city folk party, and I didn’t want to find out. I was mighty curious about what was going on, though. Mighty curious.

Something floated up out of the hole.

“Jesus Lord,” I whispered.

I could hear it more than see it. The sound went straight to my guts, not touching my ears at all. It was a scraping sound, only too deep and low to sound like anything anybody might scrape. There was a musical quality to it—the worst, scariest music I ever heard.

It rose out of the dark hole. I couldn’t quite focus my eyes on it. It was shifting, sliding—an oily mess of tangled black tubes that flapped here and there, and pointed silver teeth that cranked open and snapped closed. As it moved, it left a trail of black bubbles that drifted toward the stands. When the bubbles popped they sprayed the crowd underneath with black goo that made them shout and twist.

I wasn’t so curious no more. I wanted out. I looked around: No one was moving from their seats. I had a hunch it would be a bad idea to leave mine and draw “its” attention.

The thing floated around the stadium, getting closer to the seats until it floated right over the low wall and stopped in front of a woman in a flowery dress with a bow on the collar. She covered her face with both arms and screamed. The thing hissed at her; she screamed louder. I leaned forward, trying to see. There were spiny things stuck in the woman’s face, like porcupine quills, only black. She was making no move to pluck them out. Maybe she didn’t want to make the thing angry.

It moved on. The crowd leaned from side to side, ducking, avoiding, praying. Every so often it stopped in front of someone and hissed, or wagged black tubes at them, scaring the bejesus out of them.

I kept walking back through how this all began, trying to remember if I’d seen anyone with guns forcing people inside. There hadn’t been no guns, everyone had strolled in like this was some sort of garden party.

The thing rose into the upper deck.

“Oh, no. Get outta here, go on,” the Babe said. He shooed at it with four fingers without lifting his hand off the armrest.

It kept on drifting around the horseshoe of the upper deck until it was in my section. I didn’t look at it; I thought it might be less likely to notice me if I pretended I didn’t notice it.

“Please, not me. Don’t let it choose me,” a man nearby said. I thought it was the same man who’d told me to sit down.

What did he mean, choose him? It was gonna choose someone? I was so confused, and I was so scared my hands and knees were trembling. I turned toward the woman sitting a seat away on my left and whispered, “What’s going on?”

Her eyes opened real wide; she gave me a sidewise glance and she shook her head ever so slightly.

The thing shifted its direction and moved right toward me. I’d never been so scared. This was no game; I was sure of that now. It changed directions again, and my knotted shoulders relaxed.

Then it reversed itself and moved right toward me again.

I thought maybe I should pray, but I was too scared to think of any words. The thing just kept coming until it was right in my face, then it stopped. It was so close I could have touched it. I looked at my shoes as its music shook my insides. When I glanced up for just a second I could see that its skin was moving—swirling and crawling and twitching. Tubes snaked out to my left and right. They wrapped around me, curling tighter until I couldn’t exhale or I would touch them. It hissed at me furiously; the stink was horrible, like rotten fish and sewer water. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying hard not to scream because I didn’t want to make it any angrier than it already was.

Then it was gone. By the time I peeled up one eyelid it was a dozen feet away. My shirt was soaked in black oil, but besides that I was fine. It hadn’t even quilled me.

“Lucky,” the woman to my left mouthed.

The thing hovered in front of Babe Ruth. The Babe looked away from it; I guess that was everyone’s instinct, to look away. The thing hissed; the Babe scrunched up his face, balled his fists, and jerked back in his chair, but then it floated past him, to the man in the suit sitting next to him. It wrapped itself around the man the way it did to me. It flattened itself out so the tubes looked more like barbed whips. Or maybe it was a trick of the light. One of the tubes lifted high in the air, real slow, then came down hard. The man screamed. The Babe moaned a curse. Another tube lashed the man. I closed my eyes and stuck my fingers in my ears, but I could still hear him screaming. Around me I heard people gasping and Oh-Lording and that-poor-manning. From the relief in their voices I figured it must only choose one person.

The thing didn’t kill the man, only whipped him so bad they had to carry him out on a stretcher. Still, I wouldn’t have wanted to be him. As I headed down the steps I got to wondering if maybe these weren’t my kind of folks. I got along with all kinds of folks, and it never occurred to me that there could be somewhere where I felt out of place, but suddenly I wasn’t so sure I belonged in a city.

The lines to get out were longer and slower than the lines to get in. I wanted out of there as quick as I could. I couldn’t figure out what that thing was. It wasn’t any creature I ever seen or read about. It didn’t even seem like it had been all there, even when it was there. I kept peering toward the front, trying to figure out what was taking so long, and finally I spotted the holdup. People were going behind a curtain, one by one. After a moment they would come out the other end. I waited my turn, wondering what was behind the curtain, hopping from one foot to the other. Willard had been waiting a long time.

When I got closer I could tell I wasn’t going to like whatever was going on behind that curtain. People were groaning, gasping, some downright shouting in pain. As a medical student I had some idea of how much pain it took to squeeze those sounds out of grown men and women, and I was sweating as the line inched along.

When it was finally my turn, I strode on back as if I did it all the time. I didn’t want to raise any suspicion. There was a doctor and a nurse on the other side, both dressed in white. The doctor held a long, long, long needle. He held it pointed at the ceiling. There was nothing in it.

“Name and number?” the nurse asked, holding a pen to a clipboard.

“John…Smith,” I said. She looked up when I didn’t immediately give her my number. Problem was, I could make up a name, but I didn’t know how long the darned number should be. I opened my mouth. “Eight. Six. Four.” I put a lot of space between them, stopping after each one and watching the nurse. “Seven. Six. Seven. Two.”

She nodded. I shut my mouth. The doctor yanked up the back of my shirt and stuck the needle into my lower back, shoving it in, moving it around like he was fishing for something in there. I ground my teeth against the pain, thinking at the same time that I knew just what they was after. The adrenal glands are right on top of the kidneys. That’s where he was poking the needle. I leaned and watched the doctor draw the plunger back, filling the syringe with adrenaline.

It all fit together. Being scared stimulated the adrenal glands to make more adrenaline. Scare sixty-two thousand people, you got yourself a whole lot of adrenaline. What I didn’t get was what you do with all that adrenaline.

“What happened to you?” Willard said when I met him outside the drugstore. I looked down at my shirt. It looked like I’d had a bucket of black paint thrown on me.

I put an arm around Willard’s shoulder, as much to steady myself as to be friendly. I was mighty shaken. “Come on, I’ll tell you about it while we walk.”

We passed that same newspaper seller. “Here,” I said, handing him the paper. “I’m done with it.”

“Thanks.” He straightened it up, put it back on the stack.

We had crossed Eleventh Avenue, and for the first time I could see it: The tops of trees passed by like we were in a river of leaves and branches. I hurried over to the edge.

It was an awesome sight, standing on the edge, gawking down through the branches at the ground thirty feet below. We passed a brave fellow standing not fifty feet from the city, staring up, his hand shielding his eyes to improve his view. Straight down, the city’s stone foundation tore into the Georgia clay, spraying out a steady stream of red dirt and stone and whatnot. We were traveling in a previously traveled track, so there was no risk of flattening anybody’s house or town. Not that cities didn’t do that on occasion, if they needed to get somewhere and there was no empty way to get there.

“Good golly,” I whispered. The locals were just walking on by, not even looking at the passing countryside. I guess they were used to it by now. Me, I could’ve stood there all day.

It took two days for New York to reach Chicago, even with the extra adrenaline squeezed out of the residents. I still couldn’t figure what to make of that.

I used the time to see the sights of the big city. I got to see way more of New York than I had expected, though mostly we were just marking time, waiting for New York to catch up to Chicago. Rumors flew all over the streets, that Boston was in flames, that Moscow had crossed into the US and attacked Chicago, instead of Chicago attacking Boston. All we knew for sure was that something bad was happening.

When news spread that we was getting close, Willard and me followed a crowd to Inwood Park, which was the front fender of this big ole truck.

The park was brimming with curiosity-seekers; I found space on the low stone edge of the city. We sat and waited, one of us occasionally using the binoculars I’d bought to watch for Chicago as forest and livestock and farmhouses rattled by.

A city woman was standing just a few feet away, her nails painted red, her high-heeled shoes shiny black. She was watching the horizon just like everyone else.

“Afternoon, ma’am,” I said, tipping my hat.

She glanced at me sideways. “Afternoon.”

I offered her the binoculars. “Care to take a look with these?”

She thanked me, and took the binoculars, and that got us to talking about this and that as we waited and watched, watched and waited. Her name was Lois—a big-city name if there ever was one. Eventually I got around to asking Lois about the points and all.

“So what happens if you don’t make your points?” I asked. Now that I understood how you got points it opened up a whole slew of mysteries.

She set the binoculars on the wall. “First you lose your electricity, then your water. Then one day you come home and someone else is living in your apartment.” Willard pulled the binoculars over to him by the strap. “It doesn’t happen often. Most people want to do their part to keep the city strong.”

I rubbed the spot above my kidney where the needle had sunk in. “It’s quite a price.”

Lois gave me one of those looks that said she felt sorry for me because I was an ignorant hick. “When your country was being threatened, weren’t you willing to fight and die for it?”

“My daddy did fight and die for it. Died on Atlanta, in France.”

“That’s how we feel about New York. I gladly take the needles. Sharing our life fluids joins us to the city.” She waved a hand in the air, looking all dreamy. “If you became a citizen, you’d understand.”

Shouts lit up the park. “Lemme see them specs,” I said to Willard, wiggling my fingers.

Willard went right on looking. “I don’t see nothing. What are they shouting about? Wait. I see something.”

We waited, looking from Willard to the open fields and back to Willard. “Well?” I said.

“I see the city, but I can’t see nothing but buildings.”

I pulled the binoculars out of his hand and took a look for myself. I couldn’t see nothing but buildings, either, but Chicago kept getting closer, and soon I could focus on one street. I could see people walking in the street—but not nearly as many as you’d expect in a big city. There were plenty of cars, parked ass to bumper down both sides of the street, but I couldn’t see who’d be driving all those cars. I could see a shoeshine stand with the rags draped on a hook, waiting, but there was no one around it.

As we got even closer, I could take a look at the people up close, and they didn’t look right at all. They were walking with their heads down, taking slow, careful steps like they was afraid they might fall down, or step in something they didn’t want on their shoes.

New York jerked to a stop. I’d gotten used to the whistling sound the air made when the city was moving, and now it felt deadly still. I offered the binoculars to Lois.

There was an awesome rumbling, like the engine of the world’s biggest motorcar coming to life. Lois nearly dropped the binoculars over the wall as Chicago leapt forward, jerking and bouncing. It headed straight for New York.

“Looks like they want to talk,” Willard said.

Lois and me didn’t answer. There was something wrong about Chicago. I wanted to get another look at those people walking the streets, but it seemed rude to ask for the binoculars back.

Chicago kept on building steam, adjusting itself a bit to the left or right to make sure it was coming right at us. It reminded me of something. I guess a city can’t look angry or crazy, but that’s what came into my head—that it was like an angry bull.

“It’s gonna run right into us!” Willard said, his hand knifed over his eyes to shade them from the glare.

The honking alarm went on, and this time I didn’t need nobody to tell me what to do. I hopped off the wall, helped Lois down, and then planted my behind on solid ground.

New York jerked to life. We waited a nickel’s worth, then got back on our feet to watch. New York cut sideways, out of Chicago’s path, picking up speed in a hurry. Chicago swerved toward us; it was going to be a close thing.

“Have they lost their minds?” Lois asked, holding her hat so it didn’t fly off.

I gritted my teeth; if Chicago hit, it would hit right about where we were standing. It was too late to run—if it hit it would chew up this whole park and more.

People were running anyhow, as Chicago got bigger and bigger, its skyscrapers rising up over our heads. Willard took two steps. He looked at me, his face a big question mark. I shook my head. “Too late.”

New York shifted direction, digging a big curve and kicking up dirt as it wove forward, in the opposite direction from Chicago. The walls of the two cities matched up, sliding by each other like two pirate ships passing on the water. I watched the Chicago street closest to the wall, watched the people on it peering between their fingers like they was watching Frankenstein at the movies. They didn’t want the cities to collide neither.

“There’s someone on the wall,” Lois shouted, pointing.

Sure enough, there was a Chicago man balancing on the wall, his arms spread, his knees bent.

He jumped toward us, feet pedaling the air. It didn’t look like he had enough giddyup to make it. I reached out; the man just made the wall and I grabbed hold of one of his hands as he clawed at the bricks. Lois leaned out and grabbed him under one armpit. We pulled him up and over.

“Thank you, thank you,” the man babbled before he even had a chance to brush himself off. “Oh Lord, thank you.” He had a cut on his head, just over his eye, and his hands and arms were scraped bad, but he didn’t seem to notice. He turned and leaned his hands on the wall, watching Chicago retreat. “Thank you, Lord.”

“What’s going on over there, friend?” I asked, putting a hand on the man’s back, trying to calm him. His face was shaking. His hands, too, but I never seen someone so scared that his face shook.

He fixed me with a crazy stare. “Your worst nightmare, that’s what.”

“Look out! What are they doing?” Willard said, still watching over the wall. The rest of us joined him. Chicago had turned left, right into the path of a small town.

It plowed right over the town.

“Jesus, Lord,” Willard wailed.

We could hear screams mixed with crunching wood and brick as Chicago mowed down house after house. People ran, but where was there to go? It was a whole city; no one was going to outrun a city.

There was a commotion behind us; we turned to see soldiers rushing toward us, some carrying rifles, some pulling cannons.

We took the fella from Chicago, whose name was Perry, to a diner on Eighth Avenue. We offered him scotch, but he wanted tea. He was a wispy sort, skinny and small with nervous hands and a mustache that had grown in too thin, leaving spaces where the skin showed through. He didn’t want to talk about Chicago—he held the cup close to his face like he could hide behind it and kept shaking his head and saying, “You don’t want to know.”

I did want to know, so finally I reminded him that he’d be nothing but roadkill if it wasn’t for us, and that maybe he owed us an explanation.

“All right.” Perry put the cup down, leaned back on the couch. “I’ll tell you. But I don’t want to.” He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out with a wheeze. “I don’t want to think about it. I want to pretend it was a bad dream.” He looked like he was going to cry.

He collected himself, and finally started talking.

“One of the five lived in Chicago—Crowley, the conjuror. He didn’t hold any office, but he may as well have been king the way people did what he wanted. What he wanted was more life fluids for the city. He pressured Mayor Cermak into raising the requirements again and again, until we were all being siphoned on a weekly basis.”

“Oh, my,” Lois said, shaking her head.

Perry shook his head in a ‘You ain’t heard nothing yet’ way. “Then people started dying. In their bathtubs, elevators, the subway. At first it seemed like a rash of freak accidents, but then word spread that there was a detail being covered up by the coroner: the victims were dry—they’d been drained.”

Willard opened his mouth to speak, but Perry waved him silent.

“There was panic. A lot of residents would have fled, but Chicago was moving, and it kept moving. And people kept dying. More ‘accidents.’” He stopped, fixed me with a stare that dared me to hear what he was about to say. “Then the city began killing openly. Gouts of steam might come up through a grate in the sidewalk as you walked over it, boiling you alive. The corner mailbox might close on your arm and squeeze until it cut your arm right off—”

“Stop it!” Lois leapt to her feet. “You’re lying. Obviously you’re lying. If you’re not going to tell the truth, why—”

Perry laughed. “What a wonderful thought. God, how I wish I was lying. How I wish all the things I’ve seen…” He balled his fists and rubbed his eyes, like he was trying to erase all the things his eyes had seen.

“Go on, Perry,” I said, nice and soothing.

Perry dragged his hands down his face, making pink pockets under his eyes. “Those of us who managed to stay alive have been sleeping in the parks, keeping away from the places where the city gets you.”

Lois snorted, like she thought it was nothing but a fish story, but the rest of us ignored her. I believed the man, crazy as the story was. Maybe I believed him because the story was so crazy—no one would make up such a yarn and expect anyone to believe it.

“There aren’t many people left alive in the city to provide fluids. But it keeps going. I’m not sure how.”

“You talk like the city is alive,” I said. “You don’t mean that, do you? That Crowley fella’s got to be down there pulling the strings.”

“Oh, the city’s alive,” Perry said.

Nobody said nothing for a while. I sipped my scotch, glad to have something stronger than tea to soothe my nerves. Now I wasn’t sure if I believed Perry or not. The whole durn city was alive? That was a big acorn to swallow.

I’m not the sort of man who likes to hear things secondhand—I like to dig right into the incision and see what’s going on under the skin. But there was no way I was going to get into Chicago to see for myself, even if I was crazy enough to want to.

“For the longest time I didn’t understand what Crowley needed all that extra fluid for,” Perry said, breaking the long silence. “The city didn’t move that much faster than before. Then it came to me: That’s how Crowley brought the city to life. Or more to life, anyway. I think they’re all a little bit alive. I think that’s how the dream team got them to move.”

That got me thinking: If I couldn’t see what was going on under Chicago, seeing the engine that drove New York City was the next best thing. I needed to figure out how to get down there.

As the others jawed about Chicago, I thought it through. There’s usually a way to get where you want to go if you’re persistent enough. And I was a persistent son of a gun. My momma said that to me all the time.

“Lois?” I said, interrupting the conversation. “You’ve honestly never seen the engine that drives New York?”

Lois shook her head. “No one is allowed down there except the people who run it. I once tried to talk my boss into getting me a tour, and he claimed that even he’d never seen it.

“Who’s your boss?” I asked.

“I’m a secretary for the commissioner of the Department of Sanitation.”

She looked like she wanted me to act impressed, but I was too busy thinking about that engine. Now I really wanted to see it. How does a person get under a city? The trains ran under the city. I thought about the story I read about tunnels, about people living down there and not coming up for years. Maybe some of them tunnels led to the engine room? It was worth a shot; sitting in a diner sure wasn’t getting me anywhere.

There was a bowl on our table filled with matchbooks. I dug out a handful and headed for the door.

“Where you going?” Willard said, standing.

“You stay here.” I put a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll be back soon.” Willard protested, probably because he didn’t like the idea of being left with a couple of city folk he didn’t know, but I insisted.

On my way to the subway station, I thought about Chicago. Most people looking at a city that sucked up more and more of its residents’ juices would think of it like a drug addict or some such, but it made me think of a virus, because of my doctoring background and all. A virus sucks the juices out of its host, but knows if it sucks too hard the host will die and it’ll starve. Chicago reminded me of a virus that had developed too big an appetite, draining off the hosts. Of course that was only if Chicago really was alive, and Crowley or some other fella wasn’t down there steering. I still wasn’t convinced of that.

I took the train to the Garment District. The article I read in Life magazine about New York City said the engine was underneath the Garment District. When I got to my stop I walked to the far end of the train platform, where the tunnel opened up. I hopped off the platform when nobody was looking and ducked into the tunnel, easy as pie.

About a hundred feet in, I lit a match. There wasn’t much to see besides the tracks, concrete walls, and a couple of Coke bottles probably dropped by track workers. I shook the match out and moved on another hundred feet.

The fifth time I lit a match I spied a ladder disappearing into a hole in the floor near the wall. I climbed down.

I spent the next two hours winding through a maze of sewer tunnels, maintenance tunnels, stairways, ramps, and such, every so often hitting dead ends that forced me to back up and try another way, all the while lighting matches so I didn’t break my leg. I didn’t see no people living down there, only rats and bugs. Finally, I heard a faraway thumping sound that was so deep I felt it in my guts more than my ears. I followed the sound. It kept on getting louder until I felt like I was standing next to someone beating on one of them big parade drums.

I saw beams of light squeezing through a crack in the side of the sewer tunnel I was walking in. The crack was big enough for me to squeeze through as well. I ended up in a little room with a couple of tables, some cabinets, and an icebox. I thought maybe it was a break room for workers. I went to the door, opened it just a little, and looked out.

Looking through that door was like being tossed off a thousand-foot cliff. My legs lost all their standing power and I nearly fell on my backside.

The electrical currents made the most sense to my eyes. They were jumping through the air like lightning bolts, crackling and dancing, but at least I knew what they were.

Below them were people lying on tables with their eyes taped shut. Their lips moved like they was trying to form words, or from the looks on their faces, maybe screams. There were tubes feeding out of them—fleshy, like intestine, but you could see partly through them so the color of what was in them came through. Some were dark red with blood, some milky white with I don’t know what. There was black, and rust, and green.

Big pools with geysers of colored liquid spurted from the floor toward big colored balls that spun in the air like little planets in a solar system. As far as I could see they weren’t hanging from strings, they were just spinning in thin air.

There were long tubes of skin wriggling like angry babies, glass chambers filled with bubbles, a cube made of water spinning in the air. I couldn’t figure out what the walls were made of. It was soft and shiny, wrinkly in places. Faces climbed the walls, then disappeared at the top, replaced by more faces down below.

One of the faces winked at me; or at least, I thought it did.

The sounds were just terrible. Moans and groans, burbling and boinging. Burps and farts so loud they nearly busted my eardrums. Everything I’d read about cities talked about the machines that drove the cities, the engines. These weren’t machines, that was for damned sure.

People ran around in this mess, crawling underneath things, climbing up things, shouting back and forth. They looked exhausted. The one closest to me—a gray-haired man—was tugging on fat nipples all hanging in a row, like he was playing an instrument. Different color liquids squirted from each one he tugged and fell into a hole that looked like a big mouth, toothless like my grandpa’s.

He looked my way, did a double take, and stopped what he was doing. “Hey!” he shouted. “Who are you?”

I closed the door and ran. I’d seen enough anyway. Enough to give me nightmares for the rest of my life. Quivering like a newborn piglet, I traced my steps back to the train station and headed back to the diner.

I had no trouble believing that Chicago was alive. These people were playing with things they didn’t understand—living things.

I burst through the door of the diner, found my friends where I’d left them. “We got to take Perry here to see your boss.” If her boss was the commissioner of something, then he was important, and someone important needed to hear what Perry had to say, and what I had to say too.

Like I suspected, Lois’s boss led us right in when we explained who Perry was. Perry told him what he knew about Chicago, and lickety split, Lois’s boss was leading us to his boss, who was the mayor of the whole danged city.

The mayor wasn’t in his office. He was on the roof, watching Chicago. Lois’s boss took us up.

“Oh Lord,” Willard said when we reached the roof and looked beyond the city walls.

Chicago was chasing us. New York was high-tailing it, but Chicago was closing in.

“Jost,” the mayor said to Lois’s boss, “set up extraction stations all over the city. Send out a directive to the citizenry: We need fluids, all sorts, as much as we can get.”

Jost looked big-eyed scared, like he didn’t think he knew how to do what the mayor was telling him to do. “Should I set up events to stimulate adrenal flow?”

The mayor jerked a thumb toward Chicago. “There’s a mad city chasing us. I think everyone’s scared enough.” He noticed us for the first time, looked us up and down. “Who are you?”

Jost ran off, leaving us to explain ourselves to the mayor. We watched as Chicago closed in. Every so often it changed course so it could run over a farmhouse or a pasture full of cattle. I wondered about that—why would it waste time wrecking things if it was trying to catch us? Off in the distance, I heard people scream as Chicago bore down.

Then it came to me. “It’s eating!” I said out loud.

The mayor grunted, the way people do when they aren’t really listening to you but pretend they are.

“I’m telling you, it don’t have any nourishment left inside its own walls, so it’s eating.”

Chicago was closing in. It was so close I could see people on its streets. Looked like there were even less than there’d been before. New York started a wide turn, trying to shake Chicago, but it wasn’t working this time.

“It’s going to hit us!” Lois cried, covering her mouth.

We all took a step back, away from the edge of the roof as Chicago plowed right into the tail end of New York. Stone and concrete flew as the underside of Chicago lifted up, sliding into New York. Two New York skyscrapers toppled back into Chicago’s own buildings as Chicago jerked forward like it was gonna mount New York. It crushed buildings and people, trying to climb right on. It was an awesome, terrible sight.

New York jolted forward, a burst of speed that pulled it free of Chicago and dropped Chicago back to the ground with a boom. Chicago sat there a minute, like it was catching its breath.

I turned to Lois. “Do you know where we’re headed?”

“No,” she said as Chicago started moving, coming after us again.

“Well, where are we now? Do you know?”

She looked up toward the blue sky, trying to recall. “Mississippi, I think.”

I checked the sun. We were heading northeast. “If we go this way, there’s gonna be more and more people for that thing to feed on. Hey!” I grabbed the mayor’s shoulder. He looked at me for real now, startled. “Where are we going?”

“New Jersey. Detroit and Baltimore are there.”

“No, no,” I said, shaking him like I could shake sense into him. “Don’t you see? You got to starve it.” I pointed southwest. “If we head that way we’ll hit Kansas, Texas. Nothing but dirt and the occasional possum.”

The mayor squinted, like he was thinking hard. “What is this again?”

I took a deep breath, trying to keep my patience. “Chicago is sucking up the people it runs over in them houses. That’s where it’s getting the nourishment to keep moving. You need to go where there ain’t many people.

He looked back at Chicago, watched it veer to run over a little hamlet set along a lake. People ran from their houses, screaming.

The mayor put a hand on his forehead, then nodded real slow. “My God, I think you’re right.”

He shouted to a man in a black suit and hat who was hanging back by the building’s water tower. The man ran right over. The mayor told him to send word to change course.

“Watch it, watch it!” Willard cried.

Chicago was closing again, moving fast.

Cannons flashed and boomed from atop some of the buildings along the edge of New York, hitting the front end of Chicago. A few shots hit directly on the wall in places where it hadn’t been crushed in the collision. Bricks and mortar sailed into the air.

Chicago kept on coming though, like a shark smelling blood in the water. In the spaces between buildings I caught glimpses of people in downtown New York fleeing uptown. They were running, riding bicycles; cars and buses were jammed in the intersections, honking and bumping into each other.

Below us the street was one long line of people waiting to donate fluids. Mommas with their babies, soldiers, old folks, everybody was out there. I watched a kid who couldn’t have been fourteen running with something in his hand. It must have been some of the fluids they were collecting, because he was shouting something, and people got out of his way like he had smallpox or something.

The mayor shouted orders; New York left the wide trail we’d been following, plowed into virgin forest. Chicago clipped us as we turned, taking out a half dozen tenement buildings and a green rectangle of park.

“Come on!” the mayor shouted. “Where’s the extra juice?”

We watched Chicago close, close.

A jolt came that nearly knocked me off my feet. A couple of people on the roof did fall down. Everyone cheered. Chicago faded behind us as our extra juice kicked in.

Our little gang left the roof, went to the closest extraction station to do our part. There weren’t no monsters to scare us, but the needles and tubes scared me pretty good by themselves. They stuck me in all sorts of places. It was terrible, but I gritted my teeth and took it.

By the time we got back to the roof, there were a dozen people up there with the mayor. He gave me a big friendly hello and slapped me on the back as we turned to watch Chicago. It was half a mile behind.

“My navigators are plotting a course through the most sparsely populated areas,” he told me, his words a mite hard to understand because he was chomping on a big cigar.

Waiters brought us dinner on the roof—beef wrapped up in pastry dough, and champagne. I never had champagne before. I never had beef wrapped up in dough neither, come to think of it. By the time we got to dessert (a sort of cake filled with a chocolate pond), Chicago was a good mile behind. The mayor told the man in the black suit to get them to slow New York down, so Chicago wouldn’t give up following. We watched Chicago gain on us for a while. It was moving a good deal slower. It was getting hungry.

It kept on slowing, and so did we. The landscape got scrawnier, and by the time the sun set there was nothing out there but scrub pines and jackrabbits reflecting in the moonlight.

We stayed on the roof, and it was like a party. They brought up three musicians with fiddles and I danced with Lois, who was surely paying me more attention than she had before. I looked into her eyes as we danced, enjoyed the feel of her waist. On other rooftops other people were having parties of their own. None of them was as fancy as ours, but they looked like they was having fun.

Just before sunrise, Chicago jerked to a stop. Cheers rose up from the rooftops. New York swung around and pulled near Chicago, though not too close. We watched soldiers trot across the open ground, shoot ropes over Chicago’s walls and climb up and over.

In no time, we got the word: Chicago was dead.

The mayor turned and offered me his hand. “I’m very grateful, citizen.”

“I ain’t a citizen,” I said, holding up my arm to show him the bracelet I’d all but forgot. “I’m just a visitor.”

The mayor looked left and right, found the fella in the black suit. “Get someone to take that bracelet off him.” He turned back to me, held up his hand like he was a priest set to benedict me. “By the power vested in me, I proclaim you a citizen of New York, with all of the benefits afforded by said citizenship.”

I thanked him. It was a right friendly gesture on his part. I wasn’t so sure I wanted to stay and be a citizen, though. I motioned at Chicago. “So, what are you gonna do about the thing living under your own streets?”

He gave me a puzzled look.

“You know, the one with all those faces and tubes and such.”

Now the mayor looked stunned, but he didn’t ask me how I knew what it looked like. Maybe he figured it was a lucky guess. “What do you mean, what am I going to do about it?”

I ran a hand through my hair, trying to pick out a way to say something that wouldn’t be polite if I didn’t say it just right. “I guess what I’m trying to say is, if you keep on feeding those mouths down under the streets, what’s to keep the same thing from happening to New York?”

The mayor chuckled, polite-like, the way you do when someone says something ignorant.

“From what your friend Perry tells us, Chicago got greedy. We’re not going to make that mistake. We’ll take it slowly, maintain control. And one day…” He held up his hand, flat, with the palm down, and swept it around like it was a bird. “One day we’re going to fly.” He opened his eyes wide and smiled at me.

I smiled back. “Well, good luck with that. But I think I’ll sit that one out on good old Mother Earth.” I clapped him on the shoulder and headed for the stairwell. Lois, Willard, and Perry followed.

“Do you realize what the mayor just did for you?” Lois said, catching up to me.

“I ain’t staying in this city if y’all intend to keep on feeding that thing in your basement.”

“We can’t just stop. This is the future. You heard what he said, we’re being careful.” She stopped walking. “Charles, slow down!”

I stopped, went back and put my hands on Lois’s shoulders, and looked her right in the eye. “You need to stop. This ain’t safe. We were desperate when they created these things. I ain’t sure anyone really knows what could come of this.”

“So we should just go back to being a lump?” She jerked her thumb over her shoulder. “Like those towns back there that Chicago ate?”

There was something in her eyes, a look I’d seen somewhere before. Maybe in my uncle Ed, when he was looking for a dollar to buy his next bottle. “Didn’t you hear the mayor? He wants to fly this thing!”

“The mayor knows what he’s doing,” Lois said. She didn’t sound all that convinced.

It suddenly struck me that city living had pried Lois’s senses right from the hinges. The same with everyone else in New York. Did the president know what had happened to Chicago, what might happen to New York and the others? Surely he knew. I tried to imagine the US Army’s bitty little howitzers, its planes like gnats, taking on New York. What was easier to imagine was another of these cities gone insane, plowing over little old Siloam, eating me and Willard, Momma and Daddy, everyone, like it was nothing, then moving on to find the next town.

“I guess I’m just not a city boy, Lois.”

She looked at me with her big, brown, crazy eyes. “Maybe you could be, if you tried.”

I shook my head. “No. I’m just a country doctor.” I gave her shoulders a squeeze, then headed for the city gates with Willard huffing to keep up.

“How we gonna get home, Charles? We ain’t got but a few dollars left.”

“We’ll figure something out, Willard. Don’t you worry.” It was the least of our worries. We needed to leave the country, move to some island that needed doctors and didn’t have any living cities. I needed to convince as many of my friends and kin as I could to come along.

There was a crowd gathered in the middle of the street on Eleventh Avenue, looking down at something in the road. Police officers were detouring traffic down side streets while a couple of other officers kept the crowd back. We went over and eased ourselves to the front to see what was going on.

A fellow had fallen into an open sewer while crossing the street, and workers were down there trying to bring him up. I eyed the manhole cover, lying in the street a foot from the open hole. Probably some yahoo had pulled it off as a prank. I couldn’t help thinking, though, that the mayor had fed the city a heap of fluids so they could outrun Chicago. A heap of fluids.

“Let’s get going,” I said to Willard, tugging on his shirt.

Through the gates I drank in the sight of solid, unpaved ground. Planting my feet on grass and dirt would make me feel at home enough for now. I turned to get one final eye-level look at New York City. I squinted toward the skyscrapers on the far end, where Chicago had taken its bite. I’d swear some of the ones Chicago knocked down were looking a little less knocked down. It was a long way off, though, and it might have been a trick of my eyes.

Meet the Author

Paul Harrison

Will McIntosh is a Hugo award winner and Nebula finalist whose latest novel, Defenders, has been optioned by Warner Bros. for a feature film. His previous novel, Love Minus Eighty, was named the best science fiction book of 2013 by the American Library Association, and was on both Io9.com and NPR.org’s lists of the best SF novels of 2013. His debut novel, Soft Apocalypse, was a finalist for a Locus Award, the John W. Campbell Memorial Award, and the Compton Crook Award. Along with four novels, he has published fifty short stories in venues such as Asimov’s, Lightspeed, and Science Fiction and Fantasy: Best of the Year. Will was a psychology professor before turning to writing full-time. He lives in Williamsburg, Virginia, with his wife and their six-year-old twins. You can follow him on Twitter @willmcintoshSF, or on his website, www.willmcintosh.net.

Also by Will McIntosh

Soft Apocalypse

Hitchers

Love Minus Eighty

Defenders

WILL MCINTOSH SHORT FICTION

“The Perimeter”

“The Heist”

“Watching Over Us”

“City Living”

If you enjoyed
CITY LIVING,
look out for

DEFENDERS
by Will McIntosh

Our Darkest Hour.

Our Only Hope.

The invaders came to claim Earth as their own, overwhelming us with superior weapons and the ability to read our minds like open books.

Our only chance for survival was to engineer a new race of perfect soldiers to combat them. Seventeen feet tall, knowing and loving nothing but war, their minds closed to the aliens.

But these saviors could never be our servants. And what is done cannot be undone.

Prologue

Lieutenant Enrique Quinto

June 26, 2029. Morris Run, Pennsylvania.

It was a quaint Pennsylvania town, many of the buildings well over fifty years old, with green canopies shading narrow doorways. Even the town’s name was quaint: Morris Run. If not for the abandoned vehicles, filthy and faded by two years of exposure to the elements, and the trash stacked along the sidewalk, Quinto might have expected someone to step out of the Bullfrog Brewhouse and wave hello.

“Lieutenant Lucky?” Quinto turned to see Macalena, his platoon sergeant, making his way to the front of the carrier. Quinto wished he’d said something the first time someone called him Lucky, but it was far too late now. Most of the troops he was leading today probably didn’t know his real name.

“One of the new guys shit his pants,” Macalena said when he drew close, his voice low, giving Quinto a whiff of his sour breath.

Quinto sighed heavily. “Oh, hell.”

“The kid’s scared to death. He hasn’t been out of Philadelphia since this started.”

“No, I don’t blame him.” Quinto looked over Macalena’s shoulder, saw the kid perched on the side of the carrier, head down. He was about fourteen. The poor kid didn’t belong out here. Not that Quinto couldn’t use him; they called raw recruits “fish food,” but sometimes they were surprisingly effective in a firefight, because they were too scared to think. The starfish could get less of a read on what they were going to do, which way they were going to point their rifles. Usually the newbies didn’t shit their pants until the shooting started, though. “Does he have a spare pair?”

Macalena shook his head. “That’s the only pair he owns.”

Quinto reached into his pack, pulled out a pair of fatigue pants, and handed them to Macalena. “I hope he’s got a belt.”

Macalena laughed, stuck the pants under his armpit, and headed toward the kid.

What an awful thing, to be out here at fourteen, fifteen. When Quinto was fourteen, he’d spent his days playing video games, shooting bad guys in his room while Mom fetched fruit juice and chocolate chip cookies and told him when to go to bed.

They reached the end of the little downtown, which was composed of that single road, and the landscape opened up, revealing pine forest, the occasional house, mountains rising up on all horizons. There was little reason for any Luyten to be within eight miles of this abandoned backwater town, but they were all out there somewhere, so there was always a chance they’d be detected.

Quinto tried to access his helmet’s topographical maps, but the signal still wasn’t coming through. He pulled the old hard copy from his pack, unfolded it.

The carrier slowed; Quinto looked up from the map to see what was going on. There was a visual-recognition drone stuck in a drainage ditch along the side of the road. As they approached, the VRA drone—little more than a machine gun on treads—spun and trained its gun on each of the soldiers in turn. When it got to Quinto, it paused.

“Human. Human!” Quinto shouted, engaging the thing’s vocal-recognition failsafe. It went on to the next soldier.

It was always an uncomfortable moment, having a VRA drone point a weapon at you. You’d think it would be hard to mistake a human for a Luyten.

Failing to identify anything that resembled a starfish, the gun spun away.

“Get a few guys to pull it out of the ditch,” Quinto said. Four troops hopped out of the transport and wrestled the thing back onto the road. It headed off down the road, continuing on its randomly determined route.

Pleasant Street dead-ended close to the mouth of the mine, about half a mile past an old hotel that should be coming up on their left. When they got to the mine they’d have to unseal it using the critical blast points indicated on the topo map, then a 2.5-mile ride on the maglev flats into the mine, to the storage facility.

If someone had told Quinto two years ago that he’d be going into an abandoned mine to retrieve seventy-year-old weapons and ammo, he would have laughed out loud.

It wasn’t funny now.

The locomotive and five boxcars were parked right where they were supposed to be—as close to the mouth of the mine as the track would allow. They were late-twentieth-century vintage, the locomotive orange and shaped like a stretched Mack truck. Quinto called Macalena and his squad leaders, instructed them to set the big recognition-targeting gun they’d brought along in the weeds on the far side of the road, and place two gunners near the entrance with interlocking fire. When that was done, they got the rest of the squads moving down the tunnel. The quicker they moved, the sooner they’d be out of hostile territory and back in Philly.

Quinto took up the rear of the last carrier for the ride down into the mine. He was not a fan of deep holes with black walls, and when his CO had first laid out the mission Quinto had nearly crapped his own pants.

Macalena climbed in and took the seat beside him.

“So what are we looking for? I cannot for the life of me guess what we’re doing in here.”

Quinto smiled. It must seem an odd destination to the rest of the men, but they were used to being kept in the dark about missions. The fewer people who knew, the less likely the starfish were to get the information. Or so the logic went.

“The feds have been sealing huge caches of weapons in old mines for the past two centuries, waiting for the day when Argentina or India or whoever took out our more visible weapons depots. They coat them in Cosmoline and pretty much forget about them.”

Macalena frowned, sticking out his big lower lip. “You mean, old hand grenades and machine guns and shit?”

“More or less. Flamethrowers with a pathetically limited effectiveness range, eighty-one-millimeter mortars, LAW rockets, fifty-cal MGs.” Most were outdated weapons, but simple, easy to operate.

Macalena shook his head. “So we’re that desperate.”

In the seat in front of them a private who was at least seventy was clinging to the bar in front of her seat. She was tall—at least six feet. The slight jostling of the carrier was clearly causing her old body discomfort. It was true what they said: There were no civilians anymore, only soldiers and children.

“Yup. We’re that desperate,” Quinto said. “They’ve destroyed or seized so much of our hardware that we have more soldiers than guns.”

“What’s Cosmoline?” Macalena asked.

“I didn’t know, either; I had to look it up. It’s a grease they used back in the day to preserve weapons. Once you chip away the hardened Cosmoline, the weapons are supposed to be like new.”

Macalena grunted, spit off the side. “Dusty as hell in here. And cold.”

“Let’s be glad we’re not staying.”

Macalena’s comm erupted, a panicked voice calling his name.

“What have we got?” Macalena asked.

“Vance is dead. Lightning shot, from the trees to the left of the mine.”

“All stop!” Macalena shouted. The carrier slowed as Quinto dropped his head, covered his mouth as the implications sunk in.

Lucky no more.

“Where are you now?” Macalena asked the private.

“Inside the mine, about a hundred yards.”

“Stay there.”

Quinto looked up at Macalena, who raised his eyebrows. “What do you want to do?”

He wanted to get as deep in the mine as he could, and stay there, their backs against the wall, weapons raised until the starfish came to get them. Of course the Luyten would never come down, because they were reading his thoughts right now. Plus it was far easier to blow the mouth of the mine and leave them to suffocate.

Quinto ordered the small caravan to turn around and head toward the mouth.

They barely got moving before they heard the flash-boom of a Luyten explosive. The cave shook; bits of dirt and debris spewed at them, then everything settled into silence, the cave now truly pitch-black, save for the carriers’ headlights.

They climbed out of the carriers. Some of the troops cried, and there was no shame in that. One woman went off to the side of the tunnel and knelt in the rubble to pray. Quinto didn’t know their names, because he hadn’t served with them long. Troops came, and died, and new troops came. Only Lieutenant Lucky went on, mission after mission. Quinto realized he’d begun to believe he really was lucky, or special. Destined to see the war to its end.

It killed him, to think he wouldn’t get to see how things turned out, whether the bad guys won, or the good guys pulled something out of their asses at the eleventh hour.

Quinto used the walkie to apprise HQ of their situation, so HQ wouldn’t wonder when Quinto’s platoon never returned.

“Lieutenant?” Macalena said. He was studying the topo map he’d borrowed from Quinto. “Did you see these?” A few of the enlisted came over to look at the map over Macalena’s shoulder as he ran his finger along black lines set perpendicular to the mine. “There are five vertical shafts sunk along the length of the mine. I’m guessing they were escape routes in case of collapse, or ventilation, or both.”

Quinto looked up from the map, impotent rage rising in him. “Jesus, Mac, couldn’t you have waited a half hour to notice this?”

It took Macalena a second to understand. When he did, he grimaced, curled his hand into a fist, crumpling a section of the map. He turned and walked a dozen paces down the shaft, cursing quietly, viciously.

Even Macalena was too green for this war. He’d been in the infantry for only four months; before that he’d been writing military technical manuals. The army needed fighters more than writers these days.

If Macalena had waited even fifteen, twenty minutes before examining the old map, chances were the Luyten would have been out of range, and they could have climbed out of this hole and gone home.

“We need to move,” Quinto said. “The fish are going to find those exits and seal them up. Spread out, find the exits. When I get to the surface I’m going to set off a Tasmanian devil, give us some breathing room. As soon as it’s spent, get out there. Understood? Let’s move.”

“Couldn’t we just stay down here? Dig our way out when they’re gone?” It was the kid who’d crapped himself, looking absurd in Quinto’s big pants. “If we go up there now, they’ll kill us. I mean, maybe they’ll get distracted by something and leave…” He trailed off.

Everyone stared at the ground, except for the soldier who was praying.

“Let’s go,” Quinto said.

Quinto grasped the cold rung of the ladder that had dropped down when they unsealed the iron hatch.

“Good luck to you, Lieutenant,” one of the troops waiting to follow him called. It was Benneton, the old woman. The kid who’d crapped his pants was there as well, along with four others.

Quinto looked up into darkness. “Here we go.” He headed up the ladder. A lot of people who’d been as lucky as Quinto might have been tempted to believe the streak would hold, but Quinto knew his past held no hint of his future. More to the point, he knew he had no future.

It was a forty-foot climb according to the map, but adrenaline made it effortless. When he reached the top, he twisted the seal on the hatch, then pushed with his back and shoulders to force the hatch open. Daylight flooded into the dusty shaft as dirt and moldy leaves rained down on him.

The kid, who was just below him, passed up the Tasmanian devil. Reaching among the big spines jutting from the central carbon-fiber sphere, Quinto activated it, tossed it outside, and pulled the hatch closed.

The buzzing of razor-sharp shrapnel hitting, and then burrowing around inside everything within five hundred yards, would have been reassuring if Quinto weren’t absolutely certain the starfish had retreated outside the Tasmanian devil’s range as soon as Quinto thought about using it. At least it would back the fish up so they wouldn’t be able to pick off Quinto and his troops as they climbed out of their holes.

“Here we go,” Quinto said to the boy. “Have your weapon out. Run as fast as you can. Try to take one with you.” His guess was that Benneton would stay behind, shoot from the cover of the shaft until the Luyten cooked her. That’s what Quinto would do in her situation; it would probably afford her a few more minutes of life. He took a deep breath, trying to grasp that this was the end, this was the moment of his death, but he couldn’t.

As soon as the Tasmanian devil went silent, Quinto threw open the hatch, his heart thudding wildly, and ran.

Their carriers were trapped in the mine, so his best chance would be to make it to the locomotive. Of course the Luyten would have fried the locomotive, so really there was nothing to do but run, and when the fish closed in, turn and fight.

Two hundred yards ahead, he spotted four of his troops running north, into the woods, toward the nearest cover. That probably made more sense than what Quinto was doing, but all of the moves open to them were losers. It was always the same: The fish knew their exact location, but they had no idea where the fish were. If you could catch a fish out in the open, it couldn’t dodge automatic weapons fire, but you almost never caught them out in the open.

Quinto glanced back, saw the kid was two steps behind, his dirty cheeks tracked with tearstains.

The locomotive had been melted to a lump. He kept running. Everyone but he and the kid had headed north. Since Quinto wasn’t dead yet, it was safe to assume the fish had gone after the larger group first. If he could get outside their range, which meant seven or eight miles, he and the kid might have a chance. Quinto pushed himself to pick up the pace, but when he did the kid started to fall behind, looking panicked. Quinto slowed.

In the distance, Quinto heard the worst sound in the world: the sizzle-crackle of a Luyten lightning stick, a sound as much felt in your body as heard by your ears. Then another. He was spared the pungent, unearthly sweat smell of the weapon. He was too far away.

When he’d made it through the town, Quinto took another glance back. The kid was a hundred yards behind, one hand clutching his side. No way this kid was going to run another four or five miles. Panting, his throat coated in phlegm, Quinto considered leaving him behind. No. No matter how fast he ran, he wasn’t going to outrun Luyten on foot. He could try calling HQ and beg for a carrier to come get him, but they’d only tell him what he already knew: They weren’t going to feed the fish any more than they had to.

So he stopped, pulled out his comm, and waited for the kid to catch up. The kid stopped beside him, put his hands on his knees.

“You want to call anyone? Your mom or dad alive?”

The kid eyed the comm. “Just my little sister.” He swallowed, looked at Quinto. “We’re going to die, aren’t we?”

“Yeah. We are.”

“Maybe they got distracted by something. Maybe the others killed them.”

“Maybe,” Quinto said. He thought he heard the snap-crackle of something moving through the woods to the north. “Come on.” He tugged the kid’s jacket and headed into the woods on the opposite side of the road.

Should he call his own mother to say goodbye? He would like that, but he didn’t want to risk having her on the line when he died. He didn’t want that to be her last memory of him.

Branches whipped his face as he tore through the brush. It was pointless, but he couldn’t relinquish that last millimeter of hope that he might get lucky, just one last time. He barreled down a slope as the landscape opened, then splashed through a stream and raced up the bank.

He spotted a flash of crimson ahead, behind a thick cover of green leaves, and stopped short. The kid stopped short beside him, looked at him, questioning, just as a bolt of lightning burst through the foliage.

1

Oliver Bowen

March 9, 2030 (nine months later). The South Pacific.

The door was locked. The room was comfortable, replete with a well-stocked kitchen and an entertainment system that was so up-to-date it contained movies yet to be released. But the door was locked.

You’re considered a risk. They don’t know the extent of my power to influence you.

Oliver turned in his rotating chair to face Five, whose accommodations were less plush. Behind the carbon alloy mesh that separated them, Five’s room was empty except for a water dispensation device that resembled a giant hamster lick. Five was lying flat, his appendages splayed like the spokes of an elephant-sized wheel. His skin had a stony, mottled texture, and there were bristles protruding at evenly spaced intervals across it. The cilia protruding from the tips were as thick as nautical rope, and transparent.

“Because you were able to win over a thirteen-year-old boy, they think you might be able to convince me that I’m fighting on the wrong side? That’s absurd.”

But they don’t know that, Five said. They think you’ve become too familiar with me. Too friendly.

The CIA yanks him out of his position at NYU three days after the invasion begins, shifts him from Research to Interrogation as their field agents die off, tells him to figure out how to communicate with Luyten, and when he succeeds, he becomes a suspected sympathizer? Beautiful.

The next time someone comes, ask them when you’ll be informed where we’re going.

Oliver couldn’t help laughing. “You mean you don’t know?” He waved in what he guessed was the direction of the submarine’s bridge. “Pluck it out of someone’s mind.”

I don’t have to pluck. Your minds are all laid out in front of me. No one on this vessel knows.

“No one knows where we’re going?” It seemed an absurd notion, though it also made sense. If no one on board knew where they were going, or why, a Luyten who happened to be flying nearby—within their eight-or-so-mile telepathic zone—wouldn’t be able to find out, either. The mission must be important. “How are they navigating if they don’t know where we’re going?”

They’re given a set of coordinates corresponding to a point in the ocean, and when they reach it, they’re given another.

“So where are we?”

Oliver jolted back in his chair as one of Five’s mouths opened, revealing a bobbing, twitching hole ringed with teeth that resembled the spines on cacti. Smacking, hissing air and background sounds like water draining came from the hole, the sounds so unearthly and repulsive that at first Oliver didn’t register that they were approximating words.

“Find out where we’re going,” Five said aloud.

The ubiquitous hum of the sub’s engine was the only sound in the room as Oliver composed himself. Ultimately it didn’t matter whether the Luyten communicated telepathically or using spoken words, but it was still profoundly disturbing to hear the thing speak.

“You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?” Oliver said.

“Unlike you.” Somehow the creature managed to inject a note of irony, and perhaps contempt, into the awkwardly formed words.

Oliver slid out of the chair, went right up to the nearly invisible net of carbon fiber that separated them. “Don’t assume you know my mind just because you can read my thoughts. We may not be as simple as you think.”

“Yes, humanity is the pinnacle of evolution. The chosen ones, the purpose for the existence of the entire universe. How could I forget?” Aware that Oliver was having trouble understanding his strangely formed words, Five simultaneously broadcast his words directly into Oliver’s mind, giving him the uneasy sensation of hearing the words with an indescribable overlap. “I know your mind better than you.”

Oliver grunted, folded his arms across his chest. “Right.”

“You’re uneasy. You’re afraid I might try to prove my claim.”

It was pointless to disagree. Oliver had quickly learned how absurd it was to deny what you were thinking or feeling to something who knew precisely what you were thinking and feeling.

“You love your wife now—”

“Shut up. I don’t want to hear about Vanessa. Just leave it.”

Five waited patiently through Oliver’s outburst, then continued. “After her affair, her denials, the angry divorce… now you love her. Before, when you claimed to love her, you also despised her.”

Oliver turned, went to the door, and thumped on it with the flat of his palm. “Hey, come on. Unlock this door. I’m not the POW.”

“There’s an irony you’re not aware of, in your newfound feelings for your wife. Should I share it with you?”

Oliver turned to face Five, who was running the fine cilia that served Luyten as fingers across the stump of the limb he’d lost. “No. Thanks for the offer, but, no.”

“It’s something you’d be interested to hear.”

When Oliver didn’t answer, Five continued. “All right, then why don’t I move on? What else can I tell you, to demonstrate you’re as simple to read as I think you are? How about your deepest sexual cravings? Some of these you would never admit to yourself. For example, you’d like to be tied up, gagged with your own dirty sock, and spanked by a woman twenty years older than you.”

Oliver couldn’t care less about his repressed sexual desires. They were what they were; he couldn’t control them, only whether he acted on them. But Oliver knew Five was only playing with him now. It had already dropped the bait it knew Oliver couldn’t resist.

Five grew quiet, waiting for the question it already knew was coming.

“Fine. What’s the irony I’m not aware of?”

All of Five’s eyes fixed on Oliver. “The irony is, your instinct to love her is right, because she never had sex with Dr. Paul.”

As the words registered, Oliver’s vision darkened around the edges, as if he were going to pass out. In some ways, he wished he would. “You told me she had. You gave me specific details.”

“I lied.”

An icy numbness crept through him. He’d destroyed his marriage on the word of an alien bent on wiping out the human race. He’d taken Five’s word as unassailable proof, because Five could reach right in and pluck the truth out of Vanessa’s thoughts. Only he’d forgotten Five had abilities beyond reading minds. The ability to lie, for instance.

He’d told Vanessa he knew she was lying, said her unwillingness to admit the affair bothered him more than the infidelity itself. The floor, which was nothing but steel under a thin layer of beige carpeting, lurched beneath him, either because the sub was adjusting course or his knees were wobbling.

“Why would you lie? I didn’t even ask you about Vanessa—you volunteered the information.”

“I did it to serve as a reminder.”

“A reminder of what?”

“That I might be lying to you at any time.”

It dawned on Oliver that he had no way to contact Vanessa, and had no idea when he would, because he didn’t know where he was going, or why. When he did finally contact Vanessa, would an apology make any difference? He’d trusted the word of a Luyten over hers.

This was going to torture him. In all probability that was Five’s intention in telling him now. Or maybe he was lying now, simply to distract Oliver at a crucial juncture.

“Maybe,” Five said.

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Table of Contents

1. Cover
2. Title Page
3. Welcome
4. City Living
5. Meet the Author
6. Also by Will McIntosh
7. Bonus Material
8. About Orbit Short Fiction
9. Orbit Newsletter
10. Copyright

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2015 by Will McIntosh
Excerpt from Defenders copyright © 2014 by Will McIntosh
Cover design by Kirk Benshoff
Cover illustration by Kirk Benshoff
Cover copyright © 2015 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at permissions@hbgusa.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

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First eBook edition: February 2015

ISBN: 978-0-316-34130-1

E3

Table of Contents

- Cover
- Title Page
- Welcome
- City Living
- Meet the Author
- Also by Will McIntosh
- Bonus Material
- About Orbit Short Fiction
- Orbit Newsletter
- Copyright