Chapter I
Harold Maguire watched from the corner of the sidewalk as two policemen beat a man across the street. The man was cowering on his side in front of a flower shop, screaming at each blow. One baton fell on his neck and the other was raised and ready to strike. As the other baton hit the man in the gut the first one was raised and ready to hit him again. The man lay crumpled in a thin layer of snow as the blows came down on him. Harold waited as the police finished their arrest, dragging the man off. Harold crossed the street and entered the flower shop. The door jingled as Harold opened it. He was greeted by a woman at the counter in a worn green apron, her coarse hands sorting an arrangement.
“Hi there, I’m picking up some flowers. I called about an hour ago. The name is Harold. Are they ready?”
“Yes; I can make up a message for you. Any special occasion?”
“My daughter is coming home for winter break.” A timid grin grew on Harold’s face.
“Lovely.”
The woman disappeared. Harold stared out the window and lost some of the joy that had struck him so suddenly. As he leaned further toward the window, he noticed the sidewalk stained red leading up to the patrol car just a few parking spaces up the street. The florist came back and held up a brilliant looking bouquet, a swirl of reds, oranges, and pinks. The woman put them on the counter and offered up a card with a personal message.
“Did you see the police outside?” said Harold.
“I did. What can be done of it? He was lucky it wasn’t Protection Services; they’d have done more than roughed him up.”
“Nasty business.”
“Someone has to do it.” The florist was curt.
Harold put some cash on the table and waited for change. The florist called out to Harold as he opened the door with a jingle.
“Happy Christmas – keep safe.”
“You too.” Harold went back into the cold. Happy Christmas? Harold thought. He still wasn’t used to hearing it. Something they say in England? Or used to say, he thought. She was one of the lucky ones. She made it out.
Harold walked down the sidewalk, avoiding the pink stains in the fresh snow. The stuff had started falling fast, winds picking up around him and offering only howls and a biting chill. Sirens wailed past him, and Harold glanced at the patrol car. The beaten man was slumped in the back with his head against the window. The car was gone in a flurry of white. Harold kept on down the street and noticed one of the digital billboards on a crumbling brick building, taking up a large portion of the side. The face of a dejected soldier in camouflage, grains of sand embedded in the lines on his face. Text started scrawling across the bottom. DISSENT HURTS THE TROOPS…YOU KNOW IT WHEN YOU SEE IT…REPORT DISSENT WHEREVER YOU FIND IT.
Just as he finished reading it, the image shifted. A Protection Serviceman, standing tall and strapping, proud and painfully white. Clad in the gray uniform, stupid grin on his face as he motioned to point at whoever might be walking by. DO YOUR PART…DO WHAT IT TAKES…JOIN PROTECTION SERVICES TODAY…GENEROUS PAY…HONORABLE WORK. Jesus Christ, Harold thought. I’ll never get away from this. At least I’ll have Aiden back soon. He shielded the flowers from the wind and the snow and trudged on.
Harold was finally out of the range of the surveillance cameras and close to home. The unmanned aerial cameras never wandered onto his street – at least not usually – even though Harold’s place was one of the last single-family houses left on the block. Many of them had been converted to triple-deckers over time. He glanced at one of the three-story buildings and saw the national flag hanging from the porch of the third floor. Looking further down he saw the same flag hanging from the second-floor porch, and another at mast jutting out from the first floor of the house. He noticed for the first time that more than half of the houses on the street had similar flags hanging from them. Most of them looked ragged. Harold couldn’t help mumbling under his breath.
“What the hell are we so proud of?”
***
Lieutenant Frederick Eckart and Officer David Blair were driving, tooling around winding streets as the snow accumulated. Eckart put the windshield wipers on. It didn’t do much. The gusts had become unpredictable, nearly blizzard conditions.
“Maybe you should pull over?” said Blair.
“No. Why people in Massachusetts can’t drive in snow is mystifying to me. You grew up here, you should be able to handle it. You should especially be able to handle it if you want to keep doing this.”
“It’s been six months; I think I’ve got an understanding of what Protection Services expects of me.”
Eckart sneered. “Right. You’re lucky I let you ride with me today.”
“I feel lucky.”
The vehicle console buzzed. “2E54, this is Dispatch. Reports of a dissent criminal in police custody. You’re closest to Malden PD. Can you take it?”
Eckart picked up his radio. “Dispatch, this is 2E54. You have a description?”
“Darker complexion, black hair, brown eyes. Approximately five foot seven and 160 pounds. ID suggests he’s a British refugee. Emigrated after the outbreaks. That’s all we have so far.”
“Copy that. We’re on it.”
***
Harold was at his doorstep. He clutched at his knitted hat to keep it from flying off his head. Juggling the flowers, he searched in his coat pocket for his house keys. He jammed his house key in the lock, stepped into the warmth of his home, and locked the door. Harold had set aside a vase filled halfway with tap water before leaving. As he unwrapped the flowers and placed them in the vase one by one, Harold noticed a small and weak looking little one. The flower was a sickly-looking light powder blue and had yet to bloom.. Harold thought about plucking it out so it didn’t distract from the others. He wondered if it would bloom by the time Aiden got home. I’ll give it a chance, Harold thought, as he placed it in the vase along with all the rest.
He moved from the living room into the kitchen and took off his heavy winter coat, spotted with melting flakes of snow, and placed it on the kitchen heater as it hissed and pinged. The silver monstrosity was an old heap, and large sections of paint had been scorched off. A filthy orange rust that was rough to the touch was steadily advancing. Harold removed his hat and set it on the heater’s last bit of free space. He ran the hot water at the kitchen sink, splashed some on his face, grabbed a towel, and dried himself before he made his way to the living room.
Harold went over to his record collection at the far side of the room and began rummaging—an exercise from his youth. He remembered looking through his parents’ collection as a child and becoming a connoisseur of everything from the ‘70s to the ‘90s before his tenth birthday. The best rock bands, the alternative stuff, punk and postpunk. Every time he listened to vinyl, Harold relived that first time he had ever heard the low scratching of an album as he placed the needle in the grooves, just before the music started. It was why he kept the records and bought a new player, discarding the new technologies constantly released one on top of the other. An analog music set was harder to keep tabs on to boot.
Harold settled on The Chameleon’s Strange Times. He removed it from his bookcase along the wall, took the record out of its sleeve and made his way to the player, lifting the needle and he placing it with care on the side that read A+. He put the needle down, and the first track began to fill up his living room. Harold made his way to the chair at the center of the room and fell into the cushions. What artists, he thought. They’re not even capable of producing B-sides. Only A-level work. Harold reached for his remote control and clicked his television on. Robert Wright filled up the screen in his three-piece suit and mainstay flag pin on his lapel. That man the country was supposed to admire and obey above all others. The one people were now calling the Leader.
He was mid-speech, droning on about the trials of top Party members for treachery, cowardice, and other deep intractable moral failings. The necessity of suspending elections, new deployments in Tanzania, bombing campaign in Pakistan, the expansion of internment to include dissent crimes, blah blah blah. Somehow different but always the same. The drumbeats and meandering guitar riffs tumbled out of the record player and filled Harold’s head like a sinister soundtrack for the words of Robert Wilson Wright, founder of the Party, architect of the Restoration at home and the Great Liberation in countless foreign lands. The man who had mobilized the whole of the country against all those who would do us harm, without pause or shame. The man who did all that was necessary and required. The President of the United States.
***
“We’re with ProServ. We’re here for the one you just picked up.” Lieutenant Eckart spat out the words, showing his SubCrimes Division ID to the policeman at the entrance desk, who stopped his paperwork and rose to his feet. Officer Blair looked on, raising a clenched fist to his yawning mouth.
“You got it,” said the policeman. “He’s in one of our interview rooms. I’ll let you in at the end over there.”
Blair and Eckart walked towards the door leading to the rest of the station as it buzzed open. “Just follow me,” the policeman said, as Eckart held the door open for Blair. The partitions in the station made the hallways feel too tight, and Blair felt he was barely squeezing through. They walked single file past a large bullpen with desks, ringing phones and busy police officers on one side and marked office rooms on the other. Old, warped, faded oak doors of the offices reeked of wood treatment. Blair grabbed his dark overcoat by the collar and shook off flakes of snow.
“Two of our patrolmen tried to pick this guy up in front of his apartment,” said the policeman, as he hitched his utility belt up around his large waist. “Place is a flophouse. He tried to run. Our boys are down there now combing it over. We got an anonymous tip that the guy was flyering the neighborhood for some anti-Chelsea protest. He’s got all kinds of crap up there, so he’s at least going in the Dissent Registry.”
“We’ve been expecting this for some time,” said Eckart. He eyed his own fingertips as he grazed the walls of the station, his arm extended. “Chelsea and some of the other internment centers have been going to pieces. It’s been the top story on Truth all week.”
“Nationwide?” said the policeman.
“Yeah. It’s getting almost as much coverage as the Purges. Savages – all of them. Burning down the only place they can afford to call home. What sense does that make?”
“You got me.”
Eckart pushed his fingers forward off the wall as it went from painted plaster to cement. “Anything else we should know?”
“He won’t tell us much,” said the policeman. “Probably Muslim, but he won’t admit it. For a troublemaker, he has awful tight lips now. You handle all the political ones, don’t you?”
“We handle the Muslim ones, too.”
The policeman chuckled and Eckart smiled.
“How much further is it?” said Blair.
“We’re just about here,” said the policeman. “I’m not sure how happy the two who collared him are with you being here. His ID said his name was Vincent Cabrisi.” The policeman handed the small plastic card to Eckart, who eyed it suspiciously. “I had this feeling about him. You get that feeling with some of them, it’s like you can tell – like it’s in their eyes or something.”
“Anyone detained for dissent is automatically in our jurisdiction anyway,” said Eckart. “Even if you can’t be sure, it’s always better to let us know. You never can tell unless a proper interrogation is conducted – that’s how crafty they can be. They think if they can meet the right people, a decent fake can fool anyone.”
Eckart removed a small scanner from his pocket and ran the Cabrisi ID. The authenticator buzzed and turned green.
“This is a good one,” said Eckart. “I still think it’s bullshit.”
The policeman reached out ahead and grabbed the knob to a door marked INTERVIEW, opening it.
“Right in here, gentlemen.”
The policeman showed the Protection Servicemen a gray room with cement walls and a loose four-legged table in the center with two chairs on each side. The prisoner was sitting in one of the chairs, his arms resting on the table. He was in handcuffs and his dark hair hung down over his face, tangled and dripping wet. His clothing was ripped and his shirt was stained with blood. He raised his head fast, flipping his hair back to look at the three men. His face was bruised and puffy, shiny from sweat and swelling. He coughed loudly as Eckart walked towards him.
“We’ll take it from here,” said Eckart to the policeman. Eckart took off his coat, folded it at the waist, and placed it on the table. Blair leaned against the wall next to the door and crossed his arms. He looked on as Eckart sat next to his coat on the table facing the dissenter.
“Do you know who we are?” said Eckart with a prying smirk.
“You’re an officer in the Protection Services,” he said coldly. “Is that your junior partner over there?”
“What makes you so sure?” said Eckart.
“I can tell from how you’re dressed. You’ve got the insignia of a ranking officer on your badge there, means you’re important.” The prisoner nodded his head towards Blair. “He doesn’t have anything on his badge but the PS emblem, and he seems like he defers to you. Am I right so far?”
“If I were you, I’d be more worried about yourself than my partner.”
“If you’re so smart,” said Blair, “then why are we here now?”
“That’s a damn fine question. What’s your name?”
“Vincent Cabrisi.”
Eckart gripped the side of the table for leverage and punched the prisoner square in the jaw, sending him out of his seat and onto the cold cement floor. The jab was quick and it happened so fast that Blair didn’t know what happened until Eckart had grabbed the prisoner by his hair and pulled him back into the flimsy chair.
“I’ll ask you again,” said Eckart. “What is your name?”
“You’ve got my ID…you know who I am.” The prisoner was holding his jaw, wincing as he spoke.
“This is counterfeit.”
“What makes you think it’s a fake?”
“The police scanned it, they figured out it was phony by the time they sat you in this room. Why do you think we’re here?”
“It’s not fake!”
“Come on! We know how it works. You’d think a Brit would have some reverence for the country that takes him in after the outbreaks. Never heard an Italian with a British accent. I’m confused. English by way of Italy by way of where…Iraq? Syria? You look Saudi.”
Blair fished around in his breast pocket for his pack of cigarettes. He struck his match against the booklet and took a long drag, waving the match out and tossing it on the ground. ProServ certainly had their benefits, Blair thought as he took the cigarette from his mouth and flicked a small amount of ash on the cement floor. Immunity from prosecution was at the top of the list. He could smoke wherever he wanted.
“So why don’t you tell me the truth,” said Eckart as he placed his hand on the prisoner’s shoulder, “and just come clean to us. You want a cigarette?”
“Yeah.”
“Blair, give him one.”
Blair took the cigarette out of his mouth and passed it to the prisoner, returning to his spot against the gray wall. He watched as the prisoner took a long drag. Eckart took his hand from the man’s shoulder.
“You know I looked at your ID card myself,” said Eckart. “It’s well made, for a fake. I bet even the biometrics match your fingerprints. I mean, they would have to for you to get around.” Eckart moved in close to the prisoner’s face and spoke with a soft but firm voice. “Why don’t you tell us who made it for you? Maybe we let you walk away with a slap on the wrist.”
“You people caught me and you know what I’ve got in my apartment,” said the prisoner as he inhaled from the cigarette again, “what makes you think I’m going to cooperate with any of you? This is it for me, I know it.” The words left his mouth with drifting white smoke, lingering around Eckart’s face. “I’m a dissenter no matter what. What more can you do?”
Blair took another cigarette from his pack and placed it in his mouth.
“That is not something you want to find out firsthand,” said Eckart, baring his teeth close to the man’s face. “This is your last chance. Tell us something we want to know, like your real name or where you got that ID card.”
“No.”
Eckart reached into his belt and pulled out a long blade with a serrated edge, stabbing it into the table. “Last chance – I mean it when I say it.”
The man didn’t budge.
Eckart grinned and calmly got up and walked to the far end of the table. “Do you know why I let you have that cigarette?” he said as he placed his right hand on his hip.
The man eyed Eckart nervously. “Why?”
“Because it’s your last.”
The muzzle flash lit up the room, blinding Blair for a moment. He dropped his lit match and cigarette to the floor before he realized Eckart had drawn his pistol and fired three shots into the prisoner’s chest. The shots echoed through the room, and a ringing started in Blair’s ears. The prisoner fell backwards in his chair, landing hard with a thud and nothing more.
“What the hell was that?” Blair’s voice cracked. “I thought we were taking him in!”
Eckart placed his pistol back in its holster, folding the leather strap over the hand grip and snapping it in place. “He was a raghead hiding in plain sight. I could smell it all over him.”
Blair couldn’t keep his hands still; a slight shaking had taken him over. “But there was more he could have told us. What about where he got his ID?”
“Were you not paying attention? We weren’t going to get anything useful out of him. He was unfit for trial, we would have put him in Chelsea anyway. Why bother processing him? A dead unfit is more useful to us than a live one – less paperwork.”
“You could have let me know you were going to shoot him,” said Blair as he knelt to pick up his cigarette. The floor hurt his knee. “You scared the shit out of me.” He nabbed the cig with clumsy shaking hands. Eckart made his way toward Blair, and as he stood up Eckart had lit his steel Zippo lighter for him.
“You should get one of these,” said Eckart as he snapped it shut, “they’re better than matches – nothing to throw away.”
“I’ll try to remember.” As Blair drew in the smoke, his nerves began to calm. Plumes of white filled up the room again. The door flew open, a policeman storming in with his gun drawn. Eckart and Blair turned to face him.
“What happened here?”
“ProServ business,” said Eckart as he flashed his SubCrimes ID. “We exercised our own judicial discretion. You aren’t needed.”
The policeman put his gun down, a sour look on his face. “I’ll have someone come in here for the body then.” He shut the door behind himself as he left.
“Now we can learn something useful,” said Eckart has he removed his scanner from his trench coat pocket. “The flatfoots don’t have this kind of tech.” He took the scanner and put it against the dead man’s fingertip after punching in his ID serial. As it dinged approvingly, Eckart picked up the dead man’s hand and held his thumb. He started scratching lightly at the fingerprint and a thin film began to come off his thumb. “Look at this.” Eckart ran the device on the clean print. An alarm buzzed on the device and the thing flashed IMPRINT MISMATCH…SCANNING GENISYS FILES.
“What’s Genisys?” said Blair as he took another drag from his cigarette. “Haven’t heard of that before.”
“You wouldn’t, Officer. It’s General Information Systems. Bunch of eggheads out of Cambridge, it’s a tech company. They collect metadata. We contract with them; they’ve got files on everybody. You’re all getting a tour soon.” The scanner started beeping. “See? We’ve already got a match.”
Eckart looked at the scanner screen and pulled up the matching DNA file of the man on the floor.
“Christ.”
“What? Who the hell is he?”
“The DNA match came up for a file on an Abd al-Haqq. He’s an unfit…”
“What?”
“Let’s see if he’s chipped.” Eckart pulled the dead man’s shirt sleeve up and scanned his arm. The scanner started beeping. Eckart read the scanner. “He’s got an implant. The son of a bitch was interned in Chelsea three months ago.”
“How did he get out?” Blair dropped his cigarette butt to the ground and stepped on it.
“I don’t know. We’re going to the Facility to find out. Let’s get out of here.” Eckart gathered his belongings. He adjusted his heavy coat collar before taking the knife out of the table. Blair stared at the dead man, a pool of blood collecting under him. “This isn’t our problem anymore, Blair. Let the garbage men handle the garbage.” Eckart led Blair out of the interrogation room. Blair turned back to close the door and looked through the blurred glass window. Before walking away, he took a glance at the word on the door. INTERVIEW.
