Dragon Virus (6 page)

“Damned kids woke me, so I figured I might as well get out
and get some fresh air. May be the last chance I get.”

He had said the same thing that first day, too. He may well
say it every day. It’s not a bad way to live, I suppose.

“We’re going down the market, if you want some company while
you walk.”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

His legs were longer than mine, once, but age slowed him to
a casual lope. Dolt trots ahead of us, looking over his shoulder every now and
again to make sure everything’s copasetic.

Mahil’s is the strangest bodega I’ve ever been in. You can
get anything there, from pet food to small tins of black caviar to kerosene for
emergency lamps and lord knows what else.

They also have the clearest reception of anyone in town,
every channel you can imagine and a few you can’t, and every Sunday you can
count on a group of teenagers and old men sitting around watching soccer being
broadcast from some tiny little outlaw station, with announcers with lousy
English and gloriously tacky commercials in high-speed Spanish. I never ask
Mahil where his receptor is, and he never offers to tell me. I’m Homicide, not
Larceny.

Half a dozen kids were slouched around the set when we got
there. Two of them wore the crimsons of the Waves, three were Lifers, and one,
a scrawny Black kid, was unaffiliated.

The hair on the back of my neck and tops of my arms
prickled, but Dolt stayed cool, so I relaxed.

If the kids had been spoiling for a fight, he would have
known.

Waves and Lifers were the more casual of the problems around
here, anyway. Waves were the last remnant of the grungy street toughs from when
I was a kid, rumble-scruff and bravado. Lifers were scarier, a little weirder;
they’d found God, and paid Him back by trying to save every soul that wasn’t
nailed down and stealing anything else they could find. Today, though, they
were preoccupied with the game, and besides, Mahil’s was neutral ground. If any
of them had been sporting the gold embroidered cross of the GodCore on their
denim, I would have called for backup, neutrality be damned.

Christ, what they do in your name...

“Megan!” Mahil’s daughter was the cutest thing. She had a
crush on all three of us, but reserved her overt affection for Dolt.

“Heya, Leanni.” A player scored, and two of the kids let out
happy sports-fan noises.

The unaffiliated kid swore like he had money on the game.

“Mamma-to-be have a craving?” She was down on the floor
giving Dolt a belly-scritch. Slut that he was, he’d fallen onto his back and
was kneading her arm with his pawlets, panting in a dopey canine grin.

“Your buddy there ate all the peanut butter,” I told her,
heading for the shelf I knew the jars were stored on.

“Oh, bad puppy,” she scolded him. “You know better.”

A whine let me know that he was taking her scolding far
worse than Jody’s. Figures. Nobody ever listens to mom. Peanut butter, peanut
butter, where’s the peanut — ah. Creamy, roasted honey nut, crunchy... I
spotted a plastic container of freshly-ground and picked it up.

Off the budget, but the stuff was good...

“Mutant freak.”

The tone got to me more than the words, barely heard over
the noise of the tv, and Mr. Griese and Leanni talking. My skin tightened,
drawing me upright. Left hand on the butt of my gun, resting lightly, finger on
the latch, weight on the heel of one foot, ball of the other, ready to pivot,
duck, dive into the fire. I put the peanut putter down, raised my head like
Dolt scenting the air.

“Go back to the game, Randy.”

Leanni was only fourteen. She shouldn’t sound that
tight-wound. I stepped out from the shelter of the aisle, gaze flitting, taking
in the scene. A Lifer was standing, staring at the two of them. No, at Dolt,
who had rolled onto his stomach, shoulders down, head up, forelegs out in front
of him. Ready-pose; not attack mode, but not calm, either. The basic pose was
submission, but the ears and eyes were alert. They taught him that in academy;
give calming signals but let them know you’re aware, not subservient.

“It’s a freak.”

The other Lifers looked; one went back to the game, the
other stood. He was a well-built kid, maybe eighteen, maybe sixteen.

“Leave it alone, Randy.”

Randy’s transition to puberty hadn’t been kind. His face was
pock-marked, and his shoulders caved in on themselves, too tall for the flesh
he carried. His jefe jerked a finger, expecting to be obeyed. Not that any
Lifer had love for a Created, but generally they left the four-legged alone.
Something to do with them being dumb creatures, victim of mankind’s hubris in
playing god.

“I don’t like it. I don’t want it in front of me.”

“It’s harnessed, Randy.” A harness showed that the
partnerbreed was in service. Even without the shield embossed in gold powder on
the leather, it should be enough to give any bigot with a violent streak pause.
Last partnerbreed killed under harness got the killer twenty-five years hard
time, no chance of parole. We serve and protect our own, too.

“Don’t make me call my dad,” Leanni warned them both. “You
know he’ll kick you out, all of you.”

Shut up, I urged her silently, remaining very still myself.
This was a gang matter; Randy was challenging his jefe, and one of them was
going to lose. All we could do was stay the hell out of it. I gave a low-down
sign to Dolt, and he ducked his head, ears remaining alert.

“It’s a dog. Just a dog.” Jefe was good, I gave him that. I
thought he was going to make it. Then Randy went for his hip pocket, a
swivel-patch that gangers use to carry concealed when they didn’t care who knew
it. Fuck.

“Is there a problem, boys?”

I’m not imposing, not like Mahil can be, but I know how to
pitch my voice, make an entrance. They both swung my way. Leanni dropped to the
floor, quiet and boneless-like, her arms around Dolt as if she’s going to
protect him. He licked her check, got to his feet. Mr. Griese had faded like a
pro; I didn’t have to worry about him.

“No problem, miz Taylor.” Jefe was smooth, hands opening, a
non-verbal no problemo. I recognized him now: busted for possession when he was
twelve, recruited to the Lifers a year later, a few bookings for violent
protest, one head-knocking when he tried to bring himself up in the ranks by
taking out a Holy Wheels preacher without permission from his jefe.

Not a bad kid, as Lifers went, but no less crazy for it.

“Call your boy off, Andrew.” I gave him props for being in
control, and let him know I’d ID’d him. Textbook.

“Ain’t nobody’s boy.” The gun was in Randy’s hand, a
snub-nosed, ugly little thing, as like to explode in his palm as not. It
wavered, pointed at Andrew, me, Andrew again. Shit.

“Put that damn thing down,” Andrew ordered him, his voice
ice hard. “Stupid fuck. You blow me, you’re down right after.”

The third Lifer was on his feet now, standing easy,
balancing on his heels, arms loose at his sides. Andrew gets stupid, he’ll get
dead soon after.

“Don’t be telling me what to do.”

“You’re going to act dumb, I’m going to treat you dumb. Lady’s
a cop. Pull the trigger on her dog, she’s going to get hard on your ass. And I’m
not going to stop her, brother or no brother. You be a fool on your own time.”

Randy spat something I didn’t recognize: not Spanish, or
Spanglish, or any street lingo I recognized. Then a word I did — “Judas.”

“Randy, listen to your jefe.” A Lifer calling another a
Judas was bad, about as bad as it got. If Randy could back up his claim, Andrew
was a dead boy. Maybe not now, but soon. All over poor Dolt. I stepped forward,
getting into Randy’s peripheral vision, so he couldn’t help but be aware of me.
Come on, little boy. Watch me. Watch me.

It always happens so fast, either fast or not at all. Some
people talk about life going in slo-mo, sticky as molasses, then snapping tight
into full speed again. Not me. It’s over before my brain processes what my body’s
doing. All I have left are visuals. Randy turns, his face a rictus, screaming
obscenities, slurs. A drop of froth flies off his lip, his eyes are bloodshot
around the brown. His arm raises, the gun’s pointing, my arm’s up, fingers calm
around the grip, the cool alloy of the trigger guard...

I’ve killed before, all clean shoots. Nobody will blame me
for this one either, if I can just beat his bullet to the meat...

Except I’m not going to make it. I know, even as I step
forward.

“Yeaaagh!”

The noise registers: a shot tight and loud in the enclosed
space, the roar of the crowd from the television, a low nasty growl that ends
in silence. I’m on the floor, Randy beneath me, scrambling for his gun, trying
to get off another shot. “Cuffs!” I bark, but there’s no response.

No scrabble of claws against metal, no warm little pawlet
handing me my gear...

“Here.” Lianna. I cuff the perp, turn on my knees, and all
the air goes out of me all at once. Mr. Griese is there, his wizened arms
around Dolt. The stupid canine opens his eyes, whoofs faintly at me.

We protect and defend our own.

“Stupid mutt.” I crawl to them, take the dumb mutt into my
arms. We’re stained in blood and none of it’s mine. He looks at me, dumb doggie
eyes, and I can practically hear him in my head. Pup on the way, y’see. Pup’s
gotta have parents.

o0o

“The defender knew his stuff.” I dissect trials. It’s a
hobby, something to pass the time while you’re waiting to be called. Different
when it’s your family involved. But not all that different, really. I admired
the guy the PD’s office put up there. No sympathy plea for his client, no
excuses, just a blunt retelling of the facts: partnerbreeds didn’t have any
kind of real legal status, not like Dragons. Just the courtesy given to a
canine companion.

“So some punk who wasn’t worth one of his fleas could get
put away for assault on an officer instead of murder... is it any less murder
because Dolt walked on his hands?” Jody, draped in a dark blue maternity dress,
hiding from the press, refusing any comfort.

“I don’t know.”

“It’s wrong. He should die, too.” Lianna came with us to the
trial, what there was of it.

The Waves testified, so had Mr. Griese. Lianna we kept out
of it. She’s just a kid, even after all this; she didn’t need to be grilled in
public. Not when it wouldn’t make any difference. Andrew and his remaining
Lifer disappeared by the time the paramedics arrived. Wherever they were, I
hope they can’t sleep at night.

Jody shouldn’t have worried. Jury came back, and the words
dripped off their lips: guilty. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. Youth and
circumstances, no death penalty.

So a fifteen-year-old boy gets to spend the rest of his life
in a brick-walled cell.

o0o

There’s a preacher on TV, broadcasting every Sunday
morning from one of those scarier-than-thou pulpits, tells us it’s the End of
Days, that the monster science has overcome God’s Word, and we’re all going
down — way down — in flames if we don’t repent. I caught Jodes watching him one
day, her arm around the pup, crying these harsh, silent sobs. Willa patted Jody’s
hair, licked her tears, whined and leaned in against her protruding belly,
warming them with her utter, inalienable dogness.

The kidnappings continue. It’s escalating. Last week there
were three infanticides on our shift; two were surgical botches.

There are nights I lay awake and pray for our baby to be a
Changeling. At least, that way, she will be safe with us.

They say the end is nigh. I think we’re living in the
aftermath already.

o0o

“This is Sara Semith, streaming live from Olympic Village here
in Perth, for the 2092 Winter Games, where the unrest that has been simmering
for weeks in heated words and protest signs broke out in violence last night.”

Camera angle cuts to: men in khaki uniforms with
the five-loop badges on their berets, carrying rifles, standing in front of low
gates where the Olympic logo repeats in more overt glory, tarred now by the
graffiti splashed across it, a stylized red symbol as recognizable as the
Olympic loops themselves. Maybe even more so. Smoke rises from the immediate
background, although it’s impossible to say from where.

“Olympic security, as well as UN Peacekeepers, are on high
alert. Although none of the athletes were injured, several of the houses were
set afire, and the residents have been housed in new locations, which have not
been released to the public. The teams targeted from the United States to
Albania, but the one thing in common is that they all have at least one, and in
most cases a majority, of Changed members. Clearly, the Clean Gene movement,
frustrated by repeated losses in the American courts, have changed their tactics...”

The man’s voice was hoarse, impassioned, and it filled the
living room like the smell of rain and brimstone.

“And the LORD did send a PLAGUE upon us, for our SINS! But
we did not SEE it, and allowed the plague to GROW. And now it is UPON us, the
cost of our inactivity, the WAGES of our DAMNATION, that our CHILDREN must
suffer it, and WE shall suffer for our inACTion at their hands!”

“Turn that crap off.” Steven’s father paused in the hallway,
drawn by the noise.

“I’m watching!” Steven protested, sprawled out on the
carpet, chin on hands as he stared up at the screen.

“Turn it off! “

His father never used that tone, not about something as
stupid as a ’net program. The Thumper telepreacher paused to gather another
breath, and the cablenet winked off, replacing him with a blank screen.

“I was watching that,” Steven said again, sulky, tossing
down the remote.

“In God’s name, why?”

A half-hearted shrug. “Dunno. Nothing else on.”

His father shook his head, exasperated. Pointing out all the
things his son could be doing on this clear Sunday afternoon would be a waste
of both their time; Steven knew, and chose not to do any of them.