Homer: SCENE-T/Ref@5445 -

SCENE-T/Ref@5445

Chicago was a city under siege. The greatly reduced numbers of people on the public thoroughfares moved swiftly and stayed close to the walls. They could hear the distant hum of personal deflector shields, minimal protection against the new Mind War weapons. From time to time, though, they saw a victim of a direct hit slumped in the street or staring vacantly at a wall with the telltale expression of Genetic Aboulia Disorder.

The group emerged into the South Cicero Corridor. They had changed into identical work parkas and light personal deflectors, and carried a complement of tools and robotic aids. After eating at a small cafeteria on a side street, they moved cautiously through the warren. They were now a construction team headed toward the Des Plaines Interchange to repair damage to the old fusion tokamak for much of northwestern Illinois.

They passed two intersections without incident. A Services Substation at Forest Park lay just ahead.

Suddenly they heard a sharp scream, followed by the subsonic hum of NP weapons to the west. Running footsteps, followed by more humming, and the weird disorienting noise of mind bombs. A running man suddenly jerked uncontrollably for several staggering steps, fell, rolled twice and lay twitching.

They stopped. Thatcher looked around, then nodded at the doorway of a clothing shop. One of the boys shouted, "No!" and ran. Peter started after him; Thatcher grabbed his arm and held him back. The panicked boy ran straight at the fallen man.

"Hello," the man said, voice dull and stupid and dead. The boy stopped abruptly, his eyes darting wildly. There was another subsonic hum and the crackle as phages ate myelin sheathing was almost audible over the sound of the boy's feet dancing strangely, his body doing the shuffle dance down as the synapses disrupt. He fell slack and looked at his feet.

"Who the hell was that kid?" Thatcher asked.

"Scottie," someone answered.

"Was he wearing a monitor?"

"I don't know," Peter said. "It should be turned off."

"Who's his buddy?"

"I am. Was." A short stocky girl came forward. "He had his monitor on him. We checked each other before we left. I don't know what the computers will make of him being here, though."

"Don't worry about it for now. Everyone get in there. Someone will pick him up and take care of him. There's nothing we can do for him now."

They hid in the clothing store. The human proprietor said nothing. This was routine practice in Chicago.

Finally they moved on. At the Substation they picked up the keys to a well-shielded service vehicle and moved on.

Central Chicago's Open Space was two hundred meters high; above them the ancient twentieth century towers were still occupied - the Hancock, World Trade, Wright Complex and the others. Most were protected by drastic security systems that kept the wars at bay. Beneath their massive iron roots the underground city continued to function, but the people were dying, the hospitals were crowded with the hopelessly disoriented victims of mindbombs and personal NPs.

Keywords: moved, thatcher, man, don, hum, boy, chicago, personal, ran, time, weapons, mind, fell, street, nothing, peter, clothing, looked, will, stopped, though, lay, people, suddenly, feet, monitor, who, city, someone, followed, subsonic, running, substation

Updated: Tue Dec 4 2001