BlackWatch

The four of them sat side-by-side, their backs resting on the patio wall, each apparently lost in thought as the crimson sun rose above an indistinct, dusty horizon. There was not a tree in sight, for none remained in these latitudes -- anywhere. Indeed, the academy had been built on land that had once been verdant parkland, trees and a lake in the center of Los Angeles! Now, in every direction one looked there remained only a landscape of decay, a city that lay in ruins, a majestic city that even now was being consumed by the shifting seas of a vast, inrushing desert. The sun rose into an almost perpetually cloudless sky; only a thin veil of permanent hi-altitude smog remained, a veil of increasing ammonia and sulphuric acid. That poisonous veil, however, kept people from being roasted alive if they remained out in daylight too long, assuming, that is, their radiation filters remained effective.

And though all were in their late-teens and early twenties, none could remember a time when things had been different...

Krül-son looked at the reflective domes being built over the more affluent sections of the city and wondered when the poorer sections would be covered. Far across the valley he could just make out the entrance to one of the new underground cities being carved from the guts of the Santa Monica Mountains north of the city wall, but how many would live there? Would it be habitable in time? In the end, would people really want to move underground?

"You know," Dänae-son said, "I think I understand the reasoning behind the Reforms as well as any of us, but it makes me uncomfortable to be able to disrupt lives so arbitrarily."

"I know what you mean," Aerriksson said, "but there really hasn't been an effective alternative. Besides, who would advocate a return to the old ways?"

Each of them shuddered; they had been born and come of age with only the memories of their elders to guide them. Memories of endless 'depression' that chased scarce resources, then the secession movement and internal revolution that killed-off the First Republic. No one wanted to see a return to the anarchy that swept the land then, as drug cartels pushed deeper into the homeland, as first police officers then National Guard units were swept aside by a drug-crazed tide of rapists and blood-thirsty immigrants. Only full-scale military intervention at home had restored order, and the remaining people had been more than happy to sweep aside the remnants of a wholly ineffectual government, and then the First Secession War began.

Great cities disappeared in that war, as did an estimated seven billion people. A brief 'nuclear winter' almost wiped out all life on the planet's surface, and in time it was discovered that the brief atomic war had thrown giga-tons of irradiated particulate matter into the atmosphere, and three centuries of industrial pollution had somehow been trapped in all strata of atmosphere by an engulfing layer of radiation. With no trees to scrub the air, no oceans to act as a heat sink, new cycles of planetary decay and realignment settled in

"Sometimes I think of quitting," Tarkus-son said after a long pause.

"But, what would you do?" Krül-son asked, looking -- incredulously -- at his pod-mate.

"I don't know. Perhaps go north. I hear there are still trees near the arctic circle, and water in streams. And farms...I have heard there are farms on the pains. Perhaps one could find work there, on a farm?"

"And I have heard we are not welcome," Dänae-son replied, lost to the irony in his words. "They built a wall some time ago, even taller than our own. Besides, how would you travel so far north?"

"I don't know. It was only a thought."

"Some thoughts are best kept to one's self, Greggor."

"I know, Pol, I know; but this does not seem like such a good way to live."

"It is what it is," Aerikksonn said. "And soon it will be your job to protect this way of life."

Krül-son felt uncomfortable with the way this conversation was drifting, wanted to change the subject: "The Codex exam next week will be miserable."

"Why?" Pol said. "We've been studying the material for a month now; do you expect it to be so hard?"

"Alright, wise-ass..." Aerrik-son cut in, "... what does section 21.03 describe, and what is the range of punishment?"

"Section 21.03," Pol said as he turned to his pod-mate. "Theft of Water from Public or Private Land. The actor, with wanton disregard for the public good, intentionally, knowingly or recklessly appropriates water from any source, either man-made or natural, for his or her own use. Punishment: less than one liter, 500 credits and 500 days detention; more than one liter but less than ten liters, forfeiture of all property, twenty years detention; ten liters or more will be adjudicated on site by Justinian, the range of possible sentences imposed may include summary execution if deemed warranted by the Justinian and approved by the Tribonian."

The other three clapped in unison: "Bravo! Well done!" -- yet Aurelius sat quietly, wondered what he might do, really, if he had to report someone for taking water -- knowing that person was desperate, facing death, and that the state might put the poor soul to death. It was a no-win situation, wasn't it?

Yet life these days was, he thought, a no-win situation. Even insurrection seemed futile, then he thought of the instructor's legs again -- and he smiled.

+++++

"See! Watch Tarkus-son's movements!" the Commandant said as she bent over the screen. Sinn August-dottir leaned too and watched the four cadets as they talked on the patio.

"You doubt his loyalty?" Sinn said.

"I have watched him at First Prayers. His eyes wander, like his thoughts!"

Sinn pursed her lips. "We have seen this before. Many cadets become distracted after so long at the Institute. What makes you think this time is different?"

The Commandant leaned back in her chair. "Did you not hear him speak of fleeing to the North? Is that not enough?"

"What is your recommendation?"

"Public opinion is waning again; respect for the Police is falling too."

"Yes, we know that."

"Perhaps if an officer were to die, was to be killed, in the line of duty?"

"I take it you mean a cadet? Perhaps during one of the coming training exercises?"

"While searching a house for drugs? Yes. That would be ideal."

"I will take this to the Tribonian, perhaps Montag morning. But I feel we should run this by the SenatusConsulta."

The Commandant reached back and rubbed her neck. "That would be a mistake, a terrible mistake, Sinn. This must be kept away from all eyes, all prying eyes." She twisted her neck from side to side, rubbed a spot below her right ear.

"Are you alright?" Sinn asked.

"Yes. Yes, but..."

"You would like me to stay with you tonight?"

The Commandant stood. "Would you?"

Sinn stood, turned and began unbuttoning the other woman's tunic. Soon her hands ranged over taut breasts and firm stomach before sliding her mouth down into the moist warmth that had been waiting, oh-so-patiently, for this coming together all week.

+++++

Thor Bergtor-son, the region's senior Tribonian, looked at the cadet files once again, then at the new video feed from the Institute. As the regions highest law enforcement officer, no one exceeded his authority -- other than the region's two senators -- and they only if acting in concert. He read one of the files, then looked at the commandant on his monitor; she had never been able to keep her lust in check, and that one simple fact more than any other had always hindered her police work -- and her administrative judgment. And he had never once suspected August-dottir would be the sort to philander whilst on duty. He knew her eccentricities, knew them only too well, but what he saw now was clearly a dereliction of duty. He watched the two women writhing on the bed, the Commandant's face buried between Sinn's legs, yet he felt almost nothing -- just the faintest echoes of memory. All the Republic's Tribonia, all by edict male, accepted ritual castration as a condition of appointment; only male members of the Senate escaped that fate. Now, after listening to the intercepts of their conversation, Bergtor-son wondered if the two really were acting alone, if they really planned to keep him out of the loop. He turned up the volume on the feed and listened to their frenzied passion.

He shook his head as he watched them. "Such hypocrisy," he sighed, then he picked up Tarkus-son's file and flipped through the pages once again: the boy had seemed most promising during his interviews but over the past year his faith had waned, his judgment had matured too quickly for the indoctrinations to take hold. The boy's father had been a teacher, a professor of philosophy, before disappearing when the lad was just six years old, but even that brief exposure to the virus of reason had been enough to pollute the poor boy's soul. Still, he had tested well, and his psych-profile raised no serious issues. Most cadets accepted their training without reservation; somehow young Greggor had slipped through clutching fingers and was even now drifting from their reach.

Such a pity, he thought, the boy's life would end this way. Lost to a premature move, a pawn sacrificed in a much greater game.

The dilemma Bergtor-son faced was simple: while he had known for some time the academy's staff, the commandant especially, would try to subvert his authority, now he had a decision to make. Sit back and watch as events unfolded, to allow the Commandant's plan to be carried out unfettered, or take this as a serious threat to his authority and intervene now? And should he save the boy, or sacrifice him? The implications of his choice...but, what was this he saw?

"No!" Bergtor-son sat up in his chair, looked at the written transcript of the women's conversation as it flowed onto an adjacent screen.

"I see you have chosen," The Commandant said. "It is a nice ring."

"I am getting old. I can put this off no longer."

"Why Krül-son? DNA?"

"Yes. We will make good children, and he seems interested in me. I suspect he will mate most enthusiastically."

"I dare say; perhaps too enthusiastically! Perhaps he will want to remain as the child's father? Does he know yet?"

"No. I will tell him soon."

The Commandant smiled. "Ah, brilliant. Yes, that would neutralize the Tribonian completely, wouldn't it? He -- in effect, none of them -- would be allowed to testify against you."

"Yes, that is correct."

Tribonian Bergtor-son sat back in awe, laughed at the audacity of the plan for a very long time, then opened an encrypted link on his monitor. His fingers danced across the screen as he keyed-in the classified code on the computer, then he waited for the connection to secure.

He did not wait long.

"Active Three." a mechanical voice, detached and sounding very far-away, answered.

"It is Bergtor-son."

"Yes, Tribonian. We have seen it."

"Any projections?

"Yes, Tribonian."

"Recommendation?"

"No change, Tribonian. Implementation as planned."

"Very well." Bergtor-son closed the connection and sat back in his chair, then steepled his fingers just under his chin while he quietly regarded the Commandant and August-dottir. He watched for quite some time, lost in their passion, and he quietly reflected on his own youth, his own such stirrings long ago, before government surgeons had removed his lust so efficiently. He remembered Tarkus-son's file and flipped through to the boy's photograph.

"A pity," he said quietly as he shut the file. "Such a waste."

+++++

Thorsten Weblen-son sat behind a white duraplast desk in the squad briefing-room reading through yesterday's incident reports. As usual, all offenses had happened during hours of maximum darkness; it had been too hot for sustained human activity during daylight hours for decades. Evening temperatures rarely fell into the 120s, and daytime highs for the past three "summer" months had averaged f/152 degrees. Now, in mid-December, daytime temperatures hovered in the high-130s.

The greatest problem facing the region now was, oddly enough, water temperature. Currents off the coast were warming much faster than modeled and operating efficiencies at the regions desalinization plants had fallen dramatically as a result. Pipelines from the plants to regional distribution centers were being hacked into, people were stealing water and damaging critical infrastructure. Weblen-son's precinct was now in charge of all interdiction efforts along the southern California water distribution network; over three hundred thousand liters had been lost in just the past few days, and over ten meters of pipeline seriously damaged.

"Oh, great!" Weblen-son moaned when he read four rookies from the Academy were scheduled for ride-alongs this weekend. Then he read that that two Justinians were taking the cadets in tow, and that a cadet Tarkus-son was to ride the next two weekends. Now he was annoyed.

"Shit! Just what I need!" He read that a Cadet Krül-son would be riding with the Justinian Sinn August-dottir, and he whistled when he read that.

"Hey Sarge, what's wrong?" a patrolman asked as he walked in and took his seat at one of the briefing tables.

Weblen-son looked up, graded the man's sparkling uniform in his mind and nodded before speaking. "Rookies tonight. Tomorrow, too."

"Fuck."

"Want one?"

"Fuck, uh, no sir."

"You know, Zimmer-son, we need to work on your language skills."

"Fuckin' a, sarge."

Weblen-son shook his head and groaned, examined the uniform of each officer as they filed into the room -- while he continued to flip through the previous watch commander's notes. He called roll at 1720 hours, then asked for volunteers to handle the two unassigned cadets: Deirdre Gravvis-dottir took Pol Dänae-son and Avi-Shmoll Peres-son put his hand up to take Aerrik Aerrik-son. That settled, he called the dispatch office and summoned the rookies to come listen while he finished the rest of his briefing.

What really gave them away as rookies, Weblen-son thought as he watched them enter, were their pristine attaché cases; old-timer's cases were scuffed and dinged, corners had long ago been worn smooth by years of abuse. Some were adorned with stickers and cartoon characters, others were clean and orderly; all had been beaten down by exigent crimes and high speed chases. The rookie's cases, in sharp contrast, gleamed.

"Dänae-son! You're in C-79 with Gravvis," Weblen-son called out as the cadets took a seat. "Aerrik-son! In C-82 with Avi. Greggor Tarkus-son? You'll start with me tonight, then your Justinian will take over when she arrives." -- and when he consciously omitted calling out Krül-son's assigned partner a few of the old timer's faces bunched-up, their eyes narrowed to razor-thin slits. Something, they knew, was amiss...

Weblen-son read out the offenses that had occurred the night before -- a handful of burglaries, two water mains tapped, the usual crap -- before handing out the night's patrol patterns and call signs...

"Can any of you slime-ball rookies tell me why we shift call signs?"

Greggor Tarkus-son's hand shot up.

"Go ahead, rook."

"Frequencies are monitored, patrol patterns are analyzed and exploited."

"And who are you, rook?"

"Tarkus-son, Greggor, sir."

"Okay, relax Greggor. Good answer. You feel up to keeping the shift log tonight?"

"Yes, sir!"

Weblen-son laughed this time: "Rook, you need to chill."

"Sir!"

The old sergeant shook his head while he passed out memory cards with updated codes that would be fed into each officer's patrol computer; these would in turn be fed into patrol car terminals -- and then into each officer's helmet-radio.

Sinn August-dottir walked into the room without warning; Weblen-son ignored the instant hush that fell over the room and kept on passing out the cards, and he barely made eye-contact with her while she passed by on her way to Krül-son's seat -- yet every other pair of eyes in the room tracked her every movement. She sat next to Aurelius and sighed, tried not to smile -- while Weblen-son fumed.

"Alright, mes chères petites larves!" he bellowed, "Let's hit the road -- and keep a close eye on your partner's back!"

Chairs scraped back in thunderous unison and sixty gray uniformed officers, along with four white-uniformed cadets, stood and rumbled from the room.

The sergeant watched Sinn August-dottir closely as she walked by -- rather the way a woodsman might keep an eye on a rattlesnake slithering-by -- just out of striking distance; she looked his way just once and they barely made eye contact, but she held him in her eyes in that moment, then just barely smiled as she walked from the room.

Cold fingers of hate and dread ran down Weblen-son's spine; he tried to shake off the feeling but unseen forces lingered with her passing.

"No good can come of this day," he sighed. He looked at the temperature and radiation readings, then shook his head. He bent over and picked up his own very battered briefcase and looked at it, wondered how long it would last -- before it all came undone.

+++++

She had one of the new patrol cars; the thing ran on pressurized hydrogen and was rumored to be very fast indeed -- speeds of thirty five kph on the ground and almost twice that in the air had been reported and Krül-son didn't doubt that for a moment as he took in the car's stealthy black lines. Of course that was nothing compared to the hydro-carbon fueled vehicles of the First Republic, but those vehicles lived now only in museums -- and in prohibited holos.

"Do you want to drive tonight?" Sinn August-dottir said.

Aurie tried to keep his excitement under control. "May I?"

She tossed him the keys and he dropped into the seat behind the stick. "Of course. You're flight qualified now, aren't you?" she asked as she settled-in behind him.

"Yes, Justinian. I passed the final exam three weeks ago."

She shook her head and sighed. "Imagine that? Let's head to Westside."

"Surface streets, Justinian?"

"For now."

His arm on the center console, he pushed forward on the stick; the patrol car accelerated smoothly away from the station while Sinn slid a memory card into the computer and checked into service. He could see the Westside Dome far away across the valley, the ocean glittering beyond. The sun was just above the western horizon, but even now the car's deeply polarized canopy and windows were needed for protection, and Aurelius could not yet see one soul stirring on the blistering streets.

No, not yet. But that would change -- in an hour.

+++++

A dark room. Hundreds of large glass tables, the surface of each alive with images and data flowing in a non-stop stream of information. Behind each table, a man, each almost identical to the next, each dressed in black spandex, the only visible accoutrement metal sensors grafted to the sides of their bald heads.

These men no longer consider themselves human -- not in the strictest sense of the word. These hybrids hold themselves apart from the rest of humanity, as if their origin and purpose is a closely held secret -- which, of course, it is. No one outside the room knew when or where, or even how these men were 'created,' and few would have dared ask if they could. Indeed, no one outside this facility completely understood what it was these men did -- or why they did the things they did.

And these men had no names -- or even precious little concept of identity -- yet for all intents and purposes they are still human. Even if just barely so, for they understood human emotion as a data construct, as data that streamed into their minds, and they interpreted simple emotions on their own. Complex emotions, on the other hand, became a group exercise, and the complex interactions of crowds could consume their combined abilities for minutes.