CHAPTER THREE
All schoolchildren in Webster City learned that, in the middle of the 21st century, overpopulation, environmental destruction, hunger and poverty killed billions across the globe. Hundreds of millions of people flooded across borders. Nations fought over food, water and energy. The European Union and Russia fired nuclear missiles at each other; Russia and China did the same.
In the United States, government and society collapsed. Millions of starving Mexicans swarmed into the southern states seeking food; millions of Americans poured into Canada seeking fresh water. Armed gangs turned the capital cities into smoking ruins. In 2155, the last US President left office and Congress disbanded.
Despite this turbulence, the major nations continued to develop deadly bio-weapons. At the height of the Dark Years, a genetically engineered fusion of deadly viruses, including Ebola and smallpox, escaped from a Russian military lab and rampaged across the globe, killing hundreds of millions every day. Within a month, "the Moscow Super-virus" had extinguished most of humanity.
At a US Army Disease Research Institute near Chicago, a brilliant bio-weapon researcher called Alexander Webster had developed an experimental vaccine that combated such super-viruses. He only had time to vaccinate about 20,000 local residents before the plague swept through. That group - and a few tiny pockets of humanity scattered around the globe that soon turned primitive or disappeared - became the sole survivors of the human race.
The 20,000 survivors had watched in terror as a tidal wave of death swept around them and left the planet strewn with unburied dead. Some went mad or catatonic; some committed suicide; the remainder feared that, after a brief rest, Death would return to kill them with a flick of its tail. They clustered together and yearned for a strong leader. Then their savior, Alexander Webster, stepped forward to take command. A man with tremendous energy and vision, he established a community near Chicago, on the shore of Lake Michigan, and proclaimed that its mission was to rebuild civilization. After three centuries of desperate struggle, it was now Webster City, a metropolis with about 700,000 citizens.
Webster hated democracy, which he held responsible for the Dark Years and Great Plague, and ruled autocratically. Few of the plague survivors complained. The Great Plague burned into their psyches, and those of subsequent generations, a fear of chaos and love of stability. They all accepted that the price of survival was a lack of freedom.
Just before he died, Webster assumed the title of Chancellor and nominated his oldest son, Ezra, as his successor. Ezra set up a Council of Thirty Guardians to advise him. But he retained all power and nominated his oldest son, Isaiah, as his replacement. That move firmly established the Chancellorship as a hereditary title that passed to the oldest son. As a consequence, Websters had ruled the city down to the present day.
All Chancellors governed with ruthless gusto. They created sophisticated security and surveillance organizations that crushed political dissent and easily thwarted the occasional assassination or coup attempt. Information was tightly controlled, morals strictly enforced and criminals severely punished. Webster City Penitentiary grew to have 30,000 inmates working in its factories.
Every Chancellor tried to stop citizens leaving the City to establish new population centers that might compete with it. Despite that, from the beginning, citizens who wanted more freedom or feared arrest fled into the vast territory once known as the United States of America. They ventured into an inhospitable land with radioactive hotspots, toxic rivers and lakes, and scarce food supplies. Only the tough survived. However, Davidson had recently read an intelligence report that estimated there were now more than one million "Outlaws" in the "Badlands". Most belonged to small communities that hid from the City's military forces. But many were brigands who preyed on the City's agricultural and mining outposts or troops fighting for the Freedom Alliance.
The Alliance was established sixty years ago when a Chancellor ordered the destruction of any Outlaw community that grew too large. He claimed they threatened the City and its mission to rebuild civilization. However, he obviously felt he owned the whole planet and the Outlaws were mere trespassers.
Terror begat terror. Initially, the Alliance only had a few fighters and acted defensively. Now it had almost 12,000 troops dedicated to the destruction of the City. It had even started launching terrorist attacks on City streets. Only a few weeks ago, a suicide bomber blew himself up on the steps of the Hall of Guardians, killing a dozen bystanders.
Until recently, Davidson was confident the City, with its superior resources and firepower, would prevail over the Alliance. However, the Alliance had grown strong and resourceful. He had been taught, since childhood, that the City was the last hope of mankind. If it perished, so would humanity. Yet now there was a real possibility it would disappear. That was the abyss he stared into every day. And every day, he feared it less.
When Webster City was established, in the middle of the 21st century, it was impossible to preserve the most cutting-edge technology in existence. So the City reverted to technology used during the second half of the 20th century and did little to improve it. As a consequence, after 300 years, the City only had basic computers, no internet and no mobile phone network.
Most cars were replicas of models manufactured in Detroit during the 1970s and 1980s. They were built in factories inside Webster City Penitentiary, which meant quality control was not high. Davidson's private vehicle was a Pontiac Sedan he bought five years ago to celebrate his promotion from Captain to Major. Back then, he didn't care that it would take him ten years to pay off the loan. Now, he did.
The next morning, he drove out of his garage into cold and overcast conditions. Winter was approaching and the streets were lined with molting trees. He drove onto Howard Florey Expressway, which ran along the shore of the lake, and spent twenty minutes weaving past other commuters. Then he slid down an off-ramp onto Edward Jenner Boulevard and drove along it to Pasteur Plaza, a huge paved area in the heart of the City.
Only a few lonely looking pedestrians and shivering pigeons were abroad on the plaza. In the center stood the Plague Memorial, a 100-yard-high cenotaph. Next to it was a 50-yard-high gilt-bronze statue of Alexander Webster wearing a lab coat and triumphantly holding up a test-tube. "Saviour of Mankind" was stenciled on its massive plinth. Smaller versions of the statue - though not much smaller - were scattered all over Webster City.
Spread around the plaza were the Chancellor's Palace, the Hall of Guardians, the Webster Mausoleum, the New World Church Cathedral and the five-story Internal Security Bureau Headquarters. Despite their size and height, the buildings all seemed to hug the ground and pull the sky down towards them. Their forbidding facades scowled at passersby.
Davidson piloted his car into the underground car park of the ISB Headquarters and caught an elevator up to his office on the fifth floor. Once inside, he opened a small wall safe, took out his Glock 17 and put it in his hip holster. The pistol was his most prized possession. Replica Glocks were cheap and easy to buy. However, this one was a 320-year-old original in mint condition.
As he sat down, Captain Tony Delray stepped into his office. Delray had crisp blond hair, a square jaw and athletic build. In his standard ISB uniform - black with a double-breasted tunic and round collar - he looked magnificent, and knew it. Not surprisingly, his nickname around the bureau was "Captain Handsome". Davidson regarded him as a friend, though with no great delight or conviction. Certainly, what happened in Conrad's apartment had put a strain on their relationship.
Delray said: "Good morning."
"Hello. Did you find anything when you searched the apartment?"
"Nope."
"Alright. And what about Conrad's pistols - were either used to kill the army colonel?"
"Don't know. Ballistics is still checking."
"OK. When they find out, let me know."
"Colonel Prentice was over here ten minutes ago, looking for you."
The Colonel was the head of the Internal Security
Bureau. "What did he want?"
"Didn't say. Just said he wants to see you when you arrive."
"Thanks."
Delray frowned. "You're spending a lot of time with him these days. Are you his protégé?"
"No, I'm the only competent officer he's got."
"Hah, hah, very funny. You won't tell him I'm to blame for what happened yesterday, will you?"
"You mean, me having to shoot Conrad?"
"Yes."
"Of course not," Davidson lied.
Delray disappeared and Davidson strolled around to see Colonel Prentice, holding the photograph he found in Conrad's apartment. The Colonel's elegant secretary, Jane, sat in his outer office, behind a rococo desk. She was so attractive that Davidson wondered how the Colonel focused on his job, if he did.
She looked up from her boxy Apple computer. "Hello, Major. You're here to see the Colonel?"
"Yes, he wants to see me."
She stood up. "OK, follow me."
Davidson examined her long legs as she knocked on a heavy leather-lined door.
"Come in", a voice yelled.
She pushed open the door. Davidson followed her into a massive corner office with panoramic views of Webster City and Lake Michigan. Two identical framed photographs of Alexander Webster - as if one wasn't enough - were mounted on an inner wall.
The Colonel's tall frame was hunched over a putter. He smacked a ball towards a practice cup and missed. "Goddamn shag-pile. Useless for putting."
Davidson said: "You're thinking too much. Don't think about the target - just stroke the ball."
A scowl creased his long face. "You play golf?"
"No."
"Then keep your advice to yourself. I'm playing a round with the Chancellor this afternoon, at Cherrybrook. Got to improve my putting."
The City's elite all belonged to the Cherrybrook Country Club, nestled in the heart of Sector A, the most exclusive residential area of the City. Davidson had never crossed its threshold.
"Why bother practicing? Surely, you'll let the Chancellor win."
A cunning grin. "Of course. But I don't want to look like a push-over."
Many officers in the ISB thought Prentice was a smiling lightweight who only achieved his position because the Chancellor was his brother-in-law. However, most of them were smiling lightweights themselves and wouldn't recognize a man of talent if their lives depended on it. Davidson had worked closely with Prentice for a couple of years and knew that a bright and devious mind hid behind his affable and off-center manner.
The Colonel leaned his putter against his desk and nodded towards an armchair. "Take a pew."
Davidson sat down.
The Colonel remained standing. "I hear you shot a suspect yesterday. What happened?"
Davidson described what happened and didn't bother to cover up Delray's neglect.
The Colonel grunted. "That boy can be very sloppy. He thinks that, because he's handsome, he can get away with anything. One of these days, he'll find out that having a pretty face isn't enough."
"I also blame myself. I think Conrad saw me park my Caddie outside his apartment building and stashed the pistol behind the cushion."
A shrug. "These things happen. Anyway, you say this guy was a fire captain?"
"Yes."
"Any idea why he turned traitor?"
"No, that's something we've got to check."
"Bet you never find out. These days, it doesn't take much to make people fight for the Freedom Alliance. It's like a fashion statement. Any idea what Conrad was doing for the Alliance?"
"The anonymous informant claimed he shot the army colonel last week. Ballistics is checking to see if one of his pistols was the murder weapon. Apart from that, this is the only interesting evidence we found." Gary held up the photo of the man in his fifties that he found in the wall cavity.
The Colonel leaned forward to study the photograph and looked shocked. "My goodness."
"You know this guy?"
"Yes, he's Professor Ronald Pettigrew from Webster U."
"What's his field?"
"Biology."
"Why did Conrad have a photograph of a Professor of Biology in his apartment?"
"I don't know. Pettigrew went missing several months ago. Maybe the Alliance asked Conrad to find him."
"Why did he go missing?"
The Colonel recovered his composure. "You mean, you've never heard of Pettigrew?"
"No."
"Or Project Marigold?"
"No."
The Colonel looked pensive. "Mmm, you don't need to know about either right now. But I might ask you to look for Pettigrew. If I do, I'll tell you what I know."
Davidson looked annoyed. "Why not tell me now?"
A warning frown. "You'll be a lot safer if I don't. Anyway, there is something else - something more urgent - I want you to do."
"What?"
"I got a call about twenty minutes ago from a contact in the police department. He said there's been a fatality in Sector 7. I want you to go over there and investigate it."
"A murder?"
"Not sure. Victim went over the balcony of his apartment last night. Don't know if he jumped or was pushed. The body is still at the scene."
"Why me? I'm not a Homicide detective?"
"I know, but his death could have a security angle."
"Why?"
"The deceased - a guy called Robert Meredith - is ... was ... a scientist at the CDC."
The great fear of Websterites - the dark shadow hanging over their lives - was that another great plague would wipe them out. That meant the Centre for Disease Control was a cherished institution and any threat to it had to be snuffed out fast. But was that the real reason the Colonel wanted Davidson to investigate this death? Davidson wouldn't be surprised if another swam below the surface.
He said: "What about the cops?"
"I told them to butt out, for now. They'll send along some beat cops and a forensics unit, of course. Otherwise, we'll handle this investigation."
Prentice was far more powerful than the police commissioner, who didn't play golf with the Chancellor.
Davidson said: "Understand."
"Good. But you'll need help from the CDC. I spoke to its head. He's sending one of his security officers over to the apartment building - a woman called Helen Watkins. Liaise with her. But you're in charge. Keep her on a short leash." A sigh. "Hopefully, you'll find out the guy committed suicide."
"And if he didn't?"
A faint smile. "We might call it suicide anyway. Let's wait and see."
The Colonel could create any form of reality he liked. That was his job.
"Alright, I'm on my way."
On the way out, Davidson glanced at the two framed photographs of Alexander Webster on the wall and wondered if the extra one was a joke.