“Have an ancestor who fought over there,” Pete said. “Trenches, man. Mustard gas, frontal charges… fucked-up shit! Got his tin helmet in storage, somewhere.”
“Me, too,” Sebastian said. He didn’t think his family had a helmet memento but they could have. “Great-great-grandfather? Something like that.”
Pete pulled out a flask of bourbon. They shared it, Sebastian sticking his tongue in its mouth to limit the intake.
The city wasn’t crowded for the hour, but it wasn’t empty, either. “Defy” had taken on new meaning in the aftermath of the bombing, and citizens nodded at one another with grim solidarity. They stared up at Pete, wonder sealed across their faces, and Sebastian could hear them asking each other if they should ask for a photo. Only a Scandinavian couple and a youth soccer team mustered the courage. Everyone else just wanted to hold him in with their eyes, from a distance.
They walked the bridge, languid and sun-kissed, sipping from the flask. They talked about the day-to-day practicalities of their powers: how Pete’s coursed within him, and he could always feel it, like his bloodstream had been spiked. Sebastian likened his to a lever in the back of his brain, and explained the migraines he often got after going invisible. Pete hadn’t taken a pain reliever in years so he couldn’t empathize. All his organs had distended, though, and doctors weren’t really sure what the long-term effects would be. Pete himself doubted he’d make it to fifty. That’s why he didn’t worry about credit card debt, he said. Or much else.
Pete asked about Sebastian’s handler, Dorsett. Sebastian said he was a nice guy. Pete asked if Dorsett ever shared Bureau intel with him. Sebastian said no, not really. Then Pete said he’d help Sebastian develop his convalescent skills. Sebastian asked what that meant. “Hotwiring cars, field-dressing wounds, picking locks, that sort of thing,” Pete said. Sebastian asked why. “I’m putting you in VASP—Volunteers Assessment and Selection Program,” Pete said.
Between that and the bourbon and the sun, Sebastian’s soul felt warm.
Underneath the Old Gothic Bridge’s far tower, a man in rags squatted in a corner. His skin was stretched and worn and his beard was matted and he held a sign that read HOMELESS VET + PALM SUNDAY FIRST RESPONDER = PLEASE HELP IF U CAN, GOD BLESS. A few passing citizens placed coins in his jar. Most ignored him.
Sebastian wondered if the man was a fake, then chided himself for it. Still, vets with troubles got placed in rehabilitation colonies—Block Island, the Outer Banks, even Hawaii. They’d earned it. They’d been warfighters. Some returned to the citizenry, full and whole again. Others lived out their days in paradise, brain-scarred but honored. It was one of the things that made America special.
Pete approached the man in rags. “Hey, brother,” he said. “Who were you with?”
The man looked up with eyes like mirrors. He had the blanched look of a maven addict. Maybe he was legit. Only veterans and mega-rich assholes had access to that drug. He wore a faded ultra cap with the slogan WE THE PEOPLE on it, as well as a yellow rubber bracelet decorated with antifascist arrows. Quite the mix, Sebastian thought.
“Twenty-Fifth Infantry,” the man said. “Twice to Syria. Once to Cyprus.”
Pete winced, pulling out his wallet. “Tip of the spear,” he said. “Cyprus was nasty.”
He handed the man six twenties, $120 in total. The man put a palm on top of Pete’s fist in gratitude. Sebastian wanted to tell him he’d be better off buying the man a meal, or maybe putting the money toward those credit card bills, but didn’t. I could be wrong about the maven, he thought, looking again at the man’s vacant expression and dark bags underneath his eyes.
But I’m not.
Two city police in uniform appeared on the bridge’s walkway, moving with purpose. They wore light tactical vests fitted with ammo pouches and chemical spray holders and black Tasers sleek as ice. They ignored Pete and Sebastian and went straight to the man in rags. One reached down and grabbed him under the elbow.
“Need to clear the bridge,” the other said.
“Who’s he harming?” Pete’s words flexed, and he set his shoulders back. He stood a full head higher than both police. Ignoring him had been a mistake. “Just checked—this ain’t Abu Abdallah.”
The one who’d gripped the man in rags straightened his back and turned around with contrived slowness. He was thick and broad, the type of linebacker Irish that’d made up the thin blue line in Empire City for more than a century. Sebastian put him in his mid-thirties. He looked Pete up and down, registering Sebastian with a quick flicker.
“Orders are to clear the bridge.”
Both cops were lacquered in sweat, Sebastian noticed, and bore the wide-eyed shine that came from recurring early mornings and long nights. The ECPD had received much of the national blame for the attacks. There was talk the police commissioner had submitted his resignation. It’s been a rough stretch for these guys, Sebastian thought. Maybe we should—
“Look at the city right now,” Pete said. “And you’re fucking with a bum.”
“I’m a citizen,” the man in rags said, his voice arcing. Sebastian peered closer. It wasn’t the same guy from the subway, or the guy collecting bottles. This guy was leaner. More downtrodden yet younger-seeming, somehow. “The tribunal druids will just send me back. But I don’t want to go. I was a lieutenant! I had power. I had a life. The colonies are clinks.”
No one responded. The other policeman, slighter than his partner but still built, moved his hands to his belt, hooking his thumbs into the loops. Intentional or not, it called attention to the pistol holstered there.
“All good, officers,” Sebastian said. “We’re heading out.”
If Pete heard Sebastian, he made no sign of it. He and the first cop were flashing invisible feathers at each other like peacocks, the man in rags between them. Dark Irish implacability versus a soldier’s ambered rage. The policeman looked tough to Sebastian, and resolute. The kind of man he’d want beside him in a dim alley, and would fear provoking. The kind of man who believed in order above all else, which, combined with physical courage and a keen moral sense, made for an ideal enforcer of democratic law. But he knew the man would look away first. And it wouldn’t be his fault when he did.
The man in rags saved everyone from whatever was supposed to come next.
“Now, now,” he said, stumbling to his feet with the help of a beam. “We’re all warfighters here.”
He promptly hocked up a stream of brown phlegm into the river.
That dispelled most of the testosterone from the bridge, but not all of it. As Sebastian stepped away and Pete moved to follow, the second cop said, “Be easy, boys.”
Pete stopped, cracked his neck, and seemed to consider his options. He pulled out the flask. Then he took a drink, sloppy and full, facing the police and the city at once. Pete licked his lips, staring at the cops for long, scratchy seconds.
“Defy the guards,” he finally said. “Guard those who defy.”
Why he was quoting far leftist dogma, Sebastian had no idea.
The police looked at one another, their faces blank but tight. The larger one raised his hands to the top of his vest, pulling it down to relieve some of the pressure from his shoulders. The other did nothing. Without a word, they turned to the man in rags and helped collect his things.