Sebastian’s mind drifted some more. He again swallowed to wet his throat; the cotton mouth would not go away and a slow march to sobriety was becoming a likelihood. The cravings for Valium had passed into thirst. Five minutes later, Sebastian couldn’t help himself.
“Excuse me,” he said, trying his best to sound mannered. “State of emergency. With my lizard.”
A gruff voice replied, somewhere to his front and out of threadbare sight, “Use your pants.”
“You serious?” The bourbon wasn’t yet totally out of his system. “I just need to use the bathroom.”
The charging handle of a rifle was drawn, metal tonguing off against metal. Sebastian didn’t say anything to that.
* * *
“This thing on? Empire City elite! Your attention, please.
“I’ll say it only once: this is not a democracy.
“I am Veteran Zero. My men and I represent a coalition known as the Mayday Front. We are not criminals. We are not terrorists. We are patriots and humble warfighters, here for our due.
“Holy shit, Tupac’s here! My man. Love your show. Thug Life in the A.M. Gangsta, gangsta. Who’s the gangster now, ’Pac? Give here that gold chain. For the cause.
“Where was I? Something, something, honoring the social contract… yes. The broken, the scarred, the fucking enlisted will be discarded no more. Invisible no more. We killed for you. We died for you. ‘To care for him who shall have borne the battle.’ Lincoln’s words. Smart man, that dead man. But even he could not foresee what you would do to his beloved republic.
“George fucking Clooney! You were a delight in Imperial Dreams. Bit weepy, though. And The Great Tet Raid! So righteous, you got that bitch Robb elected. My, my, those are sweet cuff links. Burberry? Just touching them gets my dick hard. Appreciate the contribution.
“You people have disrespected my people for too long. Do you know how insane it is to raise money for individual warfighters while allowing the abuse of the warfighting class to continue forevermore? Have even one of you assholes bothered to consider the warped looking-glass logic of that?
“You’re goddamn right that’s a literary reference! I’m a man of letters.
“General Collins—an honor. If I didn’t think the political system was inherently corrupt and defective, you’d have my vote. I heard you pegged the War Department secretary to get your division more funding. Amazing. Tell me, where are you on jobs? Twelve million living vets of the Mediterranean Wars, yet the only steady work my men here can find is as jailers at the colonies. Fucked up, right! Guarding other warfighters from proper society. General Jackpot, please—give mind to the hinterlands. It’s a real struggle out there.
“Rich people! Listen the fuck up. We’re not unreasonable. We fought for this country. We love this country. But you forgot about us. Can’t do that. Not in the Home of the Brave.
“ ‘American Service.’ A fine ideal. One I champion myself. And why we’ll be ransoming you off in groups. To pay tribute to the service of those left behind by your plundering.
“That’s it for now. Just… sit tight, it’ll all be over soon. The honor is ours.”
* * *
Sebastian saw shapes like puzzle pieces approaching through the threadbare. They didn’t fit together, though, one long and bent, the other bulbous and plush, like they were jigsaws from different sets. A lot of these guys acted and sounded like warfighters, he’d decided, but they must’ve been out for a while. Especially the fat ones.
“This him?” one said.
“Think so,” another said.
“The one in the clown suit, they said.”
“It’s seersucker,” Sebastian said.
“Right,” the first voice said. “Up you go.”
I shouldn’t have said that thing about my lizard, Sebastian thought as he was hefted to his feet and led away from the back wall. And the irony is, now I really do have to go to the bathroom.
“See-Bee.” He heard Mia’s voice behind him, resolute as ever. She’s made of adamantium, he thought.
“Yes, dear?”
“Do what they tell you. No stupid jokes. It’ll be fine.”
He didn’t say anything to that. Who were these guys, really? The speech about the endless wars and veterans not getting their due had sounded crazy to Sebastian. Maybe they knew he wrote ads for Homeland Authority and meant to make him an example. Death to the propagandist.
Despair began to tug at him, so Sebastian told the truth. “I’m poor,” he said. “I’m literally the worst person to kill here.”
“They’re not going to kill you, clown suit,” the second voice said. “Like Veteran Zero said earlier. Relax.”
“Well,” the first voice said. “He is getting bored up there.”
“Naw, brother,” came the response. Sebastian wanted to believe this voice. “They ain’t gonna off a nobody. Orders from the Chaplain himself. High-value targets only.”
They lifted Sebastian up a platform of stairs like he was a stuffed toy and someone pulled his blindfold. The first thing he saw was the digital silver tree still glowing bright. He flinched from the closeness of the light and asked if someone would put on the sunglasses in his pocket for him.
“Son, I’m not sure where you belong, but it’s not here.”
Sebastian’s vision took a moment to adjust. He stood on the ballroom’s center stage, where two hours before, the American Service politicians had been giving their speeches. Now the politicians had been replaced by fifteen mostly white, mostly men in their thirties and forties. They wore a mishmash of military uniforms and were swaddled in shiny assault rifles and ammo belts. A few sported the death skull patch on their helmets or shoulders.
One of the militants sat in a worn plastic chair, back taut, arm and leg muscles straining like varicose veins. Veteran Zero. He’d sounded the part of a good rogue to Sebastian during his speech, all pebbly-voiced seriousness with just a dash of folly. His appearance mostly measured up: urban camo uniform with rolled-up sleeves, thin black hair, scruffy beard, and dark, puffy eyes that conveyed a very specific sort of hardness. He looked of East Asian descent and there was a classless air about him. His camo top was open and unbuttoned to show a black T-shirt with the words “Gangster 4 Capitalism” etched across it.
Ahh, Sebastian thought. That’s why he was screwing with Tupac.
Behind Veteran Zero, bound and surrounded, three men rested on the backs of their heels. One of the men was Pete. He was humungous as ever, slouched a bit, staring straight ahead with lips drawn tight like a rubber band.
“Before I explain your mission,” Veteran Zero said to Sebastian, “I have an important question for you.”
“Okay.”
“It’s vital that you answer honestly. Remember. My soldiers have guns.”
“I promise to be honest,” Sebastian said, lying.
“You’ve seen the fantasy show Utopia. On state TV.”
Sebastian considered his options. “Yes,” he said. “Of course.”
“Did you see the most recent episode?”
“Yeah. They’re at the convention.”