The driver nodded. “Someone hacked his pacemaker. Zap! Just like that.” The driver spoke with the abrupt, flexing voice of an Empire City native, like his words had been rolled through gravel. “Technical error, they’re saying. Please.”
“Terrorism?” Sebastian asked.
“Not the separatists’ style. They go for the big bombs, the big blood. The wogs? Had a price on his head, true enough. But the jihad don’t have the tech. This was an inside job.”
Conspiracies were the last vestige of the vacant-eyed, Sebastian believed, of the mediocre-minded, the not-quite-read-enough, the too-stupid-to-realize-it. Inquisitiveness was not a substitute for critical thinking, nor paranoia for reason. The American government made mistakes, sure. Because it was a government. It didn’t always tell the truth but it was always true. It’d saved him, and he was a nobody, a citizen like any other. They still came for him in Tripoli. He tried to remember that any time his skeptical bone was tapped.
Still, though. An inside job made some sense. The consul had been scheduled to brief Congress on the progress of the Sinai occupation. Or lack thereof.
“Maybe it was his wife.” Sebastian smiled to make sure the driver knew he was joking. “Love and war.”
“Maybe.” The driver snorted. “Treacherous times.”
The radio trundled on. Police robots in Indiana had blown up a Sears. The body count was forthcoming. Some would always believe only radical wogs could commit such acts. Others seemed almost relieved when the far west (and very white) separatists made news for the same. Both groups of militants were largely made up of vets of the Mediterranean Wars, something Sebastian liked to sneak into conversations. A verbal pipe bomb, of sorts, meant to disrupt any pretense. The veterans came from opposing sides, sure, but that was the joke.
“Want to know what I think needs to be done?” the driver asked.
Only now did Sebastian notice the blue infantry cord dangling from the cab’s rearview mirror. The driver wore a mesh cap with the words VIETNAM WARFIGHTER in bright yellow on it. Sebastian wasn’t sure he wanted to be in the cab anymore. Between Mia and the silver-haired man at the restaurant, he’d had enough vet-splaining for the day.
“How’s traffic?” he asked.
The driver pointed to the bridge, then to his ears. Distant sirens filled the space between.
“Could be another jumper,” the driver said.
Sebastian slid a twenty-dollar bill into the driver’s tray and exited, slamming the door behind him before the driver could reply. He didn’t care that he’d overpaid, or that the summer heat felt like steam. He began walking home.
“Stop being emo!” Sebastian yelled at the bridge. Maybe there was a jumper up there, maybe there wasn’t. Either way, he felt something loosen inside him. “Either do it or climb down! Twelve-year-old girls draw it out like this!”
The horns of angry, delayed motorists served as the sole response, twirling flashes of emergency vehicles soaking the moment in pomp. How selfish can someone be? Sebastian wondered.
Then he thought, the jumper’s probably thinking the same.
He yelled at the bridge, again, this time in solidarity. “Defy!”
Again, only car horns replied.
Sebastian walked slow and south. A messy dusk loomed, black and slate wrapping together like an ice cream swirl. He found it calming and the anxiety from earlier embered out. He thought about things long out of his control and things still in it. He thought about the dead hostages at the Indiana mall, and the terrorists, too. He thought about prayer. He thought about Tripoli, and his home, and his MIA cousin. He thought about the Volunteers, and the cythrax bomb. An hour passed. Smelling liquor in his sweat and with his throat dry, he stopped at a corner market. He bought a bottle of red wine, though he hated wine. In this America, Sebastian thought, emotion can only be expressed in regurgitation. Cultural regurgitation. Drinking wine from a brown bag is that. So drinking wine from a brown bag is the thing I will do.
He walked across a footbridge over the expressway and found a bench near the river. The dirty water flowed by with hurry. The Prince Bridge imposed itself to his left, all cables and pillars and might. In the twilight, Sebastian couldn’t figure out if it was blue-gray or gray-blue. He decided it didn’t really matter. Across the river in Gypsy Town, defunct smokestacks and the sugar plant sign stood proud. Shiny high-rise condos surrounded the stacks on all sides, reminding Sebastian of the man and the elephant in the watercolor for some reason.
There’s nothing gypsy about Gypsy Town, Sebastian thought. He smirked, finding that clever. It should be called Trying-Too-Hard Ville.
He texted some friends to see if they wanted to join him on the bench. No one responded. Then he tried his handler. He didn’t respond, either. Typical, Sebastian thought. Passing joggers rustled a scrawny wild turkey from nearby foliage. Sebastian finally had company.
“Simon the Zealot!” he said, as the turkey emerged. “A past from the blast.”
When Sebastian had first moved to Empire City, Simon had been a favorite find on walks along the river. Named after a long-dead painter who’d lived in the district, Simon had landed from parts unknown years prior and become a local legend. Empire City did not house many wild turkeys.
Sebastian poured a splash of wine on the ground. He’d decided he and the zealot were kindred spirits. This resulted in an annoyed cluck from Simon, who was scrounging the shrubs for food. After a day of drinking on an empty stomach, the wine was hitting Sebastian harder than expected. “Stupid turkey,” he muttered. His eyes began to ache, which gave him the motivation necessary to tip back the wine bottle and finish it.
“I need to get my shit together,” Sebastian told the turkey, which was true.
He lingered with Simon and the inanity of personal tragedy a bit longer, then returned to the city for a slice of pizza. Sebastian felt invisible for much of the walk, but when he woke the next morning, hungover and alone, he didn’t know if it’d been his imagination or his power.
Hello, young citizens, I’m Justice of the Volunteers. Protecting the homeland is a sacred duty, and it’s one we’re all in—together.
Did you know that upwards of 75 percent of America’s youth today can’t qualify for military enlistment? It’s true! Between physical requirements and mental health screenings, only three out of ten young Americans are eligible to even try to become a warfighter.
That needs to change. No fatties or nutters in our ranks! Exercise regularly. Put down that fast-food snack and grab an apple, instead. Be open with your parents, religious leaders, and school counselors if you ever start to feel overwhelmed by life. And make sure your friends are doing the same. We’re going to need you on the front someday!
Because protecting the homeland starts at home.
CHAPTER 2
MIA COULDN’T HELP it: failure brought the shakes. Not anything too obvious, just little trembles, her hands mostly, the kind warmth didn’t cure, the kind that needed to be waited out. Failure had always affected her like that, which was one of the reasons why she’d committed herself to experiencing it as seldom as possible. It wasn’t that she feared it. Only cowards feared failing, she thought. But the idea of her disappointment being seen and conceptualized by others drove her to achieve more than any goal ever could. Her brothers mocked it as obsession, her father admired it as drive, her grandfather called it the Tucker blood. Whatever it was, wherever it came from, Mia didn’t fail often. Most everything she’d ever wanted, she did, and did very well.