Demolition Man Page 4

  "Let me guess," said Huxley in disgust. "All is serene, right?"

  Her colleague looked shocked. "G and S, Lenina Huxley," MacMillan said. "It's been a brutal morning. There was a defacement of public buildings, not an hour ago. Walls were smudged!"

  Lieutenant Huxley's mouth dropped open. She was genuinely astounded. "Really! Brutal. I was just in sector, and I didn't hear any cars notified. I would have thought there would be a bulletin to all of us."

  But before her pal could respond, he was cut off by Lenina Huxley's by-the-book superior, Chief George Earle.

  "Because there was no need to create widespread panic," he said gruffly.

  "Good thinking, Chief," said MacMillan, taking this moment to slip away.

  Chief Earle was pleased with that development. He wanted a chance to talk to Lenina.

  "Lieutenant Huxley, I monitored your disheartening and distressing comments to Warden Smithers this morning."

  Inwardly, Lenina rebuked herself. Of course Earle would have been listening in. Why hadn't she thought of that!

  "Sorry, sir."

  Earle folded his arms across his broad chest. "Do you actually long for chaos and disharmony? Your fascination with the vulgar twentieth century seems to be affecting your better judgment. And, of course, you realize that you're setting a bad example for other officers and personnel."

  Lenina Huxley nodded and examined her perfectly shined boots. "Thank you for the attitude readjustment, Chief Earle. The info is assimilated."

  Chief Earle turned on his heel. "Good. Keep it up."

  Lenina ducked into her office, making a face behind her superior's back. She cursed softly, almost silently, under her breath.

  "Sanctimonious asshole," she whispered.

  Although almost inaudible, her voice was picked up the morality box on the wall of her office. The box squawked into life.

  "Lenina Huxley," droned the box-this was not the soothing computer voice, but a stern instructor like a marine drill sergeant. "You are fined one and a half credits for a sotto voce violation of the verbal morality statute."

  The box clicked off as a thin sheet of paper slid out of the machine containing printed confirmation of her violation. The ticket recorded her name, rank, and address, the number of violations she had accumulated to date, and the amount of the deduction from her bank account.

  She fought down the anger and screwed up her face, using all her will power not to curse again, this time louder.

  "Golly!" she snarled.

  In contrast to the rest of the police station, Lenina Huxley's office was quite a surprise. First of all, it was a mess, a riot of papers and food wrappers, quite out of line with the goal of perfect order instilled in all members of the San Angeles Police Department.

  But even more amazing than something as subversive as litter, was Lenina's collection of the rare and odd, an accumulation of antiques, curios, and rarities from the past.

  The office was jammed with odds and ends, the pop cultural icons of a long dead era, and taken together all of the junk added up to a shrine to the late twentieth century.

  There was a giant Wurlitzer juke box packed with hits of the 1950s. The walls were decorated with a dozen faded black-and-white photographs of movie stars whose names and movies were long forgotten. There were fifteen or twenty pairs of athletic shoes, running the gamut from the plastic and canvas high tops through to the more high-tech offerings of the nineties.

  There were neon signs and eight track tapes, lava lamps and leisure suits. In a corner was a jumble of old TV sets, VCRs, and hopelessly antiquated personal computers and telephones. Lenina had scoured the junk shops and scrap heaps to find old magazines, newspapers, and comic books. There was even a stack of paperback books, everything from Stephen King's Gerald's Game to a tattered Penguin Classics edition of Aldous Huxley's Brave New World.

  Nothing had escaped her eagle eye for the odds and ends of the past.

  Lenina could spend hours puzzling over the faded newsprint, reliving a more exciting time. There was a long procession of plastic characters, animals mostly, that Lenina suspected had something to do with movies: a white duck in a sailor's suit, a jet black mouse with outlandish round ears, a series of dwarves .. .

  In the middle of all this clutter sat Lenina's partner, a congenitally sweet-natured man named Alfredo Garcia. He sat at his desk shaking his head, glancing unhappily at the morality box.

  "Whew . . ." he said. "That was tense."

  Lenina shot him a deadpan glare. "You think that was tense? Tell me something, Garcia, don't you get bored codetracing perps who break curfew and tell dirty jokes?"

  "Actually," said Garcia loudly, "now that you ask, I find my job deeply fulfilling." Then he lowered his voice. "I just cannot swallow the reality of this office, Lenina Huxley."

  "You can't?"

  "No. You're still addicted to the twentieth-century high from its harshness, you're buzzed by its brutality. Holy smokes, is there anything in here which doesn't violate contraband ordinance twenty-two?"

  Huxley smiled sweetly. "Just you, Alfredo Garcia. Don't you ever want something to happen." Garcia shook his head. "Goodness. No."

  Lenina Huxley sighed heavily. "I knew you were going to say that ..." She slung herself into her chair and planted her elbows on her desk.

  "What I wouldn't give for some action," she said wistfully.

  6

  Warden William Smithers was slowly working through his roster of prisoners, happily denying parole to a dozen hastily thawed out prisoners. All morning, however, he had been looking forward to the next felon, the most illustrious inmate of California Cryo-Penitentiary X23-1, Simon Phoenix.

  The technicians who warmed up Phoenix were surprised that he seemed a little more conscious than usual. He wasn't completely awake, but he was far from the usual semicomatose state of most of the newly awakened prisoners.

  They strapped him into the transport chair and wheeled him before the warden. Phoenix was doing his best to shake off his postcryogenic confusion, and he was aware enough that when finally confronted with the warden, he was able to lock eyes with Smithers. The criminal was still menacing after all the frozen years.

  William Smithers found himself slightly disconcerted. In all his years as warden he had never encountered a prisoner who seemed to have shaken off the effects of his cryo-sleep so quickly.

  The warden's eyes darted to the steel manacles that bound Simon Phoenix firmly to his gurney. They were solidly in place, trussing his body securely, shackling his wrists and ankles, plus another steel band across his midsection and another bond around his neck. Smithers was reassured. No one, not even Phoenix, could worm out of these manacles.

  Smithers smiled down at the prisoners. "Mr. Simon Phoenix," he said, "one of our first and most illustrious members. We won't delay you too long."

  "Good,'' said Phoenix.

  Smithers was unsettled. Phoenix was glaring at him, his eyes alive with hatred. It was far more reaction than the warden was used to, and Smithers felt a faint, irrational stab of fear. He cleared his throat and started to read from his compuclipboard. The spiel was always the same, and he was sure he could have done it in his sleep, but this morning he needed some place to put his eyes.

  "Twenty-nine years ago, the parole system . . ."

  "Twenty-nine years ago," repeated Phoenix, "the parole system..."

  Smithers tried not to be intimidated and he spoke in a firmer tone of voice. "... was rendered obsolete ..."

  Phoenix too, made his voice firmer. "... was rendered obsolete ..."

  Smithers stood up and smacked Phoenix on the head with his compuclipboard. "Stop it!" he ordered. "Do you have anything fresh to say in your behalf, Mr. Phoenix?"

  Phoenix's eyes glittered, but he did not speak.

  Smithers's smile was cruel. "I thought not." He turned his back on the prisoner. "The great Simon Phoenix! Not so all powerful now! And nothing to say on your own behalf either." The Warden shook his head. "
I'm verrry disappointed."

  "Actually," said Phoenix, "yeah, I do have something to say . . ."A look of complete puzzlement crossed his face. There was something he had to say, but he had no idea why he wanted to say it. "Teddy bear."

  The instant he spoke a loud buzz filled the room, and all six manacles flew open. The guards just gaped, but Simon Phoenix knew a good thing when he saw it. He vaulted out of the wheelchair and slammed a panther kick into the nearest guard, doubling him over.

  As the man went down, Phoenix grabbed an air-injected syringe from the guard's holster and slammed the shiny steel needle into the second guard's forehead, skewering the man's brain on the six-inch shaft of metal.

  The destruction of the two guards took less than three and a half seconds. Smithers hadn't moved an inch, and somewhere in his brain he knew that there were security procedures that dealt with the unlikely event of a prisoner escape, but he couldn't for the life of him remember what they were. He stood rooted to the spot, gaping dumbstruck at.

  "How did you know the password to the cuffs?" stammered Warden Smithers.

  Phoenix cackled with pleasure. He didn't know how he happened to know the password that opened the manacles-but he didn't give a damn. The point is, he knew and that was good enough for Simon Phoenix.

  "I have no idea, Warden ..." he advanced a few steps on Smithers. The man shrank back in terror. "But I do know that Simon says, too much talking from you."

  Suddenly, life returned to the warden's limbs. He made a break for the door, but Phoenix was too fast for him. He struck and struck hard, smashing his left hand into Smithers's larynx, crushing the old man's throat and sending him toppling to the ground. The prisoner fell on his former captor, grinning at him as he snatched a sharp pointed pen from the pocket of Smithers's white lab coat.

  "I'll have to take your pen, Warden," he said. "I need a piece of ID." With an evil smile he raised the pen like a dagger and then plunged it straight at Smithers's right eye.

  As far as the laser security device knew, Warden William Smithers was presenting himself for retina clearance. The beam passed over the warden's eye and the door clicked open.

  "Access granted, Warden William Smithers," said the unflappable computer voice.

  Simon Phoenix stepped through the doorway. William Smithers's disembodied bloody eye was clutched in his hand. The laser, of course, had no reason to suspect that Smithers's eye wasn't attached to his body, so the brain granted Phoenix access to the exit passage of the prison.

  As he walked away from the security point, he tossed the eye away. It landed with a splat on the steel floor.

  "Thank you, Warden William Smithers," said the computer voice. "And be well."

  Phoenix glanced at the speaker. The future, what little he had seen of it, was very strange indeed. "Yeah? You be well, too."

  Unchallenged, Phoenix strolled out of the austere prison building, crossing a lawn as green and as well tended as a posh country club golf course. Phoenix turned and looked back at the jail and had to admit to himself that it was absolutely the nicest, cleanest, neatest penitentiary he had ever been in. It was also remarkably easy to get out of-all you needed was one lucky break and you were free.

  "Now," said Phoenix aloud. "I need to get me some sharp transport."

  The prison parking lot was empty save for a single man in a white coat just getting into his very sharp-looking sports car. Phoenix dashed over to him.

  "Excuse me, mac," said Phoenix. "Are you going my way, by any chance?"

  The prison worker smiled, but shook his head. "I might be, friend, but there's a problem. My vehicle only seats one person. I'm sorry."

  Phoenix smiled just as affably. "That's not a problem."

  "No?" asked the man, puzzled.

  "Well, not for me." Phoenix's hands sprung out and seized the man by the neck. In a matter of seconds he had choked the life from him, his hands seemingly charged with superhuman strength. The delicate bones in the throat cracked and splintered under his powerful grasp, and the man's eyes bugged from his skull, his tongue lolling obscenely from his mouth.

  Phoenix let his victim drop and looked at his hands. "I don't remember being this strong," he said. "Just goes to show what happens after a good night's sleep."

  He got into the car and instinctively knew how to operate the vehicle. He drove away, a big smile on his face. He was having a very good day.

  In the dispatch room of Lenina Huxley's police station a sensor on the giant electronic map of the entire, vast city of San Angeles snapped on suddenly and glowed bright.

  The serene computer voice came from a speaker mounted above the map. "One eight seven, one eight seven, one eight seven, one eight seven ..."

  The cops in the room didn't notice the voice droning in the background at first; they were too busy attending to the routine chores of the station house to pay attention to anything out of the ordinary.

  It was Merwin, the dispatcher, who finally observed the red dot on the map and the series of digits endlessly repeated.

  "What's a one eight seven?" he asked Lieutenant MacMillan, who happened to be standing nearby.

  "Search me," said the tough-looking cop.

  Merwin punched the code into his computer keyboard. He stared at the monitor for a split second, then slumped in his chair, fainting dead away.

  "Merwin!" shouted MacMillan, "what's the matter?" Then he caught sight of the notation on the screen. The color drained from his face.

  "Oh my, oh my, oh my," said MacMillan, holding his face in his hands and rocking back and forth like an infant in need of a big, warm hug. "I don't believe it!"

  Lenina Huxley and Alfredo Garcia were just returning from lunch and saw immediately that there was turmoil in the dispatch room.

  "What's going on?" asked Lenina.

  "And what's a one eight seven?"

  Lenina shrugged and punched up the information on the nearest terminal.

  "One eight seven . . ." Lenina was stunned. "That's a murder-death-kill!"

  "A what!" yelled Garcia.

  Lenina managed to keep her head while those around her were losing theirs. She eyed the coordinates on the illuminated map and punched in the proper codes. The chart vanished and was replaced by a liquid crystal display scene of the Cryo-Penitentiary hearing room. Two guards lay still, right where Phoenix had dropped them, and the camera picked up the body of Warden Smithers. He was still alive and crawling for the door.

  The socket of his right eye was a gory crater, and blood streamed from the wound onto the polished floor. His ravaged face looked as if it had been put through a meat grinder. The cops observing in the station house had to shield their eyes from such a brutal image.

  The computer voice was as placid as always, even in the face of such brutal butchery. "Here reporting two stopped codes at Cryo-Prison X twenty-three dash one," the computer intoned.

  The machine scanned for further life codes in the room. "Plus William Smithers, Warden. Severe injury. Do you wish to assign medic?"

  Before Lenina could respond with a code on her keyboard, William Smithers stopped crawling, collapsing to the floor. Blood continued to pour from his terrible wound.

  "Update," the computer reported. "Specification deceased. Do you wish to assign coroner?"

  The eight or ten cops in the room continued to stare at the monitor, mouths open, not quite sure what to do next. Just then Chief Earle strode into the room, exuding an in-charge air, even though he had not the slightest idea what was going on.

  "What is the matter with all of you?" he demanded, casting an angry eye over his force.

  "Cryo-Prison, sir," Alfredo Garcia managed to stammer. "Three nonsanctioned life terminations. At Cryo Prison X23-1. One of them is the warden."

  "What!"

  James MacMillan looked as if he was on the verge of tears. "Murder-death-kills, sir," he said, choking back sobs. "Three MDKs."

  For a long moment Chief Earle stood absolutely still as his brain tried to process
the amazing information he had just received. "I... I... I think we should-"

  "Access the cryo-pen's morning hearing schedule," said Lenina, her hands flying over the keyboard of her computer. "Let's see who the warden was dealing with."

  "Yes ... yes," sputtered Chief Earle. "Do that."

  The rest of the police officers in the room appeared to be in a zombielike trance at the news from the Cryo-Penitentiary. All of them except for Lenina, of course, and an elderly black cop just days away from retirement-a man named Zachary Lamb.

  As the parole-hearing schedule came up on Lenina Huxley's vdt screen, Zachary leaned over her shoulder, scanning the information readout.

  "All but one prisoner were returned to their cryo pods this morning," Lenina reported. "The missing one is the last the warden was scheduled to see today. The name is . .. Phoenix. Simon Phoenix."

  Zach Lamb inhaled sharply. "Simon Phoenix?"

  That was a name out of a nightmare-a nightmare he hadn't had since his rookie stint in Hover-Command, back in the old days. A lot had changed since then-not always changes Lamb had approved of. But he had to admit, that it had been a long, long time since a man like Simon Phoenix had walked the streets of Los . . . San Angeles. And to Zachary Lamb's way of thinking that was a change for the better.

  Lenina half turned in her chair. "You know that name?"

  Zachary Lamb nodded gravely. "I knew him. We all knew him back in the old days. He's evil like you've only read about, girl. He's-"

  "Hold that thought, Zachary Lamb," said Huxley. She punched some more information into her keyboard. "I want Simon Phoenix's code. Now!"

  The computer took only a second to search its huge memory bank. "There are no specifications on file for a Simon Phoenix," reported the unflappable voice.

  Huxley almost slapped the side of her monitor. "L-7, you aren't coming down with a virus are you? You have to have a code on Phoenix!"

  "You don't get it, Lenina Huxley," said Zach Lamb, shaking his head slowly. "Phoenix isn't coded. He got chilled back in the twentieth, before they started lojacking everybody."