Demolition Man Page 6

  The eight supervisors were powerful people, and they lived far better than the rest of the population. The boring harangues from their illustrious leader was one major drawback to a job that promised great wealth and power.

  The instant Cocteau had been informed of the graffiti incident, the Mayor-Gov had convened a meeting of his supervisory board, the topic once again, predictably, the need to eradicate Edgar Friendly and the Scraps.

  There were eight video screens arranged in a row in front of Dr. Raymond Cocteau's vast desk, each one marked with a sign that denoted the area of responsibility of each. The eight city departments were Orderly Conduct, Morality, Waste Management, Power Grid, Consumption, Transport, Sanitation and Health, and Habitation. The eight supervisors on the screens listened attentively to their illustrious leader.

  "The problem," said Cocteau, "is not just the defacement of public buildings. And the problem is not the noise pollution of the exploding devices." The Mayor-Gov always spoke in a low, controlled and supremely reasonable tone of voice.

  "Allow me to explain," Dr Cocteau continued. "The real problem lies in the man whose initials mark the detonating graffiti, Edgar Friendly."

  At the mention of the name, the eight supervisors grumbled unhappily.

  "For a sadly extended period of time," said Cocteau, "we in San Angeles have been plagued by packs of subterranean hooligans-the Scraps as they are known-a collection of men and women who left the comfort of our society only to spew hostility at the very bosom they have relinquished."

  "Disgraceful," said the supervisor in charge of Orderly Conduct. He had reason to feel a little hot under the collar-after all, elimination of the Scraps did fall under the umbrella of his department.

  Dr. Cocteau ignored the man and continued speaking. "There was a time when we thought of these Scraps as pathetic and relatively harmless. Now they have a leader. Edgar Friendly seems to be relentless in his ambition to infect our harmony with his venom. He must, of course, be stopped."

  "Absolutely," agreed the supervisor of Waste Management.

  Dr. Cocteau paused for a moment as if wondering how much his commissioners needed to know.

  "Forty years ago," Cocteau continued, "forty years ago when Los Angeles exploded in violenceAnger, violenceHatred, and violenceFear, a disease had erupted ... A disease not socioeconomic, but behavioral."

  There was a round of nods from the eight supervisors. Of course no one ever disagreed with the Mayor-Gov.

  "People had simply forgotten how to behave," said Cocteau. "And we simply cannot allow it again."

  "Never," said the supervisor of Sanitation and Health, who was understandably touchy on the subject of disease-any kind of disease, even a behavioral one.

  "In former times, politics, law, even force were useless to affect change . . . We have triumphed overall of that. The same principals of B.E., Behavioral Engineering, I have applied to the cryo prisons were expanded into the design and execution of what we now call"-Dr. Cocteau gestured expansively and he beamed with pride-"San Angeles. It is a city as fine as any of the holding facilities I have designed. We have a peacefulSafe and above all a happy-happy population."

  The head supervisors nodded and muttered their heartfelt approval.

  "This radical terrorist behavior inspired by Edgar Friendly must not be allowed to threaten our safety. Our motto must be Safety Above All."

  "Hear hear," said the supervisors with great spirit.

  Cocteau held up his hands to quiet them. "Even now I am positing actions and postulating proceedings that will abate this threat to our city's stability. I expect your trustConfidence and certitude."

  "As always, Mayor-Gov Raymond Cocteau," said Waste Management, speaking for all of the supervisors.

  Cocteau's assistant, Associate Bob, slipped into the Mayor-Gov's office and gave his master a significant look, as if he had some urgent information.

  "If you will excuse me," said Cocteau to the monitors. He waved dismissively, and suddenly, the sound muted and the images of the supervisors froze.

  Bob crossed to Cocteau, his head down obsequiously. Bob was a large man with an oddly high-pitched voice for a man his size. He had the remarkable ability to appear fawning and officious at the same time.

  "Mayor-Gov Raymond Cocteau," he said, "a cryo-con has effected self-release from the Cryo-Penitentiary." Associate Bob appeared quite shaken by the news. "It is quite horrific. A number of murder-death-kills. All manner of categories of chaos." Bob shuddered at the thought.

  "Enhance your calm, Associate Bob," said Dr. Cocteau soothingly. "Enhance your calm ..."

  "I apologize, Mayor-Gov Raymond Cocteau."

  "Don't concern yourself." Dr. Cocteau gestured toward the heads frozen on the video screen. "Be well then for me. And get Chief George Earle immediately."

  "Yes, Mayor-Gov. Without delay."

  Chief Earle had been expecting the summons from the Mayor-Gov, but he was still shaken by Simon Phoenix's savage disregard for human life.

  "It was just ... I mean it was so . . . just so graphic," the police chief stammered via his video screen. "How a man could be so glibly sadistic . . . It was fun for him. He was amused by it all."

  Cocteau nodded. "I want you to do everything in your power to snare this agent of destruction. Do you understand, George Earle? You have my utmost confidence."

  "Yes, Mayor-Gov."

  "Utmost confidence. Be well." Mayor-Gov Cocteau clicked off the screen.

  Chief Earle stood in the middle of the dispatch room and looked at his assembled policemen. He looked as if he were completely flummoxed by his assignment. There was silence in the station, no one knowing quite what to say. Lenina rested her head in her hands, still in shock over what she had witnessed.

  Chief Earle seemed on the verge of tears. "That maniac murder-death-killed every man in a six-member squad. And they had a Strategic Apprehension Computer. He destroyed an official vehicle. Mayor-Gov Raymond Cocteau recommends we use everything in our power-but what else is there?"

  Nobody could answer his question. The cops in the room all looked down at their shoes or out the window, anything to avoid Chief Earle's eyes. They looked like schoolboys surprised by a pop quiz. But Lenina Huxley did not appear to be baffled. She looked up suddenly.

  "Zachary Lamb! How did they apprehend this fiendish Simon Phoenix back in the twentieth?" she asked.

  Zachary Lamb sighed heavily, as if not wanting to remember those bad old days. "There was a twelve-state manhunt, even satellite surveillance," he said. "They devoted a whole show to Simon Phoenix on Unsolved Mysteries . . ."

  "And?" asked Lenina Huxley.

  "And none of it worked," said Lamb. "In the end it took one man. One cop. John Spartan."

  Lenina's eyes brightened. "John Spartan? You mean the Demolition Man?" she asked.

  9

  Lenina Huxley knew just where to look for more information on John Spartan, a.k.a. the Demolition Man. Everything anyone needed to know was right there in the police computer. She summoned up his video file, and Chief Earle, Garcia, and Lamb hunched over Huxley's video console, watching as the compilation of ancient news clips and police video tape showed highlights of Spartan's colorful career.

  There was shot after shot of Spartan dragging prisoners from destroyed buildings or rescuing hostages from fiery infernos. It was a nonstop collection of explosions, firefights, and blasts, a montage of devastated buildings and dead bad guys. But the one thing that bound all of the incidents together was the final result-John Spartan always got his man.

  Lenina's eyes glowed as she watched, feeling a tingle of excitement every time Spartan once again vanquished one of society's enemies. Things might have been dangerous and dirty in the bad old days, but no one could deny that it was quite thrilling.

  "Are you sure this is real life?" asked Garcia. He couldn't quite believe what he was seeing.

  "Barely," said Huxley. "Spartan is a legend."

  "How do you know so much about him,
Lenina Huxley?" demanded Chief Earle.

  "I did a historical study on him last year, which I guess none of you perused. Spartan made one thousand arrest in three years. All authentic criminals."

  "There was a lot more business back then," said Lamb. "More business than we could handle."

  Lenina was still transfixed by the screen. "Watch this," she said. "This is my favorite . . . Spartan has been called in to effect a hostage rescue."

  John Spartan could be seen on the grainy video tape, walking away from a complex of buildings that were being engulfed in flame. He had a young girl slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

  A TV camera crew came scrambling over to the cop and thrust a microphone into his face. A female reporter had to yell her question to make herself heard over the sounds of explosions in the background. "How can you justify destroying a seven-million-dollar minimall to rescue a girl whose ransom was only twenty-five thousand dollars?"

  "Drop dead, lady!" squealed the little girl.

  "Good answer," growled Spartan.

  "Such rudeness," said Garcia.

  But Lenina was smiling, captivated by the images unfolding on her screen. In contrast, Chief Earle was aghast. He shook his head and turned away from the video display terminal.

  "This is a recommendation?" he asked in disbelief. "Lenina Huxley, your Demolition Man is an animal!"

  Huxley did not disagree, not exactly. "He is clearly the man for a job such as this. Chief Earle, you have the authority to reinstate him."

  Zachary Lamb agreed. "Simon Phoenix is an old-fashioned criminal. We need an old-fashioned cop to deal with him."

  Earle shook his head. "He is a muscle-bound grotesque who hasn't worn a shield in forty years."

  "But this guy must be over seventy years old," put in Alfredo Garcia.

  Lenina Huxley beamed. "That's the joy-joy part of all this," she said. "John Spartan hasn't aged a day since he put Simon Phoenix away back in 1993."

  "What does that mean, Lenina Huxley," demanded Chief Earle. "Explain yourself."

  Huxley smiled mischievously. '"John Spartan is himself a cryo-con..."

  The status panel next to John Spartan's cryo-cell had not changed its reading in thirty-six years. Cellular Activity: Null. Temperature: .5 Degree Kelvin. As the autolock began to unwind, the cryo-cell rose from the floor of the prison, revealing the inert form of John Spartan. He hadn't moved, breathed, hadn't so much as blinked in three and a half decades.

  Two technician-operators wearing insulated suits and gloves moved in. One man fired up a magnesium thermite laser, a hand-held machine about the size of a skill saw. The other technician maneuvered a crane with a three-clawed arm into position and seized the cell and moved it into the defrosting chamber.

  It took seven hours to thaw out John Spartan, a gradual process that required great skill and precision. If done too fast there would be serious brain and cell damage; if executed too slowly then the prisoner ran the risk of dying a very slow death from lack of oxygen.

  However, in Spartan's case the warming-up process was successful, and in a matter of hours Spartan, still semicomatose, was hustled into a conference room where Lenina Huxley, Chief Earle, and Alfredo Garcia were waiting for him.

  Spartan was wearing an industrial gray jumpsuit, and he sat slumped in his seat, trying with little success to focus on the room around him. He hadn't taken in exactly what had happened to him or where he was; he couldn't even get a fix on the sealed cryo-package containing his personal effects that lay in the middle of the table.

  "Hunting down an escaped cryo-con by releasing another one," harrumphed Earle, shaking his head. "I am unconvinced. And what would Mayor-Gov Raymond Cocteau say!"

  "This is within the power of the police charter, sir," said Lenina Huxley quickly. "He can be released on limited parole and reinstated to active duty."

  Her partner, Alfredo Garcia, wasn't convinced either. "It's not enough for you to collect the twentieth, Lenina Huxley. You have to bring them back to life."

  "Dr. Cocteau said we must use everything in our power," Huxley retorted. "I still can't think of a better idea for subjugating the maniac."

  Earle folded his arms across his chest. "That still doesn't mean that this is a good idea, Lenina Huxley. This man comes from a dissimilar method of law enforcement." He peered at the quasicatatonic figure. "I'm not sure he's any different from Simon Phoenix himself."

  Spartan heard the name and jumped as if he had been shocked. He opened his eyes and stared at the two men and the woman and then looked around, as if looking for danger. He tried to stand, but his legs were rubbery and unsteady. He sank back down into the seat and pointed at Garcia.

  "You ..." His voice was scratchy and rasping.

  Garcia gulped. "Me?"

  Spartan clawed his arm. "Where am I?"

  Garcia glanced at his colleagues, unsure of how to answer John Spartan. "Uh . . I. . . Uh?"

  Spartan pushed Garcia away. "When am I?"

  Garcia licked his lips nervously. "Uh, it's Thursday. Tomorrow is Arbor Day ..." He realized he should tell Spartan the truth. "And last week you turned seventy-four years old. Happy birthday."

  Spartan's eyes opened wider, as if he was finally emerging from a deep sleep. "What?"

  Lenina Huxley decided that it was time to be a little more businesslike. She spoke clearly and concisely. "Detective, I'm Lieutenant Lenina Huxley. The year is 2032. The reason you have been released-"

  Spartan was shaking off his grogginess quickly now. "How long have I been under," he demanded.

  "Thirty-six years," said Lenina Huxley matter-of-factly.

  "Whoa," said Spartan. Suddenly he felt weak again, and he slumped in his chair.

  "Now listen, Spartan-" said Earle officiously.

  "I had a wife," said Spartan interrupting. "Where is she? What happened to my wife?"

  Huxley had anticipated this question. "Your wife's light was extinguished in the Big One of 2010," she said briskly.

  "Her what? When?"

  "Uh, she died. In an earthquake. In the earthquake. Twenty-two years ago."

  This piece of information stabbed deep into Spartan's heart, and it took several moments for it to sink in. Then he spoke haltingly.

  "My wife and I, we had a little girl. A daughter ..." It was all coming back to him now. "I made her a promise. What happened to her?"

  "John Spartan," said Earle, trying again to assert his authority. "I am Chief of Police George Earle. We did not thaw you out for a family reunion. It is fortunate the lieutenant took the time to research the whereabouts of your wife. The reason for your reactivation is the cryo-con Simon Phoenix."

  "What are you talking about? He got more time than I did. He should still be here, on ice."

  Huxley stepped in. "This morning Simon Phoenix escaped from this cryo-facility. We have had ten murder-death-kills so far. We have become a society of peace, loving, and understanding. And we are, quite frankly, not equipped to deal with this kind of situation."

  John Spartan was staring at the pretty young woman as if she had lost her mind.

  Alfredo Garcia tried to put things in perspective. "There have been no deaths through unnatural causes in San Angeles in the last sixteen years," he said.

  "In where?"

  "The Santa Barbara/Los Angeles/San Diego Me-troplex merged in 2011," Huxley explained. "You are in the center of what used to be called Los Angeles."

  It took a moment for Spartan to absorb this piece of amazing information. "Great. That's great..." He wiped his hand across his face and decided first things first. He had a thirty-six-year appetite and thirst to boot. "God, I'm so hungry. I'd kill for a burrito..."

  The three police officers recoiled in fear.

  "Kill?" said Alfredo Garcia uneasily. In the past, he knew people did get killed for the most trivial of reasons.

  "It's just an expression," Spartan explained. "Don't worry about it." His throat was dry and his skin itched. He scratched the back of
his hand vigorously. He had noticed that there was a small incision in the skin. "Okay. Try this. Go get me a Bud."

  Garcia smiled ingratiatingly. "Of course. Right away. But what is a Bud?"

  Spartan grimaced. "A beer." He gave up on brand loyalty. "It doesn't have to be a Bud. A beer, any beer."

  The three cops looked horrified.

  "Alcohol is not good for you," said Lenina Huxley sternly.

  "It's not supposed to be good for you," snapped John Spartan. "It's supposed to make you feel better. Or not feel anything, depending on the dosage."

  Huxley was not amused. "It has been deemed that everything that is not good for you is bad. Hence-illegal. Cigarettes, caffeine, contact sports, meat.. ."

  This was about as weird as it got. Spartan gaped. "You have got to be shittin' me!"

  But then things got weirder.

  The omnipresent morality box buzzed into life. "John Spartan, you are fined one credit for a violation of verbal morality statute 113."

  Spartan stared as the slip of paper wound out of the morality box. "What the hell is that?"

  The morality box droned again, oblivious to Spartan's disbelieving gaze. "John Spartan, you are fined one credit for a violation of verbal morality statute 113."

  "Bad language, chocolate, gasoline, uneduca-tional toys, and anything spicy-all have been deemed illegal," Lenina Huxley continued. "Abortion is also illegal, but then again, so is pregnancy if you don't have a license."

  "This is crazy," said Spartan. He wondered if this was all some kind of nightmare. But in thirty-six years, he hadn't one. This, he concluded, must be real life. John Spartan didn't like it.

  Chief Earle was getting impatient with all this talk. He had a direct command from Mayor-Gov Raymond Cocteau himself-not something to take lightly.

  "Caveman, let us finish all the Rip Van Winkle stuff and get on with the business at hand. A Mr. Simon Phoenix has risen from the ashes. You have been brought out of cryo suspension to help in the apprehension of this criminal."