Demolition Man Read online

  It was well in the past, but John Spartan remembered what happened to him the last time he nailed Simon Phoenix. He shook his head abruptly. "Uh huh. No way. I tracked that dirtbag for two years, and when I finally brought him down, they turned me into an ice cube for my trouble." He shrugged. "Thanks, but no thanks. Not this time. I learn from my mistakes."

  Chief Earle stood his ground. "The conditions of your parole are full reinstatement into the San Angeles Police Department and immediate assignment to the apprehension of Simon Phoenix. Or you can go back into cryo-stasis."

  Involuntarily, Spartan shuddered, remembering the freezer. It had been bad-way bad. He would never go back to that, not if he could avoid it.

  Lenina Huxley leaned forward and looked into his eyes. "Not many people get a second chance, John Spartan."

  10

  Newly fitted out in his SAPD uniform, John Spartan looked like a spit-and-polish police officer of the twenty-first century. He felt like a buffoon.

  Standing in front of Lenina Huxley's police car, Spartan examined the uniform, from the cute little cap down to his side-buckled knee boots.

  "What am I supposed to be? A drum major?" he said in disgust. "This isn't a cop uniform. This is a joke. What am I going to do? Lead the Rose Bowl parade?" He slapped his pockets and rattled his equipment belt. "What is all this stuff?"

  Huxley pointed to each piece of hardware as she spoke. "Direct biolink readouts for vitals," she said. "VOX radio contact, base and inter officer coded by rank, partner status, and case priority. Got it?"

  Spartan pointed to one more piece of equipment, a thin silver instrument about four inches in length. "What's that?"

  "Your whistle. It goes in your breast pocket."

  God save me, thought Spartan.

  "You have to have a whistle," said Garcia earnestly.

  "Of course," he said. "That's great. In case one of the floats gets loose, I can direct traffic."

  "Traffic difficulties have been largely eliminated," said Lenina Huxley.

  "You can call it San Angeles or Los Angeles," said John Spartan skeptically, "but there are always traffic jams in southern California."

  Lenina Huxley smiled smugly. "If you get in my vehicle, I will demonstrate."

  Spartan jammed himself into the back of the small automobile and stared out the window, amazed at the shining, clean city populated by happy people. The effects of the freezing were wearing off rapidly, but the skin on the back of bis left hand continued to itch, and he scratched at the scab absently as he gazed at the strange new world around him.

  "This probably seems quasi strange to you," said Alfredo Garcia.

  Spartan laughed shortly. "Quasi strange? This isn't my city. How do you expect me to protect it? I don't understand you people, let alone like you ..."

  Lenina Huxley wasn't going to stand for that. "You come from a society in which the average eighteen-year-old witnessed two hundred thousand acts of simulated violence."

  "Yeah," said Spartan, "so?"

  "In our society the number would be three or four. If one of these people"-she gestured toward some of the pedestrians on the sidewalk in what Spartan thought must be Westwood-"if they were to see the Three Stooge Men and see the Moe-person hammer the Curly person, they would weep, John Spartan. Weep."

  "The Three Stooge Men?" asked John Spartan.

  "Myself," said Huxley, "I'm a bit of an aficionado of the shocking, both real and fictional."

  "Is that so?"

  Huxley nodded. "Like the time you wow-fully tractor-pulled the Santa Monica pier into a heap of rubble in order to snare the team of hit men who-" Lenina was bubbling happily, enthralled by Spartan's past exploits.

  But John Spartan wasn't interested in rehashing his old war stories. "I'd like to try to find out what happened to my daughter."

  "We have conducted a check of the central personnel computers," said Garcia.

  "And your daughter was not present on the city population records," said Lenina Huxley. "We will continue to investigate, but there were no clues to her current whereabouts."

  Spartan sighed and shook his head. He felt estranged and alienated from this weird world-and it did not resemble any of the science fiction of his youth. It was a completely foreign place, as strange as a faraway planet.

  Lenina Huxley's heart went out to him. "You seem very much alone, John Spartan."

  "You might say that," he said sourly.

  "Not everything is that different," said Lenina Huxley. Perhaps you would like to hear the oldies station." She winked, like an adult trying to interest a child. "Oldies, John Spartan?"

  Garcia grinned as he snapped on the radio. The car filled with music. To Spartan's immense surprise, the "oldies" weren't old songs, but old commercial jingles. In this case, the old Alka-Seltzer song.

  Plop-plop, fizz-fizz ... Oh what a relief it is! Plop-plop, fizz-fizz ... Oh what a reliiiiief it is!

  "I don't believe it!" said Spartan.

  "This is the most popular station in town," Garcia explained. "Nonstop wall-to-wall minitunes. In your day you called them commercials."

  "I knew that," said Spartan.

  The Alka-Seltzer jingle came to an end, and the supercheery voice of the radio disc jockey broke in. "Coming up in the next half hour, we'll be coming at ya with some more cool minitunes, including some of your big favorites-we'll be hearing The Rotor Rooter song, Coca-Cola and its classic 'I'd Like to Teach the World to Sing,' and the timeless, 'Looks Like a Dress Shoe, Feels Like a Sneaker.. .' But right now here's the number one request of the day, the time-honored jingle for fatty meat tubes-Armour Hot Dogs!"

  "Wow," said Garcia, "this is my fave!"

  "What kind of kids love Armour hot dogs?" sang the jinglers. "Fat kids, skinny kids, kids who climb on rocks. Tough kids, sissy kids .. ."

  Lenina Huxley and Alfredo Garcia sang along, harmonizing with the commercial.

  "Even kids with chicken pox love hot dogs, Armour hot dogs. The dogs . . . kids ... love to bite!"

  Spartan scratched and shook his head. "Somebody put me back in the fridge."

  Every cop in the central police station had turned out to see John Spartan, the killer cop from a violent past. They were disappointed when only Alfredo Garcia and Lenina Huxley entered the station dispatch room.

  "Any new inforama on Simon Phoenix?" asked Lenina, walking up to John MacMillan. They exchanged the nontouching circular hand shake.

  MacMillan shook his head. "None ... So where is the famous John Spartan."

  "He went to the bathroom," said Alfredo Garcia with a grin. "I guess he got all thawed out."

  The nearest morality box burped a little, not sure if Garcia had made an off-color remark or not.

  Spartan emerged from the bathroom and marched through the throng of assembled cops. They stared at him and he stared back-it was hard to imagine who was more freaked out.

  MacMillan summoned all his courage and walked up to Spartan, raising his hand to make the nontouching circular hand shake. "John Spartan," said MacMillan, "I formally convey my presence to you."

  "Hi," said Spartan. He reached out and shook the tough-looking cop's hand. MacMillan tried not to react, but it was plain that he was repulsed by the skin-to-skin contact. He was disgusted, as if Spartan had spit on him. The entire crowd of cops watching looked horrified by what they had witnessed.

  Spartan could see that something was wrong, but he couldn't begin to figure out what it was. Swiftly, Lenina Huxley came to his rescue.

  "Ah, John Spartan, we're not used to greetings that involve physical contact."

  "Oh," he said. "Thanks for telling me ..." But there was something else on his mind. "Hey, did you guys know that you're out of toilet paper?"

  Garcia looked puzzled. "Toilet paper?"

  Lenina Huxley fought down a giggle. "Back in the twentieth," she said, "they used a handful of wadded paper when they had to ... when they used the bathroom."

  "Paper!" said Garcia. The entire squad room
roared with laughter. But Spartan was unamused. He had to go.

  "I'm happy you're happy," he said. "But in the place where the toilet paper is supposed to be, you have a shelf with three little seashells on it."

  Merwin, the dispatcher, snickered. "I mean, there were three, right?"

  Spartan shot the man a withering glance. "What is that supposed to mean?"

  Merwin shrank back, scared to death. "I can see how that would be confusing."

  But Spartan was no longer paying attention. He had looked across the room and had spotted an old and familiar face. Zachary Lamb was making his way toward his old friend. Of course Lamb was ancient and Spartan had not aged a day.

  "Zach Lamb!" shouted Spartan. "What happened to you?"

  Lamb shrugged. "I got old, Spartan. It happens every day. I been grounded-finally."

  Spartan could not believe his eyes. "Shit, the last time I saw you, you were nothing more than a punk-assedrook."

  The morality box buzzed dutifully. "John Spartan," it announced, "you are fined two credits for a violation of verbal morality statute 113.'' Two sheets of papers zipped out of the machine. Spartan looked at it and then turned away.

  "This is one strange place, Zach."

  Lamb laughed. "Ain't this whole setup a mother?"

  Garcia and Lenina Huxley were watching the two men closely, like anthropologists observing a strange and primitive tribe.

  "They seem to be friends," said Garcia, "yet they speak to each other in the most profane man-ner.

  Lenina Huxley looked annoyed. "If you ever read my research, Alfredo Garcia, you would know that this is the way insecure heterosexual males used to bond."

  "Your wife still good-looking?" asked Spartan, elbowing his old friend in the ribs. "She was hot!"

  Lamb cackled. "Yeah, well, she may be a hundred and twenty-six, Spartan, but she's still the hottest looking piece of. . . Never mind."

  "Go on," said Spartan. "Say it."

  "Can't." Lamb shook his head. "I miss the old days . . . But I don't miss Simon Phoenix. You gonna help us nail that son of a . . ."

  Spartan shook his head. "I hate reruns," he said. "Seems like this is the first crime you guys have had in a while. All this high-tech stuff and you can't nail him?"

  "Not so far."

  "Well, I'll help, but first I have business to take care of. Understand?" He grinned at his old friend and walked over to the morality box.

  "Shit, fuck, piss, crap, damn, bitch, damn. Fuck." The morality box started buzzing wildly, and it had trouble keeping up with the onslaught of obscenity.

  A great long piece of paper scrolled out of the machine. Spartan grabbed it and tore it off. He gathered it up and scrunched it. The paper wadded nicely.

  "So much for the three seashells," he said. "I'll be right back."

  Lenina had become the de facto investigator of the Simon Phoenix case, and she had convened a conference in her cluttered office.

  John Spartan was scratching frantically at the back of his hand. "What is going on here," he asked. "What's the matter with my hand?"

  "That's your code," said James MacMillan.

  Spartan shot him a look. "My what?"

  "Your implanted code," explained Lenina. "Simon Phoenix wasn't coded. But while you were sleeping, you got the chip implanted in your hand. Everyone in the city was installed code. It was the brilliant idea of Dr. Cocteau that an organically bioengineered microchip would be sewn into the skin. Sensors all around the city can zero in on anyone at any time."

  James MacMillan shook his head. "I can't even conceive a visual of what you cops did before it was developed."

  "We worked for a living," said Spartan gruffly. "All this fascist crap makes me want to puke!"

  Predictably, the morality box buzzed and began its standard spiel. Everyone in the room ignored it.

  Spartan waved his hand at the assembled company. "There's one of those things in me?"

  "What do you think you're scratching there, caveman?" demanded Chief Earle. "Did you really think we would let you out without control? Your code was implanted the second you thawed."

  Spartan stared angrily at his hand. "Why didn't you just shove a leash up my ass?"

  The morality box buzzed. "John Spartan, you have been fined one credit..."

  Chief Earle was really angry now. "You dirty meat eater! No matter how Viking your era was, I cannot digest how you were ever allowed to wear a badge! I think you're going back to the cryo-pen, John Spartan! How do you like that?"

  Lenina Huxley got between the two men. "Could you two please dump some hormones? We need every cortex we can get in this situation."

  But Chief Earle was hopping mad. He stormed around the office, shouting at the top of his lungs. Neither Huxley nor Garcia had ever seen their commander so angry.

  "We don't need him!" yelled Earle. "Our computer has already examined all feasible scenarios resulting from the appearance of Simon Phoenix, and we have determined he will attempt to start up a new drug lab and form a crime syndicate."

  Lenina Huxley's computer chimed in. "That is correct, Chief George Earle," it said smugly.

  "Thank you," said Earle, apparently unaware that he was talking to a machine.

  Spartan shook his head wearily. "I hate to interrupt you two lovebirds, but that's fucking stupid."

  The morality box buzzed into life, of course ...

  "You think he's going to build a business? To serve what market? According to you guys, no one wants drugs in this brave new paradise."

  "But it's what he does best!" insisted Earle. "He would naturally follow his inclinations."

  Spartan couldn't believe that police work had degenerated so drastically. "Use your heads. Phoenix needs just one thing-a gun. He's going for a gun. Plain and simple."

  Spartan raged around the room, and the morality box was having a fit trying to keep up with the ancient cop's offenses.

  "Phoenix is a complete megalomaniacal fucking psychopath-"

  The box buzzed. "John Spartan, you are fined-"

  "Remember, I know this shithead."

  The morality box snapped back to the beginning. "John Spartan, you are fined one-"

  "And I know that the first thing this motherfucker is going to want to do is wipe those smug fuckin' smiles off your shiny faces-"

  "Two . . . Three .. . credits for-"

  "Sure," Spartan continued, "he could set up a drug lab, build a market, and handshake your asses to death, but who's got the goddamn patience."

  "Four . . . Five . . . credits for violation-"

  "Trust me," Spartan concluded. "He's gonna go for a gun. A man like Simon Phoenix needs a gun."

  "Of verbal morality code 113," the morality box finished breathlessly.

  "Preposterous!" yelled Earle. "Nonsense. That is complete bull..."

  "C'mon," said Spartan. "C'mon. You can do it."

  But Chief Earle caught himself in time. "Balderdash," he said. "Who cares what this primate thinks?" He jerked a blunt thumb at Spartan. "Try and resonate some understanding, Spartan. A gun!"

  "That's right, Chief, a gun," said John Spartan calmly. "A man like Simon Phoenix feels naked without a gun." Actually, Spartan was feeling a little exposed himself.

  "That may be," raged Earle. "But he's out of luck. The only place a person can even view a gun in this city, is at a ... museum."

  "A museum?" said Spartan, thoughtfully. "What museum?"

  The San Angeles Museum of Art and History was a vast complex that drew thousands of visitors daily-mostly school groups and boy scout troops who were guided through the exhibits by their history teachers who wanted to reinforce the notion that the bad old days were very bad indeed.

  The high-ceilinged rooms contained all manner of artifacts from the dead past, such as the objects in the Hall of Carcinogens, which displayed a collection of cigarettes and cigars, bottles of alcohol, and carefully preserved fatty foods.

  The big draw, however, was a model of an old Los Angeles street
-dirty tenement buildings and filthy, violent streets, complete with foul air and coarse, polluted soundtrack.

  Visitors clustered around this display, peering at the terrible conditions of the bad old days.

  A museum computer box perked up when ever a visitor neared. "If you care to sample what it was like to spend a day in Los Angeles in the twentieth please press button."

  Simon Phoenix jammed his thumb into the button. Suddenly, the exhibit exploded in a cacophony of obscene sound. The air in the city street was filled with the noise of honking cars, loud swearing in Spanish, the crack of gunshots, the wail of police sirens, and the abrasive thump of rap music.

  A shiver delicious enjoyment ran through Simon Phoenix.

  "I love it." Then he saw a sign that pointed toward yet another exhibit, the Hall of Violence. He grinned at a passing cub scout. "Home sweet home!"

  1 1

  Spartan raced outside to Lenina Huxley's police cruiser, desperate to get to the San Angeles Museum of Art and History before Simon Phoenix managed to arm himself and turn into a really dangerous adversary. Lenina and Alfredo Garcia jogged along behind him.

  "How can you be sure he went to the museum?" asked Lenina.

  "It's a hunch," said Spartan. "Trust me on this. It's a cop thing. Sixth sense ..."

  He pulled open the gullwing doors of the cruiser and slipped inside. "I'm driving." For a second he gazed at the completely foreign array of controls and gauges.

  Spartan turned to Lenina Huxley. "You're driving..."

  * * *

  It fell to Chief Earle to report to Mayor-Gov Raymond Cocteau on what was being done to locate and destroy Simon Phoenix. The chief was sweating, uneasy and self-conscious in the presence of the great leader, even if it was only via video phone. In contrast to his police chief the Mayor-Gov was so cairn and serene it was scary.

  "Enhance your calm, Chief," said Dr. Cocteau soothingly. "Please, share your disquietude."

  "Mayor-Gov Cocteau," said Earle nervously, "it has been called to my attention that the branching possibility exists the escaped cryo-con, Mr. Simon Phoenix, may be on his way to the San Angeles Museum of Art and History.