Demolition Man Page 9

  Earle gulped and nodded. "That's what he was called in the twentieth, Mayor-Gov. I am deeply sorry for the destruction he has caused."

  Cocteau put out a hand to calm the man. "It's quite all right, Chief." He surveyed the damage. "It's unexpected, creative in a strange sort of way. But quite all right. Be well, Chief Earle."

  But Earle was still terrified. He just nodded to his superior and slunk away.

  Cocteau turned to Spartan. "John Spartan, welcome. So what do you think of our fair society? It must be quite different from the noise and confusion of your sorry time."

  "Great," said Spartan. "I come to the future, and Phoenix gets the ray gun and I get the rusty Beretta."

  Cocteau raised his voice and opened his arms wide. "John Spartan, in honor of your arrival and for your protection of the sanctity of human life, namely my own, I wish for you to join me at dinner tonight." He smiled at Lenina Huxley. "In fact, both of you must join me. I insist. You must accompany me to Taco Bell this very evening."

  Lenina Huxley looked overwhelmed at the invitation, flattered and pleased. But John Spartan looked puzzled.

  "Taco Bell?"

  "It is a restaurant," Lenina Huxley stage-whispered. "Our finest dining establishment."

  "It is?" Huxley elbowed him sharply in the ribs. Spartan smiled at Cocteau. "Uh . . . dinner. That would be great. I'm looking forward to it."

  13

  Spartan was not happy.

  Lenina Huxley and Alfredo Garcia, along with Chief Earle, had taken him back to the station, sat him down and tried to explain how things worked in the brave new twenty-first century-hence his un-happiness. He particularly did not go along with the idea of a single man engineering every facet of every person's life. For a rugged individualist like Spartan, one-man rule really stuck in his craw.

  Furthermore, some of Cocteau's most prestigious accomplishments seemed to him to be the most loathsome.

  "Let me get this straight," he said, scowling at a giant Cocteau on the video screen. His arms were spread wide as if bestowing his benediction on anyone who gazed at his image.

  Spartan jerked a thumb at the picture of the leader. "Spacely Sprockets here, who is now in charge, the Mayor-Gov who wants to take me to Taco Bell-though Lord knows I wouldn't mind a burrito-is also one of the guys who invented the goddamn cryo-prison?"

  The nearest morality box beeped. "John Spartan, you have been fined ..." Spartan just snatched the piece of paper from the device and stuffed it in his breast pocket.

  "Dr. Cocteau is the most important man in San Angeles," said Earle. "He practically created our whole way of life. Don't forget that, savage!"

  "Well, he can have it," said Spartan. He chose his words carefully. "And rather than inserting barbed instruments up the rectums of those around you, why don't you sit on one yourself, Chief?"

  Earle looked flustered and glanced at the morality box, as if expecting it to come to his defense. But it sat silent, but ever vigilant.

  Lenina Huxley pulled up a huge schematic map of greater San Angeles, and Spartan studied it closely. "Phoenix could be anywhere, but not having a code in his hand could hurt him. Limit his options."

  Lenina nodded. "That is correct. Money is outmoded. All transactions are through codes."

  Spartan was thinking aloud now. "So Phoenix can't buy food or a place to crash for the night. Pointless for him to mug anybody." He was silent for a moment. "Unless he rips off someone's hand. Let's hope he hasn't figured out that one yet."

  All of the cops looked nauseated at the image Spartan had conjured up.

  "And with all the officers already patroling in a city wide crisis net, it should be just a matter of tick tocks before we have him," said Alfredo Garcia.

  "And you know," put in Chief Earle, "we already have a backup plan. We can just wait for another code to go to red. When Phoenix performs another murder-death-kill, we'll know exactly where to pounce."

  "Oh, great plan," said Spartan sardonically.

  For once Chief Earle looked pleased. "Thank you."

  Spartan turned his attention back to the map. "So where the fuck is he?"

  The morality box burst into life. "John Spartan, you have been fined-"

  "Yeah, yeah," said Spartan, grabbing the paper. "I heard that one already."

  In actual fact Simon Phoenix was not that far away from the police station. He had managed to elude various units of the SAPD until he found a large, deep storm drain in an industrial part of the city.

  He pried up the grate and slipped down into the gloom. "No front door, no welcome mat, what's with these people? How are you supposed to show up and kill someone?"

  Simon Phoenix disappeared into the shadows, cackling with laughter. "I crack myself up!" he said, his voice echoing in the subterranean passage. "I really do."

  Lenina Huxley prattled happily as she drove John Spartan to the Taco Bell and their dinner with Dr. Raymond Cocteau. She was a little embarrassed by theobviousness of her schoolgirl crush on her hero from the past. "I've been an enthusiast of your escapades for quite some time, John Spartan."

  "Is that a fact?"

  "I have, in fact, perused some actual newsreels of you in the Schwarzenegger Library. Like that time you drove your car through that-"

  Spartan held up his hand. "Back up. The Schwarzenegger library?"

  Huxley nodded. "Yes, the Schwarzenegger Presidential Library. Wasn't he an actor when you ..."

  Spartan's head reeled. "Stop ... He was president?"

  "Indeed," said Huxley. "Even though he was not born in this country, his popularity at the time caused the ratification of the sixty-first amendment which states-"

  Spartan waved her off. "I don't want to know." He stared out the window, watching the people on the streets, staring at their faces, as if searching for someone.

  "I keep looking around," he said softly. "Thinking about my daughter. She grew up in a place like this. I'm afraid she's going to think I'm some kind of disgusting primate from the past. As much as I want to see her, I almost don't want to know . . . I'm not going to fit into the picture very well. She'll probably hate me . .."

  Lenina Huxley reached for the car computer terminal. She was grinning slyly, as if thrilled by her little bit of mischief. "It would be a minor misuse of police powers, but I could do another search for you."

  Spartan reached over to stop her, touching her hand. But then he remembered that touching was frowned upon in the new society. However, Lenina didn't seem to mind the contact. He shook his head.

  "It's no trouble," she said.

  Spartan changed the subject. "So what's with this Cocteau guy? He thanks me for saving his life- which I'm not sure I did-and my reward is dinner and dancing at Taco Bell. I mean, hey, I like Mexican food but come on . . ."

  Lenina Huxley looked perplexed. "Your tone is quasi facetious. You do not realize Taco Bell was the only restaurant to survive the Franchise Wars?

  "So?" said Spartan.

  "So, now all restaurants are Taco Bell!"

  "Great," said Spartan.

  A few moments later they pulled up in front of the Taco Bell-except it was like no Taco Bell Spartan had ever seen before. First of all, it was huge and luxurious. A group of parking valets stood in front of the building, and one of them rushed over to relieve Lenina of her vehicle.

  She led the way inside. The interior of the restaurant was dark and cool, ultrahip and elegant in that casually urbane way of the best California restaurants.

  The place was spare and understated and the patrons cool and beautiful. As were the counter help. To John Spartan the girls behind the cash registers looked like haughty high-fashion models, the kind of women who were always unapproachable in the old world.

  But the counter girl broke out of the ultracool character of the place and suddenly smiled a typical fast-food happy face. "Welcome!" she squeaked. "May I help you?"

  Spartan was taken aback by this sudden reverse. "Uh, I'll take a burrito supreme," he said. "And a
shake."

  "Copy that," said Lenina.

  "Will that be for here or to go?"

  "Ah," said Spartan attempting to be charming. "The eternal question . .. Here."

  The counter girl did a perky fast-food spin to the serving hatch and whipped back with an ornate silver tray carrying an elaborate china set.

  "Two burrito supremes. Two shakes," she said with a smile. "Be well."

  Spartan looked down at the minuscule cylinder of pressed kelp topped with a dab of salsa and a sprinkle of sesame bits. "Yum," he said. "It's a good thing I'm hungry."

  Spartan and Lenina carried their trays into the restaurant, escorted by a maitre d' wearing a stiff black dinner jacket. He guided them to a secluded section of the restaurant in front of one of the windows, where Cocteau and Associate Bob were waiting for their dinner guests.

  Cocteau stood and addressed the restaurant. "Gentlemen, allow me to present my savior, Detective John Spartan." He raised his shake and sipped.

  "Greetings and salutations, I am Associate Bob," the man said with an ingratiating smile. "We have met before, but ever so briefly when I was groveling in fear at the time. You have had quite the exciting first day in our fair city. Imagine, a real criminal loose in San Angeles!"

  Spartan sat down. "Imagine that." He picked up the burrito and could tell just by looking at it that it needed something to perk it up. "Could someone pass me the salt?"

  Lenina Huxley whispered. "Salt is not good for you. Hence it is-"

  Spartan glared at her, and she shut up quickly. He poked at his food, but he seemed to have lost his appetite.

  "So, John Spartan," Cocteau said, "tell me, what do you think of San Angeles, A.D. 2032."

  Spartan shrugged. He didn't want to be rude. "I guess, considering the way things were going when I went in-I thought the future would be a rotting cesspool."

  "You should consider visiting New York after this," said Associate Bob.

  Spartan brightened. "You mean nothing has changed?"

  Associate Bob roared with laughter, as if Spartan had gotten off a particularly witty bon mot. Spartan just stared at him hard and turned back to his food. It was obvious to Cocteau if not to Associate Bob that Spartan was less than thrilled with the fine fare the future had to offer.

  "Look at you, John Spartan," Cocteau said with a smile. "I can see you're pouting for the old cheeseburger-the flesh of dead animals covered with cholesterol-laden butterfat. You miss the bad old days."

  Spartan put down the burrito and rested his elbows on the table. "Put it this way, Dr. Cocteau, I like vegetables. I even got reckless and ate yogurt a couple of times. The point is I got to choose when and how I wanted it."

  Cocteau nodded. "I understand," he said. "The democratic process isn't dead-it's only been modified. Of course, you weren't here for the forth and fifth riots."

  Spartan looked grave. He had no idea there had been more riots after he had been cryo-imprisoned.

  Cocteau's voice was harsh. "Civilization tried to destroy itself. The city degenerated into a total fear zone. The citizenry cocooned in their homes, afraid to come out. People just wanted the madness to be over. So when I saw the opportunity to make things right, I acted promptly. If I had not, the radiance of San Angeles would not be here, just the rotting cesspool of suffering and hate you envisioned."

  Cocteau stared hard at Spartan, an arrogant sense of knowing in his steely eyes. "Tell me John Spartan, which would you prefer?"

  Spartan met the Mayor-Gov's stare. "Maybe you can book me a flight to the East Coast when the sermon is over."

  Lenina Huxley's mouth dropped open. She couldn't imagine that anyone could talk to the Mayor-Gov like that. Cocteau's face darkened. He was not used to people contradicting him. He preferred subjects like Associate Bob-supine and slavishly grateful.

  "For your crimes, John Spartan, you would have surely rotted and died in jail by now. Even you have to appreciate the persuasively tranquil humanity of the cryo-prison system."

  It was Spartan's turn to scowl. He did not need to be reminded of his long, horrible sentence in that frozen hell. "I don't want to spoil your dinner, pal, but my cryo sentence wasn't a sweet lullaby."

  He lowered his voice, as if the pain of recalling it was physical as well as mental. "I had feelings-I had thoughts. A thirty-six-year nightmare about all those people trapped in a burning building."

  Cocteau looked at him sharply. "You were awake? I don't think so, my friend."

  Spartan face twisted in anger. "I do think so. I had thoughts, I had feelings-about my wife beating her fists against a block of ice that used to be her husband. Then you were nice enough to wake me up and let me know everything that meant something in my life is gone. It would have been more humane to stake me down and leave me to the fucking crows."

  There was no morality box at Dr. Cocteau's table.

  Huxley was puzzled. "I thought during rehabilitation prisoners were not conscious. A person would go insane."

  "The side effects of the cryo-process are unavoidable," said Cocteau in his own defense. "You were found guilty of criminal charges and owed- and still owe-a debt to society. I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can do . . ."

  But Spartan was not paying attention. He was staring out the window. First there had been two Scraps lolling outside the Taco Bell. Then three ... then four. Then one drove up on a rickety old motorcycle, a machine patched together with the parts of a dozen older bikes. The scraps were loitering and looking around shiftily. To Spartan's practiced eye, they were up to no good.

  A food van rumbled down the street toward the restaurant.

  Spartan stood up. "There's one thing you can do for me," he said.

  "What?" asked Huxley.

  "Call for backup. I'll be across the street-"

  "But John Spartan, why? How? What are you going to do?"

  Spartan was strolling toward the door. "There are bad guys about to do bad things . . . It's just one of those cop hunches."

  1 4

  Spartan strode out of the front door of the Taco Bell, walking in such a way that he could never be mistaken for another satisfied Taco Bell patron. He radiated attitude-and the Scraps could tell with a single glance that Spartan was trouble. The thin, skaggy-looking guy mounted on the equally ragtag motorcycle gunned the bike a couple of times and then popped it in gear, roaring toward him.

  Quickly, Spartan grabbed the valet parking sign, uprooting the pole from the ground and holding it at the ready.

  The motorcycle may have been old and rusty, but the Scrap managed to coax all of the power possible out of the screaming engine. He was roaring straight at Spartan, ready to run him over. Spartan stood his ground.

  It seemed as if the front wheel of the bike was on him when Spartan swung into action, the long pole cutting a wide swath in the air, smacking into the Scrap's chest, knocking him from the saddle.

  The motorcycle skidded by Spartan, hit the curb, somersaulted, and exploded in a ball of flame. Spartan didn't flinch, but the clients of the Taco Bell dove for cover as the motorcycle detonated.

  The Scraps rushed at Spartan, but each of them went down under a furious fusillade of blows, the weedy youths being mowed down like green wheat. They toppled so readily and made such basic mistakes in the art of attack and defense that Spartan had to assume they were new to the business of being tough guys.

  Suddenly, though, the Scraps upped the ante. A manhole cover blew out of the roadbed like a bomb and out jumped a half dozen more fighters, and these looked a little more determined. They carried bicycle chains and homemade nunchucks, and a couple of them looked as if they might have a clue as to how to use them.

  "Great," muttered Spartan. "They brought the whole team." He knocked two of his attackers senseless, felling them with rib-crunching body blows. "Now if we can just get them to stay and play."

  Spartan dodged one of the Scraps wielding an old aluminum baseball bat, cracked him on the back of the head, and then turned for the next onslaug
ht.

  But the Scraps had lost interest in him. They had fallen on the food van and were frantically tearing at the food pods. Some were packing food into canvas sacks, others were stuffing it right into their mouths, wolfing down the makings of a thousand burritos, as if they hadn't eaten in a month.

  "Protein!" shouted one of them. "I've found protein!"

  This brought Spartan up short.

  "Protein?" That didn't strike him as the sort of thing that a hardened criminal would be particularly interested in. "What's going on?"

  By way of an answer, one last valiant Scrap landed a nunchuck blow on Spartan's brawny shoulder. The young man stepped back both appalled and proud of what he had done.

  Spartan stared at the astonished Scrap, watching as he summoned up his courage and came in for another attack. He hit Spartan again, but the blow evinced no reaction at all. He swung his nunchuck again, putting all of his force behind the attack, but this time Spartan's rock-hard fist shot out and stopped the blow dead in midair. He swung the hapless Scrap by the end of his chain and threw him like a bowling ball into the crowd of Scraps gathered around the food van. They tumbled like ninepins.

  "You're all under arrest," said Spartan.

  From the middle of the tangle of arms and legs Edgar Friendly struggled to his feet. He looked at Spartan, a sneer on his face. He didn't know who this guy was, but he did know that the big cop was working the wrong side of the law.

  "What a fucking hero!" he snarled. He helped one of his fellow Scraps to his feet and then shouldered a food pod. "Come on!" he ordered. "We're outtahere!"

  The Scraps stumbled to their feet, each tottering under the burden of the food. Spartan stared hard, trying to figure out just what the hell was going on. He took a step toward the frantic throng, and the Scrap nearest him dropped to his knees, cowering in fear, cans of food tumbling from his tattered jacket.

  "Please . . . don't. . . Please don't hurt me," the young man pleaded. The Scrap was plainly in fear for his life, and something in Spartan made him stop. He just watched as the ragtag band darted back down the into the sewers from whence they came.