Michael A. Burstein - Gadget Man.pdf

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Gadget Man
Michael A. Burstein
CHAPTER 1
The mad girl flashed angrily across the bright tower room and interfered with the view of the riot. Two
plainclothes therapists dived into the big circular room on her trail, apologetic, and hunkered so as to
leave the tinted windows clear for watching. The girl, thin and fair, shrugged out of reach of the lead
therapist and ran straight at Sergeant James Xavier Hecker. He was already up out of his vinyl wing
chair, reaching one calming hand to her. "Just be easy now," he said.
In the chair next to his, Therapist-in-Chief Weeman said, "Halt, Mrs. Gibbons." He stretched over and
slapped the slim girl with his clip-on stunrod. She stiffened just short of touching Hecker.
"Why that?" asked Hecker, steadying the girl's now paralyzed body.
"We strive to give our more hopeful patients a semblance of autonomy and free motion," said Weeman.
He breast-pocketed the stunrod in his lime-green tunic. "Incidents can't be encouraged, but on the other
side of the token, neither should they be subdued with too drastic means."
The two therapists hesitated, hands extending, unobtrusively, for the caught patient. Hecker said, "It'll
take her two hours to come out of that." He let the two wide men carry the girl away and out of the top
tower of theRehabCenter .
Weeman tugged at his blond beard, as though he suddenly suspected it was false. "I find your concern
for a disturbed suburban housewife, a girl you don't even know, to be almost fascinating."
"Why don't you turn those Kendry files over, and I'll take off." Hecker was a lean man, tall and slightly
bent, with a bony face and too big hands. The Social Wing of the Police Corps had allowed him to grow
a shaggy mustache, but would probably not promote him much beyond sergeant.
Therapist-in-Chief Weeman's small, tidy lap was filled with carded microfilm.. He let some of the fingers
of his left hand dance on the film and nodded at the view windows. "I wish you shared my fascination
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with these riots, though your reasons for not doing so are best known to yourself. That one occurring
down there in Citrus Knolls right now seems rich in fascination. I've monitored all the recent suburban
riots in the area, but this is the first one to take place in, as you might say, my own back yard."
Far below and across an artificial river, a troop of cub scouts had just put torches to the community
recreation center, and to the immediate left of that a mob of graying matrons were lobbing plastic bombs
into the main building of the tennis club. The majority of the members of the Veterans of the Chinese
Invasion were chucking surplus grenades into patios and rock gardens all along Citrus Knolls's wide and
neatly pastoral streets and lanes. Over two thousand of the residents of the planned suburb, a good third
of its population, were involved in the rioting and looting. "Here come the troops," said Hecker, turning
his back on the windows.
Weeman toggled a switch on his chair arm, and television screens on the blind wall of the rehabilitation
center tower snapped alive. "I want a better look at all this. These initial confrontations between the
dazed citizens and the Army of theRepublicofSouthern California are little less than fascinating."
Hecker glanced up at the images of the lime-and-lemon uniformedRepublicofSouthern California soldiers
marching with locked arms down the main esplanade of Citrus Knolls. "The Kendry files," he repeated.
"What do you, as a representative of the Social Wing, a division of our Southern California government I
can't help believing is more liberal than necessary, think causes these outbreaks in our best suburbs,
Sergeant?" Weeman twisted new curls into his full beard, ticked his head forward. The army was
apparently using stun gas, and the screen showed people slowing and freezing, still clutching torches and
bombs and bright new rifles.
"The riots are the Junta's business," said Hecker. "They govern theRepublicofSouthern California ."
"You seem reluctant to express an opinion that is solidly yours, Sergeant Hecker."
"I just work here."
"Look at that," said Weeman. "That little old lady sniped one of the cameramen off the roof of the United
Methodist." He studied then the microfilm between his legs, watched Hecker for several long seconds.
"Some people, a small but vocal minority, consider the cause of the riots to be the recent tightening of law
enforcement and the additional troops being garrisoned in some of our larger secured towns and cities.
What do you, Sergeant Hecker, feel about the notion that the Junta has ruled the Republic with undue
strictness in recent years?"
"Since my branch of the Police Corps is under the jurisdiction of the Junta, you don't have to ask,"
Hecker told him. He paced away from the seated therapist, watching, briefly, the smoke columns fuse
into a thick black smear in the bright afternoon sky.
"Younger people," said Weeman, "forget how things were back in nineteen eighty-one and those years.
Before the Chinese Commandos were defeated in the Battle of Glendale, there were many, not deluded
but calm and rational people, who felt Red China would successfully carry off its land invasion
ofSouthern California ."
"IfSouthern California hadn't seceded from theUnion in nineteen-eighty, things wouldn't have happened
as they did."
"The President of theUnited States , even though his country was falling apart, should have supported
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us," said Weeman. "Had the Junta not been formed, merging our bestSouthern California military and
industrial brainpower into one dedicated and loyal ruling think tank, there would have been black days
for the Republic. You, a man in his middle or late twenties, don't remember those bad times."
"Probably not." Hecker returned and sat next to the Therapist-in-Chief. "I have a contact point to be at
by tonight."
"This has been, thanks to younger residents of the Republic such as yourself, Sergeant Hecker, rightly
christened the `Age of Anxiety'." Weeman twined his stubby fingers in the swatch of beard beneath his
chin. "Myself, Sergeant Hecker, I favor the conspiracy theory to explain the riots. These most recent
suburban riots-- there's a strange and fascinating quality to them." He freed his fingers from his facial hair
and indicated the burning and fighting below. "Social repressions, supposed injustices and unlawful
restraints, don't invoke the kind of mania we're witnessing at this moment, Sergeant Hecker. A thoughtful
examination of the sweeping panorama of riot history tells us that citizens in comfortable
one-hundred-thousand-dollar homes in landscaped and secured areas should not loot and burn. They're
not blacks, are they, most of them?" He bundled the microfilm cards and tossed them across to Hecker.
"The classic riots in theUnited States and, especially because of our near-tropic climate, inSouthern
California , have traditionally been the work of militant black men, Sergeant Hecker. And sometimes the
fiery Mexican-American. Though you may not be aware, at this remote place in time, of that."
"We studied those riots in school," said Hecker. He thumbed through the cards, holding them next up to
the overhead lights in turn. "Most of this information on the Kendry family we have in our Social Wing
files. I thought you had some extra stuff that couldn't be trusted to transmission."
Weeman drew a last card from beneath his narrow thigh. "Some background material on Jane Kendry.
Tests and projections done during the brief period when she was a ward of the Rehab system. What
exactly is your mission for S.W., Sergeant?"
Hecker took the new card in one big-knuckled hand, walked to a wall microfilm reader and inserted the
card. "You were told that when the Social Wing requested this interview."
"That story wasn't a cover then? Somebody in the Kendry clan has sent the Social Wing word that they
have information on the cause of the riots?"
"The nature of the information sent and the procedures suggested tend to indicate the Kendry family or
some of their followers may be involved," Hecker said. The-young face of a lean, intense girl rolled into
view on the screen of the reader. She had smooth, tan skin, hair of a red-gold color, long. "Jane
Kendry," muttered Hecker to himself.
"Seven years ago," said Weeman. "She was fifteen then, coltish. Her wild father and a bunch of the clan
broke her out of a minimum-security Rehab Center down near the Laguna Sector. Lovely marine view
there. She's a quirky girl, and I believe that it is Jane Kendry who runs that band of guerrillas, that
growing band of guerrillas. Her father, old Jess, is in his middle sixties now, ridden with addictions and
badly healed wounds. At first the guerrillas were all Kendry family, but in recent years the ranks have
been swollen with other types of dissidents and anarchists. Jane is a tough girl, Sergeant Hecker, and you
won't find that hopeful look the picture there shows us. Not any more with Jane Kendry. Is she your
contact?"
"I don't know," said Hecker. "Our information isn't that specific. We have a contact point fairly close to
one of the unsecured towns the Kendrys are thought to sometimes operate in. There's a safe-conduct
pass of sorts. I came here to fill myself in on the Kendrys more thoroughly."
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Therapist-in-Chief Weeman rose up behind Hecker. "You look quite unlike a policeman, even a Social
Wing one, in your civilian clothes." He flickered a sequence of toggles and the view windows blanked,
the monitor screens died. "Listen to me now, Sergeant Hecker. I worked on the Kendry girl's case down
there in Laguna Sector seven years ago. I liked her and felt I was reaching her. We could work together
on her problems and conflicts. Then those wild men came in and smashed things and wrenched her
away."
Hecker stopped reading the micro file. "So?"
"I have authority to bring her in for rehabilitation," he said, moving closer to the Social Wing sergeant. "If
she wishes, we can help her. Fit her back into the legitimate processes of the Republic of Southern
California. She's a girl with fascinating potential."
"She may not want back in. Her exile is probably voluntary."
"We often think that, Sergeant, and we are often wrong," said the therapist. "If you see Jane Kendry,
offer. Tell her Therapist-in-Chief-- No, she knew me as Associate Therapist and without the beard,
younger-- tell her Dr. Weeman can get her safe conduct here to the Pasadena Rehab Center. It could be
her only chance."
Hecker frowned. "Wait now. Why her only chance?"
"You may, Sergeant Hecker, have some competition in your quest for Jane Kendry."
"And I may not even see her," he said. "But who else is searching for her?"
"Are you familiar with Second Lieutenant Same?"
"Norman Same? He's with the Manipulation Council. Why do they want Jane Kendry?"
"Why does Manipulation usually want people?" said the therapist. "The Junta must have locked her away
or - forgive the dark thought - simply killed her. The guerrillas are trouble, and Second Lieutenant Same,
who has been here too, seeking background material, believes Jane Kendry leads the guerrillas."
"Maybe there's been a leak in the Social Wing, if Same has been here already." Hecker clicked his bony
thumb against his teeth. "We'll see, then."
"You get to her and tell her to be careful," said Weeman. "Once she's here in Rehab I can guarantee they
won't touch her. Believe me, Sergeant Hecker, when I tell you I can really help Jane Kendry."
"I'll tell her," said Hecker. "Now I'll retrieve my hopper from your roof port and get on."
On the highest roof of the five-towered Rehab Center, Hecker could see Citrus Knolls burning away,
blackening the day. His unmarked Social Wing hopper was not in the reserved slot of the rooftop landing
area. Two orange-uniformed soldiers of the R.S.C. Army were squatting where the small heliplane had
been.
"Looking for your machine?" asked one of the soldiers, bouncing inquisitively and making his buttocks
smack the topping lightly.
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"Yes, indeed," said Hecker. He, being in civilian clothes, had his blaster pistol cupped under his arm and
not quickly accessible. "You boys take it?"
"Sorry, Sarge," said the other soldier. They were both young privates. "We needed extra wings, and the
order went out. Your Social Wing reported an unmarked hopper parked here, signed out to Sergeant
James Xavier Hecker, and it was picked up. They got your hopper over to Citrus Knolls, using it to dust
stun powder on the folks trying to dismantle the shopping plaza."
Hecker surveyed the roof. There was a pitted old surplus hopper, with the A.R.S.C. insignia still vaguely
visible on its side, parked nearby. "Who does that one belong to?"
"That's for you if you want to use it," said the bouncing private. "Corporal Bozes said you could use it.
That's why we hung around - to be helpful. That clunk isn't much for altitude, and there's not enough
armor on its belly. Those humping snipers can set your tail on fire easy enough as it is, without flying over
in a thing like that."
"I hope it'll do for me," said Hecker. "I have an appointment."
"Plenty good for Social Wing purposes," said the private and bounced again.
In five minutes Hecker was in the air. He had to be in San Emanuel Sector, a beach town beyond the
Laguna Sector, by nightfall. The town was not one the military rated as secured, and he could expect no
help from any officials of the R.S.C. or the Police Corps once he got there. The old army hopper, which
he'd have to ditch before he got in sight of San Emanuel, chugged through the sky. It strained for altitude,
whining, for nearly a half hour, then began making rumpling, pocking sounds and dropped from the sky
toward a stretch of scrubby beach. Hecker's safety straps snapped as he tried to right the ship. When the
crash came, he was slammed hard into the control panel.
CHAPTER 2
The hopper was moving away from him in pieces, like a jigsaw puzzle dissolving. There were weathered,
gritty hands all around him and raw smells of the sea and strong spices. Gray clothes and close-cropped
hair. Hecker caught at himself and sat back. Hands were sliding through his clothes, and one hand
snapped out his packet of identification material, another got his pistol. Since he'd passed into Rehab
Center on retinal and voice prints, the packet contained only the faked papers he was to use on his trip
into the unsecured towns. Plus the dog-eared business card with the drawing of a gull on it, the one which
had come into Social Wing headquarters with the message from the possible Kendry contact.
Hands had found the card and someone said, "Kendry pass. Leave him safe and alive."
Hecker's pistol was returned, tucked back into its pouch and patted. "Scavengers," he said, seeing a
little better. "Beach people." The old army hopper was dismantled completely, and its pilot seat, still
holding Hecker, was tipped in a clump of beach scrub. The sky had thinned and the wind had grown
warm. It was late in the afternoon now, and when Hecker touched at his head he found a swelling
spreading across the left side of his face, a smear of dry blood in its center.
The man with his hands still on Hecker was old, sixty-five or more, and dry with age and sun. "Want to
talk, you can talk. Want to eat you can eat. Want to hide, you can hide. I'm Rius." He seemed to have
too many ribs. They lined his thin body in places where there shouldn't be ribs. "The military won't
venture into this stretch. You find yourself in the Manhattan Beach Sector, south of Venice."
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