started out as chess advisers. Chessman, once he took over, gradually used them to replace the civil servants on the highest level. Particularly the police commissioner and the precinct captains. He rightfully didn’t trust them.
“He replaced the patrol cops with rookies armed with submachine guns. Their cars can’t go down the twisting narrow streets, so the Chessman has the red knights. They’re on horseback and can travel down alleys and walkways. Originally, they were park maintenance workers and they had small weed-burners to kill weeds. Their weed-burners grew to flamethrower size, because the homeless are such a threat nowadays.
“You must have seen the big police trucks. They were originally litter pickers for the Parks Department. Now their small litter collectors are huge twenty-five-ton ‘Brush-eaters,’ sometimes used to clear fallen branches and overgrowth. But because of the emergency, they have special powers. Daring and diligent, they go after the homeless, chew ’em up—mostly late at night. They are the front line against the derelicts.”
Rockson wanted to know more. “How about the music? How come there’s only one kind of music?”
“Only muzik is allowed now. M-U-Z-I-K, not music,” he spelled it out. “It’s nice, not like rock and roll.”
“Time’s up, mac. Get out. Leave my customer alone!” snarled the bartender. Rockson snickered. “Not likely, mac. I want the jukebox plugged in.”
The bartender started objecting, but then Rockson pulled out the knife. “I said, I want to play the juke.” In a flash, the cowed bartender handed Rockson four quarters. “Here, it won’t play anything without money. Plug’s on the right.”
After telling the men to keep their hands visible, Rockson went over, plugged the machine in, checked out the selections.
Barry Manilow? He’d never heard of that one. Let’s see, from the archival tapes of Century City he remembered the names of some of the greats. Maybe there would be one here—an old song he could trust to not be programming his mind. Jefferson Starship? No, that didn’t ring a bell. Oh, here’s one: “Johnny B. Good”, by Chuck Berry. He put the quarters in the slot and the dusty needle dropped onto B3.
The sound was loud and clean and refreshing. “Way back up in the woods way down near New Orleans . . .”
Rockson’s shoulders relaxed visibly. He realized they had been hunched in an almost-cringing response to the muzik pouring out of the lightpoles and ceiling speakers for the past few days.
He hit four more selections he remembered from the Century City archives: “Eight Miles High,” by the Byrds, “Satisfaction,” by the Rolling Stones, and a song each by Hank Williams and Loretta Lynn. The Stones came on first, hot and loud. What a relief! The two cowards still had their hands on the bar as he had ordered. They had beads of sweat crawling down their foreheads. They eyed Rockson nervously. “Another whiskey,” Rock said. He noticed that when the bartender went to pour, he picked up a different bottle. Rock smiled.
“If you’re trying to give me a Mickey Finn,” he said, “Forget it. I’m from the future. I’m the Doomsday Warrior, a mutant Freefighter. I’m immune to most poisons and sedatives.”
The barman said, “Anything you say, mister! Sure, you’re—you’re from the future. I got no problem with that, mac. I believe you.” Now he started shaking, but he put down the bottle and poured from the original one. He seemed really terrified. “Say, look, why don’t you take what’s in the register and leave. Nobody will call the cops, you just—”
“Shut up and pour,” Rockson insisted.
The bartender did, spilling half the drink in the process. While Rockson downed the whiskey, Lang cut for the door. He was out in a flash. Rock heard him yelling, “Help! A madman’s in the bar, help, he’s got a knife!”
Rockson shoved the bartender away and tore out into the street. He could
“He replaced the patrol cops with rookies armed with submachine guns. Their cars can’t go down the twisting narrow streets, so the Chessman has the red knights. They’re on horseback and can travel down alleys and walkways. Originally, they were park maintenance workers and they had small weed-burners to kill weeds. Their weed-burners grew to flamethrower size, because the homeless are such a threat nowadays.
“You must have seen the big police trucks. They were originally litter pickers for the Parks Department. Now their small litter collectors are huge twenty-five-ton ‘Brush-eaters,’ sometimes used to clear fallen branches and overgrowth. But because of the emergency, they have special powers. Daring and diligent, they go after the homeless, chew ’em up—mostly late at night. They are the front line against the derelicts.”
Rockson wanted to know more. “How about the music? How come there’s only one kind of music?”
“Only muzik is allowed now. M-U-Z-I-K, not music,” he spelled it out. “It’s nice, not like rock and roll.”
“Time’s up, mac. Get out. Leave my customer alone!” snarled the bartender. Rockson snickered. “Not likely, mac. I want the jukebox plugged in.”
The bartender started objecting, but then Rockson pulled out the knife. “I said, I want to play the juke.” In a flash, the cowed bartender handed Rockson four quarters. “Here, it won’t play anything without money. Plug’s on the right.”
After telling the men to keep their hands visible, Rockson went over, plugged the machine in, checked out the selections.
Barry Manilow? He’d never heard of that one. Let’s see, from the archival tapes of Century City he remembered the names of some of the greats. Maybe there would be one here—an old song he could trust to not be programming his mind. Jefferson Starship? No, that didn’t ring a bell. Oh, here’s one: “Johnny B. Good”, by Chuck Berry. He put the quarters in the slot and the dusty needle dropped onto B3.
The sound was loud and clean and refreshing. “Way back up in the woods way down near New Orleans . . .”
Rockson’s shoulders relaxed visibly. He realized they had been hunched in an almost-cringing response to the muzik pouring out of the lightpoles and ceiling speakers for the past few days.
He hit four more selections he remembered from the Century City archives: “Eight Miles High,” by the Byrds, “Satisfaction,” by the Rolling Stones, and a song each by Hank Williams and Loretta Lynn. The Stones came on first, hot and loud. What a relief! The two cowards still had their hands on the bar as he had ordered. They had beads of sweat crawling down their foreheads. They eyed Rockson nervously. “Another whiskey,” Rock said. He noticed that when the bartender went to pour, he picked up a different bottle. Rock smiled.
“If you’re trying to give me a Mickey Finn,” he said, “Forget it. I’m from the future. I’m the Doomsday Warrior, a mutant Freefighter. I’m immune to most poisons and sedatives.”
The barman said, “Anything you say, mister! Sure, you’re—you’re from the future. I got no problem with that, mac. I believe you.” Now he started shaking, but he put down the bottle and poured from the original one. He seemed really terrified. “Say, look, why don’t you take what’s in the register and leave. Nobody will call the cops, you just—”
“Shut up and pour,” Rockson insisted.
The bartender did, spilling half the drink in the process. While Rockson downed the whiskey, Lang cut for the door. He was out in a flash. Rock heard him yelling, “Help! A madman’s in the bar, help, he’s got a knife!”
Rockson shoved the bartender away and tore out into the street. He could
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