Black Trace

Chapter 1

Denver slept restless, a fevered child sleep. Yellow light from scattered dying fires spilled onto the street. Lazy drifts of smoke blew across the ruined downtown, passing ghostlike through the blackened steel of the skyline.

The streets were still, hours after the chants and roar of the mobs and the men who routed them. Every federal cop in Denver had been out there on the streets of downtown, no troops left to quiet the suburbs and the drift beyond. Lone Monitor APCs mounted with shotguns and gas streamers patrolled the streets now, squat and ground-low like mechanical bulldogs.

Harvester teams picked over the bodies of the wounded and dead, looking for any parts that could fetch a price. Their white suits looked out of place, clean and fresh like new snowmen among the tangles of wreckage. Skinnies crabbed through the shadows, fishing up spent shell casings or anything valuable enough to be traded for food, but food was worth gold. Others settled themselves with the body of a dead horse that had been ridden by one of the leaders of the rioting citizens. Fresh meat for once.

This had been the fifth straight night that the citizens of Denver had risen against the keepers of law and order. Nerves and skin rubbed raw, even under ballistic vests and Kevlar. The flags were not going to tolerate this disobedience much longer.

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The locker room was tight and hot, muscle to tac-vest as the men suited up for tonight's game.

“Spirit of seventy-six in the crowd,” someone said. “Skinnies are restless.”

“They singin’?” Loomis asked, a deep voice from the well of the Monitor APC.

“Oh yeah. ‘Fuck Tha Police’ and ‘Line Them Up.’” Willen laughed at that. “Can’t go wrong with the classics, right?”

Garrett shifted, like his wovens were chafing. They never fit him right, not even the new gear. “We go out there and brandish and they’ll shut right up,” he hissed.  He drew quick out of his holsters, tens lined up low and ready to spray. It was about the only thing he was any good at, good enough to get him to sergeant and no further.

Culver stood at the door and checked his holster straps. Tight. No accidents. “You are gonna check your fire tonight, Little G,” he said cold. His eyes were on Garrett like the Nightsun spot on a hovering Bell Raven.

“Look at the bleeding heart.” Garrett drew to full height, not that it made a difference. “We don’t get to come home if we don’t crack skulls.”

Culver didn’t even look at the sergeant, refusing to rise to the bait. “Depot’s low, and our re-up got sent to St. Louis instead.”

“St. Louis?” Willen asked with bright eyes wide. “That was all locked down. Remote-kill, full clips.”

Culver shook his head. “Some wise guys jammed the whole flock, turned ‘em on the garrison there. Death from above. They got to watch it coming on their own monitors.”

“Can they do that?” Loomis asked. “They” meant the thousands of rebel groups, from single cells to known movements, any of which would gladly trade a kidney for a pistol and five bullets to make five dead cops.

Culver tapped at the slate then closed it up. “Sure enough. Ain’t no rulebook anymore,” he replied. “So maybe it’s good that we aren’t remote-controlled out here.”

“Never send a machine to do man’s work,” Garrett said with a lick of his lips like he wanted it. “Unless you aren’t man enough for it.” He wouldn’t shut up. He could smell Culver’s single bar and wasn’t going to be stopped.

Culver was tall, slow until he needed speed, then he had it to spare. His eyes snapped back onto Garrett and took his size. “I’m gonna need you on shield wall tonight.”