Cruel Summer

Part two:

-VI-

Photon City

The first week of June the temp rose to daily highs of 50 degrees, and a new government hypothesis on the return of the sun promised a real summer the year after the next if the circulating atmosphere did not deposit nuclear fall out on the lower publics.

Marx worried. She did not even bother with the plants much, or if that newbie (she discovered to be the Pamela Zepeda) was taking good care of them, and protecting them from what goodies might rain from the sky. Marx herself realized that she could not keep a baby in a plastic bubble under lamps on a diet of blue tablets and quartz.

She took to carrying an umbrella everywhere she went just in case of rain, it was already bad because of the plant; ever so slightly stinging drops from the sky, so mild the citizens were sure they did not feel a thing.

And it was just not the weather she worried about shielding her baby from; just a few nights ago, she had returned home after visiting with Townsend and the others at the chapel with her supper in a red paper bag. She fixed her spread, chewed, and swallowed her first bite; it instantly soured halfway down her throat and stuck when she realized she was not alone.

"What the fuck?" she asked, reaching for her goddamned tazzie when a cool voice told her she'd better be still.

Marx raised her hands sure that this was it, that the bane she'd feared was there for real to swallow her whole once and for all.

"I'm looking for Marx," she said, appearing from the shadows, the clever bitch that had gotten through her defenses.

She thought about lying to her, but knew that crimers hated to be lied to more than all of human kind.

"I'm Marx."

"You?" she asked, "But you're-"

"Yeah I know," Marx answered, there was a possibility this crimer had a conscious about not hurting a pregnant woman, "Whatever you want out of us go on and take it."

"You don't have to bargain," the intruder answered, appearing before her; she was a stunning thing about her own age with sparkling almond shaped eyes and yards it seemed of dark brown hair.

"I would not have harmed you in your condition," she said, "I'm Petra Singleton."

"Oh," was all Marx could say, that explained how the bitch had gotten in, she was the princess of all crimers.

"Do you think that is funny?" Petra asked, registering the grin that appeared on her face.

"No," Marx said, "I don't have much fourX anymore; what's in the tub is it."

The crimer laughed. "Little Mother, not many people lie to me and tell the tale, who gave you the stash? Was it the captain that's always here?"

Marx's stomach turned, the princess had been watching her. "No, it was someone else, the captain does not know, I do other work for her."

"Having to do with the cult I suppose," Petra said.

"Yes exactly," Marx said, "I'm very busy these days."

"I see that," she answered, "But my mother promised me I could have the fourX business, so you should tell your partner to get ready to turn everything over to me."

Marx moved to stand but a look from the crimer stopped her.

"I'll take those plants you have too," Petra said, "Anyone who wants fourX in this city will have to come to me."

"That's not right," Marx said, "Those are mine, I've cared for them…and they're all I've got, my family."

The crimer gave her a thoughtful look. "You're serious."

"Forget it," Marx shouted, "Take 'em."

"Suppose you were to join my family," Petra said, "You could continue to care for the plants."

"I don't want to be a Singleton," Marx brooded standing, slowly so the crimer would not think she was reaching for her tazzie or a gun. She went to the tub, snatched down the curtain, and spread it out on the floor.

"I've suspected something like this would happen for a long time," Marx said, carefully lifting one of the plants out of its mineral water, whispering goodbyes to it.

"And what is so wrong with being a Singleton?" Petra asked.

Marx ignored her as she spread the plant out on the curtain and went for the other.

"Answer me, Little Mother," Petra crossed the room and grabbed her wet hand; Marx tried to snatch away her nose crinkled making the crimer laugh.

"You're just the type of pretty I like," Petra told her, "I wonder do you look the same when you aren't pregnant."

"Fuck off," Marx told her, the crimer grabbed her chin.

"Don't tempt me, Little Mother," she said, dropping her wet hand to wrap an arm around her waist, her hand moved from Marx's chin to her neck.

"You should at least teach me to care for them properly," she said, "I've read some books in anticipation of this day, my brother and I revere the plant as you do, I'm sure he would like to meet you as well."

Marx narrowed her eyes sarcastically. "I'll think about it."

Petra pressed her close hurting her stomach. "I can't stand you loser crimers who think you're some how superior to the Singletons, you Robin Hoods trying to do deeds for the citizenry while you exploit them."

"I've never exploited nobody," Marx tried to pull away from her.

"And that church?" Petra explained, "That little ranger?"

Marx made a little scream of frustration wishing West were there so she could blow Petra Singleton's knee caps out so she could kick her goddamned face in.

She let go of Marx and she lost her balance grabbing the rim of the tub, she slowed her fall and landed on her ass the crimer laughing at the petulant expression she shot up at her.

"To show my good faith I'll let you keep your plants," Petra said, "Get your affairs in order Little Mother, I'll call you next week the day before the hour of silence you'll tell me where to come fetch my plants."

She left and Marx spat at her and cursed retrieving herself and collecting her plants.

The anniversary of the Silver City blast was to be marked by an hour of silence, it was several days away and Marx still had not told Pamela Zepeda that her little business was about to be undone.

Since the memorial for Moss, Marx went down to the greens every morning to breakfast with Townsend then help attend to the chapel; keeping it spick and span, the fake green lawn free of trash, lighting the censers, the candles.

They were fire worshippers, and such things were important, the flame represented the spirit, the ultimate passion stifled by the body and the morays put in place by society.

 A few mornings after meeting Petra Singleton, Marx arrived like usual, her umbrella open because she was even afraid of the dew. Townsend met her out front the little woman lived in a cell up a narrow flight of stairs. She offered a friendly smile and came to take Marx's hand.

"I swear that baby grows every night," she said, touching Marx's belly.

"Yeah," she answered, "And I feel heavier every day."

Townsend nodded. "Its good for you to still get around, bed bound women give birth to listless children."

"And what do women exposed to toxic waste give birth too?" Marx asked as they entered the foyer of the chapel.

"I can't say," she answered evenly, "But women with too many anxieties have neurotic children."

Marx went to the altar room as she did every morning to revere the silence there, the physical quiet but also the stilling of her mind the static canvases inspired that she could not attain even in sleep it seemed. She sat on one of the benches towards the middle of the room she did not even have to shut her eyes.

"Do you even know what you're doing?" Townsend asked sitting next to her.

"Having a little moment of peace," Marx said.

"You're spacing out," Townsend said, "You must use that quiet you find not as an escape but a key to unlock the hidden knowledge within us all."

Marx shook her head. "What if there is none in me?" she asked.

"Of course there is," the old woman insisted, "It's only a matter of looking."

"What if I'm too lazy to search?" Marx asked, "What if this is it? What if these moments I've found here are the only moments I haven't been looking over my shoulder for some bane?"

Townsend touched her shoulder. "You're young; you have a lot to learn."

"I don't know," Marx answered, patting the side of her belly, "I want a decent life for us."

She knew her past made that impossible she was too low down to have a good life, a crimer who was selling out her grandmother's religion, all the while whoring out the knowledge that had survived the generations.

"I have something to show you," Townsend said snapping Marx out of her reverie of self-loathing.

She stood and had Marx follow her past the narrow staircase that led to her quarters, below to a dark room with dim lights in the floor.

As her eyes adjusted she saw that it was a little lighted pool that water's reflection playing on the ceiling.

"Our cult began here when the knowledge of the Hidden Goddess was rediscovered," Townsend said, "Long after this place stopped being a museum, Euvia thought that cult was the beginning of Heart Fire and that someone sanctified this water."

Marx stooped running a hand over the surface, it felt cool and wet, certainly not sanctified, but then again she would not know sanctified if she picked it out of her nose.

She decided to believe the little old monk; she looked up at her and smiled.

"Euvia would invite people to come down here and bathe," she said, "If they had some kind of trouble or loss. She called it a grief bath."

"Are you inviting me?" Marx asked.

"I am," Townsend said.

"It's awfully cold," Marx said, she was always taking cold showers with her plants, the cold was not what frightened her.

"Please don't doubt," Townsend said, "I know that you are indeed Marx Moss, your mother never married, she had you by a midwife and never bothered to register you, that is how you lost your name."

She had always wondered why she had not memory of her mother, she was sure she must have been very small.

"How'd you find all this out?" Marx asked.

"Because I was that midwife, I helped with your birth," Townsend said, reaching up and touching her face, "Later I was a liaison between your mother and grandmother during their estrangement; your mother disappeared, she was very young, she started working in the plant and when she was killed we had no idea what happened to you."

"What were they fighting over?" Marx asked.

"This cult," Townsend half sighed, "Your mother thought it was all too fantastic, Euvia was a historian, had raised her to be a woman of  reason, together they were digging at all the old history using the ancient stories passed down as links."

"So they fell out and Mom ended up in Photon City working in at the plant," Marx said, "They must have been very close."

"They were," Townsend said, a tear slipping down her craggy face, "And she searched for you, but things were a mess back then, so many lost children."

"Yeah," Marx said, she had suffered being one of those lost.

"In her younger days Euvia wallowed in her melancholy," Townsend said, "Refused to be treated, before she learned to be stronger, anything could knock her flat and she would spend days in despondency."

Marx peered down into the black water. "Sounds familiar."

"Euvia would have brought you here," Townsend said, "She would have wanted you to bathe and grieve properly."

"Alright," Marx said, sinking and sitting on the cement floor, pulling off her boots, the old woman left her and she stripped. At least the air was warm, a bit stuffy. She toed the water first; it was not so very cold as her showers with the plants. Since there were no steps she had to ease down in there until her feet reached the bottom. As the water reached her hips the baby inside of her seemed to curl into a ball reacting to the shock her body felt to the immersion.

She whispered out breathy curses as she sank to her breasts, her nipples quicklyshrank into stinging pebbles. Her teeth chattered and she wondered if she was crazy to be out in the apocalypse damned near underground in a stuffy pool.

She figured that old Granny Moss had to be a little awf to have found something spiritual down there in the dark, her head stuffy, her body freezing. Perhaps creepers did not feel the cold like they used to.

She looked up and watched the play of the water and light, she looked down at her pale body distorted into a jagged blob of shadow and skin.

It was dead quiet down there a couple of hours and the body probably slowed down, the eyes numbed to the dimness like a slept on limb, so someone meditating did not have to bother with closing their eyes they could just stare and slip off.

Euvia Moss had meditated many times in that very spot, pushing away thoughts of her lost family for a set of images; some ridiculous little goddess and her consort. Townsend had been the real brains behind Heart Fire; Marx wondered why Euvia got all the credit. She must have had some mind. Charisma when she was not nursing her despair.

"Selfish," Marx accused the cement cavern, the pool, "You didn't try very hard to find me; you had your cult, and Townsend, you let Mom go, you let me go." A sob hitched in her chest and she remembered to breathe.

"You were probably twisted on fourX, paranoid that someone would come and try to tear down your religion," Marx said, she touched her hot belly, "This is my baby and I won't leave her, ever, no sadness, no bane should ever be that strong."

She was angry with her self too, she left the pool, dressed quickly and marched out of the chapel soak and wet not listening to Townsend when she tried to stop her. She got in her trix, jacked up the heat and cruised home trying to figure out a way to convince the captain that she was never going back.

She was still pondering when West showed up for her daily report, she was kind of angry at the fucking world but the captain was distracted, that morning had been her first city council meeting but she was not talking about it, which led Marx to believe things did not go well for the captain.

She withheld her information about the pool, though the Captain would have gravely lapped it up. Marx was usually a girl who understood her anger, today she could not. She got especially pissed when West produced several cans of fruit.

"Listen, I don't want you bringing me any more little treats," Marx said, "I have the money to hunt stuff like this up."

"Of course," West said, a little puzzled, "I thought I'd save you the trouble, I didn't think you were so well connected."

Marx had never made the necessary associations, met the right people to provide her with lost goods, but she did not want to go on accepting them from the captain.

"How do you get these things?" she asked, "You're a ranger, how did you get so well connected?"

"I'm not crooked if that's what you think," West said.

"You wouldn't describe yourself that way," Marx said, "So self righteous, you probably have a dozen crimers like me under your thumb extorting whatever you want from them."

West reddened. "That's the most awful thing I've ever heard."

"Don't stand here listening," Marx said, grabbing her coat, "I'm on my way out, I have things to do."

"Of course," West said following her, "I know you bought back you plants."

Marx stopped for a second on the narrow stair case ready to explode but instead she decided to ignore the captain.

"I'm beginning to wonder if I can trust you at all," West said, "You'll get yourself killed out there especially with the Singletons around."

"Don't you know?" Marx asked, "I work for them now…there's no law saying I can't work for both sides is there?"

"You'll get yourself killed," West reaffirmed and left her.

Marx went directly to the warehouse to be with the plants and help with some of the harvest. She was not sure if Petra was having her followed. She could have taken the plants by force if she had wanted.

She continued holding off on telling Pamela about the Singletons, she still had a few days before the hour of silence to tell her what was going on. She would bide her time. She needed space to think and she would be sure to avoid Captain West.

-           -           -           -           -           -           -           -           -

Sloan noted that so far the Singleton's and Chief Grimke had not crossed each other, though their actions had affected the other. Masha had taken over the Sahara hotel, her crime family regularly trashing the establishment. Business on Calvary was booming, welcoming Singleton money as the crime family settled intoto their new capitol; Photon City.

Grimke had become a legend during her term as police chief, the good decent folks adored her, the newbies studied her as if she were a lost civilization, crimers were respectfully frightened. Grimke raided clubs, she broke noses, she put curfews on residential areas, she pushed, she shoved, she enforced; she even had a patrol in the park of all places. There was no way Sloan could have the chief out of her office she would be missed. She just needed a way to control Grimke, before she went head to head with Masha.

Sloan was sure her fiancé was up to the challenge of distracting Grimke through her young wife. She proposed a friendship one afternoon as they were having lunch at the outdoor club.

"Elise is very lovely," Pamela flushed, "But is she interesting?"

"Does it matter?" Sloan asked, her fiancé had been preoccupied lately off somewhere in the afternoons, seeing a lot more of her idiot psychic.

"Yes it does," Pamela said, "I don't want to be bored to death."

A waiter stopped to refill their wine glasses, Sloan refused but Pamela accepted another glass.

"This is a favor for me," she said, "Just take her around, get her out of that house, show her around town, show her your siphon."

Pamela shot her an irascible look. "Is it so important to have Grimke under your finger?"

"I don't want her clashing with the Singletons in this city," Sloan said.

"You'll let Masha have it?" Pamela asked too loudly.

"In two years it won't be my problem," Sloan whispered touching her forehead exasperated, "Will you do this for me or not Pamela?"

"Fine," she answered, "I will. First, you need to use your authority to order Grimke to bring her wife here to the club, we'll play some smash and get to know each other better."

"Thank you," Sloan said, "That's genius."

Pamela smiled slyly, leaning forward across the table the stylish sports jacket she wore revealing the softness of her cleavage. "Don't worry, I don't think it will be so hard to befriend Elise, word is she spends all of her days inside waiting for Grimke…I think your chief is some sort of brute."

Sloan laughed. "She's too exhausted for that, you should see the fucking army she's building, she went on a spree suspending any Ranger who was out of shape or noncompliant to her…" she searched for a proper word, "Her will."

"I've seen them patrolling around town," Pamela said, "I'm very proud of our knaves, they've made such a turnaround in two weeks."

Sloan signaled that waiter, ordered a dark, strong beer then settled in her seat. It was not the Rangers, it was Grimke and everyone including Pamela knew this. She was beginning to feel like she had hanged herself declaring a war on crime by hiring this general, then having to deal with the biggest crime family in the Publics.

"You haven't spent the night with me in days," Pamela was nearly pouting, "I'm beginning to worry about us."

Sloan snapped out of her brood realizing that her fiancé had been trying to seduce her over lunch, the jacket, the rebelliousness, all attention getters.

"I'm sorry," she said, "Maybe we could have dinner together Pammie?"

"Not interested," her fiancé answered.

"Then what?" Sloan asked reaching across the table for her hand, was comforted when she received it.

"I want you to come home," Pamela said, "Stay with me the night and don't rush away the next morning. I miss sleeping with you."

"I wish I could start now," Sloan said wistfully.

"I have to go meet mother," Pamela said, "She wants me to help her rehearse lines for her big debut."

Sloan laughed. Dusty Zepeda who she had named City Director for Culture and Arts, decided she wanted to give more than her usual monetary contribution to the theater she wanted to lend her acting talents. There was a small, but key role written into the next week's play just for her.

Pamela did not let go of her hand as she stood, bending to kiss her. "I'll see you tonight then, you'd better be there Mayor Sloan."

"I will," she answered.

When Pamela was gone, the beer came in a heavy, narrow, glass. She took a long sip before leaving the table to return to the city. Her thoughts strayed back to Eustace Grimke and Masha Singleton. She began to entertain the idea of letting the old general go like a hound on a hunt. Masha was a treacherous woman; if her pride was wounded she would turn more vicious than any evil imaginable.

Then if Sloan was the hunter that turned the hound loose to catch the beast, she might find herself a smoother, faster way to the governorship.

-           -           -           -           -           -           -           -           -

Among the many things Wes learned during her tumultuous first weeks with Chief Grimke was that people respected uniforms. She had somehow suspected it, but seeing her new boss commanding respect, verified it.

For the first council meeting open to the public, West made sure she was more pressed and polished than usual, she had even gotten a hold of a pair of white overshoes, tucked her pants into her boots.

She walked into the assembly room greeting the general assemply with a nod, which included Sloan's staff, newbies she bestowed with various token titles. West ascended the raised floor where the council sat behind one great half-circle table. The mayor sat in her assigned spot, speaking with Leticia Hendrix who had been the City Secretary for over twenty-five years.

She sat exchanging pleasantries with Bradstreet surveying the chatting people beyond, the great brass stars on the ceiling the centers of majestic chandeliers, the relief carvings that covered the length of the high walls of the many battles that shaped the nation.

"Inspiring, isn't it?" Bradstreet asked, as she took her seat next to West.

"That we have even a small place among all of that," the captain said, "Yes, it's inspiring."

Bradstreet smiled. "Do rangers ever get time off to have dinner or coffee?"

West taken aback found she could not respond, a woman had not asked her out on a date since her arrival to Photon City, since college.

"Yes, rangers get time off," she said.

"Equal priviledges for equal work," someone shouted and all attention turned to a tall, masked man in the center aisle of the assembly. He wore an old-fashioned rubber mask, the colors faded by the years, some green, large eared trollish hero from the days of movies.

There were gunshots in the hall, the others ducked, there was screaming, and gasped. West kept her eyes on the hooligan, stood with her gun drawn. Several Black Stripe guards entered brandishing their own guns. The creep saw and ran up the ailse ramming the emergency exit open, the Black Stripes in hot pursuit.

West dashed to the hall, her eyes darting through scrambling people for the shooter, saw the Black Stripes securing the area. She returned to the meeting hall to find the mayor banging on the round table with the heel of her shoe, calling into the mic for order.

The crowd quieted and settled again, West returned her gun to her holster as she took her seat.

Secretary Hendrix stood and read the last minutes of the previous meeting. Sloan introduced West and quickly swore her in. There was a brief applause, then a short silence broken by the honorable councilman York.

"The presence of the Singleton crime family worries me," he said and the others agreed, "They're a plague on this city."

"I've had reports of factory owners being harassed," Trapp said, "Masha Singleton has already begun attempting to extort from them, sabotaging machinery, injuring workers."

West listened to them read off the complaints they received from constituents including the owner of the Sahara. They all looked to her, including Sloan, West had nothing to say, her ward was the official home of the city's crimers.

"You must understand," she said, "The Singletons are a different breed from the RX dealers, pimps and prostitutes, their connections go deep."

"Someone should stand up to them," Trapp said, "You're a ranger, what steps are being taken to expunge them from the city?"

"I cannot be here as a spokesperson for the police department," West said, "I will say that Chief Grimke-"

"The general," Trapp sneered, "Anyone who has eyes can see that she's prodding the rangers back into something they have not been for years, yet the city needs more than patrols in the park."

McHarry spoke up. "We need to know if we can truly depend on our police department to protect us, to prevent these crimes from happening."

"In theory," West said, "There has never in history been a police system that prevented all types of crimes, that's not what policing is meant to do, hence the word, meaning to control, to regulate, as in public safety, as in detection, investigation and prosecution."

She looked up to see that Chief Grimke was there, West had told her of the meeting, sure she was not revealing her anxieties in doing so, but that had been hard the last few days. She knew it looked as if Grimke was there to intimidate, to show that she was everywhere in that town, but she could have shown up in response to the shooting.

"You think the lower classes know that? All they see is the police patrols in midtown and old town while the Singleton threat looms closer," Trapp said, "Your school girl theories won't solve our problems."

"You always claim that the lower class is ignored, the rangers are all around town," Bradstreet said, "Maybe you should make your reports to the proper source, Captain West is no longer interim chief."

"There just seems to be a great effort made to ignore the Singletons," Trapp accused.

West knew she should not but she could not help looking back out at the audience for Grimke. The chief was gone.

"It seems your coach has abandoned you," Trapp said triumphantly.

West did not say much for the rest of the meeting, and when it adjourned she left right away, the cold, steel day beyond a welcome sight. She was marching to her trix when the ranger chief stepped in time beside her.

"Don't worry; you did good up there," Grimke said, "How about a ride back to headquarters? I kind of ambled up here."

West agreed though she would have rather been alone, or perhaps go visit Marx.           "You didn't talk about Heart Fire," Grimke said.

"I don't want to jeopardize anything," West said, "Can you believe those people? It's like they set me up to humiliate me."

"Razing the new kid," Grimke said gently as they approached the patrol UTM, "They're frightened by the way."

"Everyone is," West said, "The Singleton plague has landed."

"They're hard to catch up with for now," Grimke said, "But they'll slip and we'll be there to break their heads."

West sighed opening the doors by remote. "Participating in some antics like that would feel good right now."

"There's that bloodlust," Grimke teased, "Let's go down to that dark dank range no one uses and do some shooting."

"Alright," West said.

"You shouldn't worry about your ward," Grimke told her as they ducked into the UTM. "I got it covered."

The captain could not help giving a little laugh. "You got it covered. All those crimers? All by yourself?"

"I don't mean all by myself," Grimke said, "Those pansies don't expect you to actually clean the whole 3^rd up?"

"I don't know what they want from me," West said dismally.

"They don't want you interfering," Grimke said, "The fact that you're a ranger scares them."

West paused, turned her head to look at the chief, the gravity of her words settling slowly. "Only crimers are afraid of rangers."

"Exactly," Grimke said.

-           -           -           -           -           -           -           -           -          

Grimke cozied up to domestic life; Elise's glowing hearth sent the chill from her limbs. Though life beyond their little house was hectic (the Singleton's running rampant while the Rangers refused to be shaped up into something Grimke was proud to lead) she dutifully left those troubles on the front stoop.

Sundays were hers; that was the way Elder had raised her. Grimke stayed indoors with Elise and they played backgammon and chess, read books together or watched those old fashioned live action movies on the vid.

In three weeks Grimke actually began to develop a little flab at her belly, and she was proud of that though Elder would have been appalled. She chased Elise around the house in nothing but her issued skivvies always catching her just to peel off whatever her wife happened to be wearing.

And every morning she kissed her goodbye then stepped out to face Photon City, the crimes that had been committed during the night.

One morning in the middle of June, a particular crimer was still raging through the streets in a blood red, foreign, sports car more fast and agile than anything the Rangers could bring in to challenge.

Grimke was having toasted fu bread and coffee as Elise trimmed the back of her neck in the kitchen. They listened to the scanner Grimke had set up so every morning she could hear in advance, what she would be dealing with that day.

Unit 2298 reported a pedestrian killed by a hit and run driver just as another unit reported another street fatality.

Grimke raised her eyebrows and listened as Ranger Rice jumped in and out of breath reported a speeding car tearing through the Fourth Ward; that it had clipped her hog, damaging it.

The scanner began to click and Grimke could actually hear the roar of the car as it passed patrolling rangers, they all marked the car's speed, and ran the plates, which came back under a dock side dealership where big shots went to purchase cruising cars but nothing of such a caliber.

Elise dusted the lose hair from Grimke's neck and tee with a little whisk brush.

"They'll get hurt," she said of the rangers.

"I know," Grimke stood and kissed her. Half her uniform waited on the backs of the chairs of their kitchenette. Elise helped her with her bullet proof armor, and watched her don the rest of the uniform.

 It had been strange changing colors; the shirt was basically the same gray with a blue tie that she tucked inside the space past the third button instead of pinning it down her front. She tucked the blue gray pants with their gold stripe into her boots. The jacket was nothing like her Marine one, it was made of a dark blue leathery material, with a zipper up the front. There were no more brass buttons, no globe anchor eagle, just the city seal stitched on her shoulders, the five silver stars orbiting a burgundy disk on circular blue lines.

She liked the black belt best, with the retractable tazer stick, the gun holster that tied around her thigh, ammo compartments, a little med kit. Grimke buckled it, smilied when she noticed her wife watching.

"I'm making penne rigate tonight," Elise told her.

"Great," Grimke said as she was handed her cap with the single gold star that identified her as the chief of police. She pulled on her all weather and left the house, pausing on the stoop to survey the sky.

There was usually a car to pick her up, a cruiser driven by some ranger nervous of having to drive the chief to work, uniform perfect because word had gotten out that she would have some bitch about any wrinkle or stain.

She tuned into her ear scanner and heard West ordering all traffic off the roads, letting the racer have their way until the car ran out of gas.

"How will you get to work?" Elise poked her head out of the door looking around just in case some of the action happened upon their ward, their street.

"Don't worry," Grimke could not help but smile as she marched down the walk and briskly went up the street to the nearest Black Stripe guard post.

"Franco," she called and the young guard left his little fiberglass shack.

"Chief," he greeted her, "It's falling apart out there, I was wondering when you'd wake up."

"The older you get the harder it is to get out of bed," she told him, "Look, I need to get into town, let me commandeer your hog."

"Sure," he answered, reaching on his belt for the key, "As long as Mayor Sloan pays if it wrecks."

Franco tossed it, and Grimke snatched the key out of the air.

"Thanks," she said, straddling the vehicle, and starting it, she turned to see him grinning and shaking his head. She knew why. She was the age of his mother or maybe an aunt.

She waved and burned out on to the main street past the little red school bus out to pick up children for school, the driver pumped her horn in greeting, and Grimke nodded. She had become a resident of some interest and everyone took time to greet her.

"Gimme West," she spoke into the tiny gold colored mic pinned to her jacket and the clicks of chatter stopped.

"West," the captain answered in her ear, "We got imaging, a female by the name of Pharaoh Burns, A.K.A Pharaoh Singleton."

"What's the body count?" Grimke asked her mic.

There was an exasperated sigh, because she was trying to encourage the new chief to use proper, more sensitive language.

"2 dead, 3 injured," West said.

"Other damages?" Grimke asked, "City property? Personal Property?"

"All of the above," West told her, "We already got Singleton lawyers calling pointing out that we haven't negotiated a cease and desist. A forceful surrender at these speeds could get us in trouble for public endangerment even if the perp isn't injured."

"So we'll just have to get her to slow down," Grimke said, "Bring out the juicers."

Grimke had stopped the hog between the wards and it idled between her legs. Rice found her and waited next to her side, Vogle found her too though the last she had heard he was on the opposite side of town.

The two were her tiny faction, officers who liked the change Grimke brought, who believed in fighting crime without all the bureaucracy. Rice was clever as hell, and Vogle was a giant.

Grimke peered at the map on the vid monitor of Vogle's hog that had been created charting Pharaoh's various circles around Old and Mid town. It was the same pattern; each path had the same intersection in common. She haggled with West over where the mechanisms should be set up.

"The Singletons are listening too," Rice said to Vogle, "Already got their attorney on our ass to make sure we don't do anything unlawful."

"Meanwhile that bitch is tearing through the streets," he said, "Took out an old lady crossing the street," he continued, "An old lady who couldn't get across the street fast enough."

Grimke interrupted them. "She's going East we got juicers on the WD and Gray, near Old Town she's been circling through that area."

She put the hog into motion and sped towards the first road block, Vogle and Rice behind her. As they neared the intersection Grimke could hear the ultra-hevved engine roaring down a parallel street.

They reached the road block a few second before Pharaoh did her machine was impressive, low to the ground, not one exterior component that would hinder its speed. It was the sort of car that belonged on a competitive race track.

The juicers were activated and the red car gave a squeal but it was going too fast to stop. The car growled and passed through the invisible electronic net.

"Fuck," Grimke shouted after it.

"Too fast," Vogle commented.

"C'mon," Grimke told him, she rode her hog into the street and snatched up one of the canisters.

Vogle followed her lead and snatched two, Rice caught another. They followed the chief as she accelerated the hog as fast as it would go. On the radio she could hear West asking what was going on.

"We're going to stop her," Grimke said.

"We should have tried the block again," West said, she was pissed, "We should have waited."

She had a point and Grimke would have to tell her that one day but she did not want to risk catching Pharaoh by passing the intersection, changing up the nice pattern she had set; this way thye could predict her, and Grimke knew there was nothing better than being two steps ahead of the jacks. She stared down at the map trying to figure out where the Singleton would appear.

Grimke darted down the wrong way of a one way street, made another turn and stopped her hog. She killed the engine, tilted her head catching the sound of the approaching car.

"Right here," she said activating the juicer canister, stepping back as Vogle and Rice did the same.        

Grimke got back on her hog and rolled out into the street as the car sped up not seeing the traps only the knave in the middle of the street pumping a fist, give her the three fingered wave.

Rice screamed when the chief did not move the hog as the car passed through the juicer grid losing speed but not enough. Grimke jumped off and rolled into the gutter as the car and hog collided, metal shattering glass, the hog's little engine exploding against the frame of the car, its front end flipping over the roof.

Pharaoh had stomped on the brakes, and the tires rebelled, the car skidded sideways and stopped a smoking, fiery, heap.

Grimke was up baton ready, crashing the passenger window and dodging to the side as her welcome was greeted by bullets. The door popped open and Pharaoh tried to leap out brandishing her piece. Grimke noticed the nodes on her ears, knew she was twisting on the box. She used her baton to break a few of the delicates in her thick wrist, Pharaoh sank back into the car.

Grimke pulled the bitch out, dropped her on the pavement and put a knee in her belly. She snatched the clips off her ears, pulling the wires until the box came free.

"Look at this shit," she screamed into her face, "You turn this place into a war zone because you can't handle this perverted technology."

"Goddamned knave," Pharaoh screamed, her nostrils oozed twin streams of blood, "Let offa me, Let off me."

Vogle moved, in told the Singleton he wanted her hands, she told him to go fuck himself.

Grimke grabbed her bleeding nose and twisted. "Your hands Singleton."

She gave them and they were cuffed. They hauled her to her feet Rice shouted her rights as they marched off the street.

"You think you're doing something here?" Pharaoh asked, "Something big? Your job is over, you'll be lucky if the Marines take you back."

"Shut your mouth," Grimke told her, "You're under arrest."

Vogle and Rice kind of shrank away from their suspect, they began to graph off the crime scene in one by one foot increments. Other Rangers were sent in to help a car came around to collect Pharaoh along with Captain West.

Grimke watched her survey the scene as a medic looked over her right arm. West found her and came to inquire of her injuries.

"I'm fine," she told her, "Just a few bumps."

"Of course," West said, "War heroes don't break."

"We don't," Grimke said, "Look Captain, I don't care to hear for your lectures on the socially acceptable way to take down jacks, it was a situation that was out of control-"

"So we just fight fire with fire," West said, "Destroying the city if we have to."

"I'm the chief here," Grimke said, "And I won't have crimers deciding how they should be dealt with."

"We could be brought up on charges for this," West said, "What are you going to tell the judicial board? That you're going to disregard their rules because you feel like they're too soft?"

She looked around self consciously noticing that there were a few onlookers including the poor medic scanning Grimke's arm.

"Where I come from there are no judges," she told West.

"But you're in Photon City now," the captain said, "There are officials who police the police, don't be so ridiculously stubborn. Did you even take time to think of Rice and Vogle?"

"I won't take them down with me," Grimke said, "If there is trouble I'll face it alone."

"You can't be that noble in this world either," West said, "You just don't think about anything but putting the squeeze on jacks."

She turned and walked away as a steel colored car rolled on to the scene.

Grimke seized her arm from the medic to follow the captain, as she neared she saw Mayor Sloan's cold lovely face. West turned to shoot her a sharp look then stepped away from the car.

"Get in," Sloan said.

Grimke did so and the car cruised off with a gesture from the mayor. She was about to protest leaving the crime scene but did not.        

"What the hell was that all about?" Sloan asked, "You chase her through the streets running down pedestrians-"

"No one was chasing her," Grimke said, "She was doing a fine job of murdering people before we caught on…who's side are you on anyway?"

"As long as the Singletons are camping in this city I want as few incidents as possible," Sloan told her as they drove into old town, "They're a dangerous bunch."

"You're frightened of them," Grimke said, "So they should just be allowed to do and take whatever they please until they move on."

Sloan offered her a drink Grimke accepted water.

"This isn't what I want Chief," Sloan said, opening a refrigerated panel with chilled glasses and beverages.

"It's not what I want either," Grimke said, "I won't be a part of her being turned loose, you get the paper work done, none of my man power is going to wasted letting a murdering lunatic go free."

"I won't ask that of you," Sloan said calmly, "You must understand there are rules out here in civilization, we don't go around causing explosions in the streets, there are laws to protect people."

"There are rules of war too," Grimke said, "But most of the time they're ignored for the greater good, I wish the so called civilized world was as smart."

She realized they were going to Headquarters and she felt like an old fool, she must have seemed like a savage relic to them, great guns blazing, thirsty for pain. It had been a long time since Grimke felt inadequate, and it hurt.

 "You're doing a great job here in Photon City, a lot of citizens realize that," Sloan said, "Hell, Bradstreet has already called me a dozen times to tell me she has her own lawyers to fight anything the Singletons put against you-"

"But that won't be necessary," Grimke said, as they pulled in front of the police compound, "You're going to sweep this all under the rug."

"It's a delicate matter," Sloan said simply.

Grimke looked at her for a moment, she did not trust the young mayor she seemed dignified but there was an underlying cowardice, and the politician's slickness no sane person trusted.

"What is this costing us?" Grimke asked, "My mother always told me about the failures of compromise to avoid battle."

Sloan smiled. "That Elder was something else wasn't she?"

"What is this costing us?" Grimke asked.

"What is this costing you?" Sloan asked, "Do you want to be discharged? You didn't try very hard to turn this position down and I believe its because you know what will happen to you if retire, become inactive with nothing but blank days, I don't think  Elise could save you from Elder's fate."

"How dare you," Grimke snarled.

"And when was the last time you took your wife out?" Sloan continued, "She called me a half dozen times after you stopped responding to West…What is this costing you Grimke?"

She could say nothing in reply, noticed that she had slumped and straightened.  

They reached headquarters, pulled around back, the bay where prisoners were taken to max prisons or released. There was a long, black car there instead of the usual armored bus, along with several motorbikes. The Singletons. Masha along with her progeny.

"And if I were you," Sloan was saying, "I'd get rid of the scanner; you'll worry Elise to death."

"What's this?" Grimke asked.

"It's me and you, an experiment," Sloan said carefully, "We're going to hold on to Pharaoh Singleton, we're going to prosecute her to the full extent of the law."

Grimke nodded sensing a cold urgent air coming from the mayor, she had some plan that involved making the crime family pay, and she was willing to follow.

-           -           -           -           -           -           -           -           -          

Sloan had her. The chief was listening intently ready and eager, her handsome face steeled. She was quite striking. There was no doubt in Sloan's mind that Pharaoh would eventually walk, the court process would be enough to piss Masha off, she usually did not have to fight legal battles for her family.

"Follow my lead," Sloan said to Grimke. The mayor opened the door stood to see Masha Singleton waiting, a smirk appeared on her face, and she said something to her son and daughter who laughed.

Sloan had been with Pamela when she heard about the apprehension she got out of bed and donned a hunter green suit, a lighter colored long wool coat over it to block the morning chill.

"Masha," she greeted her, as Grimke's boot-steps thudded behind her.

"Jules," the Singleton said. She wore a billowy white blouse under a snug vest made out of some reptile's skin, thermal breeches and boots, a fur hat with several rows of gold coin ornaments hanging amongst her black brown hair.

"You brought your chief," she said, "Hello chief."

When Grimke did not say a word, the crime queen laughed turning to Petra, and Beau who laughed too, the girl with a bit more edge as her hand strayed to the stone studded white holster strapped to her bare thigh.

"If this is all you want, allowing your rangers to catch my crimers to save face, then that is a compromise I can allow," Masha said.

"Grimke is a bulldog," Sloan said, "I can't tell you what she'd do if she got hold of another Singleton."

Masha hissed. "You threaten me Jules, with an old dog soldier."

"She's quite remarkable," Sloan said glancing over her shoulder at Grimke, then back at the crimers, "She acts on impulses you or I will never know."

"Then she'll die," Masha said, looking past her at Grimke, "You hear me, General, this isn't a war game."

"Has anyone ever really got in your way?" the chief asked.

"No one who lived to tell the tale," Masha said.

Sloan dialed her communiqué. "Send out the prisoner," she said. The prison dock doors opened and two Black Stripes brought out Pharaoh Singleton; drugged, dazed, squinting at the bleary sky.

Grimke looked to Sloan who raised one eyebrow quickly, the Black Stripes stopped with Pharaoh in between them.

"I can't let her go," the mayor said, "This has become too high profile, she killed people."

Masha grinned malignantly. "This is a high stakes game you play."

"It doesn't have to be a game," Sloan said.

"Fucking bitch," Petra reached for her little gun, but Grimke beat her revealing her great Hammersmith.

"Don't think about it girlie," the chief warned, "By the time you pull the trigger mommy's head will be a memory."

Beau flinched to reach for his own weapon, thought better of it.

Sloan almost laughed, she felt so anxious she was giddy, here was Grimke threatening to blow off the head of the crime queen, threatening to make her head a memory. She had to admire the older woman's breakneck courage.

"What are you trying to prove Jules?" Masha asked, her eyes shifting from the gun pointed at her, "I don't think a corpse can win governorship."

"You heard the mayor," Grimke spoke up, "If you want Pharaoh you're going to have to win her back through the courts, I doubt she's worth it."

"Have her," Masha said, "There is plenty more where she came from."

Sloan could hardly believe her ears, she had never know the queen of crime to let go of any one of her family. Then again, she doubted Masha had ever been in such a situation. Pharaoh was a grunt, thus expendable no matter how long she had been loyal.

Just as Sloan suspected, Masha did not want to get involved in any court battles, it would bring too much attention to her enterprises. She would rather bully or buy each arrest off immediately before the police could formally press charges.

 Masha shot a look at Grimke. "I can give you a war if you want it."

"Just clear out of Photon City," the chief said, "And all of that could be avoided."

The woman gave another icy grin, motioned for her children to get going, they did so obediently mounting their bikes. She then flipped her brown hair, got into her car.

Sloan watched them drive away then turned to Grimke who was tucking away her gun.

"She folded," the mayor said.

"Jacks usually do," the chief said, "When you stand up to them."

 "Why don't we discuss this in a few days?" Sloan asked as calm as ever, "Come to the outdoor club, bring your wife, we'll play a game of smash."

The chief did not answer she obviously did not trust the mayor.

"We can discuss this while our wives play," she added, "It'll be a nice outing."

"I'll run it by her," Grimke said, looking over her shoulder at the Singleton still in custody, slurring curses because she was vaguely aware that Masha was leaving her behind.

"Please do," Sloan said, "We won today chief, the bad guy is behind bars, and will be prosecuted."

-           -           -           -           -           -           -           -           -

Pamela was having the time of her life divvying up their earnings from the first few weeks of dealing their first processed harvest from the warehouse. She felt like a real crimer; meeting with her little syndicate, competent hoods like Rhoda, and Alfie.

Then Marx arrived, something obviously on her mind, she sat down and told them that the Singletons were after the stash.

"I don't believe you," Pamela said, "This is a trick."

"Whatever," Marx said standing, "You won't see me around here any time soon."

"What happened?" Pamela asked still not sure if she should trust the crimer.

"Petra Singleton came to my place herself," Marx said, "They've contacted me threatened me in my own fucking home, they want to meet during the Hour of Silence."

Pamela was furious then, she stood shaking the little folding table piled with bills.

"They want the plants," Marx told her, "And the knowledge."

 "So you've made a deal with her behind my back," she said.

"Fuck that," Marx said, "The Singletons are snakes, they'll swallow hoods like me in one gulp, billionaire's daughters too."

"Don't you threaten me," Pamela growled.

"Listen lady. I'm only giving you the message," Marx said, "I want my share then I'm off, I'll call you to tell you when they're coming."

She sat, the young woman looked spooked, her mates tried to offer her some fourX but she refused, blowing up at them.

"Fucking no, can't you jacks see I'm pregnant," she sighed, "I'm jittery as fuck."

"You're always jittery," Pamela said, going straight to the siphon she kept there at the warehouse. They had made quite a bit of money during those weeks she was sure the little crimer had a fortune tucked away somewhere. She looked like the miserly type. And why else would she bother having a kid if she didn't have a bank of her own?

"So you're serious," Pamela said, as Pygmalion brought her a little loaf to smoke. She looked over it with admiration; she was a pro now, a fucking connoisseur.

"The Singletons have been after my stash for the longest time," Marx said, "It was a matter of time before they came calling."

"Perhaps we can make a deal with them," Pamela said.

"I don't do deals with the Singletons," Marx said, "If you were smart you wouldn't either."

Pamela took a long lick of the siphon tube, swallowed and twisted on the fumes roaring in her lungs. She exhaled slowly, without a single cough. She had noticed that the pregnant woman was watching her intently.

"Sure you don't want a swallow?" she asked seductively offering the tube.

"I'm pregnant," Marx reminded her.

"You'll arrange a meeting," Pamela told her, "Between me and Petra Singleton."

"No, I won't," Marx said, "I'm walking away."

Pamela waved her hand in disbelief. "As much as you love these plants," she said, "They're your whole life, your way of life, and you're damned good-"

Marx frowned. "I'll have to be damned good at something else, like raising my daughter."

Pamela shook her head. "You don't believe yourself."

The crimer did not say anything she only turned away as if she were going to leave. Pygmalion laughed.

"She's spineless," he said, "I saw it in her palm lines, I bet she's one of those dire water signs that have not had a good set of stars in about a hundred years."

Pamela offered him the siphon as Marx turned, the poor thing obviously conflicted. The heiress offered her some extra money then, a good amount just to arrange the meeting and she could not resist that.

"Ya'll think this is some sort of game," she laughed nervously, "The Singletons are right now, pissed off at your fiancé for busting Pharaoh. You think they won't roast you the first chance they get."

Pamela looked away. "I hadn't thought of that."

"Right," Marx said.

"I don't care," Pamela blurted, "The Singletons are all about business, Jules said so her self."

Marx rolled her eyes. "Jules. Ivy League. Perfect hair."

 "Brilliant mind," Pamela said, taking another lick of smoke, "I think the Singleton's will be intrigued. They're not cut throats, they're a family business."

"Listen, Babe," Marx said, "I'm all for letting the wealthy make stupid mistakes; maybe you'll wipe yourselves out, but I'd hate to see you mincing with those jackals.

Behind them, Alfie and Rhoda laughed.

Pamela pushed the card table forward. "Take my share of the money here," she said. "You want it not?" she asked when the crimer faltered.

"I'll do it," Marx said, "Then that's it."

"Fine," Pamela said, taking another swallow of smoke, "More fun for us."

The pregnant girl went off among the plants, grumbling to her self, shifty eyes flicked back to Pamela every minute or so.

Twisted, she felt confident enough to leave the warehouse without a doubt that commerce would continue honestly in her absence. She went to find Jules.

-           -           -           -           -           -           -           -           -

Elise leaned towards the window of the car smiling at the iron gates of the park as they entered the park. Grimke knew she missed that sort of thing; gates to lock out undesirables, to prove the exclusiveness of a place, the wealth. She wanted to tell her that not a mile away people lived in squalor off the leavings of this park, but she did not want to spoil the fun.

"You're sure you're familiar with sports?" Grimke asked her.

"Are you afraid of losing to the mayor?" Elise asked, staring out the window.

"I'm afraid for you, Darling," Grimke said, touching her arm to get her attention.

"You worry too much," Elise told her, "Look Eustace, horses."

Grimke did look and saw two workers in red overalls walking two fat brown horses. She imagined it had been harder to feed them since the blast and some feed substitute had been found most likely with a fu base.

"Did you know city taxes pay for stuff like this?" she asked Elise.

"I didn't think of that," she said.

"And do you think everyone in the city gets to come here and ride those horses, play a nice game of smash?" Grimke asked.

"There are dues aren't they?" Elise asked, "Shouldn't that pay for everything?"

"I don't know," Grimke said. "But who do you think paid to have this park built?"

Elise laughed. "I think you've been hanging around with Captain West too long."

"I don't think we should make this a habit," Grimke said, "It's too elitist, playing smash with Mayor Sloan and Pamela Zepeda the billion dollar heiress."

Elise turned away in a huff.

The car stopped in along the front drive that curved around an elaborate fountain where bronze women sat atop bronze horses wielding axes, swords and bows.

Elise got out first, she wore a thick, long, pink tightly knit cable sweater, a brooch of red rubies cut to look like a silver trimmed rose pinned to her collar. She wore tight beige thermal pants tucked into fur-trimmed boots.

She had ordered new clothes for Grimke for this occasion, part of an entire wardrobe in anticipation of others to come. For riding, she wore a chocolate brown corduroy jacket, a lightweight thermal jumpsuit beneath, the legs tucked into boots.

A man in a vest and bow tie delivered them to the dining room where the mayor waited with her fiancé the both of them sipping hot amber colored drinks from thick glass mugs.

The two couples stood to greet each other Grimke stiff handshakes, Elise two handed grasps, she and Pamela leaning in to give simultaneous cheek kisses.

The bow tie, with a snobbish grace of such servants sat them, and had warm drinks sent immediately. Elise sat very close to Grimke, grinning at her slyly, bent, it seemed on making her nervous.

The four of them chatted mildly until a woman in a brown wide brimmed old-fashioned cowboy hat approached them.

"Mayor Sloan, Chief Grimke," she greeted them, "Just one picture please, and a statement."

"Swilly, how'd you get in here?" Sloan asked.

"I'll not reveal my sources," she removed her hat revealing tight, sandy curls, the reporter had a perfectly round face, with a pointy chin, she carried some extra weight around her cheeks and at her neck.

She surveyed the table with hawkish eyes that landed on Elise. "This must be the Mrs. Grimke I did not get to catch any pics of  at the swearing in."

"Yes, as I understand you were too busy catching pics of the Singletons," the mayor said.

Swilly raised her eyebrows. "It was a big night, all sorts of rumors floating around."

"What are you getting at?" Sloan asked her jaw clenched.

Grimke looked from the mayor to the reporter; there was an animosity between them. Her eyes met Elise's and her wife raised her eyebrows questioningly.

Swilly shook her head then slowly put her hat back on, she stuck a stubby cigar in her mouth. She was a fairly young woman, but she seemed wizened, set deep in that fleshy cherubic face were piercing eyes, and they were glued on the mayor.

"I'm going to leave you to enjoy your afternoon," she said standing, "Miss Zepeda, Mrs. Grimke, Chief, I wish you a good day."

The reporter gave a short smile, and then left them.

Pamela laughed. "You just witnessed one of the bitterest rivalries in the history of Photon City."

Sloan frowned. "Don't ever feel obligated to talk to that woman," she said to Grimke, "She's a knife; she'll cut you to shreds and post the pictures on the papes."

"She doesn't play by Jules' rules," Pamela said graciously, "Reporters aren't supposed to be pleasant."

"The ones in my city will," Sloan said, glancing at her wife, then back at Grimke, she took a deep breath, "Let's not that Jill Swilly ruin our time."

They went on chatting mildly until the bow tie returned and told them their horses were ready. Sloan got very competitive then. "Me and my fiancé against you and your wife," she said to Grimke as they left the dinning room to meet their fat mounts.

Smash was a basic game, with rules borrowed from older sports. A squishy yellow ball was swatted around by cues with slightly curving, net fixtures, so the ball could be carried for a certain amount of time but the jostling of the horse could drop it. A player's best move was to toss the ball to a teammate so it could be carried to the team's circular net at the end of the field.

They began on opposite ends; Grimke ready to try to toss to Elise who was facing off with Sloan while Pamela waited on the other end to defend their goal.

Grimke scooped the ball high into the air and sent the fat horse into a trot after it.

Elise and her horse cantered forward to the falling ball, it landed and she scooped it at Grimke who stopped to catch it and galloped towards Pamela, Sloan in hot pursuit.

"Isn't this fun, Dearly?" Elise grinned stopping her horse suddenly and galloping to the outfield.

Grimke was not so sure she wondered what Elder would think to see her gallivanting with the rich. She lost the ball and stopped to retrieve it, but the mayor had seized it and was heading towards her untended goal.

Elise was racing after her, the fat horse shuddering like an over weight dog. Sloan made the first goal and they congratulated her, Pamela celebrating on the other end of the field.

They trotted to the other side and traded off; Sloan and Elise on opposite ends, Grimke and Pamela in the middle. Sloan tossed the ball and it bounced out of Pamela's shallow net, she and Grimke clattered sticks but the heiress got the ball. She and her fiancé raced downfield toward Elise who met them.

Pamela passed to Sloan who tried to pass back to Pamela, but Elise knocked it out of the air and the three of them raced for it.

Grimke got lucky and doubled back for their goal grinning, sure she would make it but she lost the ball again and yowled like a cat. Elise was ahead of the pack she seized the ball and gave it a toss over Grimke's head into the net.

They cheered and had to stop for a quick kiss.

"You're unbelievable," Grimke said.

The game went on for another half hour, the horses not able to go on any longer the score five to three Zepeda and Sloan the victors.

Pamela ordered two fresh horses so she could show Elise around the park, and one of the attendants brought them as the four discussed the game.

"You two have a good time," Sloan said, as Elise and Pamela mounted the new horses, "Try to enjoy this gloom."

"We will," Pamela assured them.

Grimke was reluctant to let Elise go off on her own, and was sure she should have refused the ride out of common courtesy to her worrying wife, but she followed Miss Zepeda into the sun so to speak, leaving her with Jules Sloan to discuss dealings of crime in Photon City.          

-           -           -           -           -           -           -           -           -

"I was not sure if I wanted to go against the Singletons," Sloan told her as they settled in back at the club house, "Word is they plan to settle here."

"So we'll continue to let them have their way with the city?" Grimke asked.

"You're still angry," Sloan said.

The chief turned away just in time to catch her wife waving at them, she half heartedly copied the gesture.

"Of course," Sloan went on, "The incident with Pharaoh did not ease my anxiety about what would happen once I did talk with you about them. I knew that you'd declare war."

"It was fate then," Grimke said.

"I didn't think you believed in such things," Sloan said.

Grimke looked away at Elise frolicking away with Pamela Zepeda on those fat horses laughing and shouting across the field.

"We should take cue from our wives and not take each other so seriously," Sloan said kind of feeling sorry for the old general, "You should think of her Grimke before you decide to go after the Singletons, Masha will not think twice about hurting her."

The chief drew away. "Is that some sort of second hand threat?"

"It's a warning," the mayor said, deciding to confess but not fully, "Once I was in cahoots with Masha Singleton-"

"And that relationship ended when?" Grimke asked, "At the swearing in?"

"Years ago," Sloan said, "I was not born with a silver spoon in my mouth, I needed a job."

The old general did not say anything for a time, only watched her wife on the horse growing smaller as she disappeared across the park.

"I know I'm a coward," Sloan admitted, "The last ranger chief was murdered, that's why I needed you here, Grimke."

"I don't know what to say," the general replied, not looking away.

"She is a stunning woman," Mayor Sloan said of Elise, "You should not look so terrified every time she opens her mouth."

"Terrified?" Grimke asked, "Is that how I look?"

"As much as you'll allow yourself," Sloan laughed, "She certainly outshines you in social activities, but imagine being with someone as stoic yourself."

Grimke had to chuckle. "I imagine things would be quite safe."

"And boring," Sloan said, "There was no one to tell me this; its women like Pamela and Elise who bring that spark to our lives."

-           -           -           -           -           -           -           -           -

"How old are you Elise?" Pamela asked, as she dismounted to walk her horse across an adorable little man made stream.

"Thirty-four," she answered following suit.

"Younger than me," Pamela pouted, "You seem so wise."

"I'm glad you think so," Elise said.

"The all knowing Grimke doesn't think so," Pamela mocked a stern growl.

"She's my sweet wife," Elise said, "Oh but she can get so gruff."

Pamela laughed. "Forgive me for being a snob, but who is your family?"

"Globe runners," Elise said, "My father had his hands in a lot of transactions and we went every where wars weren't."

"Jules said that you were foreign," Pamela said, "She wanted to know who the famous Grimke had married so suddenly."

"The truth is I don't know Eustace so well," Elise said, "Of course we've met on several occasions and kept up through letters."

"How very archaic," Pamela exclaimed.

"We met on the convoy to Photon City and decided to give this a try," Elise said.

"How romantic," Pamela said, "She doesn't seem like the type."

"Chance was on my side," Elise said, "Pure coincidence, or we would have had a stiff, military wedding."

They laughed and playfully bumped shoulders as they walked the horses.

"She's older but so tough," Pamela commented, "Is she absolutely ferocious when you're alone?"

Elise flushed.

"That's very pretty but you'll give away all of our activities," Pamela said, "We're to be friends I'm sure, and it would make Jules happy that I have a decent friend, she can't stand my psychic, or my poets, and even I can't be bothered with newbies."

"And you'll make Grimke nervous," Elise admitted, "But I hope she does not try to keep me under glass."

"You?" Pamela asked, "No, you're a society girl, I can see it in your graces."

"Then we should be friends," Elise said.

Pamela nodded. "So I suppose Grimke is not very ferocious."

"Not in the least," she answered, "But I plan to change that soon."

-           -           -           -           -           -           -           -           -

It was late in the afternoon when the couples said their goodbyes after an extravagant lunch where Elise cleverly made the little she ate look like a normal portion. They were driven back home in silence.          

"Just as I suspected," Grimke said, once they were in the privacy of their own home, "Sloan is a crimer deep down inside, she may or not be trying to clean her act up, you never can trust politicians."

Elise grinned at her. "What were you two talking about?"

"The Singletons," Grimke said, "I think she was trying to warn me not to bother with them, but I'm supposed to fight crime in this city, that's what I'll do, I should have told her that instead of biting my tongue."

Elise sighed. "So you're going to have to fight both sides."

"It seems," Grimke removed her boots and propped up her feet, beckoning Elise over to sit in her lap where they kissed and nuzzled playfully like cats.

"Pamela Zepeda and I are to be friends," Elise said.

Grimke lolled back her head mocking a faint.

"Stop it," Elise said, "She's a fun person."

"She's a spoiled heiress," Grimke said, reaching out to touch her face, "You're not like her."

Elise shifted her legs. "I was, back when I was with Crawford. Anyway I miss that kind of company."

"So you're tiring of me," Grimke said.

"Don't say that," Elise kissed her, "I adore you of course, but today has been my first excursion since the swearing in."

The chief did not say a word, there had not been much time to do anything with Elise besides be held in her arms at night, pampered by her when she was at home.

"I promise to do better," Grimke said.

"I could always do things on my own," Elise said.

Grimke did not say a word, she only sighed. "Yes you could, but you don't see what I see out there every day, Elise, real dangers."

"I'm not frightened," she answered.

"I can be frightened enough for the both of us then," Grimke told her.

"That's not fair," Elise insisted calmly and had to kiss her in spite of her self, "I don't want to spend the rest of this afternoon debating," she said graciously, "What will we do with ourselves?"

"We could make love," Grimke said.

Elise laughed, was sternly pulled into a passionate kiss.

"Don't do that to me, Eustace," she said, sounding more breathy than usual, "Don't look at me that way either."

"I'm serious," Grimke said, a hand straying under her pink sweater, "I want to make love to you."

They kissed longer than ever before, and she explored Elise as she had before (she knew her body well now) taking off her wife's sweater, her undergarment beneath circling her arms around her waist when Elise straddled her lap, bending her neck to kiss her breast.

She moved away from her suddenly, and out of the chair picking up her sweater bringing it to her breasts covering them, leaving Grimke to walk upstairs.

She followed her, grabbing her at the post of their bedroom door kissing her, the gravity of this particular game of chase weighing on her heart. Elise unbuttoned Grimke's shirt kneading the muscles at her back before removing it.

"To the bed," Elise told her pulling her inside.

Grimke circled the bed in an opposite direction watching her peel off her riding breeches and boots, she did the same and they met in the middle hands touching arms, and shoulders until they embraced.

They lay face to face kissing, the smell of horses in the air with their soft murmurs. Elise urged Grimke on top of her whispering words of encouragement, lifting her hips to touch her with the steadily heating patch of flesh between her legs, pulling her close. Nervous of doing anything else Grimke plied a long kiss to her lips then tried her neck.
Elise's heat captured her though and she parted her legs to present her own humidity. They groaned together, Grimke let out a ragged breath clutching her, pressing close, her desire like a spike to her heart, filling up her lungs as if she were drowning.

She did not panic; she welcomed it, breaking away from Elise, kissing her breasts, her belly, the slightly thrumming flesh below her abdomen.

She gasped as Grimke nuzzled, kissed, rubbed her cheek there, her flat belly, her hands.

"Eustace," Elise whispered, switching positions so she could grace her with kisses run her fingers over her body and slip inside.

"It fascinates me you know," she told Grimke lost in that old pleasure that had frightened her since the day when she was nineteen in New Bethlehem.

"How you can get wet through your pores, and from here," Elise said, she was an artist then, her fingers high precision tools remaking Grimke, molding her, gently at first then plunging deep, urgent as if she were searching.

"I've yet to see you cry though Eustace," she said, "You'll have to show me someday."

Grimke did not like where this was going, she tried to say something witty in reply but nothing would come. She gripped the sheets her call soundless at first then ringing throughout the room, startling her.

"Don't be frightened," Elise whispered, her voice that same calm, "I had my theories of what would happen once you let yourself go."

That was what it was. Grimke tried to collect herself, and pull away, alarmed that she had put herself in the hands of this woman who was not a woman, who was nothing but learned emotions, the warm flesh of her fingers was a charade.

Elise sensed her escape and was on top of her, grabbing her wrists, Grimke tried to fight her but she had been weakened.

"Don't," Elise said sternly, "Eustace, no."

"Stop this," Grimke told her, kissing her face and neck pleadingly.

She shuddered her weight delicious, yet still a weight, she began sway her hips that heat and that thrumming reaching Grimke's deepest depth, she ached and groaned at the darkening ceiling. Hours had elapsed, perhaps even days.

Elise grunted, she sighed, her eyes narrowed, she looked blissful floating above, her halo of black curls bouncing blown by Grimke's heavy breaths.

She began to follow her sway scared as hell at what was gathering between them, breaking then slowly returning, but she followed Elise there again and again until there was no depth inside of her.

"You're a goddess," Grimke told her curling her body into hers.

Elise laughed against her neck. "I doubt it."

"I love you," she blurted embarrassed, "Does that make me an old fool?"

"Perhaps," Elise said, "Does it make me an old fool to love you? I am older."

-           -           -           -           -           -           -           -           -

Marx was heading out to inform Pamela that Petra Singleton had agreed to the meeting, before collecting what the little bitch referred to as her property when she found Captain West at her door smiling that faint smile of hers.

"What?" she asked in greeting: in a bad mood because the biggest jacks in the Publics were going to take away her life's work.

"I just came to check up on you," West said, she was dressed in street clothes, bland and casual ones (a black jacket over a gray sweater and loose black slacks).

"You mean Heart Fire," Marx said, "I said I'd get in touch with you if they were planning an Armageddon or something."

She was tired of reporting to the captain, she felt as if she were betraying poor Reverend Townsend who was only following the setup Euvia Moss planned before she died. Marx doubted that her grandmother was a holy woman, she was the head of syndicate, she may not have been an outright crimer, but she was a bit of con woman probably a little awf, a little crazed.

West kind of sighed. "I really came to check on you Marx."

"I thought you'd be out with your new Daddy, catching Singletons," she said walking off the porch, onto the sidewalk.

"Why are you so flamed at me?" West asked.

"Because I'm a crimer and you're a ranger," Marx said, "And currently you've got one up on me."

"I thought you'd jump at the opportunity to get your life straight," West said.

"You thought wrong," Marx said, "Don't worry though, I'm getting out of the fourX business for good, soon it'll be hazardous to my health to keep pharming."

West frowned. "Because of the Singletons?" she asked, "Have they threatened you?"

"Of course they have," she said, "They're everywhere, no thanks to you rangers."

West stopped there on the sidewalk and burst into laughter, hers was a girly bubbly laugh that surprised Marx; she turned startled.

The ranger doubled over her hands on her knees, her laughter silent for a minute she straightened her face red some strands of hair loose from her pony tail. And damn how she lit up that drab, dreary, gray above them.

Marx felt her own laughter brewing inside she tried to swallow it allowing a little bark to escape.

"I'm glad this is so damned hilarious," she told the captain.

"It's just that-" West walked towards her wiping her eyes, "I've heard complaints from the city council, the police chief, and now a crimer."

Marx folded her arms and the captain put a hand on her shoulder shaking her head, still laughing.

"You're under a lot of stress aren't you?" Marx asked, the police still had one of the Singleton's in custody, and the media was having a frenzy, "I think you're cracking."

"I suppose," West said, "Where you headed?"

"Out," Marx said.

"Can I come?" West asked.

"No," Marx said, smiling in spite of her self, "How do I look hanging out with a damned ranger?"

"I'm swift," West whined, "I let you see me laugh."

Marx laughed at her slang. "Alright, I'll take you on a tour of your ward, you can see the citizenry."

"Great," West said. She took her hair loose of the tail fluffing it a bit. "See?"

"Yeah, you're a mistress of disguise," Marx said, in fact she was quite breathtaking. "I'm driving."

They walked to the garage, found Marx's faithful trix, and hit the ward. There was too much daylight for anything heavy to be going on. Most of the ravies were closed. She took the good captain to Tainted for a couple of rounds of Sniper's Revenge.

"You don't hang out here," West accused.

"I did," Marx told her, "I was a pretty good gamer back in the day."

"Kid stuff," the captain commented as they walked in. She was wrong; because there were avid gamers older than she was.

Marx watched the captain take everything in, the dark booths flashing from the screens inside. Faces clustered around vids, eyes blank and staring, flashing too.

"Better look tough," she said to West as a sneering group passed them.

"College girl," a little cocky dude scoffed at the captain, they knew she was not a newbie, and she was out of uniform so they had no reason to suspect she was a ranger. Tainted was harmless enough, it turned out that the gamers were the most decent, most calm people in the entire 3^rd Ward. They were not bothered with the real world, only the adventures brought to them through the dark on blaring ultra realistic sound.

"This is my favorite game," Marx said, showing her Sniper's Revenge, West still had that flamed look on her face.

"What?" Marx asked.

"Why'd you bring me here?" she asked, "You don't think I'm tough enough to go to a real ravey."

Marx frowned. "I didn't know you were in the mood to party."

"It's not that," she said, "You think I'm a puss."

"I know you're a puss," Marx said, plunking some flat into the machine, beginning her game.

"I'm going to get a beer," West said, "You want a soda?"

"Sure," Marx said, glancing up at the empty bar not too far away from the half booth where she played, she watched the captain walked away, and then allowed the game to suck her in. She was halfway through with her first mission, plucking off a plane full of civilians fleeing a vacation spot that suddenly turned into a war zone, when she noticed that West had not returned.

"Shit," Marx said putting her gun down, wandering the ravey. She found Captain West at the billiard tables, poised over green felt, stick in hand, breaking the triangular formation of multicolored balls.

"Solids," she called as they roared across the table, and a burgundy one slammed into one of the little caverns.

"Swift," she said grinning at her opponent, a giant dude who stalked the table looking for a good shot.

Marx went up to her and grabbed her arm. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Playing a little pool," West said her voice suddenly weighed by down home accent.

"These guys don't play for fun," Marx told her, "They play for flat."

"Yeah, we got a little wage going," West said craning her neck to get a look at the table as the balls whacked together like thunder.
"Isn't that illegal?" she asked the captain.

"You gonna shoot today?" the dude asked, "Or is the wife pulling you away?"

"Let off," Marx told him, "We're having a fucking conversation."

"I'm ready," West said brightly and went to take her turn; she found her shot, leaned over the table ready to strike. She looked up at Marx and winked her cheeks colored.

"Be a doll, Wifey, and get me and my man here some beer," she said, shoving the cue through split fingers. The balls scattered but none went in.

"Yeah," the dude smacked his lips, "You do that, Wifey."

Marx wanted to tell him and the captain to fuck off, she did not like anyone playing games with her, but she did not want West to appear weak, she had forgotten about the belly, it made her appear to be the more submissive, the wife.

She got the beer, some nachos and a soda for herself, took her time about it. Returned balancing it all, using her gut as a tray. West and her new friend retrieved their drinks, ignored her except sometimes before she would strike, the captain would look up at Marx to smile.

She did not know much about billiards, the shark's game was straight, forthright, while West moved with flare, that ridiculous grin on her face, making her little arrogant predictions about where the balls would go.

She lost, but played a good game. Marx narrowed her eyes at the shark as he collected the money, and asked for another game that West politely declined.

"Next time, leave her at home if you want to have some fun," he said.

"I'd have no money left for the bills," West said in parting.

"I hope you had a lot of fun back there, Hubby," Marx told her as they left Tainted, "With your fucking role playing."

"I did," the captain said, "More fun than I've had in a long time."

Marx shook her head. "The pitiful thing is that you're dead serious."

-           -           -           -           -           -           -           -           -           -

West was not sure how that whole "Wifey" thing would go down. Marx had shot her a look that would have killed her if she were not having so much fun with the crimer.

"Where to next?" she asked, as they climbed back into the trix.

"Someplace even tamer than Tainted," Marx said, "You're lucky I don't take you back where I found you."

"We're having a good time," West insisted, the girl grinned slyly.

"So what's your story?" Marx asked her. "How'd you learn to play billiards? And why do you call it pool?"

"Cause that's what we call it back home," West said letting her accent slide.

"And where is home and who is we?" she asked, she was genuinely curious, which the captain found pleasant.

"West Prairie," she told her, it had been a long time she let her thoughts stray to her family, "And the West clan."

"Wait," Marx said, "Is it a coincidence or do you have whole town named after you?"

"Not a coincidence," West said, "First it was just the name of our land, but it got pretty big, we just kept growing, more Wests, and our business grew."

The crimer laughed as she drove. "You mean someplace there is a bunch of you walking around?"

She smiled. "Pretty much."

"So tell me about it," Marx asked, "It's out in the country…"

West looked over at her still smiling. "Well, there are a lot of trees, a big mulberry in my Momma's back yard-"

"What is she like?" she asked, "Is she all stern and intelligent?"

She shrugged. "I'm sort of the black sheep of the family, for all of my learning, leaving West Prairie and all."

"Really?" Marx asked, "So you don't go visit them?"

"Not in awhile," West said, and went on explaining her family's homestead, the family business, manufacturing fire works, shipping them all over the Publics and the world.

Marx took her to the fair, a sort of market bizarre that was set up in an empty lot every Sunday morning, and taken down every Sunday night. It was where poorer families went for entertainment, to catch a show in a tent, and buy stolen appliances, toys, and books for decent prices. 

West had heard of the bizarre but had never gone. She followed Marx down the paths of worn grass between the tents.

"I'm starving," she said taking her to fu wagon with Atomic Café painted on the side in red letters.

"This place has the best dogs in Photon City," Marx insisted and ordered five, along with a couple of sodas. There were a dozen little filthy benches and tables to sit at, so they sat.

"Did you see the Grimkes and the Sloan-Zepedas romping in the fancy outdoor park?" Marx asked bitterly, between bites, "The big chief letting her hair down, with her babe wife."

West frowned, took a sip of her soda. "What are you talking about?"

"Don't you read the papes?" Marx asked, "The Mayor, the Chief, the Billonairess, and the sexiest broad I've ever seen, the Missus."

West did not want to make a deal of the article. She wondered why Grimke would socialize with Sloan, especially in a place like the Outdoor Club.

"The chief is pretty hot herself," Marx nodded, "For a creeper."

"Her wife is very high class," West said.

"I gathered as much," Marx said looking around.

"Grimke was probably just taking her out," West said, "You know a date, women like that are used to a certain standard of living."

Marx laughed. "So why'd she hook up with a dud like Grimke?"

The captain shrugged. "They've been friends for a long time. It's a good idea; a mutual respect, a partnership is more stable than blind love."

"How reasonable," Marx laughed.

"Love that lasts is very reasonable, and plain," West said, "Life isn't a dramanime."

Marx pulled a mock sad face. "Is that how things are done on the Prairie?"

"No," West answered, "Things are very spontaneous back home, new spouses and old spouses live right across the street from each other."

"Shit," Marx said.

They sat silently for a while; the dogs were great, piled high with all sorts of things, just as good as real ones.

"So what do you think of your constituents?" Marx asked when they were done, and strolling through the fair.

"I'm surprised," West said, "I see crimers, but I see families too, kids. Where do they go to school?"

"All the way to the damned 4^th," Marx said, "Where they are discriminated against even if their parents aren't crimers. They don't have a library either."

West sighed, ashamed that she focused more on Heart Fire than her community having a decent school.

"How did things get to be so bad?" she asked the younger woman as if she knew.

"Nobody gives a damn," Marx said, she did, in fact, know.

"The other council members think I'm some kind of idiot," West said, "Like I'm a waste of time-"

"It was the decent people of the 3^rd who voted for you," she informed her, "I think they trusted your young face on that uniform, an honest youth against your peers that don't know the law, you have the energy to match them."

"That's insightful," West said, "I take it you voted for me."

"Quit gnashing, I'm being serious," Marx said.

"No," West stopped her, "Did you?"

"I did not," Marx shrugged, "I never trusted uniforms."

An hour of walking tired her, and she let West know she was ready to go home and nap. The captain drove for her, watching her doze as they went, the young crimer was not remarkably pretty, just cute as hell with her button nose.

West dropped her at her door, and insisted that she allow her to take her trix to the garage for her. They argued until Marx relented.

"Be careful with my baby," she said.

"You be careful with your baby," West pointed to her belly, "Thanks for taking me out."

"Yeah sure," Marx said, leaning into the passenger window of the trix, "You should get out more often, sometimes you have a sick sense of humor."

"Thanks," West smiled.

"I was tempted to vote for you," she said upon parting, "But I didn't want to just because I thought you were striking."

West blinked, flattening her palm against her chest. "You think I'm striking?"

Marx smirked. "Get out of here, Captain."

-           -           -           -           -           -           -           -           -

                                      -VII-

                                      -The Hour of Silence-

The day of the Hour of Silence came and Elise still electrified from her encounter with Grimke, donned a charcoal suit; pants with a long jacket and a matching hat with a pair of black gloves. Good lovemaking always made her want to wander, and it had been so long since she had practiced either.

 She waited until she was sure Grimke would not call to check on her, she tuned in to the police scanner and held the frequency as she walked out of their house and away from their safe little neighborhood.

A young Black Stripe in a little black trix pulled along side her and recognizing her as Mrs. Grimke (from the reporter Swilly's pics no doubt) stopped to ask her if there was some sort of problem.

"None at all," she told him. "I'm only taking a walk."

He looked ahead at the city beyond as if to say: "Out there? Lady are you crazy?"

"Its not safe ma'am," he said.

"Really," she feigned agitation. "It is nearly time for the Hour of Silence I'm not going far."

The Black Stripe refused to be put off so easily. "Please, Mrs. Grimke, if we could return to my guard post, I'll call for a car."

"Please," she insisted. "There aren't to be cars running during the hour, there should not be any harm out there."

She walked on but he followed.

"If you want to bother that fool Grimke then radio her or whatever," Elise pretended to be angry, "I'm sure she'll drop everything to come chase down her wandering wife."

She stalked away; the Black Stripe did not follow. She smiled to herself and actually felt free as she had not in a long time.

The streets were empty and the little shops inside and outside of the neighborhoods were closed. The Hour of Silence had begun.

Elise remembered the Silver City Blast well, because that was what awoke her from her sleep. It had been selfish of Crawford to put her down in her basement vault like some sleeping beauty for any random dunce to wake. Elise secretly reset herself to wake at the slightest disturbance, hoping the winds from the next big storm would stir the old house just right in the months that followed and wake her. Twenty years later, the blast called her back to the living world.

She began to worry she was not covering enough ground and the idiot guard would probably call Grimke if she did not return in a timely manner. She began to wish she had called a car.

A young thing on a puttering scooter was tooling up the road and Elise flagged her down. She was a shade darker than Grimke with adorable squinty eyes behind nostalgic tortoiseshell framed glasses. She seemed puzzled and nervous that an older, well-suited woman would want to climb behind on her humble ride but told Elise she was going to the fountains.

"That's fine," she said, and climbed on holding on to the young driver.

They scooted southward and Elise could hear the rushing of the fountains before they came within view.

She thanked her shy chauffeur and ambled away as the rider greeted a very jealous girlfriend who had witnessed their arrival.

           Elise wandered until she saw green grass. She could not believe her eyes and hurried so she could stoop and touch it. There was something off about the texture she realized that the grass was fake. Through the ground she felt someone approaching. She straightened and smiled at the old monk who approached, she was bald, robust in a white robe trimmed with a red sash around her neck.

"Hello," she said.

"I'm Quionna Townsend," the monk said offering her hand.

"Elise Grimke," she answered, "What is this place?"

"The Chapel," Townsend said.

"As in a church?" Elise asked.

"Not like the ones of old," the woman answered, "You must be new to the city."

"Relatively," Elise said, walking through the foyer to the chapel where the paintings were, "Stunning," she whispered.

"You're welcome here," Townsend said, "We're called Heart Fire."

"What do you worship?" she asked, "Are those statues your goddesses?"

"They are the holy consort, goddess and servant, lovers," Townsend said.

Elise watched the statues the idea of divine lovers intrigued her; immortals bond together for eternity. She peered beyond at the canvases in the chapel, the rows of benches and the spinning prayer wheels

"We revere all that The Two embody; the quiet passions of the heart," the monk was saying.

"And what about the not-so-quiet passions?" Elise could not help but ask.

-           -           -           -           -           -           -           -           -

Sloan recalled where she had been during the blast in Silver City, inside of her office taking a few minutes for herself from planning some appearances around the city for the next runoffs.

Ashe had buzzed in a call from the governor's office, and Sloan answered only to hear that a nuclear warhead had breeched the country's defense system, that it was coming by way of the gulf.

"Is there anything we can do?" she had asked whoever she was talking to, some low-level cabinet member passing the news on.

"No," his voice was shaking, "Unless you can evacuate a city in twenty minutes."

"And the governor?" she had asked.

"We're trying-" he continued.

"Of course," she shouted, "And it takes you sons of bitches how long to call Photon City?"

"I'm sorry Ms. Sloan, its over," the man said, the phone went dead.

She called the governor's office back immediately, it all had to be some sort of joke, but the emergency recording was on advising any caller to seek immediate shelter indoors.

Sloan switched on the vid screen in her office to see the same alarm on the air. She then picked up the phone with trembling fingers dialed Pamela listened to the tone.

"Pammie?" she asked when she heard her voice.

"Yeah," she answered, "Jules is this you?"

"Yeah," Sloan had told her beginning to cry, the governor's office was right, it was all over.

"Well what's wrong?" she slurred she was twisting with some of her friends at least Sloan had thought wildly she would feel no pain. There was genuine concern in her voice though, and she was instantly crying too.

"You know you can tell me, Babe, whatever it is," she said, "Please Jules."

"I just love you that's all," Sloan told her, "I love you Pammie."

"I love you too Jules," she said, then, someone at the pent with her began to exclaim wildly.

"Jules there's something wrong isn't there?" she asked, "On the vid they're telling everyone to seek shelter."

"There's a weapon of mass destruction heading this way," Sloan checked her watch, "I was just alerted, there is nothing we can do-"

"I don't believe…" she gasped out of breath, "Jules I'm scared."

"I'm sorry," Sloan said, "If only I could have known in time, I could have gotten us out of here…Pamela I love you."

"I'm coming there," she had said, "I have to see you."

"There's not enough time," Sloan said.

"I'm leaving on foot," she sniffed, "Meet me."

"Alright," Sloan said.

She had rushed from her office; news had begun to spread of the impending disaster heading the way of Photon City. She ignored the people who asked for her help, for information. "Just go home," she told them as she ran.

It occurred to her that running was ridiculous (the trip took at least ten minutes by car from her pent to her office, it would take triple the time by foot) she should have stayed inside so she would not have to see the lethal flash that would destroy the entire public, but she kept running like a maniac, ditching the ivory colored jacket of her most expensive spring suits, because it was hindering her flight.

She found Pamela jogging barefoot in short pants, and a flowing tunic blouse that left her shoulders bare, she was so beautiful Sloan just stopped, opened her arms. They kissed out of breath falling into each other.

The warhead passed right over them, had, as they were running towards each other. They never talked about that day, Sloan wondered if Pamela even thought of it now in the Hour of Silence.

Her communiqué rang, and she answered it quickly, without reviewing the readout to ID the call.

"Jules," it was Masha Singleton.

"I have nothing to say to you," Sloan told her.

"But you will soon," Masha said, "We were kicked out of the Sahara, they won't take us at the Gray Villas, no hotel in the city will take us, no restaurants will serve us they only call the knaves on us."

"There is no place for you here in this city," Sloan said.

"We plan to make one," Masha said, "Enjoy this silence of yours, it won't last for much longer."

The call ended, the mayor frowning to her self sure she should not take any threat from the Crime Queen as idle. She flicked her wrist and said Pamela's name, listened to the dial until an explosion rocked her office.

-           -           -           -           -           -           -           -           -

Pamela paced the ware house in another all white suit, her blond curls bouncing behind her.

Marx sat miserable on a little low stool, Tony was there, and Pygmalion, Pamela did not want to make the Singleton's nervous; as if she had some sort of army.

"Won't they ever come?" she asked Marx.

"Late crimers," she answered, "Imagine that."

"Why are you here anyway?" Pamela asked, "I thought you wanted nothing to do with the Singletons."

"I'd just like to know the fate of my life's work," she said.

Pamela went to the siphon and took a short puff she did not want to be too relaxed when the Singletons arrived.

"Should we do some chants before they arrive?" Pygmalion asked

"No," she answered, pacing away from him she did not have the patience for prayers. She tried to put on her Jules Sloan face deal, with the crimers the way her fiancé would. Pamela had sat in on enough bull sessions in her life, since she was a girl in frilly skirts lingering outside of boardrooms waiting for her father, listening to him cut down some executive.

Jules had him beat though she could be stone. Icy.

"She here," Tony announced peeking out the door. "One car. Two bikes."

Marx stood suddenly a protective arm at the side of her belly. Pamela gave her a chilly smile, a warning that she should leave, that the warehouse was a place for crimers not simpering mothers to be.

Petra Singleton slinked in first grinning at Pamela obviously amused.

"You're a Zepeda," she announced. "Sloan's Zepeda."

"Pamela," she said, walking towards the crimer and extending her hand, she looked even younger than she had at the swearing in, dressed like a street petal in baggie black pants with various straps and buckles, a short jacket that revealed her flat tummy.

"And Little Mother," Petra said, turning her head as they shook, "How are you?"

"Excellent," Marx deadpanned.

"She's a little bitter," Pamela said, "She feels she's been cheated out of her life's work."

Petra nodded. "Of course there is a place for her, but Pamela I'm not sure what to make of you."

"We were partners," Marx explained, "She bought the plants off a crooked ranger."

"I was hoping that we could manage this project for you," Pamela said.

Petra laughed. "You want to work for me?" she asked.

"I'm not in it for the money," she told her "I suppose I'm just a crimer at heart."

"And the Little Mother?" Petra asked.

 "She has all the knowledge and told me of the deal you offered her," Pamela said. 

"I won't take it," Marx said, "I personally hate all of you for ruining my life and stealing my plants, I hope you all collectively rot."

"You little pirate," Pamela said, sure the pregnant woman would have turned and robbed her sooner or later, and was angry at having lost the opportunity.

"You should just give up the plants, Dearly," Marx said to her, eyes large and waterty suddenly, frightened.

"You should listen to her," Petra said, "But I'm willing to share, my family is in no way bonded to the Zepeda's and my mother would be pleased to have you in our circle, despite the feuding between your fiancé's family and mine."

"Then we have a deal," Pamela said, offering her hand, "Shall we have a smoke then?"

Petra Singleton smiled, stepped forward, hand extended.

"I'm out of here," Marx said grumbling something about generations of knowledge going straight to hell.

"I wouldn't leave just yet," Petra said, pausing before their hands could touch.

Marx stopped long enough to make a face before opening the door. Pamela's communiqué began to buzz on her wrist.

"Really, Little Mother," Petra said, "This is more of my good faith, right now here is the safest place in the city."

A groaning rumble shook the building and streams of dust rained from the ceiling, Pamela ducked her head as her white suit was powdered brown, she glanced at Marx who clutched her belly, ducked her head looking to her left and right.

Beau and Petra Singleton stood there grinning as somewhere in the city destruction was beginning one of her short brutal reigns.

-           -           -           -           -           -           -           -           -

West remembered where she had been during the Silver City blast, sitting with Jack Lacy in his office when he got the call that destruction was just minutes away.

"This is the end young West," he said calmly and turned away from her to stare out the window, his hands behind his back, his rotund silhouette looking out on the city.

"Well, what?" she had stammered not understanding. She was scared for her life, and trying to block out visions of what could have been, the life she could have lived; she could have stayed on the farm and manufactured fire works like the Wests had for generations. She could have had a wife and maybe picked up some waif no one wanted or even gone out to have one of her own.

He gave no answer.

"What has it all been for, Sir?" she asked Lacy, tears in her eyes.

Her mind raced. Should she try to call her mother? Tell her she loved her one last time and that she had never really been ashamed to be a West? She found herself not wanting to drop that news on them so they could spend their last minutes regretting. She imagined them all gathering and calling for that old king of the hereafter, though who he had been was lost a hundred years before.

It occurred to her that Lacy had not answered her, so she asked him again.

"What has it all been for, Chief?"

"You should not be asking an old fool like me such things," he told her.

"Why not?" she asked, he always had the answers for her.

It occurred to her that his wisdom had been nothing the whole time she followed him, she could have picked any other man to follow, one with more character, a little more backbone than Jack Lacy.

 Together they watched the city remain whole and safe. After that day she never had much to say to Jack Lacy, he never pressed her either.

One year later, ten minutes intp the hour commemortating Silver City, West thought it appropriate to return to the office, but she ended up on the top of headquarters after word got around that no one had bothered to lower the flags.

She rode the escalators as far as they would go, then took the shaky service elevator to the very top. The flag hang limply, barely flapping. She would have to commandeer one of the blowers her uncle invented to keep flags cheerily rolling, wind blown, even on the grimmest days.

She pulled on the flag line and brought it half staff looking over her shoulder at the city as she did. West was shocked that people were actually keeping silence there was no traffic, no faraway shouts. Pure silence.

West was knocked backwards on her ass a split second later as the dome of the old courthouse exploded into giant glass shards, the light of the blast, and the smoke from the decimated glass was like a mini sun in the gloom.

Another explosion sent her scrambling backwards banging her chin as she tripped, flinging herself into the service elevator. The rickety ride down seemed the longest it had ever been, the over heard lights winking as West entertained visions of being crushed in the tiny space perhaps surviving for days listening to the rescue parties search through the rubble.

"Oh fuck," she muttered, relieved to hear the "ding" that she had reached civilization.

The doors parted and she saw chaos, a panic of gray and blue uniforms, she pushed with them as they jammed the corridors, trying to get to ground level as every drill preached.

The stairs beneath her feet vibrated, the lights flickered, and she knew there had been another explosion.

Someone grabbed the back of her jacket and she turned her head to see Grimke hatless eyes swinging to survey the chaos her brows knit tightly together.

"The courthouse for sure," West told her. "I saw it myself, I was on the roof."

Grimke nodded and remained at her back as they descended her hand always there, clutching her jacket as crimers and Rangers alike called out to the chief in their panic.

"We're evacuating," she told them.

As West was pushed towards the exit of the main complex as the crowd became aggressive catching the acrid scent of smoke untrusting of the usual grimy day before them.

"I need everyone to their usual patrol," Grimke shouted as they congregated in the spacious entrance spilling out into the streets, fleeing. "Whoa," she shouted snatching at blue, was shoved aside.

West saw the anger that flashed across the chief's face as her rangers retreated, afraid more for their own lives, and their families' lives, than strangers', the citizens they were sworn to protect.

"Captain, we got three reported explosions," Marion Boxy appeared her communiqué blinking on her wrist as she held her right ear, "The cemetery, the old courthouse, and the theater."

West looked to Grimke who nodded frowning.

"Alright you goddamned knaves," she bellowed, "Either run off somewhere to cower or get out there to help people," she shouted.

A few stopped to stare at the chief.

"Or is all you can do to serve the public is write curfew tickets and wear clean uniforms?" she asked, "This is the shit that really counts, not raiding night clubs, arresting hookers," her eyes widened, "Catching Singletons."

They rangers that stopped grabbed their passing protégés there was a struggle for the doors, booted footfalls,  a sea of blue uniforms and shouts, the sound of a police force gathering its courage. Grimke watched pleased.

"Get everyone out of the barracks, I want you on foot if you can't get a vehicle, commandeer a damned vehicle."

They surged out of headquarters into the streets West had no doubt that some of them were running, something in her heart told her though that they were going out to help people.

"It looks like Old Town was the target," West said to Grimke. "They took out the oldest building, the newest building, and the place with most people at any given time of the day."

A large metal desk was rolled out of the inner doors into the lobby, rangers followed carrying radio units, they sat plugging in to a power switch as it was hooked up the units began to click, the voices of rangers came online.

"I need the EMS teams, and fire stations from each district," Grimke said to West, "I'm going down to the courthouse."

West nodded anxiously, followed her.

 "You're coming?" Grimke asked. "Who'll take care of things here?"

West turned called to Boxy. "I'm going out round up some more officers for dispatch I'll be giving orders from the field, get hold  of fire chief Brannon."

She looked away for Grimke to find that the old woman was moving out towards the exit. West helped Boxy set up their makeshift dispatch in the lobby then braved the chaos in the streets.

The force's stationary ambulance foilies whirred past headquarters followed by several rangers on hogs. West flagged one down hopped on the back with a fresh faced ranger with strong aftershave.

"Where are you headed?" she asked.

"Theater Street," he said.

 West held on to the back of his jacket, passing the courthouse swathed in billows of smoke, there was a group of rangers seeking entrance past the buckled façade that had crumbled blocking off the front of the building.

They drove on, deeper into Old Town, and the parking strip that led to the theater, (aptly titled Theater Street,) where half of the Photon City Theater Hall lay, a pile of rubble, a smoking frame. People were still scrambling from the disaster, stumbling ghosts in a fog of smoke.

West jumped off the hog, and ran to meet them, they saw her uniform, and quickened their pace, reaching for her.

"Is everyone alright?" she asked them, quickly counting less than a dozen people, they were mostly newbies and the theater company a few still in costume.

 A woman about her age, her copper colored skin ashen, eyes large with fright latched on to her arm. Their gazes met, and West asked her if she was injured, the woman opened her mouth to speak, could not, she was in shock.

The others in the group surged around them, away from the theater. West pulled the woman along following, shouting into her radio for backup. The rumbling beneath her feet did not concern her, until the street shifted sideways.

She yelped as a fine crack ran between her legs, spreading in a lightning pattern around the others as they ran. West stopped, was jostled into a stumble by the woman behind her.

The captain looked up; saw the bent concrete, a wide circle in the middle of the street, extending to the edges. A car parked rocked on its struts as the street gave a violent shudder.

"Marion," she shouted into her radio, "We got trouble here-"

The car fell first, the street beneath disintegrated, the circumference crumbling, the circle growing wider, one of the fleeing people lost their balance, a portly man who leaned heavily on an older buxom blonde, several others fell to the unstable ground.

"No," West called, "Run. Go."

Still clutching the copper-skinned woman, she went to the couple, urging them to them to their feel. West bent to grab the man's shoulder-fuck, he was heavy- one of her boots sank through to her thigh, she held out her arms to balance herself her other leg bent, knee to the ground.

The copper-skinned woman screamed, leaning to catch her.

"Run," she told them, and they were gone, not to safety, but beneath the street, she watched as the ranger who had given her a ride to the disaster pull a man to safety.

West was on an island with the couple, and the woman who held on to her, the crater in the middle of the street was nearly whole.

"Captain," the ranger scrambled forward, stopped at the perimeter of cracks.

"No," she yelled as the edges crumbled, pieces falling away.

"Get back," she said slowly, sternly, "What's your name?"

"Stange," he hollered, carefully backing away, "Ranger Jack Stange."

"Alright," she called, another Jack tossed into her life, "Alright Ranger Stange, if I fall in here you're in charge. You're captain of this outfit."

"Not a good idea," he shouted.

"We don't have time for ideas," she told him, "We got to act, now I'm gonna try to get myself out of this mess."

She shifted her upper body, heard the weakened concrete rumble, she straightened her leg a bit, leaning her weight away from the noise, she groaned a little, remembered to breathe. She stood a bit more, her leg coming free, she tensed her other ankle ready to spring away when the whole thing gave.

-           -           -           -           -           -           -           -           -

At the courthouse, the glass dome had been the center of the explosion, shards of varying sizes rained down the thirty flights re-shattering once they hit the lobby floor shooting throughout the area like shrapnel. The explosion had loosed a big piece of the fancy new-Goth façade that crashed before the expansive glass front.

Grimke reached the entrance with a group of rangers, including Vogle, found the doors blocked with rubble. They searched the dusty air for a break in the heavy debris. They spotted an opening, glass cracked into a spider webby pattern.

"What the hell is going on in there?" she asked, peering through the filthy glass seeing among the sluggish, wounded, forms, a sight that made her stomach clench.

"Get down," she screamed as the cracked glass of the entrance was further shattered to bits by bullets.

Grimke went for her Hammersmith joining the scatter of rangers searching for cover as bullets raced through the smoke.

A man in a mangled suit pointed two guns at a group of wounded, terrified people. Their captor was wounded, there was a deep gash somewhere under his hair; blood rolled down his neck and shoulders, flying glass had shredded his suit.

"It was self defense," he screamed at the rangers, "I was doing what I was ordained to do; defend my reverend, our right to believe what we want."

"It's Corke," Vogle said over Grimke's shoulder, "I knew those culters were awf."

She squinted though the devastation at the bloodied man, recognized him as the Heart Fire shooter.

"He must have gotten lose during the explosion," another ranger said, "Word is this guy is a fucking sharp shooter."

"Then you'd be dead by now," Grimke said. "He's in shock."

"I just want to know if I'm in her graces," Corke was shouting waving the gun probably wrestled from one of the guards.

"My Goddess," he continued. "I only want to serve you."

 Grimke's communiqué buzzed, she recognized the mayor's code and answered. She picked up on Sloan's distress right away. After quickly briefing her on where the explosions had taken place, she learned that the mayor's fiancé was lost somewhere in the fray. It made her think of Elise and she was glad she did not have to worry about her wife being out, about in this wreck of a city.

A medic wagon arrived and a team of harried EMS operators exited carrying their kits. Several rangers blocked the way explaining the situation. Grimke turned back to the grisly scene; there were people inside the courthouse that needed medical attention. She could not let Corke hold this show up any longer.

She returned to the opening, took a deep breath. "Major Corke," she barked doing her best drill sergeant, "Stand down."

The man flinched, looked towards her. "I can't do that. Not until you believe me."

"I believe you," she told him.

"You're just saying that to save these people," Corke said.

"Stand down," Grimke insisted, she was beginning to lose her temper, get edgy.

"I can't do that," Corke shouted, "I don't serve your military anymore, General."

"I see that," she shouted, "You've become a defector."

He grinned grimly, began to walk closer as if he wanted a fight. Grimke felt the rangers behind her surge forward. Corke stopped in his tracks.

"Back off," she told the rangers, turning to Vogle, "Get them back."

She stuck her head and shoulders through the opening, tucking away her gun.

"So tell me about who you serve now," she said to Corke.

He laughed. "She doesn't approve of what you're doing," he said, "The Keeper. She knows I was only trying to defend her most beloved, Reverend Moss."

Grimke swallowed trying to figure out her next move, getting in there. "In the eyes of the law-"  

"The law," he scoffed, "Pitiful copies of the laws of the Gods, laws we've pried at until we've damned near destroyed ourselves."

"What are you talking about?" she asked trying to sound calm when she wanted to rip the guy's head off.

"Gravity. The power of the sun, the laws of the Gods," he said, "The One Who Reaps she told me so herself when…when she led me off that battle field, then carried my buddies to the Other Side."

She looked puzzled. "The Reaper?"

"A warrior of glory," he said, "Not like you, filthy Grimke. She flies from the sky on blood red wings, in blood red armor with two axes in her hands, axes to cut away souls from this existence into the Other."

The chief frowned. Remembering Byelorussia, her last raid on that arms facility; she and her team armed with chemical explosives to safely destroy the biochemical weapons. Then they were falling to the frozen ground as walls of flames shot up around her and her company, as shrapnel flew.

They were all dead within moments, or close to death, Grimke could hear their groans in her ear as she searched through the smoke.

A dull red gleam stopped her and she knew someone was coming to take her out. She raised her gun, she would not surrender, she would have accepted her death right there, gladly, they would not have her to rape and tortured.

"Who goes there?" she had shouted, able to make out a formidable form as it approached.

"Stop right there," she went on, "Identify yourself."

The figure kept coming so she pulled the trigger on her rifle, fired into the darkness. Her enemy did not fall, did not flinch, only kept walking. Grimke would have fired again, but found that she could not move her finger, could not move any part of her body. Unseen hands drove her to her knees, she groaned, roared at the approaching figure.

She did not look away, she wanted to see who was about to take her life, the redness brightened, broke through the dark. She saw a woman then, a winged woman. Everything after that was a blur; her next solid memory of that night was watching that arms facility, a burning blue flame that hurt her eyes.

"That's impossible," she said to Corke, once again in the courthouse. "You're out of your fucking mind."

He grinned, this time sincerely. "You've seen her too," he whispered.

"No," Grimke said. "You've got to surrender these people."

"We all deny," Corke said. "At first, but then we come to Photon City, we all end up at the chapel, then we hear our own story from some other soldier's mouth."

"You mean other people claim to have seen-" she swallowed, "The angel."

"The Reaper," he corrected.

Grimke stepped through the opening, her arms up, open. "What does this mean, Corke?"

He laughed. "It means you're one of us."

It was time to make her move. "Glowing gray eyes," she said wistfully, watching Corke nod his head, let his guard down, "The heart of fire etched on to her chest."

She snatched her Hammersmith from her holster, fired into the man's knee, drops of blood flew as he fell trying to raise his gun. Grimke fired again hitting his hand, the gun clattered among the broken glass.

The rangers filed in, their guns aimed, cuffing Corke, securing the area for the medics.

"Damn," Vogle said, "We can't keep letting you make us look so bad, Chief."

Grimke smiled wryly, left to let the medical team do their work. Outside, a group in hard hats was clearing a path for victims to be taken out. She decided to call Elise to let her know she was alive among the melee. She dialed home on her communiqué, got no answer. She dialed up the guard post at the front gates of her neighborhood. Franco answered.

"Chief," his voice was shaky, "What's going on out there?"

"It's bad," she said, "The courthouse, the park and the theater."

"Damn," he said.

"Listen, could you get someone to check on my place?" she asked, "Elise is not answering the phone."

"She left, Chief," he said, "One of the guys told me."

Grimke paused as she felt all the blood drain out of her face. "Left?" she asked.

"Walked right out before the Hour," he answered, "He said he tried to convince her not to but she got irate. We didn't think we should call you."

"That's alright Franco," she said, trying to imagine Elise irate, "We'll find her."

"Sure, Chief," he said, "I'll give you a dial if she shows up."

Grimke ended the call. "Elise," she whispered, "Damned disobedient-"

"Chief," Vogle appeared, worry in his eyes.

"What is it?" she asked.

"It's West," he said, "She's in trouble."

-           -           -           -           -           -           -           -           -

Sloan followed the evacuation procedures, once safely on the street Ashe tried to herd her into the car. She looked up at the twin columns of smoke slanting into the sky several miles apart, heard the sirens singing their songs of alarm. She dialed up Pamela on her communiqué immediately. There was no answer.

"Shit," she muttered.

"Mayor," Ashe said, "We've got to get out of here. Who knows what could happen next?"

"It's over," she told him, "Just let me get in touch with the police chief."

She dialed Grimke's personal communiqué code, the chief answered right away.

"We don't have much of a plan in play," she told the mayor, "Right now I'm outside of the courthouse, its been taken hostage."

"What else can go wrong?" she asked, "Listen Grimke, I can't get in touch with Pamela. Is there any way-"

"I can patch you in to Marion Boxy our dispatch sergeant," she said, "We're going to need you to authorize some things Mayor Sloan."

"Right," she said, "I'm just so worried about her, you know…I'm sorry."

"S'alright," she said distractedly, "Let me handle this guy."

Sloan waited patiently as she was hooked on with the Boxy woman; the force needed her, her citizens needed her.

"Mayor Sloan?" a cool drawl broke through the static, "This is sergeant Boxy, we need you to call out all the Firedogs, we got no support to far."

Sloan frowned, since each district was in charge of its own EMS and fire officer station (the volunteer roughnecks were nicknamed firedogs) the mayor was in charge of dispatching them out of district in such an emergency. She wondered why the fire chief, Brannon was resting on his laurels waiting for her authorization; she could have been blown to bits under a pile of rubble.

 "Can you get me Brannon?" she asked Boxy.

She waited, and soon the fire chief's voice surfaced through several layers of static.

"This is Mayor Sloan," she said curtly, "I'm authorizing a full state of emergency; we need support here in Old Town."

He grunted an affirmative. She wanted to confront him on his failure to act sooner, three explosions, the destruction of one of the city's most central features should have been enough endorsement to dispatch every fire dog in the city. Brannon was a fucking caveman, estranged from the city thanks to Jack Lacy, and the young lady Mayor, he reinvested his loyalties in hard working folks like Trapp and McHarry who probably convinced him of all sorts of misappropriations between the Mayor and precious knaves.

She tried Pamela again growing frantic as she listened to the tone, her fiancé could be anywhere in the city.

She remembered then that there was to be a vigil in Hill Park in honor of the Hour, there was a chance Pamela had gone there. She could be so curious of everyday people. Sloan closed her hand over the communiqué on her wrist, then turned to Ashe.

"We're moving," she said, "To Hill Park."

-           -           -           -           -           -           -           -           -

Sometime after the third blast Marx got to her feet shaking, her uterus seemed clenched like an over protective fist around her baby and she took deep breaths to try to relax it for fear it would close down around her.

       Outside she heard the aftermath like rumbling thunder.

       "How the hell did you know this was going to happen?" Marx asked Petra Singleton.

       "I have friends," she answered.

       "I can't be found here," Pamela said, staring at her blinking communiqué, "I have to get back to my pent."

The princess of crime and the pregnant crimer stared hard at each other as the heiress went deeper into hysterics.

        "Jules is going to kill me," Pamela said, "She'll find out about the plants, about you." She pointed at the Singleton. "Tony, you've got to get me out of here."

       "Bullshit," Marx said to Petra, "You're behind this; you've blown up the whole goddamned city."

      "I'd stop my mouth Little Mother," Petra said stepping forward.

      "Snake," Marx accused, following Tony, Pygmalion and Pamela out to her white car.      

The four of them turned circles surveying the sky the warehouse seemed to be tucked in the middle of the explosions, towers of smoke rolled up to the gray sky, the old court house with its dome cut in half, now a jagged pike, a rotted collapsed tooth.

They piled into the car, Tony at the wheel; Marx in the front passenger side next to him; Pamela and her psychic in the back.

"We'll never be able to get to Old Town," Marx said as the car rolled away from the warehouse, "By foot yes, but that might be too dangerous."

"I have to get back to my pent," Pamela insisted.

"-Midtown maybe," Tony said,

"This is not up for discussion," Pamela said, "We're going to Old Town."

Marx peered ahead at a cloud, like a fog, blocking their path.

"Stop the car," she said to Tony.

He began to brake. They were already among the haze, it sound against the car's glass, a swirling rain of debris in the form of a cloud.

"Don't you fucking stop this car," Pamela ordered, "I'm the one who pays you Tony, not her."

"You're going to get us all killed," Marx shouted.

They entered the smog it thickened as they continued until there was zero visibility. Tony stopped the car. "I can't see shit."

"Like I said," Marx told them, "We can't get to Old Town."

Tony put the car in reverse.

"I don't believe this shit," Pamela exclaimed.

"This is what happens," Marx said, "You played crimer-"

She did not see the other car floating through the haze of debris; it bumped the passenger side of the car flinging Marx's upper body over. Her arms went around her stomach as the car skidded.

Tony stomped the brake, the other car swerved around them, and then drove on into the fog.

"Motherfuckers," Marx shouted, still clutching her stomach, watching the other car disappear.

"Are you alright?" Pamela asked.

Marx ignored her. "Tony, get us the hell out of here."

He nodded, drove them out of the fog, twisting through a maze of streets she recognized as the 3^rd Ward.

"I know where we can go," she said, "Turn right over here."

"Where?" Pamela asked, as Tony complied with Marx's directions.

"Don't worry," she told the newbie, "You should not get in too much trouble for being in this place; it's right off Mecom Square. I'm sure you can think of a good lie to tell the mayor."

She led them to the green and the chapel, Pamela had her complaints as they approached the building, but she was scared as hell, and would have taken shelter anywhere except the warehouses. 

"We'll be safe here for the time being," Marx said as they entered the foyer.

The place was packed, for a second she was sure Heart Fire had all congregated to the chapel after the blast but she noticed street people, and newbies crowded up in the same room flowing past the arch. They were not the only bunch who flocked to the chapel for refuge. Marx wanted to laugh at them; all the same cynics preaching against mind numbing faith were cowering under the nearest deity when disaster struck.

"You certainly know your way around," Pamela said pleased.

"One of my haunts," Marx said.

"You're into Death Cult?" she asked following her into the main hall and the rows of pews in circles, the crowd was denser there and Marx wondered why Townsend had let so many people pack refuge there, the blasts were miles away. There was some shouting from somewhere in the mob, and she noticed that they were all agitated, excited, pointing past the altar to the back wall and the spinning bank of prayer wheels.

"Marx," Casper appeared and latched on to her as they struggled talking through second breaks in the crowd.

"What the hell is going on?" she asked.

"Some newbie came in here before the attack," he told her, "She went into a trance and then minutes later Reverend Townsend heard the first blast."

He pulled her through the people to the prayer wheels where some deacons were gathered around in a semi circle three deep keeping the newbie well protected from the rest of the people.

"Fuck you," Pamela hissed when they stopped her from approaching.

Marx turned to see her gawking, probably sure that she thought of her as some top authority in the cult.

"She's swift," she told Casper who was not sure until Townsend appeared and nodded anxiously.

"We'll need as many witnesses as we can get," she said, running a hand through her cobwebby wisps.

"She's a friend of mine," Marx said, "Pamela Zepeda."

"Of Zepeda Power Coastal," Casper said, "She's your friend?"

"I get around," Marx said, peering through the deacons to see the newbie on her knees facing the turning wheels her arms at her sides forearms extended palms open towards the wheels.

"She's in some sort of trance," Townsend said.

"You crazy old broad," Pamela shouted stepping forward, pushing through the deacons, "What did you do to her?"

"Nothing," Townsend said and pointed to the wheel, "It's been spinning much faster than I've ever seen it, I think she's causing it to happen."

"You know her or something?" one of the deacons asked.

"She's Elise Lacroix Grimke," Pamela said, "She's married to the police chief."

"Oh fuck," Marx said looking to Casper, "She's probably twisted on something."

Pamela knelt to inspect her face, "Elise," she said softly, then louder, she touched her cheek.

"She's like ice," she told them.

Marx bent and did the same, the woman was beautiful, dressed too sophisticated to be a newbie, she was certainly rich. Marx, sure that the woman was high, gently touched her eyes and pried apart the lids to look at her pupils.

The whites were clear, the colored part a sparkling hazel, the pupils were dark but too wide, they flickered and danced like black flames in a gentle wind. Marx peered closer not recognizing her own reflection in the woman's eyes, she squinted and saw she was not looking at her own likeness but a moving picture drowned out by the brown of her eyes but visible; billowing smoke, the broken skyline of Photon City.

Marx started tried to sway back and stand but lost her balance and fell on her ass out of breath.

"What is it?" Townsend asked.

Marx stood frowning, pointed to the spinning prayer wheels, their pace seemed to have quicken.

"You sure those just aren't broken?" she asked, "Maybe the blasts sent them into a faster rotation."

"Maybe," Townsend said, "What did you see Marx?"

"Nothing," she said looking down at the kneeling woman, "I think this lady is dead."

"You saw the flames too, the destruction," Townsend said touching Marx's chin, "Didn't you?"

She looked away from the old woman down at the kneeling woman, Pamela was beside her again touching her face gingerly.

"She's alive," the heiress said, "She's crying."

The all stooped to see the tears streaming down the lovely face.

"Has anything like this ever happened to her before?" Townsend asked Pamela who shook her head.

"Not that I know of," she answered, "She just moved to town."

The woman's body swayed to the side a bit and lurched, everyone around her got to their feet, staring as she blinked her eyes and surveyed her surroundings.

"Reverend, what happened?" she asked Townsend. She noticed Pamela, "What's happened?"

Townsend sank to her knees; she took one of the woman Elise's hands.

"I think you've just had some sort spiritual experience," the old woman said.

"That can't be," she said touching her cheeks inspecting the tears that came away on her fingers. She wiped them away on her jacket.

"I don't have a faith."

"Sometimes, we don't choose faith," Townsend said glimpsing up at Marx, "It chooses us."

-           -           -           -           -           -           -           -           -

The shock of the fall left her body stunned. Her lungs seized, would not draw in air. West rolled over on her side, vaguely aware of the thuds of fiberglass bending under her weight, the crunch of windshield glass beneath her.

She unclenched her lids saw the wrecked car had broken her fall. She groaned, sitting up slowly looking around her at the ghostly faces of the others trapped; the copper-skinned woman inquiring if she was alright.

"I think-" she answered, a light was shone in her eyes, she squinted, craned her head up at the filthy sky above. She saw the silhouettes of rangers peering down at her shinning flashlights, calling her name.

"I'm alright," she tried to shout, but her voice came out hoarse, there was a pain in her chest, the lower right side, one of her ribs was broken.

"She says she's fine," the woman called up, then; "This is Selema Bloom."

"Thank you," West said, reaching for her radio, "Goddamnit Stange. Toss me down a fucking light."

"I got something on my hog," he said, "But I got some flares on the way."

"Sure, anything," West gasped in the dark, wondering who the hell kept flares anymore.

"You're down about fifteen feet," Stange's voice crackled in her ear, the depth interfering with the connection, "This street is highly unstable."

 Several chucks of debris fell and splashed, there were startled shouts as the others dodged them. A beam of light followed, there was more splashing, a young man appeared and caught the flashlight.

"Fucking rangers," he said. "They're the ones who're gonna need rescuing."

"Shut up, Cy," Selema Bloom said over her shoulder.

West surveyed them, looked beyond at the others, huddled around the car, the older couple, and two more women who could not escape the street's collapse.

"What's that smell?" West asked. It seemed her senses had not caught up with her. She made her self breathe, taste the danger in the air.

"It's the city's shit," Cy said bitterly, "We're in the sewer."

West stiffly slid off the hood of the car, splashing ankle deep in black water, she straightened. Stange was saying something to her on the radio.

"Grimke" she said into her mic when she heard the chief back online.

"I'm on my way," she said, "We got some help coming. The firedogs."

"Good," West said wading to the back of the car where the blonde held on to her husband.

"He needs a doctor," the woman pleaded, "You have to tell them that the Zapedas are down here, Herbert and Dusty Zapeda."

 "I'm Captain West," she said, staggering forward.

"At least we'll get saved in a timely manner," Cy said.

West sloshed through the sewage taking in the dull stench of years of human waste, but there was something else. She shinned her light at the other two women, gave them her assurance that they would not be in the cavern much longer.

"We have help on the way," West said distractedly, shinning the light down at her feet, at the swirling, black bilge, she could almost see something floating at the top; a faint, purple-yellowish brown like chemicals. There had been splashing during the fall, and she noticed that she was half wet with the slop, as was the obnoxious boy, Selema, and the Zapedas, and the other two. It had broken their fall but it was more than likely highly toxic.

West shined the light up, there were fall walls surrounding them; one was black brick, shimmering with moisture loving growths, two were newer, smooth cement, the last was a steep slope of tumbled debris, a few stray pipes stuck out spitting water, arcs of water also sprang from various crevasses.

"It's a fucking apocalypse out there. Isn't it Captain West?" Cy asked. 

"Everything is under control," she shinned the light on the slender-boy with delicate features, the actor prodigy of the theaters, she recalled, who wrote the best plays. His wore his hair shaved close to his little round head; the fall left him a little bruised, but otherwise unharmed. He smirked at her.

 "How brave," he said.

"We didn't all make it," Selema said, pointing to the outer edge of the cavern, beyond the car, West sent the beam of saw two feet floating on top of the dark water. The women on the car screamed, and Cy said: "It's Laird."

Selema began to slide forward, West followed; she had seen dead bodies before, crimers stabbed to death in ditches in their flashy clothes, the grotesqueness of children's corpses. This man, Laird, was a plain guy, someone's pudgy, balding, bland, theater loving father floating face up in the sewer, fist still at his chest clutching his gray cardigan.

"He's dead," the captain announced.

"No shit," Cy said bitterly, "Fucking Rangers."

West wanted to snap back, but the woman Selema clutched her arm. "Are we going to end up like him?"

"Fuck no," Cy said, "Help is on the way, just don't have a heart attack or anything."

"Let's get back to the car," West said, pulling her away from the dead man. Cy splashed ahead.

"Captain," Grimke said into her ear, "You alright?"

"Yeah," she said, "We got a fatality down here, Chief, and we're ankle deep in sewage."

"I'm close by," she replied, "The firedogs should be here soon to assist."

There was a click, and she switched to Stange.

"I'm throwing down some flares," he said brightly.

West's head shot up, she roared at the surface. "Jack, no."

The other startled, looked towards the dirty sky as a lit flare came flipping over the jagged lip of the cavern.

"Shit, Stange-," West splashed back, her arms splayed shepherding Cy, and Selema away from the falling flare like a rocket thruster, a jet of sparks firing from the end.

They watched it fall to the black water, it seemed to extinguish for a second, the next a brilliant blaze roared high, lighting up the cavern. Cy stumbled back, fell on his ass, Selema tried to hold on to West, and pulling him up at the same time.

"Goddamnit," the captain shouted into her mic as the surface of the water caught fire, "We got fire down here, Grimke."

-           -           -           -           -           -           -           -           -

Garden Hill was the city's own historical landmark. Long forgotten were the incidents that had taken place under those majestic, sprawling oaks a thousand years ago, but no one forgot that the trees were part of history. The people of the city considered Garden Hill a great inspiration, the resting place of the very first citizens. It was a meeting place for lovers to stroll hand in hand, where dogs and children could romp though the sun had abandoned the sky.

Now EMS and the Firedogs roamed the place, collecting, and spiriting away the injured, covering the dead. Sloan wandered the scene with Ashe behind her, telling anyone who dared inquire that the mayor was fine. There her bodies sprawled on the famous hill where in sunnier times people picnicked. Even among the old tombstones, the newly dead lay face down above the long dead.

Brannon the fire chief was on the scene, older and gruffer than Grimke, he gave her a quick report, tried to send her home.

"No I can't," she tried to explain, but could not.

"Now is not the time or the place, Mayor," he said, someone called to him through the radio on his shoulder, he rasped at them, and turned around to see a Firedog trudging towards them with a girl on his hip.

"Set her down," Brannon said to him, looking at Sloan as the little girl regarded up at the both of them with large watery eyes.

"Here's your photo-op," he said, "Take this kid. Help her find her mother."

"You disrespectful sonofabitch," Sloan told him, "My fiancé is missing out there; I got Rangers out there putting their lives on the line to save citizens in danger."

He looked on her nonchalantly, he obviously could have cared less for the knaves, or the richest woman in the city, "I ain't got time for lady-fits," he said, "You wanna help? Take the kid or not."

"Don't forget who runs this city, I can have your fucking job," Sloan glowered at him, happened to glance down at the kid.

"I was hiding," she said, "Momma was looking for me, and I was playing hidey, then a big thunder knocked everybody down."

"It's alright," she told her; she had never realized how extremely small children were. Sloan picked her up, the girl reaching up as she stooped, she did not mind being carried, hid her face in the shoulder of the mayor's jacket.

"What's your name?" she asked her turning walking away from Brannon.

"Sara," she answered.

"Alright, Sara-" Sloan said.

"Cara," the girl said, "Not Sara."

"Cara. Right," Sloan affirmed, "Do you know who I am?'

"A boss," she said.

Sloan laughed in spite of her self. "I am sort of, but my friends call me Jules."

"The firedogs are mean Jules," she sighed, "You should tell them not to be so shitty."

Sloan laughed again. "Does your Momma let you talk like that?" she asked.

"I'm talking like a boss," Cara said, "That's what I'll be when I grow up."

"Let's find your mother," Sloan said walking towards a group of EMS, a familiar figure passed her, and she turned just as the woman did.

"This is a different side of you," Masha smiled.

"You," Sloan said pointedly, "I should have you arrested."

"Why?" Masha asked, "You can't blame this on me."

"I know," Sloan said, shielding the young girl, she lowered her voice to a whisper, "I know you were behind this."

"I wanted to make a point," the queen of crime confessed, "This city is mine; I have the power to destroy it, to destroy you."

"Where is Pamela?" the mayor asked.

"The wifey?" Masha asked. "Is she missing?"

"If anything has happened to her, I'll make it my personal crusade to put you behind bars," Sloan told her, stepping away, pulling the little girl with her.

She crossed the street looking over her shoulder at crime queen, standing there smiling as if the deadly day was her finest moment.

-           -           -           -           -           -           -           -           -

She felt protective of Captain West, realized how she tried to shelter the red head since she got to Photon City. Grimke supposed it was her mothering instinct reaching out to this woman half her age, who in a way was so naïve, who only wanted the best for the world, though she did not always go about things the wisest way. 

She was on the back of Vogle's hog watching the city fly by, people like zombies, not sure where to go, surveying the damage. She tried to pick Elise out of the crowds, really wanted to ditch the whole operation and go in search of her wife.

Then West was in her ear screaming, "We got fire, goddamnit, Stange threw a flare on sewage."

"Shit," Grimke said, "I'm on my way."

She switched over to Boxy, asked for the firedog's frequency; she had barely spoken to the man during her stint as police chief for Photon City, rumor had it that the man had a legendary temper, and was loyal to no one but his poorly run union, and certain city council members.

She announced herself over the frequency, and got only silence in response. Finally, the old alpha dog spoke up.

"What can I do for you, Chief Grimke?" he asked.

She explained, that West was trapped in a fiery hole with some civilians off Theater Street, that she needed some equipment and man power.

"I'll see what I can do," he droned, "We got lots of injured here at Cemetery Hill and the courthouse."

"There was a bomb at the Theater too," Grimke told him, "I'll put the fucking fire out myself, I just need whatever you can spare."

"Since when does the Knaves need handouts from the firedogs?" he asked, and there was a brief applause, clicks from his troops.

"Since some sick mother fucker shanked the city," Grimke said, "Since the street collapsed and we got folks down there about to die a fucking horrible death."

"Don't get self righteous on me lady," he said, "All you with your fits; I got some flat packs on the way, some dogs, on their way, stat."

Grimke switched back over to the Ranger frequency as Vogle turned onto Theater Street; she stood a bit to see a gaping, jagged hole where the street should have been. Rangers and citizens had gathered at a safe distance watching a skinny column of smoke rising from the city's new geographical landmark.

"I'm here," Grimke told West who answered, choking on the fumes, "I'm coming down there my fucking self."

Vogle followed her as she walked the far perimeter of the hole. "You're not going down there," he said.

Grimke ignored him, unzipped her blue jacket. "Fuck you, Vogle."

The big man shrugged. "How many times you think you can put your ass on the line before fate decides to take a bite out of it."

Grimke snorted. "I didn't take you for a man of fate."

"It's that old fucking law of averages, Chief," Vogle told her, "Let me go down there."

"Who's strong enough to lower you down there?" Grimke asked, "Anyway, you don't want to get in the habit of dangling your ass in front of fate."

A fire tank arrived, sirens blaring; Brannon had also sent two greenies, fresh faced firedogs straight out of the academy. He did not take the time to figure that Grimke was used to dealing with youth.

"We got to get those folks out," Grimke said in greeting, noticing his badge said Weiss, "How many does it take to man your cinch?"

"Two," Weiss said, he looked kind of ashamed of his Chief's antics.

"There's no way we can drive the tank on that street," the other firedog said, (also Weiss) as they walked around the side of the great, truck, he unlocked a panel to reveal a coil of cable-hose, that was strong enough to blast out tons of water, and apparently be used in such rescue operations, "Gonna have to life-line it."

"Shit," Vogle said, "I don't like the sound of that."

"Where the hell have you guys been" Grimke asked in disbelief.

"We can start pulling folks out," the first Weiss said, the two were obviously brothers now, though one was shaved bald, the other with locks past the nape of his neck.

"This has been done before?" Grimke asked.

"Chief said so," the second Weiss said, "We got to rig someone up in one of our harnesses."

"Me," Grimke said, "I'm ready."

"You really are an awf old bird aren't you?" the second Weiss asked, his grinned screw down nervously when he saw the look on Vogle's face.

"As awf as you'll ever see," Grimke told him.

-           -           -           -           -           -           -           -           -

With the child Cara clinging to her, Sloan squeezed her way through the makeshift hospital, asking about the mother of the little girl. No one could give her any information, not the medics, the strain, and tension rimming their eyes, or the victims with faces ashen from terror. Sloan barely heard her communiqué buzz, stopped to answer.

"Jules?" Pamela asked. "You're alright."

"Yes," Sloan said, tears suddenly in her eyes, "Are you alright? Where are you?"

"I'm fine," Pamela said. "I was in Mecom Square with Elise Grimke. We took refuge in that Death Cult chapel."

"I'll send someone for you right away," Sloan sighed, "Just hold on."

"We're safe," Pamela said. It seemed as if she was trying to reassure her self of the face. "I was scared."

"I was too," Sloan said. "Now I know everything will be fine, my darling is safe."

"Where are you?" Pamela asked.

"Cemetery Hill," Sloan said, "I came out here to lend a hand."

She could nearly see the smile on her fiancé's face, knew she was impressed with her going out to help the masses collect themselves.

"I'm so fucking glad you're safe," Pamela said, "What about the Chief?"

"She's safe," Sloan said, "Be sure to tell Elise that."

She promised to get Mrs. Grimke home, and stay there with her; Midtown was the safest place. Sloan assured her that she would be there to collect her, that she should not off with anyone else unless she called her back to tell her so.

"You sound frightened," Pamela said.

"It's a frightening day," Sloan said, "I just want to be sure-"

She looked up from her communiqué when the little girl on her other arm squeaked and reached out her arms. Mayor Sloan turned her head to see a stumbling woman with a bandage on her head, bleating reaching for the girl.

"Momma," Cara shouted joyously. Sloan put her down, watched the tearful reunion, and described it all to Pamela.

"Thank you," the little girl's mother said, "You don't know the things that were running through my head-"

"I know," she told the woman, then smiled at Cara, who snuggled her face into her mother's shoulder.

"Do you know who this is, Honey?" her mother asked, "This is Mayor Sloan; she's in charge of the whole city."

"The boss," Cara said.

They laughed at her innocence, and the woman left with her daughter, bestowing more thanks to the mayor. As she watched then go Sloan realized her fiancé still waited for her.

"Pamela, are you still there?" she asked into her communiqué.

"I am," she answered, "You're a real hero, Darling."

"No," Sloan said, thinking of Masha Singleton, her confessions before and after the bombings, "I'm no hero."

-           -           -           -           -           -           -           -           -

Pamela ended her call with Jules. The two of them were relieved that the other was safe; however, the tasks at hand distracted them. During their conversation, Pamela could not keep her eyes from Elise Grimke surrounded by the Death Culters. The chapel had been cleared or refugees, they were either gone or crowded in the foyer.

Elise sat demurely on one of the wooden benches, her arms crossed in front of her, head down murmuring to the questions they asked her.

She was frightened, disoriented. Marx noticed too, she cut through the small crowd.

"She said she didn't see anything," the young crimer said.

"We must be sure," Townsend insisted.

"That's enough," Pamela spoke up, "The mayor is sending someone to collect Elise and I."

She walked towards the group, two of them, men assigned to protect Townsend and the chapel, stood in front blocking her way to Elise. She felt a flash of anger strike her body, she turned to Marx.

"This is over guys," the young crimers said, the men would not budge.

"I don't think the Chief of Police would like to know her wife is here being interrogated," Pamela said, she got close to them. "This is the same chief who did not bat an eye at the Singletons. You think she'd be intimidated by a couple of crazy culters?"

She peered past them at Townsend. It seemed the men were awaiting her order for them to stand down. The old witch made not one move. Elise stood, she touched their shoulders, a gentle squeeze, and they parted.

Pamela quickly took her hand, led her out of the chapel, she lowered her head ignoring the other newbies. Let them gossip, she felt responsible for the Chief Grimke's wife, a stir of emotion for the odd woman, with her soft spoken manner, her stately beauty that commanded respect.

Jules sent a Black Stripe car to retrieve them, and escort them to Midtown, Elise and Eustace Grimke's simple little house in the cozy little neighborhood. Pamela had always been envious of such living, not the simplicity, but the coziness.

She stood patiently behind Elise as she unlocked the door, wandered into the house behind her, sat with her on one of the sofas.

"How do you feel?" Pamela asked her.

"Well," she said in her breathy voice, "But Eustace is in danger."

-           -           -           -           -           -           -           -           -

Grimke with a twenty-pound harness, and about thirty pounds of equipment strapped to her body, tried to step light as she walked across the cracked, and groaning street. The cable hose led from her back, attached by a large locking ring, unlike the kind attached to hydrants.

She turned to look at the firedogs, rangers, and civilians behind her watching, Vogle with heavy work gloves keeping the cable hose taunt, off the ground. She turned and continued her careful walk towards the gaping, jagged hole, and the smoke pouring forth. There was stench that made Grimke's lungs burn, she called to West who responded groggily. "We're not doing good down here."

 It was killing them.

"You just hold on, West," Grimke told her, "I got fresh oxygen coming, the firedog's very best."

She reached the edge of the hole, peered down, and saw the flames. She bent her knees slowly into a squat. She then eased on to her ass dangling her legs over the edge. She spoke to Vogle through her mic.

"You ready big guy?" she asked, "I've gained a few pounds."

"I got you chief," Vogle said, there was a line of rangers behind him, ready to brace the cable.

Grimke snapped on an oxygen mask, then leaned forward, slowly slipped off the edge, the cable at her back not at all slack, the winch attached to the fire tank slowly lowered her smoothly, limbs splayed in Vs to keep her balance, searching through the smoke for West and the victims.

She saw the black water first, shimmering from the light of the fire, then the car like a wrecked ship. West came to greet her, reached up as if she was not sure the chief was there. Grimke clasped her hand, then handed her an oxygen mask.

When her feet hit the water she was able to see all of them through the smoke with the aid of West's light. She handed out more masks, then tanks of foam.

"I need ya'll to lay this down so the fire won't spread," Grimke told them, "Then we won't be in such a rush to get outta here."

The cable left her immobile; she did not want to jeopardize the situation by roaming around the hole. There was a young man and a young woman, kids; they dove right in spraying the foam towards the fire. It floated on top of the black water like snow on a filthy street. It contained the flames in an almost perfect circle.

"We have a man unconscious," West informed her.

"Right," Grimke said, "Do you think the others can help you get him to me?"

The captain nodded, went to rally her new troops, two other women appeared from the gloom to aid West, the kids, and the fat man's wife in dragging him through the black water.

The harness was for two people, adjustable, so there was no trouble strapping in the fat man. They leaned him against Grimke, chest to chest, he was about two feet shorter than she, his head lolled back, the oxygen mask, askew from his journey. She clutched the front off his jacket by the shoulders to keep his body steady as she gave the word to Vogle who began to tug them up towards the rising smoke, towards the surface. The winch began its work; Grimke and the man were dusted from above by fine dirt, and crumbling concrete the size of pebbles, then rocks.

She was pelted pretty good, then knocked her head against the undersurface of the cavern's lip. Vogle was there above her, reaching down, unhooking the fat man, grunting pulling him over by the scruff of his neck, and then dragging him to safety.

"All clear," he huffed into her ear piece, "Keep 'em coming, Chief."

"It seems to be pretty stable," Grimke told him, "On the east side; there is an old brick wall."
"I read you," Vogle said, as he supervised her lowering back into the black water.

The fat man's wife went next; she was strapped in, yelped as they were pulled to the surface, explaining that she was terrified of heights. Vogle pulled her to safety and Grimke could hear spectators cheering.

One of the older women was strapped in next, she wore the same fragrance Elise was fond of and Grimke could not help thinking of her wife, out there somewhere in the destruction.

She was crying a little as Vogle assisted the lady to the surface, she saw her feet through the smoke and then she was going down again.

The second lady. More cheering. Back down again. Her shoulders ached, her neck, her fucking back. She was getting old after all, a birthday at the end of August. She would be what? 58? She could not be sure after all.

The boy. She could use a drink. She was getting too old for this heroics shit. She should have fought them. She could have been in Canada then, and she would read about the disaster in Photon City one evening in the papes after a long day of wood chopping, or fishing or some shit.

"Goddamn," the boy said as Vogle pulled him up.

The girl. She reminded Grimke of a long lost, older cousin. Fucking beautiful. Young Eustace felt so awful about the crush, she avoided her at all cost. She was into gentile stuff like flute playing and gardening….

West. As pale as a ghost in the gloom, she clung to Grimke (to her surprise) before she could hook her in the harness.

"S'alright," the chief told her, clinging back to her, a desperate embrace.

"Eustace."

Grimke's head shot up straight, she had heard Elise in her ear, through her piece. She was safe, and they were letting her talk to her; tell her that she was safe.

"Elise?" she shouted into her mic.

"Chief, you ready?" Vogle asked.

"Is my wife there?" Grimke asked.

"No," he answered, "I don't think so. Chief? I think you need to get the hell out of there."

"Me too," she answered, looking down at West, the captain looked a little guilty, a lot more scared.

They fumbled for the buckles, and straps of the harness, getting them around the captain's chest, and waist.

"Eustace hurry," Elise was in her ear again, "You have to be quicker than that."

Grimke stiffened. "Shit," she barked, "I can't-"

There was an explosion, a wall of water rolled over on top of them, pounding them into the opposite end of the cavern, roaring over their bodies. The leaking slope had given, breaking into an avalanche of toxic water, and crumbled concrete.

The wave pressed Grimke against the opposite wall, pressed into West her, half buckled in the harness. She felt the captain's body being washed over her, she held on to her.

"Don't let go," Grimke tried to say, and was half drowned, a rock bounced into her nose, and she tasted blood, breathed it into her lungs. Everything went black, and she realized West had let go of her light, that she was most likely unconscious.

The water settled and covered them in more black, too bad the oxygen masks did not work underwater. It was slowly leaking. Grimke ripped hers off, groped for West, felt her badge, her hair, pulled her up so they were chest to chest, and pressed her face to her own.

The captain was unconscious.

Grimke knew how to hold her breath, West did not have time to learn, her body was stubbornly taking in water if her mask was leaking.

She was aware of being pulled, quick, jerky movements, she held on to the captain, then she sensed air close, her head was bumped again, she felt them tugging at West, Grimke tried to feel around for the harness buckles, could not find them.

Her lungs seized, there was water in them, she was fucking panicking like a new recruit.

"You've got to get her free, Eustace," Elise told her.

Grimke reeled. It was eerie, hearing her wife's whispery calm over the rushing of water, the pounding of blood in her ears. She found the harness buckles, rippled the strapping loose, felt West's body float away from her.

The chief reached up, caught the lip, strong hands reached into the water, grabbed her. The black shattered and she was on the cracked street, choking, and sputtering, turning on her side, looking for West.

She was picked up, carried like a sack of potatoes, dropped in the grass. Vogle fell next to her on his hands and knees, chest heaving.

"You see?" she managed, "I'm a professional."

He nodded. "You're still an awf old bird."

She craned her head, saw the people watching, saw West, choking, and trembling in the hands of the firedogs, the Wiess brothers, they were telling her she was alright, and she was mumbling about the others.

"Vogle?" Grimke asked.

"Yep?" he croaked.

She took in several more gasps of air, "Give me a few more seconds to catch my breath, then-" she closed her eyes, opened them, "Help me to my feet,"

-           -           -           -           -           -           -           -           -           -           -

"I wasn't expecting you today," Marx said opening her door, letting West inside, glad to see the captain safe.

"You wouldn't believe the day I had," she said as they reached the top of the stairs.

"I could," Marx said as they sat. She watched the captain close her eyes as if that was the first still moment she had had all day. Her usually pristine uniform was grubby from cap to boot, her pants torn at the thigh. She had attempted to clean her hands, and face but the dirt did not come clean.

 "You knaves are something else you know, saving lives and shit," Marx said.

"Thank you," West said, "I was very proud of us today."

She leaned forward, elbows on her thighs, burying her face in her hands. Her shoulders began to shake with slow, silent sobs. When West looked up at Marx there were tears streaming down her face, her eyes rimmed in a distressed red; she opened her mouth to speak only to give a tiny cry.

Marx went to her kneeling next to her. "Hey," she said softly, "You're alright now, it's all over."

She gently removed the captain's hands to look into her face felt them reach out to her. Marx stood as West hugged her around the waist hiding her face in the side of her stomach.

The gesture took the crimer's breath away she stood still for a moment then stroked the top of West's head, the sides of her face hot from tears.

"I fell in a fucking sink hole," she said into Marx's belly, "There was toxic flaming sewage, I was scared."

"Of course," Marx said, "I bet even Chief Grimke shit some bricks today. So what's your point?"

"I was just scared that's all," West said, "Thinking what a huge waste my life has been, chasing after books and theory instead of just going out and doing."

"I wouldn't call your life a waste," Marx said, "You're an honest, stand up person, and if you see a way to change your methods of being such a good person then you should do it, but not because you feel like you're some loser."

West looked up at her.

"When did you become so wise?" she asked.

"I'm a wise girl," Marx smiled, "I just gnash around a lot like I don't take shit seriously that was when things go wrong it doesn't hurt so bad. Understand?"

"I do," West stood, "Its late; I shouldn't be disturbing you."

"You're not," Marx said, taking her hand, "I can fix you something to eat if you want."

West nodded, followed her to the little kitchen area sat down while Marx fixed up some sandwiches, and soup along with an eclectic spread of snacks.

"You've been getting your vitamin shots, right?" West asked.

"Yeah," Marx answered, the captain was worried about her food choices though there was little else besides fu and other prepackaged goodies. They ate in silence, West obviously had not been able to pause in the turmoil for a bite to eat, so she was ravenous. When they finished eating and were cleaning up, the captain asked a strange question.

"Don't you ever miss Georgie? I mean do you feel bad that she was the one who betrayed you?"

"No," Marx said, "I wasn't even shocked cause that's just the way crimers work."

"Do crimer's have feelings?" West asked.

"Not supposed to," Marx said yawning, she wanted to curl up in bed, she wanted to bring West with her, "But we are human after all, just like generals and idealistic police captains."

West laughed a little and followed her. "I never denied that I'm supposed to have feelings."

Marx lay down on her back, she was exhausted, she closed her eyes, listened to the captain still save her breathing. She blinked opened her eyes to see her standing there her face tired and longing.

"I'm filthy," she said, "I should be at Signet, but I left. That story sound familiar?"

"I'm lady enough to avert my eyes while you shower," Marx said, "I have a change of clothes for you."

"Maybe I should go," West stammered.

Marx stood, she should have known the captain would be stubborn about this, she took her hand, led her to the shower.

"You don't have to worry about me any more," she said, "I'm not a crimer, that part of my life is over, we can be friends or lovers, whatever you like West but I need you; someone with common sense to guide me."

The captain nodded.

"Tabby," she said, "That's what everyone back home calls me."

Marx grinned into a laugh. "Alright, Tabby, you go ahead and take a shower."

She only sneaked one look at the captain's silhouette behind the curtain, she was slender because of her lifestyle dedicated to her work there was probably little rest for her, less time for excess eating. She had curves, Marx could tell through the curtain by the flare of her hips, if she had lived the life of a newbie, or devoted young mother she would have more curves, more fleshy places.

Marx nearly laughed when she thought of herself as a leering, pregnant, pervert driven by an unpredictable tide of hormones. She got back into bed slipped back to sleep listening to the sound of falling water sure she would awake when the shower stopped.

The next thing she was aware of was another weight sinking onto the bed; she nearly started until she remembered West. She turned to see the captain watching her intently, she was kneeling on the bed in the borrowed clothes Marx had set out; her hair was damp, darker than usual.

"I was thinking about you when I was down there in that hole," she said, "I wished I hadn't been such a jackass and kissed you the other day at the fair."

"You wanted to kiss me?" Marx asked sleepily.

"Yeah," West said, "I did."

"And now?" Marx asked, rolling over on her back.

West did not say a word; she closed her gray eyes, bent slowly placing her palms on either side of Marx's shoulders, then lowered herself until their lips touched. Her mouth was warmer and sweeter than Georgie's could have even been if she had lived a thousand years as a woman.

Marx reached up, put a hand to West's face, she picked up her head to make the meeting of their lips into something more. A kiss. Their tongues greeted each other timidly, began stroking each other tentatively, slowly exploring.

West gave a low, sexy, moan that made Marx smile around their kiss. She pulled the captain closer until they were breast to breast, she touched the smooth skin at her throat, stroked her neck just below her ear.

West pulled away suddenly. "Are you sure?" she asked in a fiery whisper.

Marx moved to sit up, tugging at West's shirt hem. She moved away from her grasp, peeled off the shirt her self, then her undergarment freeing her breasts.

"You're lovely," the crimer said sitting up, not taking her eyes from the ranger's pale, pink tipped breasts.

West blushed, returned to the bed, allowed Marx to touch her flat stomach, her breasts. They kissed again, deeper, their arms encircling each other. The captain seemed afraid to return her caresses at first; Marx covered her, her belly made her formidable. She removed her own shirt, let West see her tender flesh, flush, burning for her touch, let her hands touch the swells at her middle, measure the heaviness of the baby nestled inside of her lulled by her mother's calm.

"How beautiful," West said with tears in her eyes, she curved around the belly, kissed the young mother as her hands roamed free.

The captain was stronger than she looked, Marx marveled at the muscles in her back, her arms, as she pulled herself closer, only to let go in order to undress them, uncertainly plagued the rangers eyes.

Marx had never been taken with uncertainty, with tenderness, with care, her body opened up, responded, as her green herbs would have to the long absent sun, her past lovers had been photo-fluorescent, West was a fucking star.

She found the ranger's orbit, waited patiently for her to make her move, and her fingers did eventually come beneath her belly. Her gray eyes watched intently as she stroked, her hand slipping past, wading the flood that washed Marx's thighs, did not stray too far inside, though Marx could have handled her deeper.

-           -           -           -           -           -           -           -           -

Sure, West had lovers in the past, but none of them had ever been pregnant. At first, she felt something akin to taboo to even be thinking about entering this woman, Marx.

Then she had gone and done it, slicked her fingers in this woman, then she could have given a damn about social mores, because Marx wrapped her arms around her neck, and pushed her hips forward, startling her with the sudden brutality of her belly.

West gathered her up with her other arm just around above her waist, they sucked breath in and out, their lips meeting again, cool at first, then burning hot. Marx came in low groans that matched her smoky voice.

"Tabby," she whispered, daring to try out the name in that state, "Tabby."

West felt her own desire gathering, Marx did too, she pulled away took the wet hand, smeared it over her high belly to her breasts, before slowly pushing West on her back, hovered above her.

Marx kissed her lips, then her breasts, the plane of her belly, her bruised ribcage, her abdomen that happened to be ticklish. West laughed when she did, and then gasped in surprise. Marx had bent her neck, quickly, deftly, her head darted between West's semi-parted legs, swiftly took her in her mouth.

Her hips were hugged close to the pregnant woman who drank from her ravenously, suckled with sweet abandon, and West had to beg her to stop after filling that great half-empty house with her cries.

"That wasn't fair," she said as they cuddled close in the darkness.

"How so?" Marx asked, genuinely worried, her sarcastic wall dissipated.

"It was a dirty trick," West said, "How'd you find out my weakness?"

Marx laughed. "I can tell just by looking at a girl," she said.

"Liar," West said, she yawned, exhausted.

Marx dimmed the lights to darkness with a remote. "Sleep," she said softly into the captain's ear.

"Thank you," West said.

Marx laughed again, but apologized. "I've never been thanked before."

"I'm not thanking you for that," West said, then paused, "Well kind of, I'm mostly thanking you for your words, your kindness to me."

"You made me remember kindness," Marx said, "I've always given it; even in my line of work I've always been more of a puss than a hard core crimer. You were the first to show me some. Ever."

They embraced in the dark, and eventually slept as Photon City recouped her losses, plenty of odd pairs had bonded that day, out of grief, out of terror. Lost pairs reunited. Strong bonds, strengthened. 

-           -           -           -           -           -           -           -           -           -

Grimke did not have the patience for Signet either; she walked out right after West. She hailed a cab and headed home to her wife. Earlier she talked to Elise briefly, the both of them expressing their gladness that the other escaped the blast without serious injury something heavy lingering over their conversation.

The front of the house was dark, Grimke hanged her coat and holster, went to the bar to fix herself a drink.

Elise appeared above her on the stairs dressed in her pearl colored pajamas, they said nothing just regarded each other wearily. She descended and walked around the staircase, her arms opened.

Grimke entered them, allowed Elise to hold her.

"Your nose," she said stepping away to regard the bandage.

"It's never been broken," Grimke told her, "All the shit that has happened to my body and I've never had my nose broken. It hurts like shit."

Elise caressed her cheek. "Poor thing," she whispered, "Would you like a bath?"

She shook her head and stepped away from her.

           "I can't believe you left the house."

"How was I supposed to know the city would be attacked?" Elise whispered, "I need to get out sometimes Eustace, that little house was driving me insane."

Grimke made a face of disbelief, an insane robot wife seemed like the perfect end to a perfect day.

"So now the house is too small?" she asked walking to her favorite chair and sinking into its comfort with a sigh.

"That's not what I meant," Elise said, "If it were a mansion with a hundred rooms on a hundred acres I'd still go searching for a human face."

"I don't know why that bothers you," Grimke whispered, "Why you even care for the company of people."

"I'm a human being," Elise whispered frowning, "I thought you understood that."

Grimke felt her face burning not exactly sure what her wife meant by her last comment, knew she felt betrayed, that it was reasonable that she did so.

Grimke finished her drink, went to fix herself another. She stank of that toxic water and her hands would just not come clean, she wished she would have taken her wife up on that offer to bathe.

 "You only pretended to know what I needed, Eustace, you lied," Elise frowned and folded her arms. Grimke walked past her to the bar.
"Whatever happened to being afraid of the big bad world?" she asked, "You saw it first hand today, a city turned into a disaster."

"I don't care," Elise said, "I'd rather be out there in the fray, living my own life, not someone's devoted wife."

Grimke turned, her anger at such an accusation clouding her face.

"This is what you wanted," she said grabbing her arm, "You wanted my protection, and I gave you that."

"I wanted a companion," Elise said removing herself from Grimke's grip, "Someone who treats me like I am a capable human being, you think of me only as your robot wife."

"So I supposed you've learned high drama," she said.

"Don't be petty," Elise blurted, "I speak the truth not to make you angry-"

"If someone discovers you and you're taken away," Grimke said, "How do you think that would make me feel?"

Elise looked away down at her bare feet.         

"It would make me feel like I'd failed you," Grimke said, "And I couldn't say I'd just let you go even if it's the law."

"I wish that wasn't so," Elise said.

"But it is, Dearly," Grimke said, going to her, lifting her chin, "You have to understand that I don't want anything to happen to you, my old heart couldn't take failing you."

"Eustace," Elise whispered, "I can't live this way, you have to trust me to be able to take care of my self, of us."

"Alright," Grimke relented, "You should be able to leave the house whenever you feel."

"You have to trust me," Elise insisted.

"I was so frightened for you today," Grimke said wrapping her up in her arms.

"I was scared too," she said

"I almost fucking drowned," Grimke said, "I heard your voice when I was down there in the dark with no air, I heard you urging me on."

"Oh Eustace," she hugged her neck, "I knew you were in danger, and I felt so helpless-"

"But how?" Grimke asked, "How did you know?"

"Perhaps I was being hypersensitive, because of the explosions," she said.

"I heard your voice," Grimke said, "Vividly. Giving me specific instructions."

Elise shook her head. "I can't explain that."

Grimke shrugged. "You told me you dreamed of me."

"I dreamed of you today," Elise whispered, "Right after the explosions, I saw you floating in this black space, and I saw captain West being swallowed up in that black."

  "But how could you have known that?" Grimke asked, "Did you happen to watch the vid?"

Elise shook her head. "I already knew what happened."

"Are you telling me you're psychic?" Grimke asked.

"Only about you," Elise said taking her hand, drawing her towards the stairs, "Let me bathe you, Eustace."

She smiled at her. "I don't want to put you out madam."

"Don't be silly," she replied, "I do enjoy being a devoted wife, I think I'll enjoy it more from now on."

"Better for me I suppose," Grimke sighed, worried. Her wife was too amazing a thing to be about wandering the streets of Photon City alone, even in the company of newbies.

-           -           -           -           -           -           -           -           -

-Mayor Sloan's live vid- broadcast from the roof of her penthouse building-

She stood in all black, a somber blue tie for a splash of color. A wind stirred her auburn hair, as she stood before the city skyline behind her the round dome of the courthouse gone but for a stump.

"Today was a dark day for Photon City," the mayor began. "Our Hour of Silence, a tribute to the Silver City tragedy was interrupted by another tragedy; the murder of over twenty of our fellow citizens. At approximately 9 a.m. the courthouse, Hill Park, and the Photon City Theater were simultaneously bombed."

She paused, her eyes large, moist, and haunted. "It is not known yet whether the same perpetrators of the Silver City blast paid us a visit, or if some sick persons wanted to terrorize us on such a sad day. The matter will be thoroughly investigated by my self, and our devoted rangers, led by Chief Grimke; they made such a courageous effort today and the death count would have surely been triple if not for them." She paused thoughtfully, obviously carefully choosing her words.

 "Terrorism will not be tolerated in Photon City; I guarantee that those behind the death of our citizens will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the world laws against war crimes." She extended her hand off camera, brought her fiancé into the frame, the blonde woman shyly peered into the camera, then back at the mayor.

"In closing, I want to tell you all to make sure you tell those you love each day how much you love them," she looked at her bride-to-be, "Don't let any moment go wasted, live your lives well," she said turning back to the camera.

"Thank you all. Good night."

To be contiuned in part three

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