Farewell Horizontal

lower territories of the building’s exterior.

The map was woefully out of date. It didn’t take much political expertise on Axxter’s part to determine that. Some of the colored areas were labeled with names of military tribes that had disbanded, either voluntarily or by having their collective ass handed to them, years ago. Others, who’d come up from nowhere just recently, weren’t indicated on the map at all. Where were the Gone-Bad TV Cops? They’d come storming up and carved out a major strategic niche between the map’s red and blue zones and were currently receiving heavy recruitment bids from both sides. Just shows what can be done with a nasty enough attitude. That fuckin’ Brevis should’ve hooked me up with that bunch; I’d’ve been able to tell they were hot go-getters. The freelancer who’d wound up doing their graffex – some punk with less time out here than me – had been able to cash in his stock options in the tribe for a bundle. The thought wheeled a stone of envy around in his guts.

The return of his guide interrupted his morose inspection of the map. “Over here.” His broad thumb pointed to the farther reaches of the tent.

“This him?” A figure looked up from papers strewn across a desk; wet eyes, magnified by antique round spectacles, blinked. Rows of file cabinets, drawers ajar with overflow folders, formed an L-shaped boundary to the small platform. “You this Axxter?” A pen pointed toward him.

The old warrior shoved him forward. Someone in a black uniform with shiny leather and metal bits on it turned a herpetoid gaze around from one of the file drawers at the edge. The narrow face impassively regarded the small scene before him

“Uh… yeah. Yes, that’s right.” He regained his balance and nodded. “Got here… soon as I could.” He saw one of his hands fluttering nervously, grabbed it with the other, and secured them both behind his back. “When I got the call – you know, from my agent – I was way down near -”

“Have a seat.” The pen indicated a chair by the desk. “Sorry to keep you waiting, but things are in their usual state of chaos around here.” A smile, or a close imitation, as the hands went back to rummaging through the papers on the desk.

From where Axxter sat, the papers looked like bills, long dangling printouts of invoices and expenditure receipts, the hard-copy clutter of a substantial business. The little guy behind the desk – he could look down at the bald circle of head bent over the shuffled mess – obviously a concrete type, who couldn’t think without being able to grasp something solid. “When do I get to meet the general?”

The moist gaze swung up to his face again. “I am the general.”

Without looking around, he could feel the black-uniformed man smiling at him. Unpleasantly. The face had been disagreeable enough to lodge in his memory.

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Just hang on a little bit, and we’ll – get down to business. All right?”

“Sure. No problem.” He eased the strap of his bag off his shoulder and lowered it to the platform floor. “Take your time.” Shut up, he ordered himself.

Black Uniform slid the file drawer shut. The hollow ring of his bootsteps circled behind Axxter. He heard the man’s soft voice, interrupted by the old warrior’s guffawing laughter, retreating down the catwalk. The tent’s silence was broken by the scratching of the general’s pen.

“There.” The general shoveled a stack of papers into one of the metal bins on the desk. “What a fucking pain in the ass.” The same ingratiating smile came up on the round pink face. “You cannot believe the amount of work that comes with a job like this.”

Axxter made a little clicking noise at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, must be tough.” Who is this guy? Must’ve got sent to the Havoc Mass’s pussy unit. Not gonna be easy working up hot graffex for somebody this mild.

“Care for one?” A bottle had emerged from the desk’s bottom drawer. General Cripplemaker dangled two glasses in his other hand.

“Sure… thanks.” He sipped cautiously. A gentle warmth slid down his gullet. A small sense of disappointment; he’d had more potent brew when he’d still been on the horizontal. Some hard-ass. He sipped again, and leaned back in the chair.

“Yeah, screw it… kick-back time.” Cripplemaker leaned back in his chair and balanced his own glass on the round curve of his stomach. “You know, Axxter… Ny, is it? – fine… you know, Ny, I want you to approach this job in a… relaxed fashion. You know what I’m saying?” He knocked back half the drink and gestured with the glass, slopping the remainder over his hand. “I know sometimes people get a little… nervous when they get put in a situation like this.”

Axxter shrugged. “Yeah, well…”

The general patted a folder on the desk. “I’ve had the complete scoop given to me. About you, Ny.” Magnified damp wink above his smile. “This is a big step for you, isn’t it? I mean, from those diddly-ass little gangs you’ve had to work with in the past.”

The warmth had spread to his stomach and went about unlocking doors along his spine. “Oh… some of ’em weren’t so bad.” Sipping again. The general extended the bottle and splashed in more.

“Well, we all have to start out small, don’t we? I remember… I go back a long way with the Mass, you know.” The damp gaze focused beyond Axxter, lost in reflection. “All they way back to the ol’ Romp & Stomp days… I was personally recruited by one of the original Tin Can brothers – old Bobo himself… what a character he was.” The wetness in the general’s eyes brimmed over. He dabbed at their corners with a single knuckle.

Shit. Embarrassed, Axxter looked into the bottom of his empty glass. He had noted, for the first time, the fine network of wrinkles on the round, pink face, the gray film behind the glasses. This poor old duffer… what kind of old folks home did Brevis get me into? Romp & Stomp… good ol’ Bobo Tin Can… ancient history… fat chance of getting anything juicy enough to work up a decent design set.

“I’m probably boring you.” Cripplemaker refilled his own glass. “The impetuosities of youth.” The chair creaked as he swiveled back around to look at Axxter. “Enough of this. Let’s get down to business.” He leaned forward, planting his elbows in the muddle of papers on the desk. “You know why we wanted you to come here. We’ve seen some of your stuff; we think you may have what we’re looking for.”

“Well… I’ll give it my best shot.”

“No, no; you’ll do better than that, Ny. We want you to deliver the goods. We want the real thing.”

Loony old fuck. Pep talks, I gotta hear. “What the fuck is this shit?” He realized that he was drunk. Incredible – not how drunk he was, but that it had happened fueled by so little drink. As if it had unlocked some deeper, darker reservoir inside him, a more volatile substance ready to be ignited. And, incredibly, that he had let it happen to him at a time and place like this, mucho dangerous territory. These military tribes were nobody to fuck with, at any time. You had to keep your guard up, not get shit-faced and likely to cause trouble. But he’d conspired with himself to get into exactly that position. Because I just don’t give a fuck sometimes. That was the real intoxication of danger. A bad position to be in. There’s incredible for you – you can know that, and still not give a shit. “I mean, what is it you want?”

“Now, now. Simmer down. I just wanted to get everything started out on a nice, friendly, personal level. But I can see that you’re a man who doesn’t like to waste time. I admire that.” Cripplemaker brought his pink face closer to Axxter’s. “We’re gonna start you right out on something important. See how you do. We need a new ikon.”

“Yeah? What kind? I mean, if you want a new corporate logo – I mean, for like the whole Havoc Mass… or do you mean, just for your division here?” Axxter rolled the empty glass back and forth in his palms. Half of his brain kept his mouth moving; the other half searched through the mental archive of the stuff in his working files, for something he could plug into this situation. “And are we talking about a battle ensign? Formal parade regalia? Um… real blood-and-guts working stuff, or just for PR use? It makes a difference.”

Cripplemaker folded his arms on top of the desk, breath close enough for Axxter to feel. “Ny… we want the big one. We want you to do a new death ikon for us.”

Bingo fucking City. Axxter closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair. Previous anger dissolving in elation. Right on the money. That, I got. Somewhere in the camp outside, muffled by the intervening layers of the tent, came the sound of a military band, all thumping drums and skirling horns. He took it for his personal, synchronic fanfare. Smiling: I can deliver, Jack. You came to the right man.