That made me smile. “At ease, gentlemen.”
“You’re no better than a vagrant, you know that? You deserve to be out there on the streets.”
“Try and put me there, then.”
Allen pressed the elevator button, and we heard it roaring downward on its high-powered magnetic rail.
The guards parted as the doors did, but the sneers on their faces revealed fantasies of beating me black and blue. I waved at them once more before swiping my card. The doors whirred closed.
The elevator shot up faster than I was expecting. I reached for the wall to steady myself. The elevator was quite spacious — almost as large as my bedroom, in fact — with four lavish chairs bolted to the walls, each accompanied by a side table. The wall opposite the door had a large window that looked out onto the Lower City. The bulbs on the Plate had yet to brighten and illuminate the dusk. As we rose higher and higher, more of the cityscape became visible. Allen was on the edge of its seat with its hands up to the glass, taking in the sight like it’d never see it again.
For all I knew, it might not. Me, neither.
I could see many of the southern Control Points for the Plate: my apartment building at Bowery and Bayard, the Empire, Chrysler, Flatiron, and 60 Wall Tower, all of them balancing the world’s broken economy on their shoulders.
Soon enough, the elevator passed through the Plate, and we lost sight of the Lower City, entering instead the dozens of layers of manufacturing and heavy industry that kept New York — and America itself — afloat.
The elevator slowed to a stop and the doors opened onto a dark-grey corridor that stretched out about twenty feet, with an elevator at the other end. Halfway along the corridor was a metal ring that protruded two inches from the walls, a sort of security gate. Allen looked spooked.
“Is this the right way, Detective?” it asked.
“Unfortunately.”
We emerged from the executive elevator and started across the hall, our every step reverberating. Allen’s steps were much lighter than mine, despite the metal frame. We were about five feet from the metal ring when the walls began to move; seamless doors built into the sides of the hall slid out of the way, and the Plate’s own Underguard emerged to look us over.
They wore faceless masks and strange plated armour that hid their actual proportions, and they carried sleek Frag Rifles. These chrome weapons were designed with maximum lethality in mind; the ammunition was stacks of tungsten-iron flechettes which were fired silently — no primer or gunpowder needed, only magnets — and could punch through both Automatic casings and human flesh.
The guard closest to me held out a hand. “Identification?” Its voice sounded scrambled and electronic.
“Elias Roche.” I jabbed my thumb toward my companion. “Allen Erzly. Here to do some police work.”
“No Blue-eyes allowed on the Plate.”
“It’s a cop, same as me.” The merc didn’t believe me. I pulled Allen’s broken badge from my pocket and handed it to him. “Fifth Precinct.”
“No weapons allowed on the Plate,” it continued.
I glanced down at my Diamondback in its holster, but instead handed the merc my access card. “Police business. I keep the weapon. Can’t have me defenceless, now can we?”
They could have intimidated me, maybe raised their rifles and spooked us by threatening our freedom or our lives. But they didn’t. Perhaps they were in a good mood today, because the excuse I gave seemed to suffice. They let us proceed through the ring. I felt an electric buzz on my skin. Elsewhere, the ring’s security feed would indicate everything that I had on my person, both over and under my skin. The ring must also have served as a deterrent for Automatics, because Allen seemed erratic and a bit scrambled for a few moments after going through.
The elevator at the end of the hall opened, and we entered as quickly as possible, turning around to see that the Underguard had already pulled back and disappeared behind the walls, seamless doors returning to their original positions.
Allen looked at me questioningly.
“They can’t have just anyone walking around up there,” I said.
“I suppose.”
The doors closed, and we shot upward again.
Before long, our eyes were assaulted by the unobstructed sun. The view beyond the glass was of a city alien to us bottom-feeders. The streets were adorned with cars of a much simpler and cleaner type than those found in the Lower City. Sleek, stylish, and designed for passengers’ maximum comfort, these little automobiles were no doubt made by Ford or Chrysler. The roads were wide, with simple lines and no curbs; the pedestrian paths were flush with the roads. Quite an odd design choice, I thought. Even odder, all the drivers seemed to be Automatics. But not Blue-eyes; every machine on the Plate was Green.
The parks and natural green spaces of the Plate were hills and valleys that were integrated into the ebb and flow of the roads. Small parks were set in the centre of large rings of buildings. There were no skyscrapers up here; instead, simple buildings rose to a maximum of ten storeys, likely to limit the weight placed on the Control Points. People here looked ritzy and pompous, flaunting their clothing and influence as if no one would try take it from them. Up here, no one could take it from them.
“Wow.” Allen finally broke the silence. Its face reflected both exasperation and fascination. Seeing these emotions made me feel better and made my partner seem more human.
“Yup, welcome to the home of those who escaped the collapse. Lucky bastards.”
The elevator rang as we reached our floor: 150, head of research. The doors parted. Several people were standing there, waiting to head down in the elevator, and they recoiled at the sight of me. I waved my dirty left hand at them, and Allen apologized in passing as we walked out onto the sleek floor. Said people
