"Laguna Woods has been dead a long time," I said over the mylar card with the Company's seal embossed on it. "Who are you?"

On the other side of my desk, the dye-job blonde with pneumatic tits smiled compassionately at me. "I've had this name for three years, Miss Gail," she said. "You know how the Company operates; someday there'll be another Nellie Gail, too."

"Not soon," I thought, but I'm neither clairvoyant nor immortal. "What is it you want, Miss 'Woods'," I said. I was getting tired of looking at her. She had a Company job, or whatever was left of the Rumsfeld Stasi part of the CIA called the Company since his fatal car accident in a parked car, and she was wearing a cooler ti-tandex catsuit than I owned. She also had a nice fur coat slung over her shoulders in spite of the fact it was July in Los Angeles. I can only handle so much envy in one afternoon.

"Do call me Laguna," she cooed. "The Company would like to hire you to protect Chelsea Clinton when she arrives in Los Angeles." Laguna squared her shoulders (it looked painful) and got serious (which was painful for me). "I'm here to, ah, help you in any way I can."

I've been solo for a long time; I don't need help. And even if I did need help, I didn't need this twitchel's help. While I was pretending to think about what she'd just said, I took a long look at her. She was younger than she looked under all the paint and hairspray, maybe ten years younger than me. I decided to find out. "Who'd you vote for in the last election?" I asked.

She didn't blink. "I was six; too young to vote. Now about Miss Clinton..."

Hm, younger than I thought; I hate young people. "Honey, this is the first I've heard that Chelsea Clinton is coming to LA," I snapped. This was a lie; I'd had a bounty hunter named Abilene in my office earlier that day trying to hire me to kill Clinton when she arrived. He said he was working for the 700 Club. It was possible; the fundie Christians were more than willing to put aside their Christianity when it came to Clinton-hating.

"Is zat so? I suppose Abilene only wanted a tour of the stars' homes," Laguna snapped back.

This was getting way too snappish for me. I should have known that the Company, in its usual thoroughness. would have cased the joint before they sent an operative in. Even if it was one as expendable-looking as the new and unimproved Laguna Woods. "Miss Clinton would be a crazy woman to come here," I said flatly.

"If she was coming to lead the revolution..."

I lifted a hand to stop her. "Oh, please, if there was going to be a revolution, it would need brawn, not brains. Nothing against Miss Clinton, but if there was going to be a revolution, it would be fought for principles, not personalities."

"As a historian, don't you believe that history is made by individuals?" Laguna asked. This sounded almost intelligent and indicated she'd done her homework on me, which, while flattering, was a little unnerving.

"As a historian who never finished her degree because the Company recruited her," I said slowly, "I would say that history is made by individuals in pursuit of ideas. Good ideas or bad ideas, it's still abstractions that keep us going, one way or the other." And survival, I added to myself.

"As a historian who refers to herself in the third person, you seem not to believe in the coming revolution," Laguna said coolly.

"Laguna, why would a revolution start here in this broken down city-state of LA? If there were forces, they'd have their back to the sea, a desert or two to cross, and logist... supply problems for days," I said. "And what the hell do you know that I don't?"

"Just that Chelsea Clinton is coming to town, Nellie. I've transferred two hundred and fifty million into your Department of Water and Power bank account as a retainer." Laguna stood up and adjusted her fur coat. The ti-tandex strained across her pumped-up bust, but held like the good fabric it is. "I'm sure you'll do the right thing when you have no alternative." She batted her eyes at me; I was unmoved by it. "And I'll be around to see that you do. Have a pleasant day." She swept out.

I had to give her grudging credit since she was here either on her own or with minimal back-up. On the other hand, this might be the Company's way of terminating an operative they no longer cared about. Suicide missions, whether you know you're on one or not, are still suicide missions. I think I liked the old, redheaded Laguna Woods better, bitch though she was. She'd died trying to ambush several Dissident Superior League linguists in an operation that went very wrong six or so years ago. She thought they were DSL economists, who are as dangerous as linguists, but are more cunning than vicious. That Laguna Woods was tough as a boot and about as smart. This new one seemed more sly than tough, and smart, very smart, and that made her annoying, very annoying.

But I was already annoyed. First thing this morning a guy named Abilene (that's all the name he had on his card) rolls in and asks me to kill Chelsea Clinton when she gets to town. As if I have nothing better to do than kill Chelsea Clinton if she happens to drop by Los Angeles. Figuring he was nuts, and there was no way Chelsea Clinton was coming to LA, I said sure, and assumed that was the last I'd see of him. But when he deposited five hundred million into my DWP bank account, that made him well-funded and I was no longer so certain he was nuts. He was also tall, dark, and handsome, like someone else I knew and happened to have a date with that very night.

Six months ago, in the course of investigating the DSL in LA, a DWP guy saved my life at least twice. It had taken this long to find out his name was Ed. It would probably take another six months to find out if he had a last name. I'd gotten Dr. Max of the old Live Nude Economics show and Fyodor Chandler and his gang of linguists out of LA and down to Mexico with as much carnage to the other side and as little fuss for the DWP as possible. In the aftermath of the Federal invasion and the inevitable LA Rebellion, and what passed for a half-assed, uncompleted due-to-poor-planning-and-the-over-extended military occupation, the DWP had taken over management of what was left of LA. Since the DWP is where most of the power is nowadays, I made sure they very much appreciated my actions on their behalf earlier in the year. In gratitude, the DWP gave me this building on Sunset and a retainer to do security consulting for them. It's been quiet in LA, and as I still have my PI license, I've been taking private jobs for locals - mostly research or missing persons; silly little jobs that don't require much ammo - as they came along, just to kill time.

But today already two high-powered out-of-towners were asking for muscle (mine) and for very different ends, if not reasons. I never ask about peoples' reasons; I just assume they don't have any I'd care about. I did know why they wanted my services: Chelsea Clinton is coming to LA to lead the revolution. One person wants her dead, the other wants her kept alive; I've no idea what their motives are for wanting either of those things and couldn't care less. Although I would probably kill them and keep their money, just because anyone stupid enough to pay me up front is, well, too stupid to live. Especially when they seemed to be operating more or less alone, which is how it looked with Laguna Woods and Abilene.

However, this was not uppermost in my mind that afternoon. That afternoon, I was trying to figure out what I was going to wear on my date with Ed. My wardrobe was very basic: Ti-tandex catsuits, mini skirts, halter tops, a titanium-guarded leather jacket, steel-toed Capezio boots, ski mask, infra-RayBans, a titanium Colt, a Mauser, and a Berretta were what I usually wore when I was working. I hadn't had a date in so long, I'd forgotten where to buy slinky dresses.

As usual, the Limo Brothers Burger Stand and Recycling downstairs turned one up for me at an outrageous price. They and Arlo, the fruitas guy, had come over to the new building, MY building, when the DWP gave it to me, so they owe me, but they're not above making a profit while they're being grateful. But it was a very cool dress and they even included a pair of ti-tantights and a bangle bracelet.

So, with my wardrobe and client base issues resolved, I could think about the other thing that was bothering me: A Klan of the Koffee Kats coffee clip joint had opened at the west end of my block a few weeks ago. Several days after that, a Starbucks opened directly across the street. This meant that things in LA were either getting better or worse, but it for sure created an overpriced coffee vortex on my turf and possibly was causing a seventh seal to open somewhere. Or something, I didn't know. All I knew was that there was nothing I could do about it without more C4 plastic explosives than I was willing to use at this moment. The DWP was cracking down on C4 sales; I was hoarding what was left of my meager cache.

And if I can't get C4 at any price, I'm fucking not going to pay fifteen hundred for a fucking latte! I pounded my fist on my desk. It hurt; I figured I'd better call it a day. I needed a large carrot juice and a view from the street. I went down to Arlo's on Sunset.

"Afternoon, Miss Gail, what'll it be?" the fruitas guy asked when I plunked myself down at one of his little sidewalk tables.

"Hi, Arlo. Large carrot juice," I said. "How's business?" I asked when he brought my juice. "Those coffee motherfuckers cutting in on your action?"

"Not yet, Miss Gail. I'm not sure how they stay in business. They have huge staffs and no customers," he said. "And the barristas at Starbucks are hard to understand; they talk funny."

We peered down Sunset, but nothing happened. A natural gas and solar-powered Metro Transport Authority fortress bus - far too noisy and far too invulnerable (I know this, I fought one to a standstill once and I still hate the fuckers) - went by, making normal conversation impossible. I hate those buses, with their machine gun turrets, armor plating, and who knows whatever other weaponry I couldn't see, not to mention the pair of heavily armed guards in partially-shielded platforms on each side of the rear engine. I hate the MTA; they make all passengers check their weapons before they pass the turnstile, thus making an impossible external assault the only possible way to hijack one. And even if you could, there's nowhere to hide from the wrath of the MTA; it was unthinkable, even for me, however tempting it might be.

"They talk funny?" I asked when my public transportation nemesis had passed by.

"They have weird accents. They talk like that skunk on the IB."

They talk like Pepe le Pew? "Oh yeah? Are you sure they don't talk like Speedy Gonzalez or Foghorn Leghorn?" I asked, hoping it was neither, because either would be really really bad news for LA and probably me, too. I wouldn't like an infiltration into my neighborhood from Mexico, as it is now being run by Drs. Krugman and Saches on Soros and Gates money. Nor would I like the Southern Christanists, a truly scary lot, crashing my party either. I have enough problems with the brain-damaged scavengers, the MTA, and the little cretins that think they can take me on because I'm a skirt, the fools.

"No, like that skunk," Arlo said firmly, but politely.

"What about the Klan of the Koffee Kats people?" I asked.

"They talk okay, but they wear funny shoes."

"Funny shoes?"

"Sandals with socks," Arlo said, and asked me if I wanted anything else. I wanted my life to stay what passes for quiet nowadays, but there wasn't much he could do about that. After I said no, he presented me with last week's tab. I have got to start juicing my own carrots. But I paid it. Arlo was prompt with his rent and, unlike the Limo Brothers, didn't haggle, so I wasn't going to haggle over my fruitas tab. And I had the Laguna money and the Abilene money, so I wasn't exactly hurting for cash just then.

Except for the fact that my country had been under martial law for the past twelve years, was a complete shambles, had been looted and pillaged by the Bush Family and their bravos, due to which all the brains and integrity were in exile in Mexico, that everything around greater LA was a wasteland from the rebellion against the failed Federal Occupation, we had a theoretical Governor appointed by our mysterious, sequestered president-for-life, and the only thing keeping it all together here in LA was the DWP's razor thin control of water, power, and the infrastructure that kept those two things flowing - no, I wasn't hurting at all.

As a student of history, I knew things could be worse, but I also knew they could be better. Unlike Laguna and her age group, I could remember when we could vote, protest, plan for the future, go to grad school... Oh fuck it, fuck the past; I can barely handle the present.

So, in this crappy present I had to live in, I went up to my little room on the third floor. I wanted to read a few chapters of "Bury Me Standing" before my date. My specialty in college, before the Company discovered and developed my talents for mayhem, had been the history of genocide. I was weak in the area of the Third Reich's genocide against the European Gypsies, what the Gypsies call "The Devouring". To me, devouring has the purpose of feeding something. As far as I could tell, the 1.5 million Gypsies rounded up and murdered in the camps were murdered for as little reason as anyone else who died in them. It was all such a waste of time and resources, but what else is an agenda based on irrational hatreds and the power to act on them but wasteful? Evil? Well, I'd have to believe in good to believe in evil and I only believe in what facts I can get corroboration for. But I do know waste, futility, and the void when I see it.

I could understand the mechanics of how genocides occurred and were carried out, but I had no idea why they happened. Or what purpose they served; certainly not as a warning - no genocide was ever discouraged because the one before it hadn't worked out very well. Hadn't worked out very well for the perpetrators; genocide never works out well for the victims, which is, of course, the point of genocide, however wasteful.

I was beginning to wonder if the Ebola pox vaccination program the Bush administration undertook could be considered genocide. The effect and intention were not to kill, but merely render large segments of the population, those who could be terrorized into the series of "immunizations", harmless and docile through brain damage. It had kind of worked; dissent was crushed, but so was the viable workforce and much of the military and potential recruits for the military. Also, the Internet had tipped off anyone paying attention that there was no Ebola pox, and that caused hundreds of thousands to go underground and flee to Mexico. George Soros and Bill Gates (when he wasn't on the run in the tropics) had pumped billions into Mexico, effectively buying it for the exiled US nationals there. They brought in Jeffery Saches, the economist, to run the place, and were lucky Paul Krugman got out of the US just ahead of a bullet. Between that pair of docs, Mexico was humming along, holding free and fair elections, trading with everyone except the US, making all the coolest clothes, electronics, vehicles, weapons, and, rumor had it, planning an invasion to restore democracy to the United States. This all sounded great to me, as long as they kept it out of LA; we have enough problems without revolutionary zeal.

Or Chelsea Clinton. Fuck. I checked my email; nothing from Laguna, Abilene or anyone else who might have a dog in this fight. Actually, I had no email - I'm unpopular - which was fine with me.

I sat in my armchair by the window and read until the light was gone. I got dolled up to the best of my ability and went downstairs to meet Ed at Arlo's.

He was punctual; I like that in a man.

"Would you like to go for coffee?" he asked, jerking his chin at the caffeine dens down the street.

I said I preferred to support small local business and ordered two large carrot juices. I also thought, but did not say, that I thought coffee was too expensive, and because I hadn't had any in several years, I had no idea what it would do to my nervous system if I had some that night. As sexy as I was finding Ed, I wanted my nervous system in top form later on.

But it was nice of him to offer. He seemed like a nice guy. I had to wonder what he was doing with the DWP, so I asked, "How long you been with the DWP?"

"Fifteen years," he said. "It was my first job after high school. It's been a pretty good one. Long hours though."

"And dangerous?" I smiled at him.

"Sometimes," he said. "But there's a lot at stake. If I wanted to be safe, I'd be in Canada or Mexico."

"Why aren't you?"

"I'm a native Californian. I don't like what happened to my State. I'm doing what I can to fix it."

Well, I'm a native Californian, too, and I think the our State got what it deserved, but I decided a first date was not the place to air that opinion. "Well, you and the DWP are doing a great job," I said. I meant it, too. "Why is that?"

"Why are we doing a great job? We're the DWP, Nellie." He smiled something between a leer and a clerk wishing one a nice day.

"Why do it at all?" I asked. "Why not let it rot?"

"There was a vacuum; we filled it," he said. "It was better than walking away."

"And it was the one chance for the DWP to grab everyone's money," I said. "No offense," I added.

"Well, do you really mind your DWP bank account? Do you really miss compound interest that much?"

"No, where else would I put my money?"

We smiled over our juice. There was something inexplicably comforting about having no control over my money. In my previous data entry job, I'd seen other people run their DWP accounts out of money and get scolding emails, but they got more money. They had to pay it back, but they got it. If you worked your job and kept your mouth shut under the benevolent dictatorship of the DWP it was very hard to slip between the cracks. I didn't care; I had what I needed and in my line of work, you never know when the next bullet will... "What?" I hadn't heard his question.

"Why let it rot?" he asked.

"Because the pre-Occupation property owners of California were cheap and greedy fuckers who wouldn't pay their fair share in property taxes to keep the place going for everyone. Fools. Of everyone, property owners had the most to lose," I said. "I mean, did they really think State income taxes and fees were going to pay for police, fire, sanitation, you name it? No wonder we devolved into lawlessness and chaos that not even Federal troops could contain. The DWP, the MTA and AT&T are just helping people who'd rather not pay a car tax than have a decent society hobble along. I mean, what's left of them; California has lost about half its population."

"Nellie," he said waving at the dark street. "Do you call this a 'decent society'? We are prolonging the agony, as a lesson to others, until things can get back to normal."

"Normal?"

"Back pre-December 12, 2000," he said. "That normal."

"You're an optimist, Ed." I had to wait for a fucking MTA fortress bus to go by. "Let's go to my place, optimist."

We left without paying the check; Arlo knew I was good for it. I don't like people in my personal space, so I led him to my office on the second floor. We were barely across the threshold before he was all over me like a cheap suit. I love cheap suits. I wrangled him to the desk and let him bend me over it. While he was busy pulling up my skirt, I was reaching for the condoms I hoped were in the middle desk drawer. We hadn't stopped to turn on the lights, so I was fumbling as fast as I could. We both let out strangled screams when Dr. Max, formerly of "Dr. Max's Live Nude Economics" IB show, turned on the desk lamp.

"Help you find something, Nellie?" Max drawled in that annoying, pedantic way of his. "Hi, Ed."

"Max... get OUT," I spat through clenched teeth. I'd find out what he was doing there later.

"Hi, Alison!" My brother, Larry, linguist and former PhD candidate, better known as Fyodor Chandler, the dangerous leader of the DSL, chirped up from behind Max.

I gave up; I could feel Ed behind me giving up, too. We might have survived Max, but not my brother.

"Hi, Larry," I said, wrestling my skirt down. "What the fuck are you doing in my office?"

"Waiting for you," Max said.

"Why?"

"We want you to protect Chelsea Clinton when she gets to town."

After much yelling, mainly by me at Max, he finally left once I agreed to meet him at Starbucks the next day at 11 AM. Ed, who was annoyingly intrigued by the idea of Miss Clinton's visit, left after laying a big wet kiss on me and agreeing to meet again the next evening at Arlo's. I didn't want him to leave, but the mood was ruined and Larry needed a place to stay. Say what you will about me, I am a good sister when called upon. Hadn't I risked my life to get him and his DSL linguists out of town and to the safety of Mexico merely six months ago? And it showed; he looked great - tanned, relaxed, sane. What a difference not living under the rubble of County Hospital makes in a man.

"What are you doing here?" I asked as I led him to my little rooms on the third floor.

"What Max said. We want you to protect Chelsea Clinton when she gets here to lead the revolution," he said.

"Oh, c'mon, Larry," I snapped, but stopped because he had a weirder than usual look on his face. "What's wrong?"

"I'm not used to being called Larry," he said.

"Well, okay, Fyodor," I said (see what a great sister I am?). "You better call me Nellie, I haven't been Alison in a long time."

"Yeah, well, we became those names the Company gave us, didn't we?" he asked bitterly.

"Did we, Fyod? Then we fucked up somewhere or we'd still have Company jobs or be dead, no?"

"Hm."

"How's Paulo?" I asked.

"We broke up. I've decided to give women another try. Know any you could introduce me to?"

"Not off the top of my head," I said, taking one of the Limo Brother's brainier daughters right off the list. Julia was a lovely girl, who thought she might be a vegetarian, and she would be much more confused if she got involved with my brother, who thought he might be Paul Revere or something. "No, no one comes to mind. But it's been a long day; I need sleep, you need sleep. I might kill Max tomorrow."

"You need sleep, Nell," Fyodor said, putting his arms around me. "And you get another date tomorrow; another chance, and I promise to be elsewhere, honest."

I have the best brother, but I still made him sleep in the tattered Barcalounger for which the Limo Brothers had shamelessly overcharged me.

I rolled into Starbucks the next morning at eleven, as promised. It was not as horrible as I thought it would be. There were good-sized tables and chairs, no couches, no dim lighting, and no background music. In fact, it looked very much like the mini-market that had been there in a previous incarnation. Just a big, empty space with no aisles of overpriced chips, toothpaste and cigarettes for the insomniacs, street people, and locals who just needed a gallon of milk at 3AM. The freezer cases along the walls had their glass shattered and doors removed long ago. The linoleum was torn up here and there, there were pieces of plywood over the worst places, but this matched the boarded up plate glass windows fronting on the street. Aside from the scratched-up plastic tables and chairs, the only redecorating I could see was a few espresso machines and a drape veiling the back third of the store. The whole place looked hastily assembled, temporary and unashamed about being either. Someone had spray painted "Starbucks" above the coffee bar. It was a jaunty little sign and therefore extra pathetic in this dive.

But I have no use for décor. And there was Max, already at a table with a coffee, a clipboard and Fyodor Chandler; they were both waving me over.

However, one of the barristas headed me off. His name tag read 'Jacques Cousteau'. That sounded familiar, but fishy. I decided to test Arlo's premise: "Bonjour, je voudrais un eau minérale sans gaz, s'il vous plaît."

"Mais bien sûr, mademoiselle!"

So they were French, or Francophone, if they could understand my crappy French. I headed over to join Max and my brother.

"How the fuck did you get into my office last night anyway?" I asked Max, as I pulled a relatively clean plastic chair under my ass.

"The DWP gave me a key when I got to town," he said.

"They just gave you a key?" I asked and he nodded. "You're a very dangerous man, Max."

"Oh, hardly dangerous, Nell." He smiled suavely (it was a gruesome sight). "But I can be charming and compelling when necessary. And the DWP has an interest in Chelsea Clinton's upcoming visit."

"What's their angle?" I asked.

"They don't want their town torn apart," he said seriously. "They're willing to work very hard with us on that."

"I see." I watched an MTA fortress bus go by. The floor vibrated; I fucking hate that almost as much as I hate those buses. "I still think it's bullshit. Why would an icon like Clinton come here?"

"To rally the troops, Nellie. Morale," Max said, with a touch of drama. "She's our Joan of Arc. She's going to save the United States."

I looked at Fyodor; he gave me one of those rabid, fanatical, wide-eyed looks linguists get when they believe in something. I mean really believe in something, like the significance of the palatelization of the letter "T". He gave me that look, the look that usually meant he was about to do an hour non-stop on aspiration, epenthesized vowels, and laryngeal structure. I love my brother, but I would do almost anything to avoid another one of those hours. "Okay, Max," I sighed. "What must I do?"

"Sign here." He shoved the clipboard under my nose.

My mineral water sans gaz arrived, so I took a few sips to stall while I skimmed the typewritten sheet. We all looked up when Laguna came in. She must like Starbucks coffee and be able to afford it on her Company expense account. Max and Fyodor stared; even I must admit Laguna is an eyeful. I ignored her; this wasn't a business meeting or better not be because that would mean Max had really gone over the edge.

"Don't forget to initial beside the sanity clause," Max said. "Very important, that sanity clause." He chuckled and sipped his espresso.

I wondered if he'd had too much espresso. "The sanity clause?" I asked Fyodor, who just rolled his eyes.

"Oh, don't worry about that, Nellie, there is no Santy Claus." Laguna swept up to our table. "May I join you?"

I said no, but Fyodor pulled out a chair for her. She and Max locked eyes.

"I see someone was properly briefed for her assignment," Max said, low and dangerous.

"So, what a pleasure it is to meet the famous Dr. Max of Dr. Max's Live Nude Economics, the greatest IB show ever!" she said. Her lips were smiling but her eyes were glaring a hole in him. "I always feel so much smarter after I watch that show."

"Yes, too bad your people ran me out of the country and I had to give it up," Max said coolly.

"Can't you broadcast from Mexico City?" she asked, sweetly, but still slicing him up with her eyes. "Such a civilized, prosperous place since Messrs. Soros and Gates decided to invest in it. I mean, with Dr. Krugman and Dr. Saches in charge, you have so much economist talent, you ought to be able to do something constructive with it."

We all laughed, I mean, even nowadays, when something is funny, we still can laugh. Laguna dropped her hostility since even she must have realized it wasn't getting her anywhere.

"My dear Laguna, how sweet of you to think of us," Max said with a sigh. "But we economists are far too busy these days for art and culture. Perhaps someday, in a perfect world, my show will be back on the net, the U.S. will have free and fair elections, and espresso will only cost eight hundred in the new currency. Until then, we must toil and toil and toil for a better world for all of us."

"Amen!" Laguna smiled brightly around the table and introduced herself to Fyodor. She was even more impressed with meeting the great logistical genius of the DSL than she'd been meeting Max. "What brings you gentlemen to town?" she asked at last.

"Business," Max said. "Let's cut the bullshit, Laguna; highly reliable sources within the Company tell us we're on the same side for once: saving Chelsea Clinton so she can lead the revolution. I'd rather have you where I can keep an eye on you than off being a loose cannon, so here's the deal. I'm sending Fyodor and Nellie up to Highland Park to talk to a Tax Mystic named Dr. Caterham-7. She's at the old Spiritual Realization Fellowship compound because she used to do their taxes and they took her in after the Rebellion. She's completely insane, but I think she might have a line on when and where Chelsea Clinton is coming in. I think you should go with them, Laguna."

"What's a Tax Mystic, Max?" I asked, when it became obvious no one else was going to.

"Someone who could understand the old IRS rules when there was an IRS," Max said solemnly. "Someone who understands the mysteries of income redistribution leading to equality, peace, and harmony between the classes. Someone who once believed there was enough for everyone, if only the math could be worked out. Dr. Caterham-7 almost had the math worked out and then it all went to hell. Her life had no meaning without the IRS; of course she went insane." Max looked very sad. Fyodor and Laguna were visibly moved by this.

"And we're supposed to ask this crazy tax expert about Chelsea Clinton?" I asked.

"Yes! Here's a map! See you later!" Max sprang up, called for the check and was out the door before it arrived.

Laguna picked up the check on her Company expense card. It was really the least the Company could do for me and Fyodor after they killed our family, derailed our educational careers, and exploited our latent sociopath tendencies. Left on our own, we'd have ended up on tenure track at some obscure state college where, with the possible exception of a killing rampage with an automatic weapon due to extreme boredom and frustration, we would have lived out our lives in a Xanax-fueled academic haze. But we live in a crappy, fucked-up world where no one's dreams come true, except the nightmares, and...

"C'mon, Nellie, shake a tail feather," Fyodor said, cheerfully hauling me to my feet. "What are we using for transport, girls?" He was way too happy about all this.

"My ride's outside," Laguna said. "But I can only take one of you."

Her ride turned out to be a hybrid Triumph Speedmaster. Goddamn, the Company really spoils its people. It was just a shame to waste a nice ride like that on a thing like Laguna. But I merely said it was 'very nice' and got my own ride, an Electrocatti made in Mexico, and off we went. Since her hybrid had more power, Laguna got to haul Fyodor across town.

I was not completely unencumbered. I stopped by Casa Gail to put on my ti-tandex bodysuit, get more guns, a small carrot juice, and Julia, one of the Limo Brothers' daughters. She was carrying my machine gun and the Mauser. I wasn't expecting trouble, but one never knows. I also thought we might need someone to watch the bikes while we communed with the Tax Mystic, and Julia had proven herself to be a good bike guard and a dead-eye shot on more than one occasion. Her father or uncle or elder cousin - I'm not clear on that family structure at all - had haggled over what to charge me and in the end he got the better deal. However, there was a side benefit to having Julia, or any member of the well-connected Limo clan, on board: The way was cleared in advance. No one tried to stop us for "tolls" and we even got a few friendly nods along the way to where Riverside turns into Figueroa on the other side of the viaduct at San Fernando.

In the foothills above Figueroa in Highland Park, there had once been an enclave of wealthy white people who were too grand to live in Highland Park and so called the area Mount Washington. There was also a lovely religious community called the Spiritual Realization Fellowship, founded by Paramahansa Yogananda in the 1920. Nine years later, Swami Prabhavananda would found the Vedanta Society's lovely center in the Hollywood Hills. However, unlike the Vedanta Society, the SRF center and Mt. Washington surrounding it were wiped out in a bombing run during the Rebellion. The pilot had a few bombs left from a run over Lincoln Heights, which was the real target, and Mt. Washington was the biggest target outside the do-not-bomb area east of the 5 freeway.

Bombs kill the just and the unjust just as well. All the prayers in the world had not saved the monks and nuns of the SRF. And all the recalls, referendums and Prop 13 could not save the smug homeowners of Mt. Washington. Location, as any realtor would tell you (when realtors still existed), is everything.

For me, the saddest part was that even though most of Highland Park escaped the worst of the damage, it was still a ghost town. Or a town of ghosts; people lived there, opened their empty shops and restaurants on Figueroa, which had been the main commercial street, and waited for nothing. At dusk they barricaded their businesses up and retreated into their fortified apartments above them. Occasionally one of the younger generation would go on a quest to Mexico City and come back with a truckload of gear, fashion, whatnot, all the wonderful stuff the US no longer had the capacity to make. The best minds and skilled labor had fled when marshal law was imposed, most businesses were nationalized and the universities closed. Those who could get out, that is; many professors, union members, engineers, and really anyone who might mount any kind of organized resistance were swept up by the Company and the FBI. Once incarcerated, there was an obligatory interrogation and then a series of Ebola Pox vaccinations. After they were rendered harmless (of the harmless-due-to-brain-damaged variety of harmless) they were cut lose to roam and scavenge as best they could. It was not the most elegant solution to dissent, but it was very much in vogue at the time.

But that was more than a decade ago, when I worked for the Company, and the illusion of security still existed.

More recently, and in Los Angeles, on those days when there was something to buy or barter for, Figueroa Street came alive again. The restaurants put a grill on the street and sold the most delicious carne asada tacos on earth. The shops had dusty piñatas hung from the eaves and the latest pop music from downtown Mexico City blaring from speakers in front of the shop windows. It was almost normal. And even if I didn't buy anything, I liked to be there, just to remember what it used to be like. As a historian, I knew things were changed beyond redemption, but the past is as much of a model of what to strive for as a model of what to avoid. I also knew it would take more than history to save us. I didn't care who or what was saved as long as I survived. I guess I'd like Fyodor to survive, but if it was me or him... hm, that was a toughie.

However, there was no reason to go that far down Fig to get where we were going. At San Fernando, I swung us north into Cypress Park, also a quiet as a tomb area, and up into the hills from there. Max's directions turned out to be pretty good. I was hoping we could park closer to Dr. Caterham-7's, ah, office, but, leaving Julia to mind the vehicles, we had a little climb up to the cluster of smashed-up stucco and timber that had once been the SRF center.

It was quiet up there, too quiet. I moved my flex machine gun from my back to my side, though still concealed beneath my jacket. Julia had the exploding plastic bullet machine gun, so I was left with the poison needle one. It was effective at relatively close range; flex guns can't handle much gunpowder projection and so rely on poison or impact explosion for effect. I noticed Laguna tense a little and unstrap the guard on her shoulder holsters. Only Fyodor, unarmed and unalarmed, was cheerful.

"Let's go, girls!" He led us uphill and across an open space.

I could tell Laguna didn't like the open space any better than I did, but there was no other way. I looked back at Julia, who waved and went back to scanning the approaches to her perch. Unlike Fyodor, and even me and Laguna, Julia was cautious, prudent, and would probably outlive us all. And smart, too, because she doesn't listen to Dr. Max, the bastard. Why were we on this errand - his errand! - without him? What kind of idiots - ?

We stopped when a guy in clean, but well-worn, orange robes waved us over. He had a shaved head and an AK-47. He asked Fyodor: "Are you looking for Dr. Caterham-7?" he asked. We nodded. "She's expecting you. Please follow me."

"The DWP must keep the water and power going even up here," Laguna murmured beside me.

Having seen lights in bombed-out Lincoln Heights, I was not as impressed as I might have otherwise been. I had also noticed a few solar panels and windmills on the property, so it might not be all DWP power.

However, I was impressed when we were led into what looked like rubble, but turned out to be a fortified structure. I wished I'd had a ball of string, because it was a maze inside and I'd never find my way out on my own.

The monk guy led us deep into the compound and knocked at a metal door that had 'Jane Caterham-7, Ph.D, CPA, MDiv' scrawled on it. He ushered us in and took up a position by the door.

Except for the tidy desk and the tidy woman behind it, the room was a wreck of tax forms, tax code books, exploded file cabinets and overturned chairs. And dust, a thick coating of dust on everything but the desk and the woman. I'm not the greatest housekeeper in the world, but not even I live like this.

Of course Fyodor either didn't notice the condition of the room or just ignored it. "Dr. Caterham-7, I'm Fyodor Chandler. Dr. Max sent us to ask you..."

"I know who you are, young man," she said in a whispery voice we had to strain to hear. She waved a hand at her computer screen. "You haven't filed a tax return since 2003, nor you, Miss Gail. Miss Woods has never filed a tax return."

"I see Max has been in touch... " Fyodor began again.

"An email."

"Yes, well, did he email that we want to know when and where Chelsea Clinton is arriving?" he asked.

(Thus causing me to wonder why this whole errand couldn't have been done online. Max. Grrrrrr!)

"Yes," she said.

"Oh great!" Fyodor looked at his watch. "When and where?"

"No."

"No? No, what?" Fyodor looked puzzled. Laguna looked puzzled. I probably looked pissed off, but there wasn't a mirror in the joint.

"Yes, Max emailed. No, I don't know when or where Chelsea Clinton is arriving, but I do know why, and I thoroughly disapprove," Dr. Caterham-7 intoned mysteriously.

"But Chelsea Clinton is coming to lead the revolution and save us," Laguna said quietly. "Why do you disapprove?"

Dr. Caterham-7 gave her a pitying look. "My child, the truth of this world is cause and effect, yin and yang, debit and credit - balance in all things. Our country has sinned and we must be punished. Our sin was allowing the Bush family to steal the 2000 presidential election. Our sacrifice was the three thousand on September 11. In our sloth, avarice, and fiscal recklessness, we tossed away the greatest, oldest continuous democracy in world history like it was nothing. God is punishing us for our complacency. Our penance is far from finished, our debt is far from paid, our account is far from cleared. We do not deserve to be rescued from the consequences of our actions."

"But... " Laguna, who'd only been a child in 2001, began.

"All evil must be punished. All sin must be atoned for," Caterham-7 chanted. "All penance requires sacrifice, such as the Six Million of Europe."

Ah ha. Suddenly we were on my turf. I tipped one of the chairs up and planted myself in front of her. "Hey, lady! Whaddya mean about the Six Million?"

"Six Million Jews were sacrificed so God could punish the most evil and anti-Semitic countries of Europe," she said, staring into my eyes.

"Which were?"

"Germany, Poland, and Russia."

Poland and Russia had a long and savage history of pogram and oppression of their Jews; Germany was a late-comer but a very effective late-comer in genocide. I had to remind myself that this was a crazy woman, suddenly now a very interesting crazy woman who had a crazy idea I didn't want to get crazy enough to even begin to understand. In fact, I wanted to forget it as quickly as possible, before it started making sense. "I see, that's the punishment," I said, fishing. "And the sacrifice was for what?"

"To establish the State of Israel."

Now, as a historian, I'm of the opinion that what was left of European Jewry could have declared Bavaria the Jewish State in 1946 and gotten massive support for it. The trouble the State of Israel has had since 1946 has been with people who hadn't historically killed six million and more, if you count from the Crusades. The Islamic Middle East had no real backlog of Jew-killing guilt to work with; however, they've been getting those numbers up since then. Israel, on the other hand, is giving as good as it's getting, if not more so. I hadn't decided if the Palestinian death toll qualified as a genocide yet because it was still part of a war. I hadn't decided this any more than I'd decided there had been a Polish genocide during World War II. Losing half a population of 40 million is significant, however anti-Semitic Dr. Caterham-7 thought they were. The Poles hadn't been the aggressors, either; they just had scary neighbors in 1939. And since the dead weren't with us to defend themselves it was a moot point. But since this was really interesting only to me, I decided to find out where Dr. Caterham-7's thinking was on the Israel issue. "So, other than dying themselves while killing Palestinians and their neighbors, what purpose is served by establishing the State of Israel where it is now?" I asked, wondering which insane answer I'd get.

"Oh please, Miss Gail, Israel must defend itself," she said, disgusted with me. "Israel must exist."

"Oh, yeah? Why is that?" I asked.

"So the Messiah can come and God can destroy this evil world."

I love this answer. It means everything that has ever been, is, or will be has no meaning. All the sacrifice, punishment, redemption, art, music, joy, love, puppies, kittens, you name it, mean shit, because we're all shit, and God needs to wipe us off his shoe and start over. Or not start over; how the hell would we know? I love this answer. It makes me so glad I don't believe in God. I was beginning to enjoy this. "Now, let me underst-"

"That is all."

"But..."

"THAT IS ALL."

I looked at Fyodor for guidance. He mouthed, in what can only be described as lip reading for the blind, 'Let's go'. So we did. Brother AK-47 led us out of the room and out of the building. We rode home in silence and, after dropping Julia off, went straight to Starbucks. Even I needed a latté after that experience.

"What'd you find out?" Max asked brightly.

"Osama bin Laden and Adolf Hitler are working for God," I said, staring at him. I heard Laguna groan softly and then brush past us.

Max blinked first and turned to my brother.

"She was fairly useless, Max," Fyodor said. "She had a collection of facts and was trying to force them into her theory. Very bad science, if you ask me. Almost as bad as Phonology. What did you think, Nell?"

"Don't look at me, pal, I'm a historian, I get on well with facts," I said, heading for the bar at the back. "When I can find any."

I heard Fyodor say, "We got zip, Max, that's what we got," but I was too deep in milk foam by then to care. Next to me, Laguna said she had a headache and went to the bathroom. Max waved me to his table. I sat next to Fyodor, who put his arm around me.

"What now, Max?" I asked.

"We know when and where," he hissed at me. "We meet at six PM tomorrow on the east side of the 6th Street viaduct," he added, and stared hard at me.

"Okay," I said. Mission and 6th, I knew where that was.

"I said, 'the 6th street viaduct'," he repeated with meaning.

"And I said, 'okay'." I was wondering what I was missing here. I glanced over my shoulder at Laguna, trying to get past a knot of plate-bearing barristas. "But, Max..."

"Nellie, you're either on the bus or not on the bus," he growled at me.

His timing was bad because there was an MTA fortress bus going by at just that moment. "I hate buses, Max, hate 'em, hate 'em, hate 'em all," I growled back. "But, we meet tomorrow, eh?"

"Fine. See you then!" Max leapt up and was gone.

Laguna sat with us long enough to pick up the check (again) and get a date that night with Fyodor. In fact, Fyodor grafted his date with Laguna onto my date with Ed, but I was too tired or wired or something to argue about it. I think Laguna really did have a headache because she excused herself and left a few minutes later.

"Fyodor, is there something wrong with Max?" I asked when we were alone.

"No, he just needs some new material."

"What?"

Fyodor sighed. "When he said, 'viaduct', you were supposed to ask 'why a duck?'"

"Wh-?"

"Because it's not a chicken," he said firmly.

"What's not a chicken?" I asked, looking around for one.

"A duck."

"I knew that," I said. "But why..."

"Becau-"

"No, wait!" I smacked the table; the caffeine was kicking in. "Why was I supposed to ask 'why a duck' in the first place?"

Fyodor sighed. "Because Max needs new material."

I love my brother, but there are times when it's just not worth it trying to understand him. There was a fortress bus going by and that annoyed me as usual. I took my coffee and went home to get ready for my date, which was now a double date. I found Abilene lounging around Arlo's with a carrot juice.

"Whoa, Nellie, how's the Chelsea Clinton hunt comin' along?"

"Ah think she's a no-show, pahd-nur, and ya oughta get outta Dodge while ya can," I said, affecting my best drawl, which must have been the caffeine talking.

"I shall keep the faith, sister," he said, winked, and sauntered off.

I thought he was kind of sexy, but that was probably a caffeine decision. I traded what was left of my latté for a small carrot juice. It would, I hoped, take care of the jitters. "Save me a table for four, hey, Arlo?" My mouth was dry; I was having trouble talking at a comprehensible speed. "About 7:30?"

"Sure thing, Miss Gail," he said kindly. "This is good coffee, thanks!"

"That coffee is strong, Arlo, be careful," I said, and went up to my place to drink lots of water. And think about my least favorite subject as little as possible.

I don't believe in God. I can't reconcile the facts of genocide with the idea of a deity that is powerless to prevent it. Or worse, the idea of a deity that allows such horrors to happen. There is just force, survival, and death in my world. Oh, and insanity - Dr. Caterham-7 had been a good reminder about that. What a lulu, I thought, running a brush over my stubby hair. I was wearing it very short because a crazy man had burned most of it off earlier that year. It was easy to take care of and suited me in a gamine sort of way.

Well, anyway, Ed seemed to like it. I decided not to change out of my bodysuit, because it suited me, too. I did wriggle into my slinky dress and get out my heels for the occasion.

I also checked my titanium Colt, Mauser and Berretta. I hadn't fired a shot since I loaded them that afternoon, but I'm meticulous as well as paranoid. I usually wore the Colt under my jacket, but that night I wore it on my right hip and the smaller guns in shoulder holsters. I dug out a suit jacket that hid all the guns and whose padded shoulders made my waist look smaller than it is. I was all set. I was even in a good mood when Laguna buzzed from downstairs and asked to be let in.

"You ought to get a cel phone, Nellie," she said, primping in the mirror next to me.

"I can't afford one," I said, envying her catsuit and boots. "I can't even afford the wireless charges for a BayaNegra or PDA."

"They're expensive," she said. "The Company pays for mine." She looked uncomfortable.

"The Company invests a lot in their agents," I said, when she didn't go on.

"You're a legend at Langley, Nellie," Laguna finally said, staring at my reflection. "You and Fyodor Chandler, brother and sister geniuses. You were the last really brilliant agents we had..." She cleared her throat and looked away. "I don't know what to talk about with your brother tonight."

I never had a kid sister, and that's probably a good thing. "Oh, you know men, get them talking about themselves and you're all set," I said. "You could ask Fyodor about his research on the palatization of the letter 'T'. He's very hepped on the subject."

She smiled so genuinely I almost felt bad. Almost.

We went down to Arlo's. Ed and Fyod were already there. We settled in over carrot juice and cucumbers, which suited me fine. Eating doesn't interest me much. I've never enjoyed cooking and, even if I had a kitchen, I live alone, so there's no point in lingering over meals. But it was nice to sit with my brother and our "dates". I'd never really had a social life; before the rebellion it was all studying and then working for the Company. No time for love, whatever that is.

And because I have no social skills, it was up to Ed, Fyodor and Laguna to keep the conversation sputtering along. Or try to; the fucking MTA buses were going by with their halogen lights blinding us and their big engines drowning out our words. I hate those buses and I was beginning to contemplate some revenge.

I was beginning to get bored, too. But luck was with me; Laguna must have asked the magic question, because Fyodor was going on about aspiration, laryngeal, and supralaryngeal specifications, and had that ecstatic linguist look on him. When Laguna's eyes glazed over, I figured it was safe for me and Ed to blow.

I leaned over Ed's shoulder. "Let's go," I whispered.

"Where?"

"Up in the hills. Let's go hunting."

Fyodor and Laguna hardly noticed when we left.

We rode up into the Hollywood hills on his DWP issue Harley. I wish I could afford a gas powered chopper, but I must live within my means. And I only consult for the DWP, so when I asked for company transportation, they were very sorry, but no. It's a good thing I'm good natured or I might have taken umbrage at that.

I like the Hollywood Hills. I used to hunt farther west, in Beverly Hills and Brentwood, but lately I've been content to kill scavengers closer to home. In some ways I did feel sorry for some of the former residents of Laurel, Nichols and all those other canyons; they had been a pretty liberal, tax-paying, social-services-voting bunch. But, well, when the whip comes down, it comes down on everyone who doesn't get out from under it quick enough. I think many of these people saw their dream of a beautiful life die with the appointment of Schwarzenegger as Governor. Some of them fought in the rebellion, but most just put their homes in order and waited to die.

The hills were a beautiful maze. Unlike Brentwood, there were no walls, so the ravaging hordes of scavengers, soldiers, rebels and assorted Rebellion crazies roared though here in a tsunami of death and destruction. The lovely open-plan homes clinging to hillsides never stood a chance. But beauty, along with truth, honor, freedom, hope, and decency, are usually the first casualties of war.

It was still pretty up there among the ruins. The moon was out, and almost everything looks pretty in the moonlight. It was also good for shooting scavengers, some of whom were in fits of moon madness and made an easy target.

Ed drove, I shot. The DWP frowned on senseless killing unless it was in the course of their DWP duties. There were no witnesses, but Ed's a rule-following kind of guy, so he drove and I shot.

We parked the Harley in a clearing and I ran down the last pair of scavengers I'd been hunting. They hid, but I found them. I always find them. My former employers at the company thought I had a sixth sense for causing pain, extracting information, and finding prey. I think I can just smell fear. Either way, they were dead and I was in the mood.

I sauntered back to where Ed was guarding his ride. "Come here often?" I asked in my most sultry voice.

"Only when there's a pretty lady involved."

Well, pick-up lines and come-ons pretty much died in 2008, so these really were the best we could do. But they still did the job; Ed pulled me against his cock, stuck his tongue down my throat and his hand up my dress.

I don't need much more message than that. Even through the advanced, blow-repellant fabric of my bodysuit, I could feel how hard he was, sliding his cock against my slick ti-tandex covered clitoris. Frottage would have to do, since I wouldn't be able to get out of it until we got back to my place. Or his place. Or just somewhere less exposed. This didn't stop me from reaching into his pants for a better feel of him; warm, pulsing, and the head slick with pre-cum. I was getting close, but I'm hot-blooded that way. From his moaning, I could tell Ed was close, too. So the last thing I wanted was my goddamn client, Abilene, to cruise up on a Polaris Victory. A very quiet one, too; must have been a hybrid or all electric.

"You two are nuts and reckless," he drawled, and fired at a scavenger behind us.

There wasn't just one either. Ed and I disengaged. While he fumbled with his fly, I was shooting at what seemed to be a whole lot more scavengers than I had thought were around.

In the ensuing melee I got separated from Ed. From what I could see, which wasn't much, he was doing a pretty good job defending his ride. Abilene was shooting the scavengers attacking me and Ed and trying not to hit us, but very soon was fighting them off himself. Low on ammo after hunting, I drew my knife and did some hand-to-hand killing. I've never been good at hand-to-hand combat, so I was shooting again fairly soon. There were too many scavengers between me and the men with motorbikes, but there was an open space in front of me that, if I ran fast enough, would eventually get me down to Hollywood Boulevard, where there were lights, something the scavengers didn't like at all. I figured I was my best chance, as usual, and bolted away from the fray.

I hate to run, but when I have to run, I run very fast. But as fast as I ran away from the scavengers behind me, I was running to the scavengers in front of me. I got out the Colt, which makes lots of noise and does lots of damage, and blasted a path for myself. Over the pounding in my lungs, I heard Ed's ride start up and more shooting. If something didn't happen quick, I'd have to find a place to hide and get my wind back. My chest felt like it was going to explode. I barely heard the bike behind me, but I did hear Abilene yell, 'I got her, get my back!', as he scooped me sidesaddle over the motor cover. As winded as I was, I shot a few more scavengers on the way out of the Hollywood Hills. When we got to the lights, I holstered the Colt and looked over Abilene's shoulder.

"I don't see Ed behind us," I said.

"Who's Ed?" he asked.

"My date."

"Oh. He seemed plenty tough when he got his pants fastened," Abilene drawled. "Want to go back and look for him?"

I thought about this. "No. He's plenty tough."

We rode to my office in silence. Abilene offered me a drink. The perfect end to the perfect evening, except Arlo's was closed, so our choices were Klan of the Koffee Kats or Starbucks. Since I'd been in Starbucks already that day, I said the KKK.

"What were you doing up there?" I asked when we were settled, he with a latte and I with a mineral water ('no bubbles' as they say at the KKK, the barbarians). We were seated in what I recalled were classroom chairs from junior high and at a rickety little table. It seemed the KKK was as hastily assembled as Starbucks, but the floor was less fucked up.

"Spying on you," he said shamelessly. "You're not out looking for Chelsea Clinton and as your client, I find that worrying. If you're not on my job, I want to know what you're up to."

"Well, you got an eyeful tonight," I said, sipping my water.

He looked me over and admitted that he had. Then he suggested we go to my place and compare guns.

"I don't fuck my clients, Abi," I growled.

Leaning close, he slid his hand up my nearest thigh. "How about you're fired for the next forty-five minutes?"

I could hear my heart pounding again. I could also hear the distinctive sound of shotguns being pumped around us. Abi leaned back, not looking surprised that we were surrounded by shotgun-wielding Klan of the Koffee Kats barristas. And in addition to their shotguns, they were all wearing Birkenstocks... with socks, just like Arlo warned me.

"Keep your hands were we can see them, Nellie," one of the pasty coffee jockeys said nervously.

I put my hands on the table and stared hard at Abilene. "What the fuck is it now, client?"

He didn't answer. He didn't have to: Kevin, logistics specialist for the IIA sat down at our table. That was more than enough answer for me.

"Oh, fuck, Kevin, I was really hoping you were dead."

"Life is full of these little surprises, Miss Gail," he said in the same soft rasp that made me wonder if his voice was fucked up or if he just liked to whisper because it made him scary. "They keep life from becoming dull and routine."

I hate surprises, but I didn't disagree. "How are things in the IIA?"

"I'm no longer with the IIA," Kevin said. "Their goals and mine have diverged irrevocably." He told Abilene to take my guns and put them on the table. I like my guns very much, so looking at them on the table wasn't a hardship. I had a knife in my belt, but it wouldn't do me much good against shotguns. After my guns were out of my reach, Kevin told the barristas to sit down but keep their guns handy.

"I see," I said. "What brings you to LA?"

"The same as Max, Fyodor, Laguna, and Abilene: Chelsea Clinton."

I looked hard at Abilene. "And how do you know Kevin?"

Abilene just looked at Kevin and shrugged. Kevin scares me so I didn't doubt he scared my client, if he was still my client. The air is dead around Kevin; he carries a death-like silence with him and the most frightening thing is that his rapidly graying black hair is perfectly groomed and smooth as a bird's breast. In his inhuman tidiness, Kevin looked like a conservative bank executive transported into hell, but too strung out on Prozac to notice. Except for his dead air and killer's eyes - eyes that always seem to be watching something die - he could have been on the cover of Fortune, Forbes, or GQ, when there were such things.

"Abilene and I have conjoined our interests because we have a common goal, Miss Gail; our clients want Chelsea Clinton's head on a stick," Kevin said softly. "We now also have a common problem: The Militias of Christ are about to invade Southern California because they want to kill Chelsea Clinton as well. However, in the course of killing her, they'll ravage this city. Not that I have any fondness for Los Angeles, but, as you know, I hate waste. I would also hate for those particular extremists to get a foothold on the West Coast, especially in a city that is currently operationally poised for a return to greatness."

"We are?" I asked.

"If you survive, yes," Kevin said. "Los Angeles almost has a working infrastructure and the proximity to Mexico makes it a prime trade partner for the best in goods and technology. Some of those goods are simply passing through LA and ending up in other parts of the US and Canada. Losing LA to the Christianists would be a terrible blow to commerce and the possible recovery of this country."

"Recovery of this country by and for whom, Kevin?" I asked, I was starting to smell a rat or a bush.

"Does it really matter?" he asked.

"Yes, it really does," I said. "Abilene is working for the 700 Club; I can see how they'd want Chelsea Clinton dead so the US can be a 'Christian' nation and take out anyone who isn't a 700-Club-approved Christian, but I can't even imagine who you're working for."

"My clients simply want a better world for everyone," Kevin sighed. "On their terms, of course. But things must bottom out before we can begin to rebuild. Circumstances must get worse before they can get better in this great nation of ours."

I live in post-Rebellion/Occupation Los Angeles, I had no idea how things could get much worse. But I was having a flashback to the 2000 election. I stared hard at a the barrista's Birkenstocks sitting catty-corner from me. The two ideas clicked together like a magazne into a gun butt. "Oh my God, Kevin, you're working for the Greens," I said trying to keep the horror out of my voice. What a come-down for a guy like Kevin. Even I would rather be dead than work for those stubborn, obtuse weirdoes.

"And the Progressives," he said. "The Greens could never afford me on their own."

"And they want Chelsea Clinton dead because they'll do anything not to have to compromise their agendas," I said. "They'd rather see it all rot than have it any way but their way." What a crash for Kevin to have to work with these ninnies. But knowing Kevin even as little as I did, which was more than I wanted to, I figured there was another angle in the works somewhere. "Of course, I'm sure there's lots of folks in D.C. who'd like her dead, too. Especially since the CIA and IIA assassins have had Clinton and her mom and dad on the run in the tropics for the past ten years. Since Chelsea Clinton is coming to town, I guess those agencies' killers have lost their touch."

"Since you've been contacted by Laguna Woods on behalf of the Company, you must realized that the CIA has changed its position, at least on Chelsea Clinton," Kevin said. "President and Senator Clinton have proved harder targets than expected, but we've always underestimated them. However, it can only be a matter of time before they are liquidated."

"I bet you said that about Bill Gates when you had him on the run in the tropics," I said, jabbing where I thought it would hurt.

"Allowing Gates to get safely to Mexico City was a Langley miscalculation, Miss Gail," he said. "And I was never in that department at the IIA."

"Yes, Planning and Logistics was your bailiwick, as I recall," I said, further recalling that his department oversaw the murder and mayhem, but I guess oversight is not the same as being "in" something.

"At any rate, Miss Gail, all that hardly matters," he said smoothly. "It came as no surprise to me that after your amazing luck at County Hospital earlier this year, I was able to rise above my termination from the IIA and supercede my previous accomplishments. I find I like working for myself, I now understand your freelance mentality, I no longer feel constrained by the goals of others, I am thriving on this freedom, I can do anything."

"Can you juggle?" I asked.

He ignored me and lowered his voice even more. "However, you must realize that Chelsea Clinton's death will mean many things to many people. It will impress certain people in my old circles," he said. "And this can only be good. And what is good for me can only be good for you, Miss Gail. I'm sure when I am returned to a responsible position in the IIA, there will certainly be your choice of positions for you. And then there is your brother's welfare to consider. My sources keep track of his every move in Mexico City. He walks in certain parks at certain times every day; you could set your clock by him. So far we've just been interested in his movements, but it would only take one bullet to end our interest."

I could believe Fyodor would walk in certain parks at certain times every day. He was a creature of habit except when he knew his life was in danger. I would have to speak to him about this foolish unguarded park rambling of his. And Max, too, the bastard, why wasn't he keeping an eye on... "What?" I'd not caught what Kevin was saying.

"I said, Max is keeping you occupied, isn't he? That little trip to Jane Caterham-7, it was a total waste of time, wasn't it?" Kevin asked.

"If you know, why ask?"

"Of course I know," Kevin said, looking at his watch. "Dr. Caterham-7 is one of the most brilliant minds this country ever produced. And when her field collapsed, she went mad as a hatter. She lives in her own little world now, but if income tax is ever resurrected, she'll be the first and foremost person involved."

"And what are the chances of income tax re-replacing the income looting we now have?" I asked, looking at my guns because I was getting bored.

"About the same as democracy replacing the dictatorship we now have: Nil," he said.

I shrugged. "What is it you want from me?"

"I want you to kill Chelsea Clinton for the greater good, for me and for Abilene. The last thing this country needs is a revolution," he said. "I'll move ten million in the new currency into your account. She arrives tomorrow; I'll expect you with proof that she is dead soon after that."

"You have a lot of faith in me, Kevin," I said. "Why is that?"

"Because you're the only one who ever beat me, Miss Gail," he said, sounding even deader than usual. "I have unlimited confidence in you." He called for three empty coffee glasses and proved to me that he could juggle.

I can't juggle so this impressed the hell out of me. Then he left, which made me happy. Abilene suggested we pick up where we left off and I suggested he buzz off. "I don't fuck my clients," I reminded him. "And now that Kevin is in the picture, you're a client squared."

One of the barristas asked if we wanted anything else because they wanted to close. I said no, picked up my guns and went home. Alone.

I would have liked to have been alone at home, but Fyodor was fucking Laguna in my office or vice versa. I was too polite to look. I wanted to talk to him, though, so I put aside my manners and asked him through the crack in the door what he did for exercise in Mexico City. He grunted that he walked in the park.

Well, I never doubted Kevin, but it's always good to get confirmation. I checked my email; there was a message from Ed asking if I was okay. I figured I'd answer that one when I knew if I was okay. I now seemed to have four clients and four is a very unlucky number. I'd have to sleep on it. If I could.

The next morning I spent some time surfing up video files of Chelsea Clinton. It's important to know how a target moves, if only to estimate how they might move under fire. It was a shame. She seemed like a nice lady, too bad history was against her. And when history is against you, you're doomed. Well, maybe it wasn't history, but forces that shape history had decided she was doomed, so she was doomed. Killing her would piss off Max and Fyodor, and probably Laguna (Laguna I would probably have to kill even before Chelsea Clinton), but Max and Fyodor would forgive me eventually, because, well, she was dead and no use crying over spilt milk. I might even be able to make it look like an accident. That was worth thinking about.

I spent some time looking up what specs I could find on MTA Fortress buses. They infuriated me and, since I had four clients, one or more of which ought to be able to protect me from the wrath of the MTA, I planned to get some useful revenge that very afternoon. Or die trying.

I got dressed for success: Ti-tandex body suit, mini skirt, tool belt, holsters, guns, flat machine guns - one with exploding bullets and the other with poison needles - a blouse to hide some of the guns, ass-kicking Capezio boots, and a backpack with my meager supply of C4 and detonators. I figured I wouldn't need much C4; just enough to blow a few locks off.

Fyodor wasn't around that morning. I figured he must have gone back to wherever Laguna was holed up for more nookie. He showed up in the afternoon to ask me what I was doing until the rendezvous. I said I thought I'd hijack an MTA Fortress bus and meet him on the other side of the river. He laughed; told me to go for it and said he'd see me later, gator. I have the best brother, really I do.

I dropped by Arlo's for a quick carrot juice and to wait for Julia. I'd already decided on my route, so I had Julia drop me off at the corner of Sunset and Serrano. She wished me luck, whatever I was doing, and I watched her ride out of sight on my Electrocatti.

Sliding behind a burned out SUV, I watched the street for a few minutes. It was deserted as usual; that was exactly why I picked the place. East of what was left of the 101 freeway, certain sections of Sunset were still pretty torn up, so the buses slowed down. There was no bus stop, so there were no pedestrians milling around. In fact, at this particular location, there were no intact buildings and it was a very dangerous place, scavenger-wise, after dark. The buses didn't run much after dark, and they certainly didn't head east when the sun was down.

From my hiding place, I could hear a bus chugging toward me. I knew I'd have to move fast because I wouldn't have the element of surprise for long. I drew my Mauser.

As the bus passed, I shot the passenger-side rear outrider and clambered up his dead body to the top of the bus. The passengers inside were screaming blue murder. The front machine gunner took a few shots, but couldn’t get his gun low enough to hit me where I was crouched on the side of the bus. The glass on his gun turret wasn't bullet proof and he didn't duck quickly enough, so that solved one of my problems. The driver-side outrider took a few shots at me, but the rear gunner was between us. In the process of shooting at me, he shot the rear gunner, which solved another problem.

In the midst of all this gunplay, the damn bus driver was swerving all over the place, trying to shake me off. He was also trying to scrape me off and crashing into buildings to do so. I, on the other hand, was hanging on the back of the bus with both hands. This worked fine, except the outrider climbed on top of the bus and was pointing his gun at me. Then the top of his head exploded and he fell off the bus.

Looking over my shoulder, I didn't recognize the motorcyclist because of the helmet, but I did recognize the pumped-up tits, sleek black catsuit and the hybrid Triumph as belonging to Laguna Woods. The bitch gave me thumbs up; like I need anything from her.

I was too busy to shoot her so I climbed on top of the bus. The driver was still driving like crazy, but no one was shooting at me. I decided to save some C4 and shot the lock off the rear gunner's hatch latch. I opened the hatch and shot the passenger trying to come out of it at me. And then another and another after that. I couldn't tell if they were trying to kill me or just trying to get off the bus. The other passengers were trying shove the bodies out of the way, but they and the dead gunner were jammed tight.

Laguna, bless her little fucking heart, was shooting into the rear of the bus. If it was to clear a space for me, it seemed to be working. I shoved the bodies out of the way and hung upside down and fired both machine guns into the screaming, moiling mass of what was left of the passengers. Pretty soon they were no longer screaming or moiling, they were just dead.

I put on my gloves as the poison in the needles would be active for another five minutes and I didn't want kill myself when I was so close to success. Now that I was in the bus, the driver was barreling straight down Sunset, blowing his horn that sounded like a cross between a foghorn and the scream rabbits make when they cum. I hate that noise more than anything and I was going to kill the fucker if only because of that. I used a glob of C4 on the steel door of the driver cage and blew the lock off. The driver was shooting at me and trying to drive and, consequently, not doing either very well.

And here was my dilemma: I needed to wrest control of the bus from him and then kill him, because if I killed him first, we'd crash. Goddam Laguna decided to get helpful again and was shooting at the driver from the driver side. This distracted him enough that I could jerk the door open, shoot him in the head and grab control of the bus. It was a little awkward because I was sitting on his lap and what was left of his head was bouncing against my back. I got the bus under enough control that I could unhook his seatbelt and shove him out of the way.

Success! Victory! I had conquered an MTA fortress bus all by myself! I was so elated, I almost failed to notice Laguna banging on the front passenger door. I waved her away; she was spoiling my moment. Then I heard the big, gas SUV engines that were chasing us. Laguna was banging on the door, making so much noise, I wondered if she had on titan-chainmail gloves. Well, fuck her, I wasn't letting her in. There was so much shooting going on outside, I'd get hit if I opened the door. A few seconds later she swerved away. I heard a crash and bump and figured she'd been hit. I mentally ticked her off the list as one less person to kill.

I hadn't figured she'd climb up the side of the bus and come in through the gunner's turret, but she did. In the passenger area monitor I saw her stomping up the aisle toward me. I might have shot her then, but she had her very big gun out and pointed the business end in my direction. I looked over my shoulder as she stomped her way through the carnage. "WHAT THE FUCK IS IT NOW, LAGUNA?"

"Weren't you going to open that door, asshole?" she yelled.

I shrugged. "I couldn't figure out how." I sort of lied. I hadn't even looked for the door open button.

"It's this button!" Laguna stabbed a broken acrylic nail at the console and the front door opened.

Opened right into a machine gun mounted on an MTA SUV Assault Vehicle. We screamed. Laguna fired and I swerved the bus into the SUV, which crashed very nicely.

"How did you know that?" I asked my uninvited, heavily armed passenger.

"I saw the schematics of the inside," she said, reloading. She punched a few more buttons and there was some clanking in the back of the bus. "I have a higher security clearance than you do." She smirked at me. I hate that. "Oh, and don't shoot me in the back; I'm about to help you get rid of that pesky helicopter."

"What heli...?" Oh, fuck! "There's two!" I yelled.

"I see them, Nellie, just drive!"

I heard some clanking around the bus, but was too busy driving to really notice. Laguna went into the back of the bus and came back with a belt-loading riot gun and an Uzi. "Where'd you get those?" I asked.

"There's an arsenal back there," she said, handing me the Uzi.

I hadn't known that. "Oh yeah? How'd you know?"

"Like I said, I have a higher security clearance than you do," she said. "I looked it up on the net."

Laguna climbed up into the front machine gun turret and fired at the SUVs until they retreated. The helicopters were still a problem, but she kept them at bay with machine gun fire.

At Alvarado, I turned right to go south. The helicopters seemed to be backed off and there were no SUVs around. I found that odd, until I heard Laguna scream and then I saw it: A roadblock at Alvarado and Wilshire. Not just any roadblock - this road block was three fortress buses head on.

Laguna was next to me, punching up screens and windows like a madwoman. There was an IM flashing on the CRT sunk in the dashboard and, since I was only driving the bus, I clicked on it:

MTA: "Surrender Nellie Gail"

"Laguna..."

"Just keep driving!" she yelled over the clunking in the front of the bus. "Hope I did this right," she growled. "Every missile system is different."

"Missile?" I had hardly said it when she fired three missiles and blew a huge hole in the buses in front of us. I barely had time to wonder why they hadn't fired on us - maybe they were going take us alive and kill us slowly - because I was too busy turning left and heading east a block above Wilshire, on Sixth Street. I was glad; it would have been a real mess driving through all the rubble, bodies, fire, and chaos one block south.

I still had a pack of SUVs, a helicopter or two, and the least-damaged of the roadblock buses to shake off on the ride through downtown. Sixth Street was less torn up than the streets north of it, but still a maze of rubble. However, my bus bashed itself a path through it all quite nicely. That it was also bashing a path for everything behind us was a problem, mainly for Laguna, firing from the machine gun turret. I was shooting at the occasional SUV that got past her, which was far too often.

The Sixth Street bridge across the river was just ahead. Good thing, because Laguna was low on ammo. I roared across the bridge toward what looked like a small army. I was damn glad to see the DWP logos on the vehicles. Home free. And the MTA hadn't crossed the bridge with us. Cowards! Ha!

Fyodor grabbed me up in his arms the minute I stepped off the bus. "Oh my God, Nellie!" he shouted. "You did it! You hijacked a bus!"

"YES!"

"All by yourself!"

"YES!"

"My sister hijacked a bus all by herself!" he yelled, twirling me around. "MY SISTER RULES! SHE RULES!!! YEARGH! YEARGH! YEARGH!"

Laguna was standing next to Max, looking pissed off, but I couldn't hear what they were saying over Fyodor's screaming. I only have one brother and he's plenty for anyone. I was tired, so Fyodor continued his wardance by himself. I leaned against the bus and waved at Ed, who was making his way over.

"So, you lived," he said.

"I did."

"And hijacked a bus."

"I did."

"Why?"

"Because it was there," I snapped. I remembered how pissed off I was at him. I couldn't remember why I was pissed, but that I was, so I walked over to Max and Laguna.

"Hi, Nell," he said. "Nice bus."

"Yup."

"Hijacked it all by yourself, did you?"

"Yup."

Laguna, the bitch, rolled her eyes so hard, I thought I heard them rattling around in her empty head.

"Were you following me, Laguna?" I asked in an undertone.

"Of course. I'm on the job making sure you're on the job."

"Bitch," I thought. "Where do you fit in all this again?" I asked, mainly because she was still standing there.

"I just work for the same idiots you used to," she said. "They think Chelsea Clinton is coming to LA to lead the rebellion, and they have their money on her."

'What a bunch of idiots,' I thought.

A reedy guy in a suit came up to us, cleared his throat and introduce himself as Mr. Fontana of the DWP. "The MTA would like a word with you, Miss Gail," he said. He held out a PDA with an IM message: 'Surrender Nellie Gail.'

"Never!" I said.

"Never what, Nell?" Fyodor asked behind me. He looked at the PDA and asked what the MTA would do to me.

"They'll kill her," Fontana said matter-of-factly. "They don't like their defenses breached any more than we do."

"Well, they can't kill her," Fyodor said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Well, not yet anyway," Max chimed in.

"Why not?" Fontana asked.

"We need her," Laguna said. "For now."

I wasn't sure I liked being needed by Laguna Woods, but I'd just hijacked an MTA fortress bus all by myself and didn't care what anyone thought of me. Although dying at the hands of the MTA did not appeal to me, I was too deep in my victory high to be very worried. I also had other worries, like Chelsea Clinton, Kevin, Abilene, the Greens, the Progressives, the Militias for Christ, Arlo was talking about raising his prices...

"Okay, let's go talk to them," Max announced into my reverie. "Laguna, you're representing Langley, right?"

"I can, but I was on that bus with Nellie while she was hijacking it all by herself," Laguna purred. God, I hated purring blonds almost as much as MTA fortress buses, maybe more now.

"Be that as it may, your Langley ID carries some weight," Max said. "Are you with us, Mr. Fontana?"

The DWP bureaucrat shrugged. "I've never even heard of anyone hijacking an MTA bus before," he said laconically. "We might be able to get her off the hook on the sheer novelty of it."

I really hate it when people talk about me as if I'm not standing right next to them. I'd let this one pass because I was so serene from my recent success, that nothing could upset me. Much. The only thing that could've improved that afternoon would have been a large carrot juice.

"Okay, then it's the three of us," Max said, while Fontana tapped in an IM message to the army on the other side of the LA river.

"Want me along, Max?" Fyodor asked.

"No," Max said, thoughtfully. "No, you'd better stay here in case they kill us all. You'll need to finish the mission." He looked at me. "I hope you appreciate this, Nell."

I just laughed contemptuously and sneered. I'd been practicing laughing and sneering for this very occasion. I was glad I got to try it out. It must have been good, because Max frowned at me and walked away.

Max's group met the MTA group in the middle of the bridge. I borrowed some field glasses, but all I could see was some arms waving and fists shaking. And some rational talk from Max (he's good at that when he decides to do it); then there were handshakes, and our guys, except for Laguna, came back with one of the MTA guys.

Actually it was a big woman named Ms. Lewis, who would be our driver for the Chelsea Clinton mission. "Very impressive, Miss Gail," she said, towering over me. "I understand we'll be sending the bill to Mr. Soros and Mr. Gates."

I gave her the old laugh and sneer. She just rolled her eyes and went to check out the bus. After she saw all the carnage in it, she called for a new bus. In fact, after taking a good look at our "forces", she called for three new buses and two drivers.

When I asked, Max told me he'd sent Laguna back to LA with the MTA people. He said she put up a fight, but ultimately took his word that he'd keep me in line when Chelsea Clinton arrived. I laughed and sneered; all this laughing and sneering was wearing me out. But I was glad Laguna was gone. I don't work well with an audience.

The DWP and MTA keep the 710 freeway in good condition so goods from Mexico can get from the port into the city. We rolled south on its smooth and well-kept surface - it was like riding on glass compared to most of the LA roads now, and got down to San Pedro as the sun was setting. If Max was hoping for anything like stealth, three MTA fortress buses, a dozen DWP SUVs, three DWP defensible cherry-pickers, and daylight wrecked it. Max was unconcerned; Fyodor was his usual happy-go-lucky linguist self and even Ed, whom I figured had some sense, was not worried. I was the only one worried. We were out in the open in daylight with a circus of city services, and if I were on the other side, we'd be dead by now.

However, we made it to the docks and settled down to wait. I figured this was a good a time as any to spill my guts to Max. "Max," I said, planting myself in front of him "Max, Kevin threatened to kill Fyodor if I don't kill Chelsea Clinton for him."

"He did?" Fyodor squeaked.

"I'd heard something like that," Max said, staring dramatically at the horizon.

I strolled around him so I was between him and the horizon. "Max, did you know he's working for the Greens and Progressives and they want Chelsea Clinton dead?"

"They do?" Fyodor was having a tough time in this conversation even though I was talking to Max.

"I'd heard something also like that," Max said, turned his back on me, and stared dramatically at the MTA fortress bus behind us.

"Why do the Greens and Progressives want her dead?" Fyodor asked me.

"Because things in this country have to get worse before they can get better," I said, walking around Max.

"Worse than this?" Fyodor asked, waving at the rubble of that had been one of the great Pacific ports.

"You'd have to ask them, not me, Fyod," I said. "Max, did you know Abilene is working for the 700 Club and has joined forces with Kevin and his clients to off Chelsea Clinton?"

"I'd heard-"

"Yeah," I said, putting my hands on his shoulders to keep him stationary. "But did you know they've joined forces because the Militias of Christ are in it now, and they scare the bejezus out of everyone, including me?"

Max and Fyodor exchanged nervous looks. "You mean the Militias of Christ are here now? In LA?"

"I don't think they're in LA," I said. "They could be out in the desert waiting to strike and having visions of de debbil like St. Anthony. I barely know what's going on in Hollywood, let alone in the wastelands outside the city limits. But it worries me that you didn't know this."

"I suspected it, but I never thought they'd come this far west," Max admitted, getting some of his old poise back. "Chelsea Clinton is quite a draw." He smirked. I found it disgusting.

"Which brings me to my next question," I said, staying in front of him. "Why've you got all your hopes pinned on Chelsea Clinton?"

"She's coming to save us." He sounded like he was quoting.

"Max, I spent years watching your 'Live Nude Economics' show on the internet," I said. "One of your main ideas on that show was that economics, progress, fairness, et cetera, were about ideas, not personalities. I was quite young and this made a big impression on me. Have you changed your tune so much since you got chased out of the US?"

"Yes! Talk me out of it, Nellie!" He looked way too smug and I suspected he was lying, but I had no idea why or about what he was lying.

"I can't talk you out of this crazy idea if you've become that much of a coward and need to hide behind Chelsea Clinton's skirts." I could tell he didn't like that by the way he scowled so I went on. "The US was built on ideas, not perfect ones, but good ones. Good enough to roll with historical forces and still come up swinging. If it was about personalities, Washington would have agreed to be King and Jefferson would have become some kind of Pope."

"Not Franklin for Pope?" Fyodor asked. He loved these historical "what if" conversations.

"Franklin was cooler than all of them put together," I said. "He knew ideas were dangerous when they became dogma yoked to a cult of personality. He'd never have agreed to 'represent' freedom, justice, and so on. Jefferson, I think, would have done it, thinking it would begin and end with him. And he would have been wrong, He also said 'The liberty tree must be watered every twenty years with blood' or words to that effect. He was wrong about that; the ninny wrote the document that kept us from having to kill each other every twenty years and he never realized it. So I think Jefferson could be blind enough to be Pope of the United States. However, because even he knew it was about ideas and not personality, we got a Supreme Court, separation of church and state, and two other branches of Government. It's an arrangement with enough wiggle room so we can all live in peace. In their time, these were mind-blowing ideas. Freedom, equality..."

"For rich white guys, yeah..." (Fyodor - what a killjoy.)

"Yeah, and there were slaves and women as chattels, and indentured servants and Native Americans. Don't be confused, Fyodor; smart, rich, white guys designed our government, not God, so some of those issues got addressed when they could be addressed..."

"Kicking and screaming..." he added.

"White guys never want to give up power, that's for sure, brother. But for the time it was conceived, the United States was the most radical, most outrageous, most dangerous experiment on the planet. And it wasn't that most of those old white guys thought they were so much smarter-worthy-better than anyone else; they just knew they wouldn't live forever. But they also knew that ideas live forever, and the ideas of freedom and the mechanisms of justice might, maybe might, keep the country on the side of fairness and the right side of History long after they were gone. And, yeah, it's been more miss than hit, but, as a general rule, Americans have been willing to try to do the right thing once they figure out what the right thing is. And that's what the founders were counting on; that we'd at least try to do the right thing, and by God, for over two hundred years we did try. That is, up until December 12, 2000, when the Supreme Court stopped the recount. In retrospect, we should have been in the streets watering the Liberty Tree with blood and lots of it. But we are a reasonable people most of the time, or try to be, we were willing to give the illegal Bush Administration a chance, and they blew it repeatedly. Our Democracy, as we knew it, might have survived a four year hiatus because the Founders' ideas were still strong in us. But the Founders never counted on their future citizens wimping out."

"How so?" Max asked when I stopped to catch my breath.

"We trusted our government to keep us safe, and either through stupidity or wickedness, they let us down. So what, with the exception of the martyred Congresswoman Lee, does our Congress do? They hand more power, a King's power, to George W. Bush, the very unelected despot who let us down in the lead-up to September 11, 2001. How incredibly stupid was that? If I believed in God, I might agree with crazy Janey Caterham-7 that we are being punished. Fortunately I only believe in historical forces, guns, money, and the reek of raw power and its eventual decay.

"But I digress, Max, and I hope you'll understand that American history and political science are not my fields. Although the US has had its share of genocide, I've never had to consider it in the larger context of our national character and history. However, since the fall of Los Angeles and my disciplinary leave from the Company, I have had some time to study my new demon. Because I have no future, I must romance the past. Not, mind you, romanticize it, but woo it, court it, and make peace with it, if only for my own peace of mind.

"We've had good leaders and we've had bad ones, but we've always had a core of ideas to govern us through thick and thin. The Bush family thinks they can rule us because they're better than we are. They and their minions believe they can rule through fear and personality. And most of the country has been cowed or drugged or murdered into submission because we've lost our way, Max, we wanted someone to take care of us and we got the worst of all possible worlds. We traded our ideals of freedom and justice and truth for the illusion of security, when the only security we've ever had in the country were those ideals, and the hope that we could make a better future for everyone if we worked hard and played by the rules. So since when are you going to be led by and fight for Chelsea Clinton or any one person? Are you going to set her up as the new boss? Make her the Queen of the United States? We need our ideas back, Max, we're dying without them. There's no point to the United States without those ideas."

"I hadn't realized you were so philosophical, Nellie," he said quietly.

"I'm not, I just prefer ideas to people, that's all." I shrugged. "I feel more comfortable with ideas."

"Why is that?" he asked.

"I've never had an idea try to kill me," I said. "And people are either prey or predators, so I find it hard to like them."

Max thought about this for a moment. "You're more dangerous than I suspected, Nell," he said at last. "I might have to kill you someday."

Fyodor put his arms around me and said if he wanted to take me out, he'd have to go through him.

Now, I love my brother as well as any sister does, but in all honestly, Fyodor Chandler couldn't defend a slice of cheesecake from a fork. So it seemed I was going to have to come clean.

"Max, I'm not going to kill Chelsea Clinton for Kevin or for anyone," I said over Fyodor's shoulder. "I'm not going to kill her because she seems like a decent person and must be very fucking brave to come here for any reason. But you've got to promise me you'll keep Fyodor safe from Kevin and his thugs, and if you do kick down the Bush dictatorship, you'll put the ideas back in place and rebuild the country on them."

"You want all this in exchange for not killing you?" Max asked.

"I thought you were going to kill me 'someday'," I said, stepping back from Fyodor. "I'll probably have died of natural or unnatural causes by 'someday', so I'm not too worried about that. No, this is in exchange for getting Chelsea Clinton wherever you want her; that's all, Max, just that."

"That might be plenty," Max said.

He must have very sharp ears, because he heard the boat before I did. It was dark and we were some distance from the dock. I picked up a rifle with an infrared sight on it. Max raised his revolver to my temple.

"Max..." Fyodor warned softly.

"I'm just looking, Max, no harm in looking..." I said. And looking I was, looking hard. The woman on the dock looked like Chelsea Clinton, but she moved like an ostrich on crack. She jerked along on spike heels with her chest thrust out in a bad imitation of the old runway models.

Now, I had never seen Chelsea Clinton in person, but I'd studied enough internet videos of her to know she didn't move like this prancing puta down there on the dock. I looked at Max over his gun. "Max," I said. "What the fuck is that down there?"

"Chelsea Clinton," he declaimed. "And she has come to lead the revolution."

"Impossible." I shoved the rifle at Fyodor and stomped over to where Mr. Fontana was standing. He was at the end of the little path that lead down to the dock, waiting in breathless expectation for his idol.

"She's here," he said reverently.

"Wanna bet?" I snarled. I don't like surprises; they make me cranky.

Max and Fyodor joined us and there was a hush as the... this... whatever this person was minced up to greet us. One of the buses shined its lights on her and we were treated to a vacuous smile beneath vacant eyes. Since this made her a target in a spotlight, I told them to turn it off.

"Well! Here I am! Who's Dr. Max?" she chirped. There was nothing but horrified silence to answer her.

"He's Max," I said, pointing at him. "And who the fuck are you?"

"Chelsea Clinton."

"Oh, come now," I growled, circling her.

"Hey, an acting job is an acting job even if it does involve plastic surgery," she spat at me. "My agent said this would be good for my career and it's better than doing anal."

We thought this over in silence. I suppose it all made sense on some level. I just couldn't figure out how it made sense for Max. Did he know she was a fake from the gitgo? Was he really expecting Chelsea Clinton to put her ass on the line for the country that mistreated and humiliated her family and still sends assassins after them? Why should she? But would she? Had I on some level been hoping for someone to save me, too? But then the shooting started and I figured I'd better save my own ass and worry about Chelsea Clinton, faux or real, later.

The sniper was a rotten shot. Unless they just meant to pin us down until... Until the helicopters arrived. There were three fast and quiet gunships. The MTA took out one right away and drove off the other two long enough for us to get to the buses. Which was also when the SUVs of Christ showed up to chase us.

I wound up with Max, the faux Chelsea Clinton, Fyodor and Ed in Ms. Lewis' bus. That woman can certainly drive, I'll give her that much. We headed back the way we'd come, north on the 710.

Now, I had mixed emotions about this. The 710 is wide open and we were being chased by two gunboat helicopters and an unknown number of SUVs for Christ. The DWP was doing a good job taking out the SUVs and the MTA buses were keeping the helicopters off us. Still, I don't like running in the open like this, but there was no way for the fortress bus to travel with more cover. That was the downside; the upside was that there was lots of armor on the bus and lots of guns, many of which Ed and I were using.

"Where are we going?" the faux Chelsea Clinton screamed over the noise.

"Dreamworks. To see Spielberg," Max yelled.

She squealed, it sounded happy; anything to keep her from freaking out. Just yet. She didn't have to know Dreamworks moved its operation to France years ago. Good old Max, always the right lie at the right moment.

"Here." I handed him a Colt Anaconda. It weighed a ton and I decided right then and there that I wanted to work for the MTA, if only for the weapons. I'd taken a Colt Trooper for myself.

Bullets slammed into the side of the bus, way too close. Max and I leaned out the windows and fired at what we could see. Apparently the DWP wasn't doing such a great job at keeping the other side off us. One of the MTA buses exploded a little ahead of us. Ms. Lewis swerved us out of trouble, but I had the feeling we weren't out of the woods yet.

The faux Chelsea Clinton was freaking out. Max comforted her: "Keep your head down, dear," he said. "Yes, just there, and a little to the left."

Well, I was glad someone was having a good time, so I figured I'd better get to work. I climbed into the front machine gun turret and put my 'if it moves, shoot it' theory into practice. Ed liked this idea, and climbed into the other turret.

Shooting at the gunships was a waste of time. The other MTA bus fired a missile that took out one of them. The MTA driver and crew didn't have much time to enjoy that, because a pack of SUVs pulled them down.

It was too dark to see how many Militia for Christ SUVs were out there and what else besides them. It seemed like they had an endless supply of potential martyrs, because Ed and I emptied our machine guns and yet the SUVs kept coming.

"What now, Nell?" Fyodor asked when I dropped from the turret. He'd obviously didn't like the way the logistics looked.

"I -" I didn't get to finish because we all dove to the floor to avoid the hail of bullets coming our way. Max managed to land on top of the faux Chelsea Clinton. He was looking way too serene for a man who was as close to death as we all were. Through all the shooting, I could still hear the ominous thump on the roof of the bus. Well, that's what I'd do; hell, that's what I did. "Oh shit," I said, handing Fyodor the Colt Trooper and a speed-loader. "Shoot at anything," I said, pointing at the windows and machine gun turrets. "That isn't me," I added.

Raiding the ammo locker once more, I took a Skorpion submachine gun and a Jericho 941. Under Fyodor's covering fire I got to the front entrance of the bus. I waved at Ms. Lewis to open the front door. The turnstile speaker crackled and she told me I was crazy. I said, "I know, just open the door, please".

"Well then, hold on a minute," she said. She smashed the bus into the nearest SUVs and then she opened the door for me.

I sprayed the remaining SUVs with machinegun fire. They swerved away from us and crashed.

There was so much shooting going on inside the bus, that the three guys on top of it never saw me climbing up behind them. They had shot up both gun turrets and were trying to get past the shooting from the inside to get inside. I shot those three and two more jumped on from the other side. Ed and Fyodor could have done me a favor and shot at the SUVs on the other side of the bus.

I was pinned down at the front of the bus. One guy was shooting at me while the other was shooting inside the bus. Ed must have shot him, because his head exploded and he fell off the bus. I figure the last guy was fair game, then the last Christianist helicopter shone its huge halogen light on me and suddenly I was fair game.

But Ms. Lewis was a woman who knew her job. She took the helicopter out with a missile. The MTA should really give her a raise; I planned to write a letter telling them. If I lived, that is.

So it was a shootout on the MTA fortress bus. The bus was swerving all over the place, so between shots we were hanging on for dear life. Not that I would admit it out loud, but I could have used Laguna's help just then. I finally got a clear shot at the last man on the bus and took him out. I wasn't sure there weren't more Christianists hanging on the back of the bus, which I knew from experience was possible. I figured I'd better go look. I was half way down the bus when the loudest, largest helicopter I'd ever seen was suddenly directly overhead. It was firing at everything around the bus and descending at an alarming rate. There were huge metal bars, bus-length bars, where the landing skids should have been. It shone a huge light on the top of the bus and the voice of God issued from the PA:

"Passenger, return to your seat."

It was that or be crushed to death. I half fell, half dived through the rear turret.

"Nell! Are you all right?" Fyodor asked, helping me sit up.

"I -" I started, but, our driver, Ms. Lewis was sitting on the floor in front of me. "Who's driving the bus!" I screamed.

"That MTA tow-copter I called has got it on remote," she yelled back over the noise. Whatever else she said was drowned out by the screeching of metal. The huge bars I'd seen on the helicopter were being clamped on each side of the bus. From the bars, thick metal prongs extended and tilted up, clamping onto the roof of the bus.

We passengers were glued to the floor, cowering away from the flying shards of glass and metal. As the helicopter lifted the bus off the tarmac, I, for one, was cowering on the floor hoping the bus was going to stay in one piece.

As usual, Fyodor wouldn't know danger if it bit him on the ass. He climbed on a seat and was looking out the window. "This is awesome!" he yelled. "Nell! Come up here!" He reached down and dragged me up next to him. "Look at this! We're in a flying bus!"

He certainly wasn't wrong; we were in a flying bus and it was awesome.

We flew to the MTA facility in the Burbank. Surrounded by MTA fortress buses and whatever other terrifying technology they had out there, I felt safe in my own strangely paranoid way.

But I had a job to finish and finish it I would. Grasping the faux Chelsea Clinton's dyed-up, permmed-up, frizzy mop from behind, I put a nine millimeter into her heart. I waited until she stopped flopping around before I cut off her head and put it in a garbage bag.

"All that for a fake," Ms. Lewis said, shaking her head. "But why kill her?"

"I have to prove I did," I said, figuring this crazy brave bus driver deserved an explanation. "I promised her head to a client. He doesn't have to know it's not Chelsea Clinton. As long as it looks like her, he'll be happy."

"Well, I don't understand what we just did, but I'm not going to argue with the first person in history to hijack a fortress bus." Ms. Lewis sounded tired.

"Ms. Lewis, I'm not sure what we were supposed to do back there," I said, hoisting the garbage bag on my back (heads are heavier than they look). "But if we did nothing else, we repelled a second invasion of Los Angeles."

We shook hands and I asked if I could borrow a bus. She said sure, and got me one. I think I really do want to work for the MTA one day; they have the best equipment I've ever seen. Max and Ed wanted me to wait for them, but I had a bus, and my bus and I wait for no man.

My bus and I rolled into Hollywood miles and miles ahead of everyone else. I can drive these muthers; there's no doubt about that. In front of the Limo Brothers recycling and burger joint, I yelled for Julia until she came out.

"Miss Gail! You did it! You did it! I knew you'd do it!"

Such a sweet kid; this totally made my day. "Yeah, well, never a doubt," I said, waving her into the bus. "Take this monster for a quick joy ride, then have your family get rid of it. I'll take my cut of the proceeds in goods and services. You're my agent, Julia, get me the best possible deal you can. I've got business to finish up at the Klan of the Koffee Kats."

She lit up like a Christmas tree. I picked up my garbage bag and watched her roar off into the night. I figured I'd find Kevin or get a message to him at the KKK, so I headed in that direction. I waved at Arlo on my way by his place. The Starbucks guys were hanging out in front of their shop, watching the KKK intently. This would have made me nervous except I only planned to be in there for a New York minute, less if possible.

I found Kevin and, not surprisingly, Abilene. Alarmingly, I also found Laguna. "Nice night, Laguna, what the fuck are you doing here?" I asked, while the KKK stripped my weapons off.

"My fucking job, you bitch," she snarled. "Why didn't you tell me Kevin was in this?"

I shrugged, partly because I shrug well, but also to hide my grudging admiration. Laguna was in the middle of the KKK vortex of political intransigence, all by herself, facing down the bad guys and me. It was brave, it was crazy, it was stupid, and it was probably what I'd do in her place.

I met Kevin's dead eyes. "Here's my end of the deal," I said, handing him the bag with the faux Chelsea Clinton's head in it. "I expect you to keep your end."

Kevin looked in the bag and smiled his creepy smile. "Whatever you say, Miss Gail," he drawled. He showed the contents to Abilene, who nodded grimly and gave me thumbs up. Passing the bag to Laguna, Kevin gave me a bland look and turned to the nearest shotgun toting Starbucker. "Kill them both," he said, gesturing to me and Laguna.

The order was drowned out by Laguna screaming, "Nellie, you cunt! I thought we had a deal!" and lunging for my throat. She had a grip like iron and her arms were longer than mine, so I couldn't hit her in the face. I dragged her down to the floor, hoping to kick her off or slam her into the bar or something.

Well, everybody enjoys a good cat fight, so nobody shot at us. But as we were rolling around like enraged trash, a whole lot of other shooting started. Glass, pieces of furniture, and pieces of flesh were flying. Laguna was too intent on strangling me to notice. My vision filled up with blood from being choked and things were going dark. Flailing around, I found something sharp (I knew it was sharp because it cut my palm). Hauling Laguna down by her catsuit with one hand, I raked her eyes with what turned out to be a broken coffee glass with the other hand.

Howling like a fury, Laguna let go of my throat to claw at her eyes. In a moment of poor judgment, she staggered to her feet and was cut in half by machine gunfire. Her upper body fell on me as I rolled away from the shooting match, trying to get my breath back.

I'm so glad blood beads on ti-tandex. I hate the feeling of blood soaking into my skin, really I do. I shoved what was left of Laguna off me and dragged myself into the nearest corner. From there I could see that the gun battle was between the Starbuck's Green and Progressive and the Starbucks' Francophone barristas. The KKK were using the coffee bar for what cover it was worth. I was a little behind them, wishing for more cover and hoping they didn't see me. They were between me and the back exit. The Starbuckers were outside, badly concealed and getting the worst of it. They were also between me and the front exit. Basically, I was stuck and probably going to die. This seemed unfair in its inevitability and annoyed me very much.

However, I hadn't counted on Julia crashing the MTA Fortress bus into the middle of it all. She drove that monster right into the back wall, conveniently crushing most of the KKK. Most impressive. Her brothers, cousins, whoever the hell they were, poured out of the bus and finished off the KKK in short order.

There was much shooting and screaming in the dark; the bus had knocked out the lights. I figured my best bet was to lay in my corner until things calmed down. It was pretty much all I could do right then anyway. I thought I heard big engines -- buses, SUVs, helicopters maybe? It was hard to hear over the shooting and the ringing in my ears. The shooting went away and the screaming was replaced with masculine voices shouting orders. I thought I could hear Julia calling, "Miss Gail! Miss Gail!", but that might have been my imagination. Over all this cacophony one voice was raised to a hysterical note:

"ALISON!!! ALISON!!!"

Poor Larry; I guess it's not easy being my brother. I figured I better pull myself together before he completely lost it.

The lights were flicking back on, enough for Julia to find me, at least. "Miss Gail!" She was next to me, helping me up. She was being useful instead of standing in the middle of the room, screaming my name.

"NELLIE! NELLIE!" That was Ed, somewhere in the room.

Well, it was nice they were looking for me. I, on the other hand was most interested in finding Max, because I had some urgent questions for him. "Julia, see if you can find me a nice loaded gun, okay?"

"Sure, Miss Gail, are you okay?" The lights were completely back on. I must have been a mess - cuts, bruises coming out and eyes full of broken blood vessels from being choked (I know I was seeing red) - if the stunned look on Julia's face was anything to go by.

"Pretty much."

"Your eyes..." she began, but Larry found me at that moment.

"ALISON!!!" He wrapped me in a bear hug. "Are you okay?"

"Pretty much," I said into his shoulder. "Where's Max?"

"Around here somewhere. I..."

"OH, MON DIEU, C'EST LA TETE DE CHELSEA CLINTON!"

"Tell them to run some DNA on that before they freak out," I said.

"Oh, merci Dieu," one of the Pete's barristas said next to us. "Voila Mademoiselle Gail."

"Yeah, bon soir, who the fuck are you well-armed guys?" I asked.

The barrista looked at Larry, I mean, Fyodor (who nodded), and said, "French Foreign Legion. Jacques Cousteau, je suis ici!" He gave me bow and walked off.

"Fyodor? What the hell...?"

"Oh my God, your poor eyes. What hap-"

"Fuck my eyes, and tell me-"

"We figured we'd need back-up when the opposition arrived," he said, looking guilty. "The Royal Canadian Mounties, the ones from Quebec, are here, too. We wanted to be able to take them all out at once."

I assumed they were from Quebec to maintain some kind of linguistic purity, but I was too tired to assume much more. "And?" I asked.

"And we hadn't counted on the Christanists piling on," he said. "Thank God, you brought the MTA into it or we might have lost that fight. The DWP is good, but we needed the extra firepower. Oh, speak of the devil, there's Ed. Ed!"

"Nellie! There you are." Ed hugged me.

Julia sidled up to me and handed me a Colt KingCobra. "I found you a gun, Miss Gail," she said.

"Thanks," I said. She must have raided the ammo locker in the bus.

"Hey, Ed! There's an IM from your wife," someone from across the room yelled.

"Wife?" I asked, weighing the gun in my hand.

"But I think there's only one bullet in it," Julia added.

"Um..." Ed said, backing away a little.

"Ed! IM from your wife!"

"I better go see what that's about," he said and bolted.

I opened the cylinder and, yes, in fact, there was only one bullet. Ed was in luck that night, because I needed the bullet for another guy. "Okay, Fyodor, where's Max?" I asked.

"Outside somewhere," Fyodor said, looking nervous. "Nellie, look, what are...?"

"Not to worry, big brother, not to worry," I reassured him. Max was the one who had something to worry about.

Outside, I saw Arlo being led off in handcuffs. "What's up with that, Fyodor?" I asked.

"He was spying on you," Fyodor said. "Didn't you wonder how everyone knew exactly where you were and what you were doing? It was Arlo."

I had wondered, but now I was wondering where I was going to get carrot juice. And, incredibly, I had more pressing things to wonder about just then. "MAX!"

He turned toward me and I raised my one bullet gun.

"Okay, Max. Too many coincidences to be accidents. Explain."

"It was a diversion, Nellie," he said coolly. "We had to make the other side think the invasion and revolution was happening in LA. The invasion is actually happening from Quebec and the Gulf of Mexico. We'll split the country, contain the east and liberate the west."

Like Churchill wanted to invade Occupied Europe from the Mediterranean, through the Balkans, and Eisenhower overrode him. How different history would read had Churchill, who knew what he was doing, prevailed. "And Chelsea Clinton?" I asked.

"Was never anywhere near it, Nell. You were right: It's not about personalities, it's about the ideas this country was founded on and grew great on. We just want to find our way back to those. We can heal the country on those ideas. We can only die from this dictatorship," he said solemnly

"Give me a break, Max. Why bring me in?"

"You put on one helluva a show, Nellie. No one on the other side had a clue we were coming from anywhere but LA, where everything starts," he said with a smirk.

I pointed my gun at his smirk. "You played me."

"Yes, I did. Was it good for you, too?"

***

Well, I didn't off him; my killjoy brother talked me out of it. He went on and on about what a valuable contribution Max was making to freedom, justice, and macroeconomic hygiene. It sounded like a bunch of Fyodor Chandler bullshit, but I was too tired to argue with him that night.

But now that I've gotten some rest, the more I think about it the more the whole Chelsea Clinton Is Coming To Lead the Revolution and Save Us All scam looks like a Fyodor Chandler production. Much as I admire Max, this had more of that almost comprehensible, convoluted, vicious (with an annoying dash of slapstick) cunning plan and execution that linguists so excel at.

I asked Julia and Fyodor to look around for bodies: They found what was left of Laguna, but nothing of Abilene or Kevin. This bothers me enough that I'm more careful these days.

Because I needed a reliable carrot juice source, I turned Arlo's juice and fruitas place over to Julia. Business is booming for her. She even got the Starbuckers-French-Foreign-Legion and Royal-Canadian-Mounties-from-Quebec-Francophone coffee guys to give her -- just flat out give her -- their coffee scorching equipment and tacky furniture because they wouldn't be needing it anymore. Due to the increase in business, she brought her brother or cousin or whatever, Jim, on as help. I just want to be able to get carrot juice 24/7 without being spied on, that's all.

But I still have my Security Consultant contract with the DWP and picked up a Strategic Assault Tester contact with the MTA, so right now I'm sitting pretty with dough and work I can put my whole personality into and be proud of. I'm steering clear of private jobs for the moment. I hope it's a long time before the next Laguna Woods blows into town. A very long time.

I haven't seen Ed since things cooled down. If he were around, we might be able to finish what we started. If his wife will give him the night off, that is.

So, I guess that's just how it is in this big city.

I love LA.

It's men that annoy me.

***The End***

Back to the Index or on to Part III

© Ginger Mayerson, 2004

Notes: The story that precedes this one, Darkness at Sunset and Vine, was written in a fury after bush's "Give me $87 billion so I can start to clean up my mess that never had to happen" speech. There is less rage and outrage in The End of History at Sunset and Vine, but still enough that I am again indebted to Jane Seaton, Laurel Sutton and Lynn Loper for editing the snarling and teeth gnashing and for their input. Everyone should have friends and editors like Jane, Lynn, and Laurel.

Ginger Mayerson
March 2004