Occupied Earth Page 9

  Once, apparently, this room was grand. Now it reeks of mold and old books. It looks like the shell of something that moved on a long time ago.

  This is what Jaylon-ra is stuck with if he fails.

  The enormity of that thought makes his stomach flip.

  He gets up from his chair and turns to Paul, who is fumbling around in the jacket of his suit for his pack of cigarettes.

  “Some days,” Jaylon-ra says, “I hate being the mayor of New York.”

  COUNCILMAN MANCUSO picks up the final slice of pizza from the round aluminum tray, folds it, and takes an aggressive bite, one ear tilted toward Paul, who’s finishing his explanation of the plan.

  Jaylon-ra surveys the empty restaurant. With the lights off it’s dark, made darker by the glare of the sun streaming through the front window. The chairs are turned on to the tables, and the proprietor, a stooped old man, is slowly mopping the floor of the kitchen. Every few minutes someone wanders up to the window and peeks in, then shuffles away, head down.

  Paul says, “If you go along with this, we’d be willing to entertain some big asks for your district. Within reason, of course. We might have to space them out a bit or make some gifts to surrounding districts, so it doesn’t look like a quid pro quo, but you’ll be rewarded.”

  Mancuso puts down the half-eaten slice and wipes his face with a napkin. His hands are as thick and heavy as the rest of him. A former football player who became a personal injury lawyer. An old school politico and currently the longest-serving member of the City Council. He’s held the Coney Island-Gravesend-Bensonhurst seat ever since term limits were abolished, right before the Makh-Ra settled Earth. His hair has gone gray but his eyes are sharp, his smile natural and his handshake firm.

  Mancuso picks up the stub of pizza and points it at Jaylon-ra. “You know, before you mocks got here, this place used to be open until three or four in the afternoon. They only stayed open as long as they had fresh ingredients for the pies. Now, they’re lucky to make it to noon, twelve-thirty.” He takes another bite, and through a mouthful of dough says, “Still the best pizza in the city, though. By a mile.”

  Paul bristles. “We would appreciate it if you didn’t use the term ‘mocks.’ It’s offensive…”

  Jaylon-ra puts up his hand to silence Paul. “I’ve heard worse. So, Councilman, what do you think of the plan?”

  “I get asked about this place all the time,” Mancuso says. “People come up to me in the street and say, ‘I haven’t had a Tosto’s pie in three years because of these fucking mocks, taking away the things we grow and we build’. And they ask me why I support you. I tell them, what choice do I have, right? I can fight you and get nothing, or I can go along and I can take care of them. Best of a bad situation. Not everyone sees it like that. Some asshole is planning to primary me in two years.”

  “If you’re hesitant…” Jaylon-ra starts.

  Mancuso shakes his head. He pops the crust into his mouth, chews, and swallows, then takes a long drink of wine from a paper cup. He wipes his hands and his face with the napkin again, and says, “Elections are tough. You don’t know that, because you come along and turn the mayor into an appointed position. And you’re the one who makes the appointment. I still have to run for my seat. If I even agree to this, I need a promise. If things go south for my re-election, I want a job across the hall. Make me a commissioner of something.”

  Paul says, “Humans don’t get to be commissioners. That’s not how it’s done.”

  Mancuso arches his brow and looks at Jaylon-ra. “You’re the fucking mayor. You’ll make something up. But I don’t want to find myself out on the street if this is the thing that pushes me over the edge with my constituents. Do you get me?”

  “We can work something out,” Jaylon-ra says.

  “Okay then,” Mancuso says. “Good. Now, there’s some things you need to understand, if this is going to work.”

  Jaylon-ra nods. “I get that.”

  “No, you don’t.” Mancuso smiles, offering his hand to Jaylon-ra. They shake, and Mancuso pulls him forward, lowering his voice. “If I get out there and roll over, the people are going to figure out what’s up. This is a fight. We have to go at this like we’re going at it, you know what I mean?” He throws a glance at Paul. “I don’t want to be seen as some prick willing to sell out his species for a paycheck, you know?”

  Jaylon-ra tries to pull his hand away and Mancuso pulls him closer, puts his other hand over their clasped fists. “I used to chair the Finance Committee, back when the Council and the mayor negotiated the budget. All of this stuff was worked out behind closed doors, you understand? But the public hearings, the people wanted to see you were fighting for them. So I would call up the commissioners the night before, let them know, I was going to scream at them about some stuff. Funding for cops, firehouses, things like that. Something good for the papers. It’s no hard feelings. That’s just politics. Now do you get what I mean?”

  Jaylon-ra nods, still trying to pull away. Mancuso lets go and sits back.

  “You don’t get the politics end of this, you mocks,” Mancuso says, eyeing Paul again. “You don’t understand how the ground game is played. You march in and topple governments. You don’t work with them. You never developed this skillset.” Mancuso points to himself. “I can be helpful, you know what I mean?”

  Paul tries to speak but Jaylon-ra puts up his hand again. “Your experience here can be invaluable, Councilman Mancuso. Our ultimate goal here is to save lives. People are dying because The Red Spear can’t accept reality. We’re not even asking anyone to kneel. Just to stop. We’re working for the same thing…”

  Mancuso waves his hand. “You don’t need to sell me. Saving lives is good. What matters is what you can do for my district.”

  Paul asks, “What will it take?”

  “Let’s start with a school,” Mancuso says. “I need a new middle school.”

  Paul’s jaw drops. “That’s… that’s impossible. Sourcing the concrete alone… we’d literally have to take it off an outbound supply ship.”

  Mancuso shrugs. “You want your plan to work? I’ll play along. I’ll do your dance. I need a school. I need to show my constituents that I got something out of it.”

  “The whole point of this is to conceal what we’re doing, not advertise it,” says Jaylon-ra.

  Mancuso shakes his head. “You really don’t get it. Look, let me explain something to you. Back when I chaired Finance, I used to get the most discretionary funding, besides the Speaker. And the papers would beat me up. They called me the ‘pork-chop pol.’ They said it was a corrupt system that awarded some people and punished others. But my constituents didn’t give a shit. They’d come up to me and say, ‘You must be doing something right, because you got more money for us than anyone else.’ What matters is that I can deliver for them.”

  Paul tries to say something but Jaylon-ra interjects. “Maybe we can make this work…”

  “Good,” Mancuso says. “Because the school isn’t the only thing on my list.”

  JAYLON-RA PEEKS around the heavy, gray curtain. They had chosen a catering hall in the College Point section of Queens because of how difficult it was to get there; the 7 train was shut down two years ago and the Q65 bus only ran during rush hour.

  And yet, the hall is packed, a few hundred deep easy, people spilling out onto the sidewalk in front. They’ve had to set up video monitors procured from local schools so the people who couldn’t get inside could at least watch.

  On the makeshift stage beyond the curtain, there’s a small table between two podiums, where the moderators are reviewing their notes. Alison Mertz, a human junior political reporter from NY1, and Ronel-ra, the Mahk-Ra editor-in-chief of the New York Post. Mancuso insisted there had to be one of each, in order to keep up appearances.

  This campaign has been a crash-course in the minutiae of New York City politics. Back in the day, there had to be one Democrat and one Republican at everything. At the polling sites
, if you had a Russian interpreter from the Republican party, you needed one from the Democratic party. Inspecting ballots? You need a lawyer from each party present. If one party is in charge of something, the other party can level charges of corruption or coercion.

  The presence of a human inquisitor not party to the plan adds a heavy layer of unease to the proceedings. Which is made worse by the signs being lofted by the humans in the crowd.

  SHAM! SHAM! SHAM!

  DE-MOCK-RACY.

  GO HOME MOCKS.

  Along with some other less polite phrases.

  There are Mahk-Ra in the crowd, too, towering over the humans, but outnumbered three to one, a number Jaylon-ra can’t help but dwell on. They don’t have signs, either.

  Paul appears at Jaylon-ra’s side and asks, “Are you ready?”

  “Maybe. I like to think that reason and good sense will prevail here.”

  “Well…” says Paul. “Try to work the crowd a little, too.”

  The human moderator starts her introduction of the debate format—asking the audience to hold reactions until the end, that candidates would be given sixty seconds to answer questions and the option of a thirty second rebuttal. Jaylon-ra steps on stage as Mancuso enters from the other side, his smiling dazzling in the harsh white light.

  There are far more boos than cheers.

  Mancuso feeds off the electrical energy of the crowd, his eyes wide and bright, his chest puffed out.

  They meet at the center and shake hands. Mancuso pulls Jaylon-ra close and says, “Remember what I said, okay? It’s all part of the show.”

  Jaylon-ra nods, wondering if that’s a reassurance or a threat, and takes his place at the podium. Ronel-ra leans into the microphone and says, “The candidates will each give a brief opening statement. We flipped a coin back stage, and Mayor Jaylon-ra won. He has chosen to go first.”

  The crowd goes silent, all eyes cast toward the podium. Jaylon-ra clears his throat and says, “Thank you all, for being here. It’s so good to see so many… brave New Yorkers out here today. Now, I understand that the past two decades have been difficult. In my time as your mayor, I have learned that New York is a strong, proud city. This election is about choice. We want you to tell us what you’ve chosen. This is about the people. I believe that I offer the best plan for governing, and I trust by the end of this you’ll see that.”

  There’s a smattering of applause from the Mahk-Ra in the audience, followed by an explosion of boos from the humans. Ronel-ra leans into the microphone and says, “Please hold all reaction until the end. The more noise you make, the less questions we can ask. If you can’t behave, you will be ejected.”

  The crowd falls silent. Mertz says, “Councilman Mancuso?”

  Mancuso smiles. “Thank you, Alison, Ron. And thank you everyone, for coming out today. I see some people from my district. That was one hell of a trip to get here.” Laughter from the crowd. “Now, look, I was born on this planet, you know? I understand this city. I’ve been on the Council for years. I’ve been elected over and over again. I didn’t just march in and take my job, like my opponent did.” He tilts his head toward Jaylon-ra. More laughter. Ronel-ra looks flustered. “This is New York. This is the greatest city in the world. And together we can put it back where it belongs: Under. Human. Control.”

  A roar goes up from the crowd, so loud that the stage vibrates under Jaylon-ra’s feet.

  Ronel-ra tries to regain control but can’t be heard over the cheering. He waves his hand and a dozen Makh-Ra cops, garbed in black riot gear and carrying batons, stream out from behind the curtain and line up along the front of the stage. They stand at attention as one, boots slamming into the floor, and the sound of it quiets the room. Ronel-ra leans into the mic again. “The next person who raises their voice before this is over will be ejected. This is the only debate scheduled and we aim to maintain order.”

  Alison is smiling at all of this, which Jaylon-ra can’t help but notice. She leans into the mic and, perhaps taking a cue from the signs, says, “The first question seems to be the most obvious. Mayor Jaylon-ra, what do you make of the charges that this election is being put on as a show?”

  Jaylon-ra begins to talk but Mancuso moves to the microphone and clears his throat. “I’d like to field this one, if I might.” He makes something that looks like a wink, though it could be a twitch, and Jaylon-ra leans back, getting that same hot feeling on the back of his neck that he got when he presented this plan to Gaige-ra. The thing he felt so sure about suddenly sitting just beyond the grasp of his fingertips.

  “I don’t blame you for not trusting the mocks,” Mancuso says. Some of the Mahk-Ra in the audience growing visibly angry at the slur. “Hell, I don’t trust them. And you know what? I’ve worked alongside the mayor and his friends since they got here and I still don’t trust them. You better believe I’m watching them every step of the way to ensure this is a fair election. That’s what you deserve and it’s the only thing we will accept. So I have to ask: New York, are you ready to take back your city?”

  And at this, the crowd descends into madness.

  The front line of humans push into the Mahk-Ra cops, who are ready for the assault, swinging their batons down onto exposed heads. Ronel-ra takes a shoe to the face. Toward the back of the room, there’s the sound of something crashing and breaking. Jaylon-ra freezes, unsure of what to do.

  Call for order. Dive into the crowd and get between the Mahk-Ra cops and the humans. Something. Anything.

  The decision to act is made for him when his security detail yanks him from the podium and through the curtain, carrying him to a van idling behind the building. Paul jumps in just as the door is pulled shut and they lurch away from the curb.

  “That got out of hand,” Paul says, as a cavalcade of rocks pelt the outside of the van.

  JAYLON-RA HITCHES up his coat against the biting October wind and trudges down the street, fallow warehouses flanking him on either side. Only half the streetlights are working, and in a solitary pool of yellow light he sees one of his campaign signs torn up and lying on the sidewalk.

  He nudges it with his foot, considering the tag line under his name.

  YOURS IN SOLIDARITY.

  Underneath that, in felt marker, someone has written: BULLSHIT.

  Two more blocks and he’s at the address Paul gave him. There’s a small gray door ajar, so he steps through, into an office full of tan filing cabinets and loose papers, where Paul is sitting at a desk, two steaming cups of coffee in front of him, his head in his hands. Jaylon-ra takes the light and sweet coffee, sniffs it, and takes a sip. Not bad for three in the morning in the middle of an industrial stretch of Brooklyn.

  Paul looks up, his eyes red, his hair disheveled. “We have a problem.”

  “I assumed that, considering you got me out of bed and dragged me to the middle of nowhere. Is it worse than a riot at the debate?”

  Paul nods and takes a deep breath. “The voting machines are bricked.”

  “What does that mean, bricked?”

  “They’re useless,” he says. “The techs were running a software update and now the motherboards are all fried.”

  “How could that even happen?”

  “Honestly? We’re not sure.” Paul takes a long swig of his black coffee, then winces. “It could be age. They’re old. But one of the computer guys noticed some weird bits of code. He can’t be sure, but he thinks they might have been hacked.”

  “How can a hacker disable hardware?”

  “Computer chips have a failsafe to prevent overheating. If they get too hot they shut down. It’s a safety feature. But Andres, he’s the computer guy, he said these chips are so old they don’t have that failsafe. He said it wouldn’t be too hard to drop in some code ordering the processors to overclock. With no thermal emergency shut-down procedure, they burn out.”

  “The Red Spear?”

  “Maybe,” Paul says. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “So we replace the machines.”<
br />
  Paul stands up, puts his hands on his hips, looking down at the floor, like he’s bracing himself. “There are four thousand. We don’t have the resources to replace even a third of them. And if we could get everything we needed, the election is two weeks away. I’m not even sure we have time.”

  “If we call off this election there will be riots.”

  “I understand that.”

  “And after the riots,” Jaylon-ra says, “after a human is elected mayor, we will both be executed.”

  “I understand that. We have one other option, but it’s not a great one.”

  “And…?”

  “Follow me.”

  Paul leads Jaylon-ra to the back of the office and through a series of concrete hallways until they’re in a sprawling warehouse, so big the edges of the room disappear into the darkness. It smells like motor oil. Before them stands row after row of hulking boxes covered with opaque plastic tarps. Paul pulls one aside and reveals an ancient machine that’s a foot taller than Jaylon-ra, with rows of small white boxes and a giant red lever across the front.

  “What the hell is this thing?” Jaylon-ra asks, reaching up to touch the side of it.

  “These are the city’s old voting machines. They’ve been stored here for years. Honestly, I’m surprised they weren’t found and stripped for material. I guess the Mahk-Ra never did a good accounting of this neighborhood.”

  Jaylon-ra steps forward and pulls at the curtain that hangs from a railing that extends from the top, so that it can be closed around the front of the machine, affording the voter some privacy. “How old are these?”

  “They were purchased in the 1960s. Interestingly enough, they were used up until 2010. New York was one of the last cities to comply with HAVA, which was a federal law mandating electronic voting machines. These things are beasts, but they’re reliable and they’re actually easier to count. And there are so many of them we could still hold the election.”

  “I sense there’s something coming up that I’m not going to be happy about.”