Assault on Sunrise (The Extra Trilogy) Read online

  Smalls started the loop, and the head spoke in a plummy voice. “A mountain town is trapped by the state’s mishandling. Sunrise, California, is a beautiful community amid the pines in the Trinity Mountains. Two thirds of the town are retired extras, an irony it would seem, because now fate has scripted them into another dangerous and dramatic dilemma. Four days ago, residents of the town gunned down three of six officers contracted by the State of California to serve a murder warrant on two Sunrise residents. But it appears these residents didn’t know these were corp-cops contracted by the state, so inept were the officers in discharging their mission.

  “That these residents of Sunrise responded so violently to the would-be arresting officers is perhaps a tragic echo from their pasts, when they fought for their lives on live-action sets. If this is the case, the same violence that won their safety up in this mountain hamlet, now has trapped them in a new and lethal arena of conflict.

  “Can anyone be surprised that most of these Sunrisers are now arming to defend themselves against arrest? After all, so many of them have faced death to get where they are, how likely would they be to yield without a fight?”

  Smalls stopped the feed. An extra himself, his heavy face was dark with anger. “There’s more of the same kinda crap. Now here’s the clincher from another prime news slot this morning. You’ll notice the shots of Sunrise, like it’s practically a preview we got here. My favorite part is where he says he couldn’t have written a script like this one. The sonofabitch did write it!”

  A close-up of a craggy, handsome face opened the clip. “My name is Val Margolian, of Panoply Studios. I have just learned that the appeal of Sunrise, California, against a charge of corporate homicide of three state police agents has been denied, and a capital sentence pronounced upon the town. I am here to tell you I feel the deepest respect and sympathy for this community.”

  He continued as an aerial shot of the tree-studded town came on-screen, a traveling shot that slowly scoped our outlying homesteads constellated all over the slopes, our reservoir and its little dam, our new water tower, our old mercury mine, the river in its foaming curves along our southern boundary, the handsome little bridges across that river … all this unspooling to Margolian’s voice-over:

  “A great number of this beautiful community’s residents are men and women who bought their citizenship there through work as extras in my own and other studios’ live-action videos. My deepest admiration and affection is theirs. How could anyone deny them this respect and admiration? They have won their freedom in these mountains through a baptism of fire, through courage and determination of the rarest kind.

  “What tragic ineptitude the state has shown in the serving of a routine warrant! What a cruel irony! We who, in our studios, trade in wild imaginings, could never have written so grim a script as this one! Unsurprisingly, these heroes—against all odds—have declared their will to resist; to fight. Once again they stand at risk of violent death.

  “Thus it is that now, we here at Panoply search our hearts and minds for some means to ameliorate this nightmare that has captured the citizens of Sunrise—some way to lighten, compensate the dire hardship they must now unavoidably suffer.”

  What a mellow voice he had, pouring out this silky shit! It was pure titillation. A tease for the vid-watcher’s bloodlust all sugared with pity. “Liable once again to violent death”! It was a sales pitch. There was our beautiful town, like a clip for the vid.

  Smalls killed the feed.

  “It’s pretty plain, folks. Panoply’s already got the state contract for execution of our sentence.”

  Gunfire erupted right outside the theater. It sounded like a shotgun. We all went pouring out into the street.

  And there in the middle of it, Iris Meyer sat in her motorized chair, a shocked crowd seething round her. She had a twelve-gauge across her lap, and was rubbing her right shoulder, which apparently the stock of the gun had bruised when she fired it.

  People were shouting protests at her, while Ricky Dawes was trying to calm them down. On the pavement in front of them was a bleeding dog, a big black-Lab mix, its torso seriously wounded and its legs pumping. To all the protests around her, Miss Meyer was repeating what sounded like: “It’s not a dog, dammit!”

  “She’s right!” Ricky was shouting. “She’s right! Just everyone try ta calm down an’ stand back!” Ricky was generally liked and trusted. The uproar dwindled. He asked, “Can I do it, Miz Iris? You already”—an embarrassed little smile here—“bruised yourself.”

  He put the stock to his shoulder. Racked up a new shell, and shot the dog again very carefully center-mass, making a much bigger wound. The animal’s movements were now reduced to just a slight twitching of the paws.

  Sheriff pulled a pair of latex gloves from his vest, always particular about keeping his bionic hand clean. He knelt, reached into the wound, and began to spread it.

  A long minute passed, quiet enough for those of us nearest to hear the wet little noises his exploration made.

  “By God, she’s right!” he shouted. “It’s hydraulics an’ power packs everywhere, feedin a live-skin envelope! The damn thing’s bionic!”

  I spoke up. “That means two things, people, just like that moss we saw up in our draw. First, something like this … it has to be Studio-made! Too expensive to be anything else! And second, if it’s Studio, the thing’s a walking camera. It’s been scoping everything in town for days!”

  “It’s not just this one,” Ricky said. “Miz Iris been seeing strange dogs around town all week. Near a dozen, she says.”

  A purge started then and there. Iris described six other dogs she was sure were interlopers in town. Four-score and seven rifles were mustered in a blink, and half the town went dog-hunting. I like dogs, and didn’t like the idea of shooting them, but in the end I never fired at all because Miss Iris, within fifteen minutes, had spotted three she was sure of, and all three were gunned down. All were opened. All bionic.

  But after that, nothing. It dawned on us soon. Why had we got even three? If they were all uplinked to camera feeds, wouldn’t all of them have booked once the first one was nailed?

  It was like that moss in the draw: we were meant to see, and to be afraid. The Studio was teasing us, building up the tension.

  The sheriff passed the word for a reassembly, and as dusk drew down, as many as could fit crowded back into the Majestic.

  Sandy Devlin confronted us. “There’s a new development, friends. I’ve been talking to the four new pilots that just brought us our anti-grav Air Force.” Some cheering went up here, and she waited to let us enjoy it. “It seems that a lot of people connected to them—directly or indirectly—just got fired from Panoply Studios, and we’re already beginning to hear from some of them. It’s beginning to look like some inside information about what’s in store for us might be had. Because that’s what we’re facing here, isn’t it? We’re all going to be in a vid. A live-action vid. And it will sure as shit be Panoply that shoots it.”

  She let that settle in. Since those vid clips, it came as no surprise to most. “So these firings,” she went on, “could mean some luck to us, because what we especially need is information about what kind of APPs we’re going to be facing in this vid.

  “Now we’ve got lots of land here, and I think we’re all agreed to offer membership in Sunrise for that kind of information—” A mighty roar of confirmation rose from every throat, and Sandy had to wait again till we had all enjoyed that outburst too.

  “But some people,” she went on, “might just want plain old money for what they know. We’re pretty good for cash—especially those of us who’re ex-extras or ex-studio—and let’s face it, it may be our presence here that’s made Margolian bring his little roadshow to Sunrise. We’ll put up all we can, but the more you all contribute, the better.”

  And this suggestion too received a shout of assent, though perhaps not quite so wild as the first.

  IX

  WE LIKE HOW Y
OU FORK A BIKE

  The next morning, Panoply went global with the news. A grave Margolian told the world that his studio had accepted from the State of California the Contract of Execution upon the “tragically condemned” community of Sunrise, Inc.

  “We pray that its population will yet accept the option of abandoning their homes, heartbreaking though such a choice must seem. But the independent spirit of this community makes this as unlikely as their surrender to incarceration.

  “Thus Panoply has undertaken the grim duty of their sentence’s enforcement. Compassion for them is our motive, to render them some compensation for their sufferings. Not least of these will be the fact that their ordeal will not go unwitnessed. No. What they endure, and the war they wage against it, will be seen by the world.

  “Moreover, for each of our Anti-Personnel Properties they destroy, they will receive the highest kill-bonus ever dispensed by any studio.

  “We are pleased to inform Sunrise that it will have additional time for its preparations. The difficulties of deploying a camera fleet for an out-of-studio shoot are new to us, and we cannot be precise. Sunrise will have at least four, and up to seven days from now, before we come to execute their sentence.”

  Already aswarm with preparations, Sunrise spared no time mulling over the ambiguity of “up to seven days.” The last of its evacuees were being convoyed down from the mountains to refuges in the Central Valley. On every block, saws shrilled and hammers knocked, battening-down while steady streams of weapons and matériel flowed in.

  Bars were installed over ground-level windows and shielded gun emplacements built on rooftops. In the industrial fringe, the lumber-mills, machine shops, and garages echoed with activity. Every kind of vehicle was tuning and arming and armoring for combat.

  Half of the bigger garage—Ike’s Engine Repair—was allotted to the SAF (Sunrise Air Force) to hangar its rafts. Unhoused, their engines proved to be of a new generation, their cooling systems’ pipes of a new alloy that didn’t permit grafting on ice-cannon.

  “We have to forget it,” said Sandy. “Built-in firepower would be a plus, but we’ll just have to carry weapons aboard. Machine guns would be perfect, if only we could find some. I’ll tell Smalls to get on that. Meantime, we should all get airborne, work out our battle zones and tactics. Lance and Trek co-fly the big boat. Me, Luce, Mazy, and Radner fly the fast-boats. Ming, you’re backup.”

  Ming stood up, face blazing. “That’s bullshit! I’m a pilot! Radner’s just a copilot!”

  “He co-ed for me my last year at work because he wanted to learn from me, but he piloted five years before that.”

  “Just listen, Captain Devlin.” Ming struggled for calm. Devlin was the best anywhere, but if anyone else had the right to pilot one of these things in the fight, it was Ming herself. “I’m talking no offense to Radner here—Radner, you know that right? I’m just talking straight truth here—I’m faster and more accurate at the stick than you.”

  The small, wiry Radner, a mild-spoken man in the main, was stung. “You’re as fast and as accurate. But truth told, your brain overheats. You get pissed and go wild!”

  Sandy said, “Ming. We all know you’re a gifted pilot, but Radner’s right.”

  “OK.” Her voice was cool but her anger was visible as a slight contraction of her whole body. “Your call. Here’s mine. I’m off this crew. I’m fighting somewhere else.”

  Mazy had sensed Ming’s decision before she spoke it. Hearing the ice in her anger, Mazy did not even try to call her back. Watching her storm off, she sent up a mute prayer that whatever part of the fight Ming chose would bring her no harm.

  And a half hour after Ming’s furious exit, Turp and Frieda Rasmussen, two of Elmer’s grandchildren, came tumbling into the shop. The tall skinny girl stridently announced—apparently in a race with her younger, more tongue-tied brother to get it all out first—“We were up by the water tank an’ you better get a raft up there quick cause there’s four more a these little rafts like these ones here parked up there on top!!!” The boy hadn’t even pried his lips apart before his big sister was done.

  “On top of the water tank?” Sandy Devlin asked.

  “That’s right, ma’am!”

  Trek, eyes wide and his hair-horn seeming almost in erection, said, “What? Are you shitting us, kid?”

  “Nossir!” This from the boy, who’d at last found his tongue.

  “God damn,” grinned Sandy. “Mark Millar, or I’m a fool.”

  And Mazy saw that if the windfall proved true, Ming could be piloting a raft after all. That they would be together in the air, where Mazy might protect her. And then knew better. Whatever part of the fight Ming found for herself, she was going to stick to out of rage at Sandy.

  * * *

  Ming marched around Sunrise’s streets. Her anger was so perfect it was a kind of calm. She didn’t know what she would do, but she was going to do something. Up and down she marched, looking around at everything, and detesting everything she saw. Born and grown in L.A., she hated this sparkly mountain air—it made all the colors too bright, the sky infuriatingly blue, a god-damned calendar photo. And all these goddamn hicks up here!

  A throaty growl started low and grew louder behind her. She turned to see a skinny kid with white hair cruise past riding a chopped Hog. With instant decision, she took off jogging in pursuit of him, right down the middle of town on swarming Glacier Avenue.

  Jogged right down out of town and toward the bridge over the Sunrise River, Sunrise’s southern boundary. There she found—besides the skinny white-haired kid—Wheel Right Hogs with two other men in its big shed, amid dismembered bikes and a jungle of parts, where the boy was messing with his Harley’s engine. Straightening to her full height, she looked at each and announced, “Hi. I’m Ming. I want one of those.”

  The bear-shaped one had a dense beard in whose foliage only his fat nose, little bear’s eyes, and plump lips were discernible. He said, “Well, hello, you pretty thing. I’m Abel. Pleased to meet you too! You say you want a great big hog? A tiny little sugar-stick like you?”

  “Hog’s heavy,” said Cherokee, the taller, leaner one, not unkindly.

  Ming’s jaw hardened. “Guys. Lemme introduce myself properly. I’m a gay bitch raft pilot. I’m the best fucking anti-graver ever flew. And if you think riding one of those two-wheel fart machines of yours would be a problem for me, then—all due respect—you’re as dumb as you look.”

  Christy, the skinny kid, burst out laughing, and Abel followed suit—a hoarse laugh like a sea lion’s bark. Even Cherokee, whose normal style was a Native American deadpan, let out a bark.

  “Well, I gotta say,” Abel told her. “I like your ’tude, but what kinda clacks you got to spend? This ride here, for instance, is my particular baby.”

  “I won’t buy till I try. You gotta let me check it out.”

  An hour later, Christy was out on the highway in front of the shop teaching Ming to pop a wheelie. Ming already just about had it down. Watching with satisfaction, Abel said to Cherokee, “Shit! We could teach her to ride that thing straight up a tree!”

  They walked out onto the road. “Hold up a second! We gotta talk!” The bikes circled round to them and the four converged, Christy and Ming still in their saddles. “You’ve got talent,” Abel told her. “We like how you fork a bike, sure enough. The question is, can you shoot? Can you one-arm a shotgun while you ride? Cause if you can, and you’re gonna stay and fight, we’re givin you that hog. And from here on out it’s one for all, girl, and all for one.”

  * * *

  Mark Millar and Razz Abdul lay at their ease in the great tub, passing a little Trinity County weed back and forth as they watched a replay of Val Margolian’s vid-cast.

  Smiling thoughtfully, Mark said, “He’s a true genius, Razz. It galls you, doesn’t it? His gift. Sly old dog! He touched every string of audience empathy. The world market’s drooling before he’s even shot a frame.”

  Razz grinned agreem
ent. A tall, taut man, very black, he had a lathed face with cheekbones cut sharp. His status at Argosy Studios as a second-tier director was like Mark’s at Panoply.

  They were relaxing at Desert Hot Springs in a mineral mud bath. Planning. With both their bodies holstered in the same hot muck, the same conspiracy, their minds meshed easily on all the details. Razz’s studio would be the source for half the pilots and rafts, while Mark would supply the other half.

  They both loved the opening scene they’d planned: The lieutenant governor is in his chambers, solemnly listening to Margolian. As he listens, there’s a fast close-up of a safe beneath his desk, half ajar, with stacks of cash just hastily tucked in it.

  Razz said, “OK then. We got a perfect set for the Loot Gov’s chambers, got just the guy for Val’s part, almost a ringer. But I gotta ask: we sure we want Val giving the loot his orders? Chomp the tail of the dragon?”

  “Absolutely.” Mark had to hold back laughter as he went on. “You know, I’ve learned that if you don’t commit yourself a hundred and ten percent to a work of art, it will crash in flames.”

  They both broke up. “I got just the guy—a dead ringer for Val—all he needs is the face scar.” More laughter, and another toke.

  “Nuts and bolts,” Razz said. “There’s still a snag on the high-alt boosters for our rafts. Company agrees to our rate but wants us to buy a mandatory month’s lease. Real costly.”

  “… Options?”

  Razz grinned. “I happen to know someone porking the contractor’s wife might help us out, with some under-the-table extra for the contractor.”

  The high-alt rafts were essential to give them the scope to catch all Margolian’s lower-alt shoot of (the title was out now) Assault on Sunrise. A silence fell between them, a kind of wonder that beset them now and then in their deliberations.

  They were doing a new thing in the annals of cinema—capturing Live Action itself and the whole grand, brutal mechanism that it was, Panoply’s flotilla like an aerial ant-swarm gobbling the images of the life-and-death turmoil beneath them. And right below the flotilla, that turmoil itself, the floor of it all—the fighting and dying, the frantic improvisations of people struggling for their lives.