Pili Gazan kept walking, counting out the distractions.
Eight broken walkways. Two black cats. Five bus stops.
She had spotted a pack, almost full, under a park bench.
A pack! She'd been lucky some times before with a half-smoked butt, surreptitiously hidden in one of a few uncartographed places in The Citadel for secret smokers who cared to share.
She was always ready with a small box of matches in a pocket or handbag for times like this. But a pack was worth its weight in gold.
Three streets to cross. Two. One. Finally at the park. Public and open, it was safer to find a secluded bench or corner for the smell to dissipate and where no one would notice. Safer than home or any building.
With the slim cigarette between her lips, she fumbled with the matches, hands shaking. The flame burst yellow in the dark, burned the cig orange at the end before dying out.
She dragged slowly as she tried to unclench herself and savor the flavor. It was a little bitter, probably old. She inhaled, letting the smoke escape a little from her mouth before drawing it back in; the nicotine spiked her mind. The intangible caress of exhalation was a slow goodbye. She tried not to be greedy. To let it last. It might be another week before she could score.
Pili was suddenly on the ground, sprawled and uncomprehending. The quiet space was suddenly a whirl of guns being cocked in her direction.
She was pinned down by the full weight of a cop, she realized, and her left arm behind her back shot a searing pain up to her shoulder.
A shiny boot appeared in front of her, stubbing out her cigarette and grinding her fingers into the ground. Pili whimpered and craned her neck to see a woman in uniform. Dark glasses obscured the officer's visage. Weak chin, dark red lipstick.
"Filthy habit", the officer said. "You're under arrest."
The boot then flew at Pili's head and everything went black.
The fog was heavy, thick and gray inside the room. Sweet and tenacious. The silverware and wineglasses clinked discordantly as people argued, laughed, murmured and ate with gusto. These people were falling in love with each other, marveling at having found common cause and kindred in these dark days. But among them were also the cautious whispererers, unaccustomed and unwilling to raise their voices. Outcasts, rebels, hunted. But in this moment found, saved and protected--even if briefly--to savor a moment of freedom.
The conversation slowed and halted as the bald, tall man at the head of the table stood and waited, lighting a cigarette and drawing in the first drag deeply.
"A woman was arrested and executed today in Grid A20-34 for violating Proclamation 1081."
A babble of anger, terror, confusion and shock immediately rose from the table. Two people fainted, a quarter of the audience fled the house. A man was flattened by an over-excited obese woman who tripped.
At the head of the table, the bald man surveyed the mayhem with his sunken, unfathomable eyes and calmly turned to a petite woman with ruler-straight black hair cut diagonally across her face and framed at her jaw, whose lips were set tightly in consternation.
"Imagine what would have happened had I announced that the FP bombed the nicotine shipment from India before it reached the harbor" he said drily, as he took another drag.
The man was Xaris Noz, the last scion of The Citadel's capitalist past. The woman of the angular lines was Mina Chiresh, his right hand woman from time immemorial (the ageless quality of her unchanging demeanor and fashion sparked speculation that she was the 6th or 7th model in a line of Mina Chireshes over the decades) and rumored paramour.
Xaris was also known in more esoteric circles as Frankenstein's monster. Ravaged by cancer and other diseases, 30% of his body had been replaced by extremely expensive stem cell repair and cloned organs. Xaris had been a notorious chain-smoker for 40 years. Xaris was, by reputation, a zealot and megalomaniac with a penchant for wearing flamboyant neck-ties.
"Perhaps you might have waited until after dessert before dropping that bombshell", Mina observed in an even tone, ducking briefly as a rack of lamb, medium-rare, flew above her head.
Xaris laughed, bemused at the mayhem. "Look at them. Terrified. I'm sure Yesu will blow his brains out before dealing with the prospect of living without his nicotine fix. Bolan is probably on the Net now, denouncing our nightly soirées and everyone he can identify that's ever been to one."
"And you, sir? Will you go into hiding?"
"No, my dear Mina. I have a plan."
The ashen-faced prisoner faced his captor, trembling. Various thoughts raced through his confused mind. Rumors of secretly-installed smoke detector alarms in every housing unit throughout The Citadel were true. How else would they have known?
Before he knew what was happening, an electric jolt coursed through his body.
"Do I have your attention now, Mr. Corgan?"
Yesu Corgan was still reeling from the shock, literally, before another jolt was administered.
"You are a self-confessed smoker, Mr. Corgan. There couldn't be a baser crime. With a wife and children at home?" Jolt. "And a dog, too?" Jolt.
"Yes, yes", he stammered. "I was wrong. I'll tell you anything you want." His chest heaved. "Please! Don't hurt me!"
His captor smiled, teeth glinting like a shark's fangs.
"Tell me then", she said dangerously, in silken tones of artifice, "Who's your dealer?"
Corgan's eyes grew wide then blank as a spot of crimson suddenly appeared on his forehead. He slumped forward.
The interrogator whirled around in time only to see the red laser line disappear. She raised the alarm, barked terse instructions to her subordinates, cursed well beyond anyone else's vocabulary.
But she didn't find the assassin. Mina was far too good to be caught.
The rain came heavy, hard and fast.
When it rained in the city, the streets were emptied of people. Acid-proof coats didn't come cheap and were suffocating, the smell of sulfur stultifying.
Reev loved the rain. He prayed for it every day. He rejoiced in the monsoon months, despaired in the summer.
For the storms that engulfed the city, while feared by most everyone else, were his shelter. Not even the Freedom Patrol would present themselves in great numbers.
Under a roof in a narrow alley, Reev carefully unwrapped a cigarette that he'd been saving for weeks. He lit up and closed his eyes.
"Smoker!" A shout roused Reev from his reverie. Without waiting to see what it was, Reev began to run in the direction opposite.
"Stop!" A gunshot rang out and Reev felt the heat of the bullet streak past his face.
Reev ran, ran hard. He saw other police officers running toward him from different directions.
With an anguished scream, he slipped on the street and plunged forward. Tears streamed down his face, snot dribbled down his nose. His life was over. He thought of the women that he never got to fuck. He sobbed and closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable.
Gunfire. Shouts. Screams.
Silence.
The rain beat in staccato on the ground. He knew nothing but the pounding in his ears and the ceaseless downpour. Acrid steam filled his nose and mouth.
When he finally had the courage to open his eyes, what he saw made his brain stall.
Four dead police men. Blood bloomed redly throughout their pristine white uniforms.
A bald man and a tiny woman stepped out of the shadows.
"A war has begun," the man said. "A new nation born. Spread the word."
Reev gaped wordlessly as the two disappeared into the deluge.
Singapore, July 2008
