The gunfire turns sporadic as some take cover, some try to change magazines, and some maybe realize at last things aren’t what they seem. One of them holds up a fist, and the last shooters stop.
He looks more carefully at the one with the fist. It isn’t easy to distinguish much out here. He’s restricted to visible light and a bit of the infrared spectrum, so about all he can tell is that the leader is a man, maybe a little older than most of the others. They’re all thin. Their clothes hang loosely over angular limbs.
“Where are you from?” he asks at last.
It’s enough to startle the men.
“A ghost!” someone shouts. “Like Stein said! We shouldn’t be here, man.”
The leader holds up that fist again, opens his hand, palm flat. “No ghosts here, Davis,” he says. “That’s some kind of 3D projection.” The goggles glint in the sunlight as he tilts his head this way and that.
Finally, the leader shuffles close. He strips off a glove and extends a hand, then yanks it back. “Water,” he calls. “There’s a mist sprayer here. They’re using lasers, shining them into the super-fine spray. Old technology.”
Smart, then.
The leader moves his wet hand towards his mouth. Elvis shakes his head. “Wouldn’t do that,” he says.
The leader stops, and pushes his goggles up his forehead. He waits on Elvis.
“They never fixed up Hoover Dam rightwise after the Trumpists tried to blow it. Lake Mead’s not much anymore. We don’t get snowpack on the mountains like we used to, either. Water from the mister ain’t meant for drinking. Not sure it ever was, to be truthful. They put ’em up to cool the streets for the gamblers and tourists.”
The leader shakes his head, and the men mutter. The local pickups aren’t good enough for him to get everything they’re saying, but they seem shocked at the idea of spraying fresh water just to cool people.
“You got a name?” the leader asks.
“Not for you,” he says. “You and yours—you’re leaving. This ain’t your turf.”
The leader studies him. “You look like that old time singer. I’ve seen video. Elvis. I’m going to call you that. I’m Desmond Garnett, Elvis. Colonel Desmond Garnett. ESA Special Forces.”
“Eastern States of America,” Elvis says.
“You’ve heard of us?” Garnett pushes his goggles up his forehead and peers at Elvis.
“It’s an easy jump to make. I’ll give you a few more, for free.” Elvis gestures at the ragtag group. “I was in the army for a spell. I can see your guns don’t match. Your uniforms are trash. Your training is slipshod. If you’re Special Forces, I’m a bluetick hound.”
Garnett gives him a tight, wintry smile. “I’ll allow as I’ve had to recruit from outside my usual pool of talent. This here’s a low-key, fully deniable mission. There’s a degree of uncertainty regarding the border between the ESA and the Republic of the Pacific Coast, and my superiors would rather not raise that issue at the present time. But let me assure you, son…” He lifts his chin, and throws out his chest. “I have the full backing of the duly constituted government of the ESA, and if and when I send the call for backup, there will be a ruckus of the sort that will make you wish you’d never crossed paths with me. So why don’t you just walk back that nonsense about ‘my turf’, and maybe we can talk like civilized men?”
Elvis thinks about smiling in return, but really, what’s the point? “One warning only, Colonel Garnett. Turn yourself around. You got ’til sundown tomorrow.” He shuts down the projection, effectively vanishing. The look on Garnett’s face is surprisingly gratifying.
“You’re back,” Marilyn says, and offers him a stemmed glass. Elvis takes it automatically, though it’s empty, just like hers. She’s wearing a little black number now, every inch the living vision that seduced a nation, and her smile is a thing exquisite.
“How’d you know?” he says.
She shrugs. “I always know.”
“The others don’t.” He gestures with his glass, taking in the whole crowd of them jittering and jiving as Glenn leads the band through Pennsylvania Six Five Thousand, all sweet-sharp brass and mellow clarinets. “You’re the only one.”
Marilyn touches his hand, just for an instant. They’re sitting in a quiet booth off to one side of the dance floor, out of the treacherous currents and swirling tides of the cocktail party. Nobody’s paying them any mind, and for just a moment, he lets his hand press hers in return.
She blushes, and looks away. “I don’t know how I know,” she says. “You’re still… you. But it’s like something is missing. I think sometimes, maybe—I think you have important things you have to do. Not this stuff.”
“This is important,” Elvis says. It’s more important than he can ever hope to explain.
“This?” She looks around the room. “It’s a party. Happens every night.”
“It’s an after-show party. It’s what we do.”
“Work hard, play hard.” She tips up her glass. “Chin-chin.”
He murmurs an apology and gets up to do the rounds. Press the flesh. His mind isn’t really on it, though. Big John Wayne is arm wrestling Lee Marvin at one of the tables, and Frank’s taking bets. There’s a small crowd around them cheering and catcalling, but Elvis is watching the faded, broken, night city outside through the nanolensed eyes of a drone-swarm. Short-lived, semi biological, they crawl and leap and fly amongst the blown sand, the wreckage and detritus, seeking out Garnett and his men.
He sets them to watch, marking certain action parameters, and lets them go. They’ll call if something important happens. Meanwhile, he has other duties.
Jimi and Janis, smashed as usual, howl their way through All Along the Watchtower to tumultuous applause. Bob watches from the sidelines, a rueful grin on his sharp face.
“Sure. I wrote it,” he tells Elvis, “but I never could make it sound like that.”
“It’s okay,” Elvis says, putting a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “It’s what they do. It’s why they’re here.”
“Yeah, man.” Bob can’t take his eyes off the performance as Jimi makes the old Fender do impossible things, wailing through oneiric octaves in an unknown key but it’s right, so right, and Janis stays right there with him, that diamond-gravel voice belting out the words like an anthem to a lost world. “Beautiful,” says Bob with a half-checked sob. “So fuckin’ beautiful.”
And the night rolls on. Fred and Ginger improvise a sparkling routine to something George bangs out on the Steinway grand, leaping and spinning across tabletops in perfect time until Gene steps up with a grin and a tap that sounds like a fusillade, his feet a blur. Ginger spins across to pair with him and they whirl like flames until Fred returns with a hatstand as his partner, mimicking every move Gene makes. On some invisible cue, like magic, Gene twirls Ginger away and Fred spins the hatstand across, and now it’s Gene and the hatstand chasing Fred—and Ginger, as always, making the boys look even better than they are, always in the exact right spot, dancing backwards in heels with a perfect smile and never a hair out of place.
Then it’s Ella and Billie in a searing slow duet while Satchmo leads the band and Miles counterpoints, cool, so very cool. Groucho follows with a routine that pillories Bogey who stands by, laughing helplessly while Harpo honks and mugs and steals his fedora.