City Wars by Dennis Palumbo

raising of her son, he to the tending of his more significant wounds. She’d come to feel he was no longer within reach.
    She could read nothing in his face now but expectation. Dutifully, she picked up her instrument, lay her fingers on the fine strings. And began to sing.
    A few of the diner’s patrons stood to listen, respecting an old custom. The rest merely looked up from their food, their chairs squeaking on the tile floor as they turned to watch.
    Clemmie’s voice filled the room.
    “The Leveling made of everyone
Of every daughter and every son
Bright bright soldiers
Bright bright soldiers
And though there’s yet so much undone
Wanting of spires to meet the sun
Wanting of drones to turn the soil
Wanting of drones to ease our toil
Wanting of arms to guard our homes
Of new airships to guard our domes
Of hope for when that time there ’rose
Powerful shields against our foes
And though there’s yet so much undone
To ask of every daughter and son
The Leveling must not again
So we all must need remain
Bright bright soldiers
Bright bright soldiers”
    Clemmie put down the lyre.
    “The song is old,” she said. “And childish.” She reached across, took Meyerson’s hand. “I’m sorry.”
    He smiled at her. “I liked it fine, Clemmie. Just fine.”
    Suddenly, the familiar sound of dual chimes filled the small room. Clemmie and Meyerson turned away from each other, their attention drawn to the front of the diner.
    Everyone was looking up. The screen flickered. Media was transmitting.
    A cool voice echoed throughout the diner, announcing that Media had information regarding an attack on E Sector.
    “Holy Jesus,” Meyerson said, craning his neck to see.
    The others crowded around the screen. People began muttering, cursing.
    Media presented visuals.
    The cool voice explained that tracer cameras had recorded the devastation an hour before. In the space of that time, the information and visuals had been transmitted back to Chicago, logged, and edited for presentation by Media.
    On-screen coverage had been delayed approximately thirty-five minutes by Government pressure. Then the shield had given way, as it always did.
    “Go to the streets,” said the cool voice.
    “Go to the streets, to every corner. Holograms are being prepared. Go to the streets. Be informed. Learn of this attack on your city. Go to the streets.”
    The people began piling out of the diner. They left behind them half-eaten meals, unfinished drinks. Some had already begun shouting their outrage, confident thatothers would join them and make their voices brave.
    Meyerson climbed to his feet, glared down at Clemmie. “Well, ain’t ya comin’? Show’s about to start.”
    She sat very still, seemingly transfixed by the opened doorway through which the last of the diner’s patrons had exited. Instinctively, during Media’s transmission, she’d gripped the arm of her lyre. Now she released it, aware of the numbness in her fingers, of how tight had been her grip.
    “C’mon, Scholar,” Meyerson said, taking her arm. “Here’s your chance to see history in the makin’. Might inspire a tune. Ya never know.”
    “No, Phil. I can’t. I …” She shrunk back against the booth’s synthetic leather, the beads of her costume clicking together. “I’ll just stay here until the excitement dies down.”
    He grinned. “Gotcha. I figger I know what’s bother-in’ ya. But me—well, I gotta go see what’s what. It’s my nature, ya know, Clemmie?”
    “Sure, Phil. I’ll see you later. And take care of yourself.”
    Meyerson skipped to the door on his good leg.
    “Shit, lady. Day I can’t take care o’ myself, move over and give me one o’ them harps!”
    Clemmie managed a smile as he waved and went out the door.
    Clemmie sat alone in the diner. Even the waiters had gone out to see the special program Media had promised.
    She got up after a moment and went over to the serving area. The coffee urn was still hot. She poured herself a cup and