Just then he spotted Roger Dodger. The kid was a block away, down the disjointed street. He was running and yelling.
Yago assumed hed gotten into some trouble with one of the automatons. Which was strange, because the locals never objected to anything you did. They werent really humans.
Yago strained to hear what Roger was shouting.
Riders! Tate translated. He says Riders are coming!
CHAPTER THREE IM THE PRESIDENTS SON, YOU KNOW.
Yago froze. What? Here?
Wylson! he cried. Riders! Riders!
That got everyone moving. They formed into a mass and the mass started stampeding. Through the narrow, pig-dropping-dotted streets, tripping over uneven cobblestones, careening off indifferent locals.
They ran, with Wylson, like any good leader, out in front. Yago had to admire the fact that her muscles, acquired during daily workouts with a personal trainer, had survived five centuries of hibernation. She was strong.
Yago glanced back over his shoulder but he couldnt see anything. At least nothing but Roger Dodger, steadily gaining.
A cart pulled out of a side alley. Piled high with hay, a moving haystack. Yago jerked left and jumped the yoke. He caught his foot and went sprawling. Elbows on cobblestones and a sharp jolt of pain. Then he was up, scrambling, Roger Dodger even with him now.
He was falling behind! He was in the rear! They were going to leave him for the Riders. No way, no way he couldnt outrun Shy Hwang, who was a wheezy chub.
Then it occurred to Yago: Hed taken a wrong turn. Hed lost them! He couldnt see anyone but Roger Dodger.
Hey, kid! Hey, kid! he yelled. No answer, no look. The kid was a rabbit.
Had to head for the tower, no other way, no other way, but where was the tower? Ahead? Left? To the right? How had he gotten so turned around?
Yago bolted down an alley, even filthier than the street, even more narrow, with the buildings leaning drunkenly out till their upper stories almost touched.
A sudden, looming horror, straight ahead.
Rider!
Coming straight down the street. He was atop his surfboard, shifting his weight minutely to keep the antigravity board from striking the walls on either side.
Yago took in the bifurcated legs, the cockroach-shell upper body, and most of all the two heads, fraternal not identical twins, one little more than a mouth on a stump, and the other dominated by six spider eyes. He squeezed his legs together to keep from wetting himself, spun, and ran.
The Rider couldnt move at top speed in the alley, but he could still outrun Yago.
Yago was screaming as he ran and the Rider let loose with his horrifying, metal-on-metal shriek. Yago almost collapsed right then, but the memory of Errols disconnected head kept him running.
Where were the others? Where was that kid? Let the Rider take the kid! Why didnt the alien eat the automatons? How did he know that Yago was food and the locals werent?
Glance.
Ten feet!
Slam. Into one of the locals, tumble, fall, roll, and look up as the Rider skimmed overhead, unable to stop in time. The Rider braked, spun his board, eyeballed Yago with his larger faceted eyes, grinned with his vicious mouth.
Yago whimpered, rolled, kicked himself up, stumbled and fell, up again, crying, no no no no.
A side alley. Even more narrow. Narrow enough?
Yago lurched, tripped. The Rider turned, stopped, couldnt go any closer. Yago was on his butt, kicking, sliding backward away from the Rider. The alley was too narrow! Too narrow for the Riders board.
Yeah! Yago yelled triumphantly.
Then the Rider jumped down off his board.
The Rider bounded toward Yago, a weird stride, two feet on either side, or else two legs on either side, hard to define which. The Rider bounded and stopped, gathered strength, bounded again.
Yago was already running but he was encouraged that at least the Riders werent all that fast on foot. The Rider hesitated with each jump. A ten-foot leap, a five-second pause, a ten-foot leap, five-second pause. The distance between Yago and the Rider kept going from fifteen feet to five feet and back.
Yago wasnt gaining but he wasnt losing ground, either.
He staggered into a woman carrying a large clay pot on her head. The pot went flying, smashed to bits.
Yago kept running, out into an open space. Not quite a square, but at least a place where a maze of streets joined from all angles. Which way? The tower! He could see it.
The Rider had stopped. Maybe he was worn out. Then Yago spotted the hoverboard. It was flying just above the rooftops and now swooped down to rejoin its master.
No fair! Yago yelled.
He ran for a doorway, open for a man who was exiting. He shoved past the automaton and stopped dead. There was nothing inside the building. Just open space. The building was a shell.
Yago blinked.
Suddenly the building had an inside. It had an inside filled with soft, golden candlelight, ornate, plush furniture, and a woman reclining on a brocaded couch. A painting in 3-D. It even looked familiar.
What? Yago wondered.
The ship was improvising. The ship had seen him go into the building, and, having no obvious interior scene to construct, it had grabbed one from some other file.
Excuse me, Yago said to the indifferent, unreal woman. He ran up the stairs. Up another floor. Another interior, gloomy this time, but with a huge window at one end of the room. The window was open.
Yago crept to the window, trembling, jittery, wanting to throw up but too scared of the noise it would make.
He peered out at the street below. Left. Right. No Rider.
Then, coming down the street, Wylson Lefkowitz-Blake and the rest of the bunch.
Hey! Yago yelled. Hey, Im up here!
Wylson frowned. What are you doing up there?
I was chased here by a Rider.
We assumed hed gotten you, Wylson said without revealing any particular concern.
No, Im still alive, Yago snapped.
Then youd better come down. The Riders must still be around. We need to get to the tower.
Yeah, and it sure is good to know you survived, Yago, Yago said, but under his breath. Thank god you made it, Yago.
The Wylson woman just didnt get it: He was important. Yago was not one of the herd. He was important.
He glanced at the reclining woman on the couch as he passed by.
Im the presidents son, you know. He pointed at himself. Yago. Thats me.
CHAPTER FOUR I HATE THIS PLACE.
Jobs had seen no Riders. At one point hed been sure he heard someone yell, No fair! which seemed like an unlikely thing to come from the mouth of one of the automatons or Cartoons as MoSteel called them.
He no longer entirely trusted his senses. They had reached the base of the tower and found steep walls and no easy way up. But there was the strange stone abutment that ran the height of three levels. It looked as if the tower had been carved from living rock and this jagged outcropping was all that was left of what had to have been a mountain.
It was steep, a hard climb, especially now that theyd had to say good-bye to Eeyore and transfer Billy back to his stretcher.
The climb would have been impossible but for the fact that MoSteel was quite strong and hauled Billy up almost single-handedly over the roughest parts.
It was perhaps a two-hundred- or two-hundred-and-fifty-foot climb and in places was like crawling up a cliff. At the top MoSteel sweated and grinned and gave Jobs a last yank up and over.
That was good, MoSteel said, wiping his brow. Drain the pores, strain some muscle, pop some veins. Burning the Cs.
Jobs looked at Billy. His gaunt, pale face showed nothing new. The shadowed eyes continued to stare.
Olga flopped down, tired. Violet Blake took a moment to find a tumbled rock to sit on. Her skirt was frayed at the hem. Her frilled sleeves were stained with blood and sweat.
All in all, Jobs thought, the whole ultrafeminine J
ane look really didnt work for rock climbing. Besides, she was a very pretty girl, especially now that shed given up on keeping her long, sandy hair tied up. It looked better down over her shoulders.
Violet Blake saw his smug look. She carefully folded her hands in her lap and favored him with a defiant smile.
Jobs looked down, not wanting his admiring grin to be misinterpreted as condescension. Then he scanned the horizon. He was looking back over the direction from which theyd come. At the far range of his vision he saw the sight that stabbed at his heart: the shuttle, a white stiletto, far away now. He looked long, storing up the image for later. It was worth a poem. Someday, somewhere, maybe.
Should have stayed with the shuttle, he muttered. It was home.
MoSteel overheard and slapped him on the back. Dont sweat it, Duck. Well make a new home.
Jobs didnt want to be jollied out of his mood. He was tired and he wanted for the moment just to savor the melancholy. There was nothing wrong with sadness. Sadness was a good emotion. It was a tribute to all that had been lost: to family, to friends, to the billions of people, long dead now, who were only family in the sense that they shared human DNA.
A planet destroyed, a million species obliterated, the human race reduced to these Remnants, lost, that was worth some sadness.
Its been five hundred years, Jobs whispered.
Not to us, Miss Blake said. To us it was only days ago.
Hey, look, Olga said. She stood up and pointed. Its the others.
They could be clearly seen, a gaggle of people in colors too bright and with too many blond heads to be Brueghel Cartoons. They were at the edge of the town below, and they were running toward the tower.
Riders! MoSteel yelled and jumped to his feet.
Three of the rust-red aliens were pursuing. Two more were coming in from an angle, racing to cut them off.
We have to help them, Miss Blake said.
It took us an hour to climb up here, Olga said. It would take almost as long to get back down, and then wed have to traverse over to them.
The four of them stood at the edge of the drop, staring, eyes bulging, straining as if straining would slow the Riders down or lend speed to the rest of the group.
One of the fugitives was smaller, slight, and moved with the slight ungainliness of a child. The wispy, almost translucent blond hair could be clearly seen.
I see Edward, Jobs said grimly.
The running, panic-stricken crowd was hidden from view by the tower itself. Four sighs, four worried looks.
Maybe they can find a place to hide, Violet said.
Jobs nodded, silent. He was sick with worry. His parents were gone. He was all Edward had in the world. His little brother was his responsibility now, and Jobs wasnt down there but up here. He should have tried harder to find the others and get back together. Should have done something.
He squeezed his eyes shut tight trying to keep out the image of Edward being taken, killed by the Riders.
I hate this place, Violet said with sudden passion. Why is it this way? Why go to all the trouble of creating these environments and then let those alien murderers run rampant? Is this stupid place trying to save us or kill us?
Jobs shook his head. Maybe neither. He rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes. Maybe the ship isnt all that in control. Look at how the Blue Meanies got in. How can whoever or whatever is running this ship have all this power and then be unable to stop the Blue Meanies?
You always say whoever or whatever, Jobs, Olga said. You know something we dont?
No. He was about to add that he had a feeling, an instinct. But he had nothing to go on. And in any case, it was too easy to talk about abstractions. His brother was down there somewhere, without a mother or a father or a soul in the world to help him, down there facing the ruthless, murdering savages called Riders. Thats what he should be thinking about.
He glared at Billy. Cant you do something? I know you can hear me. We know youre not dead, Billy. We saw you floating around in the air and trying to help your dad when you had to, when he was screaming why cant you do that now?
No response, not even a flicker.
I hate this place, Violet repeated savagely.
Jobs wanted to agree. This place was probably killing his brother, right now, right this second. But he didnt hate it. He couldnt. Not till he knew for sure what it was.
CHAPTER FIVE EVERYTHING DIES, HUMAN.
Get in! Get in! Get in! Wylson yelled.
They got in. They ran like a herd of gazelles with a lion hot on the trail.
Into the dark-on-dark archway, into the tower.
No door, Wylson thought. No way to block the Riders. Was everyone in? Had everyone made it? 2Face, Shy, Burroway, T.R., Roger Dodger. Who else? No time to worry.
A glance around. Where were they? A vaulted chamber, nothing around but space, an echoing space like a gothic cathedral, high-arched space. Keep them running, that was all.
Keep moving, keep moving, she shouted. Her voice was shrill, she hated that, it was the fear.
They kept running, but where? A Rider appeared, a shadow in the archway.
Stairs! someone yelled.
Go! Wylson cried.
The Rider was moving cautiously, unsure of himself in this interior environment. The hoverboard inched forward. What Wylson thought of as the creatures spider head craned, back and forth, upward. The alien almost seemed to cringe.
Doesnt like it, Wylson thought. Doesnt like being enclosed. Or maybe its the dark. A second Rider joined the first.
The people were on the stairs now, narrow, hacked from stone, a sheer drop if you strayed, no handrail.
Someone tripped and those behind plowed into and over him. It was the kid, Edward. People were always bumping into him, clumsy brat.
2Face snatched at the kids collar and yanked him after her. Up and up and Wylson glanced back to see that three Riders had entered the chamber, huddling together, uncertain.
Then, one of them hefted a spear and threw it with shocking speed. It missed T.R.s head by a whisker and jammed hard into the stone wall.
Wylson reached the spot and tried to yank the spear out. She didnt have the strength. Tamara Hoyle grabbed the shaft and pulled. It came free. The baby chuckled and Tamara handed the spear to Wylson with a mocking little bow.
Wylson nodded and took the steps two at a time, holding the spear high like a prize. When she glanced back she saw the three Riders apparently still undecided. Then she noticed Tamara. The Marine sergeant was standing, facing the Riders, the baby on one hip, a fist propped on the other.
Tamara! Dont be stupid! Wylson yelled.
Tamara showed no sign of having heard her. The three aliens were now focused entirely on the woman and child. One hefted a spear, hesitated.
Tamara made a little gesture with her free hand. Bring it on.
The alien snarled and threw. Tamara moved with liquid grace, dodged, and snatched the spear out of the air.
The Riders gave her a cold look. A mean look, with one head staring and the other gnashing its razor teeth.
One of the Riders urged his hoverboard forward. It flowed easily up the first dozen stairs, but then it slowed and seemed to be straining to keep climbing.
Tamara Hoyle waited, confident. She sat the baby down on a stair. It was the first time Wylson had ever seen them separated.
What are you doing? Theyll kill you! Wylson shouted.
But Tamara was indifferent. She kept going toward the Rider, taking the steps with feline grace, with a felines air of power-within-grace.
The Rider let loose its glass-shattering shriek. Tamara replied with a feral laugh. Sitting on the edge of its stone step the baby clapped its hands.
Tamara was now almost face-to-face with the alien. The hoverboard quivered, unable to climb farther. In a rush, the alien leaped onto the stairs. It swung a bladed weapon like a scimitar.
Tamara caught the blow with her spear, twisted the spear, threw the Rider off-balance, a
nd stabbed the spear into one if its heads.
The alien shrieked again but in a very different tone.
Tamara pulled back, spun her entire body, and slapped the aliens other head with the butt of the spear. With blinding speed she jabbed the butt into one of the larger fly eyes.
The Rider swung his scimitar again, but Tamara easily ducked the blow and buried the point of her spear in the Riders chest, in a narrow gap between halves of its beetle armor.
The Rider staggered, fell back onto its hoverboard.
The hoverboard clattered down the stairs, as lifeless as the Rider.
Tamara ignored her kill and stared instead at the two remaining Riders.
To Wylsons amazement, the two aliens executed what could only be a salute, a sort of half-genuflection in the direction of the Marine sergeant.
No, not to Tamara. They were bowing to the baby.
One of the Riders turned and flew away. The other stayed behind, waiting, not trying to ascend the stairs. But not giving way, either.
Tamara retrieved the baby and came up the stairs, spear shouldered, unconcerned by the purple blood oozing down its length.
You killed it, Wylson said stupidly.
Did you think they were immortal? Tamara said. Everything dies, human.
CHAPTER SIX I THINK WE NEED TO HAVE A MEETING.
Wylson ran up the stairs, up to rejoin the others who had already moved ahead.
Some of them had seen the fight. Had any of them heard the Marines last remark?
Everything dies, human.
Had she heard it right? Everything dies, human? Everything human dies? Everything dies thats human?
Tamara was stressed from the combat. The words came out wrong, that was all. Not a time to start going sof t-headed, Wylson, she told herself. Time to focus on solutions.
The stairs arrived at the next floor. It was brighter here, though still gloomy. 2Face and Roger Dodger had fanned out to check the limits of the room.
No way out, 2Face yelled at Wylson when she appeared. Except for that way. She indicated the high, arched doorway that led outside.
Them Page 2
