by Steve Rzasa
[There is a sharp turn within four point five miles.]
Aldo’s map shifted, zoomed in on a curve that did indeed look like a doozy.
[Recommended point of removal.]
Rome smiled. The techs, Aldo included, told him Marcy and the automated driving systems for all cars were a very rudimentary artificial intelligence—smart, capable, but not self-aware. There were times, though, he swore Marcy knew how to tell a joke.
The Halcyon gained on the Camaro, coming within a handful of car lengths.
“I’ve been replaying your message,” Aldo said. “Constantly. Talk about constant headache.”
“Hearing my voice? Yeah, I’ll bet it is. You can vouch for that.”
Aldo grinned.
“What about his navigation systems?”
“Ah, you’re an optimist, aren’t you? He’s got the basics. Nothing I can interfere with from here. But…” Aldo’s lips moved, mouthing something to himself as he swiped in new commands into his interface. “Ha! Yes! Nav screen’s down. So’s his displays.”
“So, he’s got no indicator of how fast or where he’s going. You think he cares?”
The Camaro’s speed dropped.
Aldo nodded. “That’s a yes.”
“Last chance,” Rome muttered. “Pull over, pal.”
It accelerated again, spraying up water like twin fountains.
Rome shook his head. “Oh, well. It was a nice car anyway. Ready on the grapples.”
“Ready.”
The Camaro could not speed up fast enough to elude him. Rome closed their separation to a car length. The Camaro’s driver was either too scared to switch lanes or was watching the approaching curve.
“Go!” Rome snapped.
Aldo triggered the grapples. A muffled thunk sounded from under their feet as two projectiles slammed into the backside of the Camaro. They were black and gray nodules, each the size of Rome’s fist. Red lights flashed in a circle at their center.
“Good attach,” Aldo said. “All yours.”
Rome eased on the brakes.
The Camaro’s tires skidded as the grapples slowly but steadily drew the vehicle backward. On the miniature holo, powerful electromagnets mounted to the undercarriage of the Halcyon and pulsed as they siphoned power from the car’s core.
“He’s losing speed,” Aldo said. “Got him down to sixty-five.”
Rome had his own grappling match with the steering column. They entered the curve and the Halcyon drifted right toward the guardrail and the drop-off beyond. The Camaro suddenly jerked left, dragging the Halcyon with it, but Rome urged the engine into a better gear. It was a question of whether the Camaro had enough horsepower in that black market combustion engine to outmatch Rome’s power core.
Suddenly, the Camaro’s speed plummeted.
Rome slammed on his brakes.
Aldo must have realized what had happened because he gripped the door and the center console.
The Camaro’s back end shot toward the Halcyon, as if someone had held apart a rubber band and let one side go. One second from impact, the Halcyon’s front exploded with a human-sized inflatable bag. The Camaro bashed the Halcyon. They twisted into a spin. Rome steered into it as the driver’s side of both cars dragged along the guardrail, sending up a spray of sparks that hissed steam in the rain. They slid backward, slowing down.
“The drop-off flattens out in a quarter mile!” Aldo yelled. “We’ve got traffic incoming!”
Rome threw the Halcyon into reverse and gunned the engine. The maneuver pulled both vehicles clean off the highway.
[Off-road alert], Marcy reported. [Compensating.]
The seats prodded Rome and Aldo upright. Both ends of their car squeezed in as the wheels dropped down half a foot. The tread on all four tires grew back to the thickness that had saved them from their initial spinout. The Halcyon’s conversion left it fully capable to handle dirt driving.
Once he regained control, Rome killed the magnetic grapples. The Camaro, its left side scraped with black streaks, bounced along the rough terrain until it slumped into a drainage ditch. It tipped back, its front right wheel reaching for air as if the car had its hands up.
The front collision bag deflated faster than a popped balloon and was sucked back into the car.
“Suspect is off-road.” Rome popped the seal on his restraints. “Pursuit specialist is exiting vehicle for apprehension.”
[Logged and noted. Visual and sensory surveillance continuing.]
Everything he did and said would be recorded—even their vital stats, along with the suspect’s.
“Got the spazzer?”
Aldo pulled a short, stubby weapon from its mount behind his seat. It was flat, gray, and hummed with the intensity of angry wasps. “Check and check.”
“Watch yourself.”
The canopy doors opened. A cool breeze brought the strong scent of rain, wet grass, and mud in, cleansing the car of its body odor. Rome saw his breath in white wisps. He slipped into his jacket—dark brown—and let it adjust to the exterior temperature.
[Vitals within norms. Heartbeat and blood pressure slightly elevated.]
Marcy’s voice sounded tinny in his ear. Rome pulled his Hunsaker .40 caliber from his shoulder holster. As soon as it touched his palm, the implanted sensor in his wrist vibrated.
[Weapon active. Warning: Lethal force enabled.]
“Noted.” He could do without the disclaimer, but that, too, was recorded. Rome made sure his badge was plainly visible on his belt as he and Aldo approached the Camaro, shoes squelching in the mud. Rain slicked Rome’s hair. He could stand there forever as it soaked his face. “Pursuit Specialist!” he hollered. “Get out of the vehicle! Hands where we can see them!”
The canopy cracked open. A pair of hands did exactly as ordered. Above the hiss of traffic on the Ninety, a distant thrum grew louder.
“Get out of the car! Get on your knees!”
Whoever he was expecting, it wasn’t the girl. She was tall and gangly. Half of her head was shaved to green stubble, while the rest was chartreuse and hung over her right eye. Her face was olive-toned, and she was Asian—Filipino, by Rome’s guess. Broad nose, wide eyes. The sneer on her lips was accentuated by purple gloss. Couldn’t be any older than 17.
She knelt in the mud, bare knees sinking into the muck. The girl wore a ripped jacket with no sleeves and black shorts.
“You guys are in some serious scat,” she muttered. “My Dad’s got all the balance to pay the fees.”
“Whatever.” Aldo holstered his spazzer. He yanked the girl’s hands behind her back and clamped them together with magcuffs. “You’re detained for operating an unregistered motor vehicle and intentionally causing a collision. Your record has been stamped. You are by law afforded the chance to dispute said stamping before the court.”
“You can’t do that! It’s my car!”
“Not anymore.” Rome leaned through the canopy into the Camaro. Perfume washed over him in waves. It was sickly sweet. “Your unregistered vehicle is hereby confiscated by the U.S. Department of Transportation, to be remanded for scrap to the State of South Dakota. Pursuant to Code Three of the Interstate Ninety Free Travel Zone, you will be charged for any and all damages incurred to property and person on this date.”
“Not fair! Not right!” She didn’t resist but kept mouthing off as Aldo walked her back to the Halcyon. “I can have a car if I want to! No one says I can’t.”
“Please. You know the law. Can’t have a private vehicle without express permission from the FTZ, Miss…” Aldo glanced at his wrist. The implanted screen cast a lit square on his face. “Ruiz, Alexis Mae, age 17.”
The thrum increased overhead. Rome glanced up, squinting through the rain. A broad-bellied aircraft with four wide wings and evenly spaced turbofans broke the cloud cover. There was a giant white bird with blue lines streaked on both sides.
“Pursuit One Twelve, this is Condor Three Three.” Gabriela’s voice carried the famili
ar mix of exasperation and amusement. “Just once, I’d like to pick you up without seeing your car in a ditch.”
“Just once, I’d like you to not be a killjoy.” Rome checked the interior closely. There—an activation stud, linked to a personal computer. He secured both in his jacket pocket. “Got you an unreg driver and modded car for transport.”
“Make that two cars for transport. FTZ has a priority case for you.”
“Oh yeah?”
“We’re to drop the suspect and her ride off at Rapid City and head for Seattle.”
Seattle? FTZ West was headquartered there. Rome could count on one hand the number of times in ten years he’d been summoned there—make that on two fingers. “What’s the word?”
“Zilch. Communiqué is ‘Eyes Only’ for you and Aldo. As in, hard copy.”
Rome stopped halfway back to the Halcyon.
Whatever it was, it must be bad for his bosses to send him an actual letter.
CHAPTER TWO
CONDOR 33 MIGHT HAVE A narrow fuselage profile when viewed from the outside, but to Rome, it felt as roomy and comfortable as a hotel suite. It was a Xian-Talbert lifter, CL-200 series, with variable adjustment wings and a top speed of 550 miles per hour. Twin pulse jets provided forward propulsion—big gaping units that bulged from the tail. The turbofans were used primarily to hover and maneuver sharply at ground level. With a body 100 feet long, there was more than enough space for the plane to stash the impounded Camaro, plus the Halcyon, and still have tie-downs available for two more vehicles if necessary. An automated winch dragged the damaged Camaro up through the open left side hatch, securing it in one of the four bays.
Rome stood to the side of the Condor’s forward landing struts, watching as the Halcyon parked itself under Marcy’s guidance.
“Haven’t been to Seattle in a long time, have we?” Aldo chomped down the last bit of his grain bar. He licked his fingers.
“Two years.”
“Anniversary of my contract? Oh, right,” Aldo grinned. “That was a crazy party at the vodka bar.”
“You’ve got crumbs in your beard again.”
Aldo turned beet red and brushed furiously at them.
The kid was good at his job, but cocky. He needed to be dropped a couple levels every so often.
“Hey boys.” Gabriela stood at the open hatch inside the Condor, just ahead of where Marcy parked the Halcyon. “You going to stand there admiring the prairie grass all day or are we going to lift?”
She was a head shorter than Rome, with a curvy body that fit well inside her pale blue flight jumpsuit. It was emblazoned with the FTZ logo on the right shoulder and the American flag on the left.
“Soon as my partner cleans up his mess.” Rome checked his implant. “Marcy’s got the car powered down and locked in place.”
“At least I can grow a beard.” Aldo stroked his chin “Unlike some people who are sixteen years my senior.”
Gabriela shook her head. “Come along, Aldrich. I saved you the best seat.”
Ruiz sat nearby, hands bound, swearing in fluent Tagalog. Aldo pulled her to her feet. “You got a nice one for her, too?”
“Only the finest incarceration cabin. Even has its own toilet so she doesn’t piss all over my plane.”
The plane’s interior was organized around a central corridor. Aldo shoved Ruiz into one of two empty cabins—no windows, just a bench, toilet, and a few lights. He placed his palm on a scanner mounted by the door’s frame and the hatch slid shut. He waved cheerily at the scanner.
“First time offender?” Gabriela led them to the cockpit.
There was a single seat surrounded by various screens and controls. Rome didn’t recognize one third of them. The wrap-around canopy offered a breathtaking view of the South Dakota plains. Rome and Aldo strapped themselves into two of the three seats behind her.
“Yeah, she’s a first-timer,” Rome answered.
“Offender and offensive,” Aldo muttered.
“That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Sure it does. Did you see her hair?”
Gabriela rolled her eyes. “Not everyone values their locks as deeply as you, Aldrich.”
Rome tried to hold in a laugh but snorted instead. Aldo glared at him. Though he didn’t have a riposte to Gabriela’s comment, he did smooth a portion of his well-combed, thick, auburn hair.
Gabriela ran a check on the hatches. Once they were all sealed, she eased the Condor into the air. It bobbed on turbofans, reminding Rome of boating in the Chesapeake Bay and fishing with Grandfather. The smell of Old Bay Spice and burning campfire filled his memories.
Aldo held onto the arms of his seat, letting the straps wrap around him like a spider’s web with a mind of its own. He looked far paler than his usual white and freckled self. “Hokay. Hurk. That bar might’ve been a bad idea.”
“How is it you survive Rome’s driving but can’t keep your food down when you fly with me?”
Aldo didn’t answer. He was busy holding his hand to his mouth and squeezing his eyes shut.
Gabriela guided the Condor up through the clouds. Her hands rested atop a pair of guide panels that extended from her primary console. Sunlight blasted into the cockpit, making Rome’s eyes water. The cockpit’s canopy darkened to filter out the brightness. The Condor banked sharply left and boosted on its jets, accelerating to its cruising speed in a matter of minutes.
“Got a bit before we drop by Rapid City, then a couple hours to Seattle.” Gabriela brought up a file on her displays. Ruiz’s face moped at them. “What’s her deal?”
“She’s got nothing in her citizen’s record besides disciplinarian actions at school—petty theft and altercations,” Rome said. “Implant to her home comp verified as much.”
Gabriela’s console chimed. Scans of the Camaro must be complete. “Not a lot to go on with the chassis and the shell, but some of the electronics are promising. I’ve got two serial numbers somebody neglected to laser off. That should give us a lead as to the mod shop.”
“Run the data up to FTZ Security and they can issue the warrants.”
“She’s a minor. Did you notify the parents?”
Aldo scowled. “What, do we look like student drivers to you? Marcy pinged their home comp the second I magcuffed her. I have no doubt ‘daddy dearest’ is hollering until he’s red in the face at some reception screen at whatever Grand Rapids PD precinct he’s in.”
“Odds are, he’ll pay the fines, spare her any correctional time, hopefully drop her into a decent community service program. But the stamp stays on her record. Any chance she had of training for a legit driver’s certification from DOT is gone.” Rome shrugged. “She wasn’t dangerous. Just stupid.”
“Well, she was a Driver. That makes her dangerous.”
Aldo winced. “Um… incoming signal, Gabby. So’s your buddy right here.” He jerked a thumb at Rome.
“That’s different.” Gabriela turned away from the scanning station. Her cheeks darkened and her tone grew strident. “Rome’s well-trained at operating a car. Few people have the talent he does, and fewer still are authorized to use it.”
Rome raised his eyebrows and smiled. He couldn’t deny the boost to the ego, even if it was just Gabriela. “Hear that, Aldo? Talent.”
“Yeah. That’s exactly the word I thought of when you had us ass-backward on the Ninety with another car magged to our bumper,” Aldo said. “Oh, wait. It wasn’t.”
“You two are incorrigible.” Gabriela rolled her eyes.
“Even better,” Rome said.
“Look, Rome, you know as well as I do most people would just be road hazards behind the wheel—even if their cars were built with steering wheels, which they’re not, thankfully.”
“Hang on,” Rome said. “A person’s way different than a deer running across your lane or a sheet of black ice. People react.”
“Badly. That’s why the comps are better. You can’t deny the decline in accidents. They’ve plummeted in forty years.�
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“I get that.” Rome ticked off numbers on his fingers. “No drunk drivers. No elderly going the wrong way up an on ramp. No rookie teenagers who feel the need to do twice the speed limit.”
“See?” Gabriela enlarged the radar.
There was nothing within a couple miles of their position as far as Rome saw.
“Sure. It’s a lot safer when individual choice is removed from the equation.”
Gabriela sighed. “Now you’re just being contrary.”
“You know, Rome, I think she’s just scared.” Aldo’s holographic screen floated inches above his wrist implant. Just a bunch of junk scrolled by—people talking about themselves, critics complaining about this entertainment or the next—filler for the brain to keep it from focusing on anything worthwhile. “Independent contractors like us aren’t controllable. Yet she wings around in a plane thousands of feet up in the air with nothing under her, slinging along at ten times our speed.”
“Nothing… that isn’t how flight works!” Gabriela said. “And you know full well those same cars that go ten times slower than my Condor were far more dangerous than air travel!”
“We know. It’s just too much fun to argue with you, Gabby.” Aldo winked at her.
“You know what’s more fun?” Rome gestured at the hatch. “Cleaning those crumbs out of my car.”
“Our car.”
“I stand corrected. Now go get vacuuming.”
Aldo mumbled the full length of the cockpit.
~
Condor 33 leveled out atop the circular landing pad at the FTZ complex on the north side of Rapid City. A single, angular building six stories tall poked up amidst the four, flat-sided, and sloped storage and maintenance structures. It was all glass with a huge wind turbine built in the middle. The shorter buildings were sheathed with solar panels, giving them the appearance of iridescent purple beetles.
Rome remote unloaded the Camaro. The poor thing was battered, though none of its windshields had fractured, and—as far as he could tell—there were no missing pieces.
The air here was bone dry. Pines were healthy enough and Rome thought he caught a whiff their sap. Grass struggled to turn green amidst an endless sea of brown. What had the weather report said en route? How many consecutive weeks without rain? That thunderstorm farther east must have been a fluke.
