by Steve Rzasa
Rome folded his arms. “Not required.”
“No, but it will make things easier for her insurance. The VIC says she had sixty grand in collectible coins with her. Those were the second to go, after the implant.”
“Give me a moment for my comp to redact the contract specific data.”
The sergeant appeared to chew on some words he’d like to spit Rome’s way, but Rome knew he’d keep the exchange civil. The tiny, white and purple light blinking on his badge confirmed it. Everything about the conversation and the crime scene in general was being recorded—audio and visual—plus whatever kind of scans the drone conducted. Everything was streamed live to Madison PD.
“That would work.”
“One second.” Rome leaned closer to Aldo, and lowered his voice. “Everything related to their ride’s scans.”
“And our case notes. Got it.” Aldo swiped in non-verbal commands to Marcy.
“Should have it in a moment, Sergeant,” Rome said. “Anything else we can do?”
“Just one.” The sergeant reached for the drone. It shuddered and spit out a slim rectangle of transparent plastic. Words and numbers skittered across the surface in black type lined with a blue glow. “Safety and navigation violations, at least eight, by our count. Pay them before you depart city limits.”
Rome frowned. The one part of this gig he hated. Sure, he was authorized to drive when hardly anyone else was, and he could break the rules whenever he needed to in order to catch his target, but that didn’t mean he got away completely clean. The fines levied by local municipalities and counties were independent of FTZ oversight. Part of the pittance paid so that FTZ alone maintained its say over how the Ninety operated. And it came out of his pay after taxes.
Rome took the slip. “Old school, Sergeant.”
“There’s a digital copy in your account now.” The sergeant smiled with as much pleasantness as a man chewing on asphalt projected. “Your presence is no longer required at this crime scene.” He joined his officers at the Talon.
An ambulance arrived. It was a white, oblong vehicle with pulsing red lines on all sides.
“This mean we’re dismissed?” Aldo asked.
~
Later that morning, thick clouds gathered overhead and dumped rain on what seemed like the entire southern half of Wisconsin. It was pouring when Gabriela scooped them up in the Condor.
“You guys are going to have to re-color,” she said. “Have you seen the Net?”
Rome rubbed his brow. “No. Please don’t tell me what I think you’re going to tell me.”
She ran two vids from the display glass at her right. Both showed their Halcyon running after the thieves’ truck while the rest of traffic went haywire, followed by the abortive EMP blast and Rome’s barely controlled spin out.
“Nice move.” Aldo took a huge bite from a pastry. A white, recycled paper bag sat on the console, its bottom soggy with grease. It was as wet as Aldo’s shoes, which were propped on the same unit.
“Shut up.”
“Aldrich! Get your gear off my console!” Gabriela shouted.
Aldo demolished half the pastry. He licked his fingers. “Okay, Rome, we’re ever in Madison again we have to stop at that place. Best donuts, period.”
Rome shoved his chair. Aldo’s feet dropped to the deck with a bang, and his pastry fell top-down. Icing smeared on the metal. “Our car’s image is all over the Net, thanks to our screw-up.”
“Our screw-up? Hey, I didn’t take a potshot at a freighter with an EMP in broad daylight.”
“You were supposed to keep the Talon under our aegis. Somebody beat you to it.”
Aldo scowled.
“Gabriela, send to FTZ West that we need a new set of registration numbers unlocked,” Rome said. “I’m going back to run the re-color.”
“Tell Marcy I’m not doing green again,” Aldo called after him. “That last shade she picked was nasty… pea soup.”
“Still with his stomach,” Rome muttered.
It was louder back in the car bay, with the thrum from the Condor’s engines and the hiss of the rain against the fuselage. Everything shuddered and bounced. Rome reached for a handhold, steadying himself as he gazed at the Halcyon. His expression stared back from the sleek curve of the hood—short black hair matted to his head by the rain, eyes as brown as soil, high cheekbones, blocky chin. There was a flash of light where his crucifix had come free of his shirt collar—simple gold on a black cord.
“Marcy, link with FTZ and get a new set of registration numbers,” he said. “Should be in the pipe.”
[Confirming. New registration acquired. Eleven more possible registration numbers also stored for later use. Shall I commence with color alteration?]
“Go for it, but no green. Aldo insists.”
[Complying.] The car body became suffused with heat. The white slowly darkened and changed the hue to a deep maroon. Gray panels shifted to match the same shade.
They’d let that truck escape, but it wasn’t his fault. Aldo fouled up his control software, somehow. Or was it because their opponents were that much better? Rome tucked the crucifix back under his shirt. No one gave them the slip like that before. Then again, none of their targets had ever sported a ride that could disappear.
Speaking of disappear, the Halcyon’s registration numbers printed in black and silver on both flanks evaporated. A new set of numbers wrote themselves in black and gold.
[Reconfiguration complete,] Marcy said. [Registration is modified. Exterior color redone and holding.]
“Thanks, Marcy.”
[You are welcome… I have results of the materials comparison, which you requested.]
“Spill it.”
[The material recovered from the Lexus and from the Talon is identical. It is a silica rich soil fragment, comprised of—]
“Not interested in the specifics, Marcy. I need to know to what degree they match, and they need a location.” Rome knew Marcy didn’t really care, but he got the impression interruptions were considered a violation of her social etiquette programming.
[The two samples share composition to within 99.2 percent of each other. As for location…]
Rome’s implant chirped. Marcy transferred the summary of her report there. When Rome triggered its receipt, a map that fit into the palm of his hand hovered a half foot over his wrist. He recognized the terrain, though it wasn’t as familiar as the western region of the Ninety. “Appalachians.”
[Correct. Specifically, the silica is found in farming soil used in this region.]
“Marcy, do you have any idea how many farms and agro-towers there are in eastern Ohio and western Pennsylvania alone?”
[They number in the hundreds. Shall I audibly list them?]
“No thanks.”
[The summary is compiled with the rest of my report.]
“What about the upholstery swatch? That coconut smell…”
[It is from a lotion used in sunscreen. Three brands of SPF 160 and greater add the fragrance to mask the pungent odor of the primary compound that blocks damage from ultra-violet rays. All three were created in the late 2020s after the predominant sunscreens were shown to increase risk factors for certain kinds of cancers by 25 percent.]
That was the problem with autonomous computers—they could amass and relay a ton of information, with astonishing speed and accuracy. But their ersatz personalities couldn’t quite get the knack of withholding info when their owners found it tedious. “Narrow it down for me, Marcy.”
Red splotches appeared throughout the holographic map. [These represent the areas where all three sunscreens are sold. Thirty-six overlap with known agriculture centers.]
“You can rule out the agro-towers. Sunscreen like this, it’d be used by folks working outdoors.”
Several splotches disappeared. [I am left with fourteen possibilities.]
Rome considered them. A few were right smack on the Ninety—rest areas set up great distances from major population centers. Too man
y vehicles. Too many chances the thieves would get noticed one way or another—either themselves or their truck. How long could that thing run invisible? He wished Aldo would pester his Army buddy more for answers. “Marcy, how many of those fourteen locations have facilities that could accommodate a truck with the dimensions of the one we’re chasing?”
Five more places vanished. That left nine blotches.
Rome smiled. Three were way too far off the Ninety to be of any use to the thieves—between sixty and one hundred miles away. That left six possibilities. “Highlight the six that are fewer that sixty miles from the highway. Start monitoring local communications. If they’ve got equipment powerful enough to jam the nav systems of multiple vehicles, then you should be able to get a whiff of their signal strength.”
[Tapping into local communications networks. Shall I concentrate on the nav systems between cars and satellites, as well as their ground relays?]
“Yes, but don’t discount other sources. I want anything anomalous.”
[Understood.]
Aldo rapped on the frame of the bay hatch. “Hey. That’s a good color.”
“Not green.” Rome doused the hologram. “We’ve got some matches from the samples we pulled out of Brace’s and Sartorian’s cars.”
“Nice.” Aldo brushed at his beard, dislodging crumbs. “So, I… uh… heard back from one of my boys in the Army National Guard. Michigan.”
“Let me guess—they manufacture those stealth transports in Michigan.”
“Yeah, outside Grand Rapids at Bacevich Arsenal.”
Rome sat on the hood of the Halcyon.
“Seems one of the newest ones went missing. One minute, she was rolling out from under the robot arms, and the next—poof.”
“You’d think the Army would notice something like that.”
“That’s the thing. They have.” Aldo grinned. “My buddy tells me there’s no report on the disappearance, no inquiry, nothing. He thinks the brass doesn’t want word leaking out that something like this is driving around in public. His superiors are furious that it might have gotten sold overseas.”
“No kidding. I’d hate to be the base commander who had to admit that the Superior Arms Embargo was broken.”
“I know, right?” Aldo made a face. “Can you imagine selling a stealth transport like that to the Russian remnants? Or Greater Egypt?”
Rome shook his head. “Don’t suppose your pal can send us any hard data.”
“No way. His base’s info flow is locked down. The security vids and holos at Bacevich Arsenal are all stashed on comps that can only be accessed in person. So, unless you can get the FTZ chiefs to snuggle up to the base commander…” Aldo shrugged.
“Yeah. We’ll have to figure the best way to do that.”
“Um, other than bouncing a signal to Director Cho?”
“He’s got Thad following this case, too.”
“Okay, that sucks.”
“Yeah. Insurance, in case we foul up.”
“What, and then he gets the bounty? No way.”
“Look, Marcy’s narrowing our search even further. We’ve got a half dozen possible locations for the thieves’ base of operations. Get up to Gabriela, tell her we’re flying for western Pennsylvania.”
Aldo hadn’t taken more than two steps before Gabriela’s voice scratched through the intercom. “Hey boys? You’ve got a possible bounty. Unregistered driver, headed west toward Rockford.”
“Alter course,” Rome said. “We can nab that one on our way to—”
“Already done. I’ll drop you in ten minutes.” The Condor shuddered. “Assuming this weather doesn’t get any worse. You might want to buckle in.”
Neither one argued. Rome and Aldo got in the Halcyon and let Marcy set up the restraints in cocoon-like fashion.
Aldo grimaced. “Shouldn’t have had that donut. I hate getting dropped.”
Anchors lowered from the bay ceiling like tentacles. They sealed with the roof and sides of the Halcyon. The deck underneath rumbled.
“Marcy, do we have a lock on this unregistered driver?”
[Affirmative, sir.]
Rome nodded. “You know the routine.”
~
Gabriela flew the Condor down through the low clouds, scudding at treetop height. She found a road not far from the Ninety off-ramp that was—for the moment—devoid of traffic. There were only fields and a handful of abandoned buildings, some of which were no more than burnt out shells.
The bottom of the Condor’s bay cracked open.
Rome ran the engine and spun the wheels as the anchors lowered the car through the open hatch. Marcy’s dash indicator showed the Condor’s airspeed at a bare 80 miles per hour.
The Halcyon’s wheels hit the pavement in a spray of water. Rome accelerated. The anchors snapped free and he sped toward the ramp. The car swerved for a moment, but he steadied her out.
[Road conditions are poor for pursuit,] Marcy said. [Exercise caution.]
“Noted.”
The target car drew near to the ramp. The tracker had it bracketed through the tree line to Rome’s left, even though he couldn’t see any hint of it. Everything outside the windows was a blue and gray version of the normal mix of colors. Not a single set of headlights, other than the luminescent panels on the Famtracs, freighters, and other cars.
“I know the tactical reasons for what we just did.” Aldo wiped sweat from his face. “Can I just say, for the record, that it sucks?”
“Also noted.” Rome drove up the ramp. “Here it comes.”
“I’m on it, I’m on it.” For all his whining, Aldo already had a navigation co-option program prepared. “Acquiring the signal.”
The car appeared, weaving amidst the cars. Even without the bracket and the dangerous maneuvers, Rome could have marked it as their target. Bright halogen lamps projected sharp beams of blue-white through the gloom.
“Moron,” Aldo said. “He might as well put a tag on his roof that says ‘Hey! Illegal driving going on here!’”
“Judging by his ride, he’s not worried about being discreet.” Rome watched the bright orange car with a yellow lightning bolt streak by—eye-watering neon among drab passenger vehicles. “Don’t complain. An easy bounty’s the best kind. You ready?”
Aldo grinned at the displays, his face suffused with green and blue light. “Oh, yeah, I’m synced. Say the word and we’ll pull him over.”
“Let’s give him a chance to come quietly first. In this weather, we don’t want to be chasing him all over Creation.”
Rome got Marcy’s confirmation to drive, and once he had control, he lit up the emergency beacons. He steered right onto the car’s rear, two car lengths back, and broadcast the standard message.
“He might not want to give up the ride,” Aldo said. “It’s a 2017 BMW. Classic ride. Can’t imagine where he found parts for it—must have had them custom printed. At least it got converted over to a power core.”
The BMW accelerated, spraying water behind it in a thick cloud.
“Okay, so he’s rabbiting. That’s your cue,” Rome said.
Aldo swiped in his commands. “Done.”
The BMW immediately braked, and started toward the side of the road. Adjacent traffic automatically cleared out, making a hole as the vehicle crossed three lanes. Rome drove alongside it, making sure the cars around them gave a wide enough berth.
Marcy’s proximity alert sounded. [A vehicle is approaching from directly behind, on intercept with the target. It is registered as a pursuit driver.]
“The hell?” Rome looked in the rear view display. Emergency lights identical to his sparked through the rain. The car was easy enough to see—a 2066 Panther, gray-blue, with gold running stripes. It barreled down on them with no signs of stopping.
“Watch out!”
Rome cranked the steering column. The Halcyon slipped back into the far left lane, and the Panther shot by, spraying the windshield with water. Something slapped against the door, on Aldo
’s side. Rome was just about to query Marcy for a scan when the internal lights flickered.
[Power drain. Core output reduced to 70 percent, and dropping.]
Just like that, his speed fell, too. Rome still had control. He steered toward the left side of the road, but no matter how he stomped on the accelerator or changed gears, he couldn’t get any more power to the engine.
“Found it,” Aldo said. “Pulse inflictor. Thing’s latched right on the side of the car, behind my door.”
He enlarged the miniature hologram of the Halcyon. A tiny sphere protruded from the otherwise smooth body. It was black with three gray stripes around it. Orange lights trickled across the center.
“It’s gonna take me a few minutes to unlock it from our system,” Aldo said. “Stupid thing is hardwired. See? Those tendrils extend from the sphere and punch directly into the command links between the power core and Marcy’s CPU, and from there into the car’s controls.”
“We don’t have a few minutes.” Rome pulled over on the shoulder and braked. The car barely stopped when he popped the canopy. He stepped out into the pouring rain. His head and face were immediately soaked, though once he zipped his jacket, the clothing system dried his shirt and kept him warm.
There it was. The BMW was stopped a mile ahead with the Panther behind it. Small figures stood outside. Rome swore one of them waved.
His implant chirped. It was from Thad.
“What’s that old saying? ‘Snooze and you lose,’ amigo.” Laughter echoed through the speaker.
Rome glared at the implant. Aldo promised him the sphere would be unlatched in two minutes.
He walked to the other side of the Halcyon, ignoring honks from the pedestrian warning horns on passing cars. Aldo stared, wide-eyed, as he drew the Hunsaker. Two shots echoed like fireworks, shattering the sphere. The third was unnecessary to break the device, but it cleared the last fragments off the Halcyon. A ragged hole trailed ripped wires.
No wonder Thad was laughing.
CHAPTER SIX
THE FORUMS FOR PURSUIT SPECIALISTS across the states told and retold Thad’s story of how he swooped in and scooped up the bounty from Rome. Aldo pointed out at least eight in which the details were far more dramatic than reality.
