Coils

by Roger Zelazny

  "It's not going to be landing at Angra today, though," he said.

  "Oh?"

  "They've closed the place. The nearest you can get off is at Carlsbad."

  "How come?"

  He shrugged.

  "Some sort of testing, I believe."

  "Okay. Thanks."

  "That gate over there," he said, gesturing. "In about forty minutes."

  While I waited, I decided to have a cup of coffee from a machine across the way. When I got there and began fishing around, however, I discovered that I did not have the proper change. Suddenly, the machine clicked and hummed. A cup descended onto the gridwork and began to fill. Black, the way I liked it.

  I smelled violets, and then heard Ann's voice, as if she were standing beside me.

  "Fortify yourself," she said. "I'm buying."

  The violets had faded and the sense of her presence had vanished before the cup was completely filled. I didn't know what to make of that one. But, "Thanks," I said, as I raised the plastic hatch and took the steaming cup back to the waiting area. It couldn't be larceny, I decided later, since it's a bigger crime to take anyone's money for that bad a cup of coffee.

  I studied the other people who were gradually populating the waiting area. The possibility had only just occurred to me that someone I had known back in my Angra days might be on the flight. Barbeau had kept his little group of specialists pretty much apart from the regular run of employees; but still, we were all acquainted with some of them. Most of my associates, though, had been in data processing and none of them seemed to be about. It was not difficult to tell who the Angra people were, though. One had but to listen for a few moments. They were the ones bitching about having to get off in Carlsbad and wait around, eating and drinking and loafing at company expense, poor devils.

  We finally boarded, and I sequestered myself behind a magazine. The automatic takeoff was uneventful, as was the first half hour or so of the flight. Then, suddenly, Ann was talking to me and I closed my eyes and saw her, standing beneath a highly polished-looking tree with a mirrorlike finish, clusters of metal flowers about her, gleaming with machine oil, riveted to the surface on which she stood. And she stood there as if at attention, eyes straight ahead, arms down at her sides, heels together.

  "It's, it's, it's," she said. "It knows you."

  "What does?" I said mentally.

  "It which is. It gardened me here. It would care."

  "But what is it?"

  "It's… It knows you."

  "But I don't know it."

  "Yes you do."

  Tell me about it."

  "… Going again," I heard her say. "Back again, stronger…"

  And then she was gone.

  Carlsbad finally came into view. I had the impression of an oasis on a small brown river, set in the midst of a hot, lunar-looking landscape. As we flew nearer, I noted a lot of new construction around the edges of the town, a good indication that it was growing fast

  Then we began to descend for a landing at a little field perhaps twenty kilometers out of town. Again, some of my fellow passengers began to complain. I could have taken over the autopilot and forced the shuttle to land us at Angra's own field. I'd a feeling they would be a lot more disturbed at what happened to them if I were to do that.

  It gave me an idea, though, that train of thought. It was no difficult trick to slip into the flight computer as we were landing and to activate a temporarily proscribed program which was already there.

  The shuttle took off quickly after we had disembarked, once the field about it was cleared. It was on its way to Angra's own field. I wondered whether they really believed I was stupid enough to approach them in that manner. It should prove mildly diverting, at any rate. I wondered how afraid of me they might have become. I kept my mind open for impressions, following the progress of the empty vehicle.

  Later, as the bus bore us into town, I felt the sudden destruction of the shuttle during its descent pattern. I couldn't tell what they'd hit it with—lasers, solar mirrors—but it went fast.

  Nervous, I'd say.

  Good.

  I decided not to keep them in suspense too much longer. The Yellow Pages and a street guide told me everything I needed. I walked to a shop where they rented me a simple bicycle, and then I headed out of town to the southeast. Moving off.

  Chapter 15

  The afternoon burned about me. I should have bought a hat, I realized, to protect my head from that sunglare. And the pedalling got to be hard work before very long.

  I followed the signs, and when I got to within a few kilometers of the facility I passed off to the side into the first patch of shade I came to, beside a high yellow and orange section of embankment at the bottom of a dip in the road. I waited there until I stopped perspiring and my breathing returned to normal. Then I waited a little longer.

  It was unfortunate that I had never visited this particular installation during my time at Angra. I had no idea as to its layout. I only knew that it covered a pretty large area. I began wondering how many people were in there now. Not too many, I guessed. When you've got a baited deathtrap ready, you like to keep the number of its operators to a minimum. It was awkward to accumulate witnesses. On the other hand, this made it likely that everyone on the premises was very dangerous. Shee-it, as Willy Boy was wont to observe.

  I walked the bike up the slope and mounted again when I reached the top.

  In the distance, I saw the place, and a high metal fence separated it from the rest of the world, like a border around a private country. There was a small security shed outside the gate toward which I was headed, but I could detect no signs of activity in or about it. There seemed to be nothing behind the fence that resembled a weapon aimed in my direction either. In fact, there was no activity at all behind the fence. The place looked deserted.

  I reached out as I rode toward it. I seemed to detect a little computer activity far off, but it was too distant to mean anything to me.

  There was scant cover beside the road, but I marked it all as I passed. A useless exercise, as it turned out. Nothing threatened my approach. I kept right on until I came up beside the shed, where I leaned the bicycle. I looked inside. No one home.

  The gate even stood obligingly ajar, opened just enough for a man on foot to slide through the space without touching anything.

  A couple of dozen meters inside, an unpretentious administration building stood, one-story, fairly new-looking, the face of efficiency. It was fronted by a small lawn, a few trees and bushes. There was also a pair of fountains, flanking the walk—demonstrating a small but conspicuous waste of energy. I heard Angra's message to the world in their soft plattering: Energy is not going to be a problem ever again. Plenty of the stuff here. If you're buying, we're selling.

  I didn't trust that gate. It was just too damned obvious a situation. I coiled forward, feeling for anything trap-like in the vicinity.

  I traced the electric sensors that held a killing voltage ready to apply across the gap whenever a human body might pass through—and the relay that at the same time would swing the gate a few inches shut, making deadly contact

  So much for the obvious. Traps within traps, wheels within wheels… All right. Some other way then.

  Back in the security shed I had seen some one-person flyers—awkward, difficult little things with rotors like helicopters, and flywheels like the new motorcycles for power and some semblance of stability. I went back and regarded them. I probed, but I could detect no booby-traps. I'd be damned if I'd try flying one in, though. One of Barbeau's hobbies had been skeet shooting.

  I jiggled the controls until I got one of them out of the shed on its own power. Then I left it hovering in mid-air and went back for another. After that, I decided on one more. Three seemed the maximum that I could manipulate, like juggling balls.

  I moved a bit nearer to the gate and readied myself.

  Then I sent one spinning aloft, high over the fence, crashed another into the fence
right near the gate and summoned the third to my side, moving as if to mount it.

  The results were spectacular.

  The fence made a noise like frying bacon and the one flyer looked amazingly like an exotic insect imbedded in a burning web. Meanwhile, there was a flash as of heat lightning from somewhere beyond the building and I heard the other flyer crash out of sight.

  Then, accompanied by metallic odors, I jammed the electric relays and rushed toward the gate on foot Only as I was passing through it, did I realize that there was a simpler, well-protected trigger that I had missed—but it had been shorted out by the flyer I had crashed into the fence. My luck, or something, was still functioning.

  I raced toward the bushes that fringed the building, as if seeking to approach it from the side or the rear—and I kept right on going. It seemed a very likely place for Willy Boy to be waiting, and I wanted to keep a lot more distance than the width of a revival tent between us.

  As I rounded the building, I saw a drainage ditch a dozen paces to my left. I ran and dove into it. No shots rang over my head. The only sound was that of a dry, wandering wind. I reached…

  Computer activity, ahead, far to the right . .

  I coiled, fast.

  I found my way into the data underpinnings for what had to be a projected map of the complex. I quickly back-translated it into mental imagery. I saw the command post—a very mechanized place—housing the computer and probably Barbeau himself, farther to the south. The presence of a helicopter, engine turning over, was indicated on the ground beside it. Was he getting ready to go aloft to try spotting me from the air? Or was it a ready means of escape if things began breaking in my favor and it suddenly became too hot for him on the premises?

  Along the way in which I was headed, I saw that there were two strategically situated buildings where ambushes had been set. I might avoid one but not both. I ignored them for the moment, for I saw that the position where I had gone to earth, my present position, was also clearly indicated. I had to do something about that fast. I traced the signal that activated the notation. It took me a while to realize where it was coming from, but when I did I raised my head a bit and viewed the thing.

  In the distance, some sort of unit was rotating atop a high tower. I got the impression that it might be doing a sonar scan of the area, tracking and registering anything above a certain size that moved.

  Okay. I had to find a way to juggle the local power supply, hit it with a surge and burn it out. This was trickier than I'd thought it would be, and it took me the better part of two minutes.

  I crawled on quickly then, postponing further scrutiny of the terrain via the computer until I'd altered my position somewhat. Another quick glance showed me that the thing on the tower had stopped rotating, and I was pleased to see that my position-marker had vanished from the map-analogue. I crawled along the ditch for over a hundred meters, passing a building which had not been shown as occupied when I had regarded the layout.

  Behind that building lay the airstrip. There were four hangars and a number of pads with 'copters upon them. On the airstrip lay the remains of the shuttle I had sent on from Carlsbad, partly melted. They had waited until it was almost on the ground before they'd wasted it. They hadn't wanted a public disaster out on public land to draw attention and reporters and emergency vehicles and crews. They wanted to keep the party private. That was all right with me, too. I found myself getting even angrier than I had been.

  No matter which direction I took from here, I would have to pass one of the ambush points in order to penetrate farther into the complex. I coiled again.

  Yes. The nearest was just beyond the next building opposite the field. The computer showed three persons waiting there, as at the other ambush point.

  I crawled a little farther, until I had interposed the nearest building directly between myself and the next one, effectively blocking any line of sight.

  Then I rose and ran, flattening myself against the side of the building when I reached it. I waited for several heartbeats, but nothing happened. I moved to the nearest window then and tried to raise it. Locked.

  I tapped it with a stone until it shattered, reached inside and unlatched it. I raised it, hoping that distance and the wind had smothered the sound.

  I climbed inside and closed it again, then moved on through toward the other side. It was some sort of electrical shop, I saw immediately from the tools and components spread along the benches which lined the walls. There was nothing among it all which might serve as a real weapon, though, so I passed quickly—past storage racks and bins to a small office area.

  I peered around the edge of the window at the building across the way. Both of its windows on the side facing me were open, and there were people inside holding what I had to assume were weapons.

  All right. The gloves were off, the brass knuckles were on.

  Dropping to the floor, I crawled to the window on the wall to my left and checked it out, also. Still nothing there but the open, barren expanse which had lain before me on the way over. I flipped the latch and raised that window, slowly.

  Then I sat down, my back against the wall, and I reached…

  Brekekekex…

  … The helicopter stirred on its pad, rose, headed this way, picking up speed. It swung into a wide curve, out over the administration building, the fence, coming back this way now, picking up speed, descending… I heard it clearly now…

  It swooped down like a dark angel and crashed full into the facing side of the adjacent building.

  I was over the sill in an instant and I hit the ground running. The earth was still vibrating from the impact, and pieces still fell about the stove-in wall. The tail assembly of the 'copter protruded, still twisting, from the dust-filled cavern it had created. I saw no signs of the ambushers as I raced on past.

  I pumped my arms and kept going. Soon the ruined building was far behind me and the other ambush point was even farther away—to the right, to my rear. I kept on. The facility stretched away for miles before me. The prospect began to widen, also, installations occurring now to my left in addition to the simpler buildings to my right, with more exotic structures towering far ahead. I felt more and more computerized activity about me as I advanced.

  Finally, I had to halt to catch my breath. I swerved toward a four-story Maypole of a power plant model, a silvery mesh of webwork hung about it like a shawl. I crouched in a recessed area behind a burnished housing, beneath a flight of steel stairs. I was afforded a distant view of a turning geodesic dome, each of its faces a different color.

  "Stephenson McFarlandl" Barbeau's voice boomed, and echoes of the words came from all over the installation.

  I saw that there was a bitch-box bolted to an upright along the stair just above my head, a part of a general public address system covering the entire complex, it seemed.

  "Stephenson McFarlandl"

  … I'd recognized it at once as my proper name. And hearing it seemed to cause all of the remaining pieces of my memory to fall into their proper places…

  "I'd like to call this whole thing off right now," Barbeau stated. "I made a mistake, Steve—back at the Philly airport. I'm sorry for that and I want to apologize. I don't want to kill you now. Listen to me. You can see that I wouldn't want such a thing any more. I had no idea how much you'd—changed."

  Ha! Good to have him sweating it now. He'd never have chosen a place like this for our confrontation had he realized what I could do with the machines. And I had just taken away his helicopter so that he couldn't flee easily. I'd bet he'd like to have me back on his side.

  "… Surely you can see that I want you alive now," he continued. "It would be impossible for me to want you otherwise, under the present circumstances. Especially now that Ann's been lost to us. You've got a really good future waiting for you with Angra…"

  I coiled into his computer again—a rush of colored lights—and I refrained from using the CRT display on which he was seeking me on grid after grid�
�apparently as yet unaware that I had knocked out his sonar eye—for purposes of transmitting an overprinted obscenity I had strongly in mind. Instead, I sought after any building that was heavily monitored. There was such a place, and I plunged into its systems.

  CORA. She had entered her name into the local unit through which she must communicate with her captors. Of course, it was enough. She must know something about my abilities now, doubtless a result of many questions she had been asked. I wondered what her mind now held concerning me. It came to me as a real shock then, how much I must have changed during the past few days. For me it was simply remembering, but—I realized that I was no longer the man she had known down in the Keys. He had been something of a vegetable so far as I was now concerned, but a fraction of myself. I was smarter and tougher and—probably somewhat nastier. Would she still care about me if she knew what I was really like? It mattered, quite a bit, for I realized that, if anything, I cared even more for her now.

  Tentatively, with something like fear, I took over control of the home unit with the tv screen which seemed there to entertain her and through which she was watched. The overprint trick I had almost used to swear at Barbeau served me then.

  CORA. ARE YOU ALL RIGHT? DON, I caused it to display.

  It was almost a minute before she noticed it, during which time I was subjected to more of Barbeau's pleas that I listen to reason, that I rejoin the team…

  When she spotted my message she activated the keyboard through which she controlled the environment of her prison, requested special programming, communicated with her captors…

  YES, she typed. WHERE ARE YOU?

  SOMEWHERE NEAR, I THINK. WHERE ARE YOU?

  She typed: