Red Limit Freeway s-2

by John Dechancie

  "Roger."

  "Carl, can you keep that thing low to the ground so that the effect doesn't extend very far up?"

  "It doesn't float too far off the ground, Jake. But it might knock out your radar… scanners, I mean."

  "Just so it doesn't knock out the missiles' homing mechanisms."

  "I can't promise that."

  "We don't have much to lose by trying. Moore seems to have it over us in the black box department. Unaided, our missiles'll never hit him. So, stand by to fire that thing. Okay?"

  "Will do."

  "Sam?"

  "Ready, Jake. All targeted."

  "Fire away."

  "Missiles off."

  A series of loud whooshes came from the roof of the cab.

  "Gimme the skyband again, and tell Carl to fire the Green Balloon when the missiles reach the apex of their trajectories."

  "Gotcha."

  "Breaker, breaker. You still back there, Moore?"

  "Indeed we are. What can I do for you?"

  "You can take a look at your scanners and see death."

  "Jake, those old firecrackers of yours don't worry us at all. We're just waiting for that roller to go completely to pieces. Won't be long. You're leaving chunks of it all over the road."

  "There's gonna be pieces of you all over the road, goodbuddy. Are you sure you see those missiles?"

  "Clear as day. And you didn't fool us any by giving them a ballistic curve instead of cruising them. Actually, it doesn't make much difference―"

  Suddenly, everything went out. The instrument lights flickered, went out, came back on. The scanner screens went blank for a moment. The engine powered down, groaned, sighed, and then came back to life.

  "We just caught the edge of the effect zone," Sam said. "I zonked out there for a second."

  "You okay?"

  "Yeah. Missiles seem to be on course. Looks like our friends are trying to take evasive action." Sam laughed wickedly. "Fat lot of good it'll do 'em. They're blind, and it looks like their engines have quit on 'em too. They won't be able to roll out of the zone in time. Unless…"

  "What?"

  "Damn."

  "What, what?" I said.

  "We were on a curve when Carl fired. I don't have an accurate fix on that thing, though I'm painting some fuzzy stuff that might be it. It looks as though it's drifting off. They may get out of the effect zone just in time."

  "Oh, hell."

  "We'll know in a few… Yeah, looks like they're back on full power, and they're starting to fire. Five seconds to impact.

  "Four… three… two… Huh?"

  I shot a glance into the rearview parabolic, couldn't see anything. "What happened, Sam?"

  "Son of a brick. Those missiles detonated before impact. All of 'em, all at once."

  "That's impossible."

  "Yeah? How come it happened? I'm not entirely sure they detonated, but they all disappeared from the scope in a flash."

  "Moore couldn't have done that," I said. "He would've got some of them, but not all of them in one clean sweep."

  "I think you're right. They were just about to be hit hard when it happened. Two more seconds and we would've got 'em. Hell. There goes the fuel on the drone. I'll have to recover it."

  "Send up Number Two drone," I told him.

  "Going up right now,"

  "I'm going to slow down." I reached for the band selector switch. "Carl?"

  "Yeah."

  "Feather back a little. Want to see what the hell happened back there, and this roller's going to go any minute."

  "Okay."

  "Sam, do you see anything?"

  "They've dropped back."

  "Maybe we did get 'em."

  "Don't see how. Those missiles airbursting over them wouldn't've done any damage."

  "Well, they're not following and that's all I care about."

  I noticed that the terrain had changed. We were out of the swamps and onto rolling plains of purple grass. The portal cylinders were gray-black stumps against a gray horizon. We still had time to check on Sam and Liam without having to stop.

  "Roland!" I yelled. "Unstrap, go back, and unbolt the hatch to the crawl tube. Get back to that trailer fast!"

  "Right!"

  "Hold it a minute, Roland!" Sam shouted. "Something coming up. Right, and I think this'll explain what happened to the missiles."

  "A Roadbug?"

  "Yeah, looks like one."

  "You think it intervened?"

  "Yup. They don't like rowdy behavior on their road."

  "I hope it's in a lenient mood today."

  Roadbug behavior was difficult to predict. They were traffic cops, theoretically with only one law to enforce: "Thou shalt not close the road, nor interrupt traffic in any way on any section thereof." As in any legal system, however, judgment sometimes turned on interpretation. Running battles on the road often were tolerated, but in some cases a Roadbug might blast one or the other of the warring parties if it detected a general pattern of illegal activity. In other words, you couldn't just gavel the Skyway taking potshots at anybody and everybody. Sooner or later the Bugs would get wise―there was no doubt that they kept files on specific vehicles, perhaps on all vehicles regularly using the road―and you'd get stomped. Flat. The Roadbugs were notorious for conducting quickie trials on the run, taking testimony from both suspects and witnesses, and rendering summary justice. These decisions were irreversible; there was no court of appeal.

  Who were they? What were they? Roadbuilder machines? Or were they the Roadbuilders themselves? Nobody knew.

  "It's a Bug, all right," Sam announced.

  Since the rearview camera was out, I looked out the port at the parabolic mirror. Within the converging edges of the mad behind us, a silver blob was swelling rapidly to take on the shape of a Skyway Patrol vehicle. Their speeds were always fantastic. Sometimes they would overtake you at such a terrific clip that the shock wave would nearly send you sailing out of control. This one appeared to be decelerating, as usual at a bone-pulping rate. I slowed. Doubtless the Bug wanted a chat with us. Pass the time of day.

  "Son, tell the truth. Always best when you're dealing with Bugs."

  "Yes, Daddy."

  "Don't get smart. Yep, here's his hailing signal. I'll put him on the cabin speaker."

  "OCCUPANTS OF COMMERCIAL VEHICLE: YOU WILL PROCEED AT ONCE TO THE NEXT SECTION."

  The Roadbug's voice was like a needle through the eardrums. Imagine all the unpleasant noises you can: the creak of chalk against a blackboard, the tearing of metal, the snap of bone, the crash of vehicles colliding, the buzz of a vibrosaw. Take those waveforms and bunch them up around the extremes of the audible range, then superimpose a ghastly, nonhuman voice over top. The description is inadequate. I suppressed a shudder, and tried to answer in a calm voice.

  "Following your order will cause us hardship and put us in danger."

  A pause. Then: "EXPLAIN."

  "This portal will take us away from our planned route and leave us stranded. We have no maps for that section. Also, we have a dangerously defective roller."

  The Roadbug pulled alongside us. It looked like an immense silver beetle, its surface featureless and glossy. Blotting out the sky to our left, it drew close for an inspection of the roller. As if to demonstrate, the roller obliged by throwing off another huge chunk of itself. Apparently satisfied, the Bug edged away.

  "DEFECTIVE COMPONENT CONFIRMED. NEVERTHELESS, YOU WILL PROCEED TO THE NEXT SECTION. WE WILL ASSIST."

  I squelched the mike. "Goddammit," I said. "Sam? Can you think of anything?"

  "Ask him why," Sam said. "Ask nice."

  I reopened the mike. "We respectfully request the reasons for your order."

  "YOUR RECENT CONDUCT ON THIS SECTION HAS BEEN DEEMED POTENTIALLY DISRUPTIVE OF TRAFFIC FLOW. YOU MUST BE SEPARATED FROM YOUR OPPONENTS."

  "We were fired on without provocation."

  "THAT IS OF NO CONCERN. YOU WILL PROCEED TO THE NEXT SECTION OF ROAD. INCREA
SE YOUR SPEED AND PREPARE FOR TRANSITION. YOUR OPPONENTS WILL NOT FOLLOW."

  "Dammit it! I said we'd be stranded?"

  "THAT IS OF NO CONCERN. END OF TRANSMISSION."

  "Fuck you." Sometimes I prefer good old Anglo-Saxon.

  The Roadbug dropped back, moved behind us, and inched up until it was tailgating.

  "And we don't even get a phonecall to our solicitor," Sam said.

  I nodded and heaved a sigh. We were being sentenced, banished to the far side of a potluck portal with no hope of appeal. I had heard of Roadbugs doing this, but had never thought it would happen to me. I looked back at my passengers.

  Well, it wasn't only happening to me. I looked at the road ahead. The cylinders were almost upon us. I had no choice. It was either shoot the potluck―the Roadbug version, of a commuted death sentence―or get smeared.

  But there still was the matter of the failed roller. As our speed increased, it began tossing off pieces of itself with abandon, trailing a snowy plume of powder. This might be a death sentence after all. That roller was ready to break apart any moment.

  "Take her through at minimum speed, son. Steady as she goes."

  "Right. I'll need every assist."

  "I'm right with you."

  "Dad, I don't think we're going to make it this time."

  "I'll be with you every step of the way, son."

  The instrument panel was adance with flashing red lights. The landscape whizzed by in a purple blur.

  "People," I announced. "No way I can take this rig through a portal with a failed roller. Unless the Bug makes good on the assist promise―and I don't see how he can―this could be it. I thought you should know."

  I glanced back again. Susan was white-upped and pale, John grim but steady-eyed.

  "We'll make it, Jake," Roland told me. "We have to."

  "Do our best."

  Darla…

  I turned around once more. Darla was smiling at me! Those ionospheric blue eyes glowed with the strangest light. I saw eternity in them. My destiny.

  I blinked my eyes and the smile was gone. I had glanced back for the barest fraction of a second. Now I wasn't sure if I had seen her smile at all.

  The rig lurched to the left and I fought to keep us on the road. The commit markers―two red-painted-metal rods to either side of the roadbed―went by almost before I caught sight of them. I had to straighten out… now!

  The roller started breaking up, deep fracture lines opening up along its surface, shooting out blizzards of white powder.

  "Dad! Is there anything on the other side?"

  "Of the portal?"

  "No. Life."

  Sam didn't have rime to answer. Suddenly… everything was normal.

  It was as if a huge hand had grabbed the rig and steadied it. Warning lights still flashed, the roller continued its breakup, but our course was true and steady. We were right in the groove. The guide lane markers came up and we were smack in the middle of them. The cylinders marched by, two by two, then the aperture assumed its vague shape out of the optical miasma ahead. We slid neatly into it.

  Then the Roadbug let us go. The roller flew apart in an explosion of snow and ice, sending the rig careening toward the wind-combed dunes lying along the road. We hit sand and the sudden deceleration popped our eyeballs and crushed our chests. I hit the antifishtail jets, torqued up the antijacknife servo and kept us straight for a hundred meters. Angular momentum was conserving all over the place, dragging us back in the direction of the roadway, but the trailer didn't want to follow. The cab bumped over the lip of the berm. I straightened out, but the trailer still angled to the left, burying its back end into the sand. It would either tip over or fall in behind eventually. I didn't wait for it to make up its mind; I accelerated, flipped up the safety door covering the quick-release toggle and reached in, crooking two fingers over the ring. Gradually, the trailer swung back into line. I braked-which was a very difficult proposition because there was almost nothing left of the bad roller. Stripped to its yellow, spongy core, it whumped and bumped over the road, flop flop flop flop flop flop, again causing us to veer to the left. I had no intention of going off road again. I disconnected the front rollers from the braking system and juiced up the rear set. But it was still rough going. The cab shifted suddenly, listing to the left, and sparks began to fly as the edge of the ground-effect vane touched roadmetal. I was able to handle the drag factor, though, and we were coasting nicely to stop when the Roadbug lost patience and whoosed by us in an incredible burst of acceleration.

  I don't remember what happened next, exactly. We were all over the road, then we were in the sand again, then out of it, and back in once more. Plumes of yellow sand arced up, covering the forward port.

  Finally, we came to a stop. The side port was clear, and I could see that we were more or less upright. The front end was buried halfway up the aerodynamic engine housing. I activated the washers on the front ports and soon we could see ahead. The rig had run itself aground with a vengeance. Ordinarily, this would have presented no difficulty. With two good front rollers, we could detach the trailer, tow it out, then hack the cab out with no problem-if we had a tow truck, and if we had two good front rollers.

  Out on the road, Carl came screeching to a stop, pulling off onto the shoulder lane.

  "Jake, are you guys okay?"

  I looked back. Nobody seemed to be damaged. Everybody nodded. "Yeah, we're okay. Considering."

  "What about Sean and Liam?"

  "Holy shit!"

  Roland had already unstrapped and was making his way to the aft-cabin. I tore off my harness and followed.

  "Roland, wait" I said. "Sam! How's the air out there?"

  "Earth normal!"

  "Unbelievable. Luck at last. Roland, you go out through the cabin and try to get in through the back door. I'll go through the crawl tube. There may be damage back there."

  "Right!"

  I unbolted the hatch, got down on all fours, and scurried through the accordion-walled access tube. The far hatch was okay. I undogged it, slid through, did a somersault and got to my feet. It was dark. I smelled smoke, but couldn't see any damage back in the egg-crate section. I jumped over a few boxes, slithered through a maze of crates, sidling my way to the rear. There was daylight coming from back there.

  "Have a beer, Jake?"

  Sean and Liam lay sprawled in a jumble of boxes and loose junk. Beer bottles had broken, foam creeping everywhere. Their roadster was covered with debris, but otherwise undamaged. Sean sat up, waving an unbroken bottle in salute.

  Roland came climbing over the junk.

  "Are they all right?"

  "Right you are, Roland, my friend!" Sean called. He broke the neck of the bottle against a metal crate, put the jagged end to his lips and took a drink.

  He smiled pleasantly. "Have we stopped for lunch?"

  Chapter 10

  Near as I could figure it, the mortar shell had detonated a meter or so in front of the rear door as the door was sliding shut. The blast had buckled it, and it was stuck about two-thirds of the way dawn. The ramp was bent and could not be retracted manually. Minor damage, really, considering what could have happened. The door had absorbed most of the concussion, and Ariadne had been well inside the trailer when it had hit. In fact, Ariadne's brakes were in as good shape as the rest of her―Sean had had trouble stopping, with the result that some of the cargo had been unartfully rearranged. No great damage here either, except far six or seven smashed cases of beer. The astronomical gear in the egg-crate section was untouched, thank God.

  Of course damage was the least of our worries. We were marooned on the far side of a hope-to-Jesus hole. You don't get a round-trip ticket when you go through one of those.

  But we still had one operable vehicle, Carl's car-well, one and a half, if you — counted the crippled Ariadne. After lengthy debate, we decided to send out a scouting party to find out if this world was inhabited, and by whom. If it turned out that nobody lived here, we'd be fac
ed with the ticklish option of shooting a portal, gambling that it wasn't a one-way shot. We could do that until we found an inhabited planet and help. The Great Debate was really about who should go and who should stay behind.

  "But nobody has to stay behind if we use both vehicles," Sean protested.

  "Trouble is," I countered, "that auxiliary engine of yours breathes air. What if we hit a non-oxy world"

  "Well, yes, it would be a problem. Didn't think of it."

  "But we can't all fit into the Chevy," John put in. "Can we? There are ten of us."

  "With a little shoving, we could," Carl said. "I think it's the best way to go."

  "It may be the only way to go," I said. "I don't want to leave anyone stranded here… including Sam. I'll stay."

  "Jake, you can't," Darla said.

  "Forget it, Jake," Sam said. "Just take out my VEM and put it in your pocket. You'll find something to load me into eventually."

  "And leave behind all your programming? To say nothing of the rig? Nothing doing, Sam," I said. "You people squeeze in that buggy and take off. Sam and I will be all right."

  "You'd have us leave behind the leader of this expedition?" Roland said mock-indignantly. "Not likely."

  "I seem to have the knack of leading this expedition into one disaster after another," I said. "Besides, if I am the leader, you should follow my orders without question."

  "Every order but that one, I'm afraid," John said apologetically. "Sorry, Jake, but I suppose I've finally come 'round to Roland's way of thinking. As far as I can see, everything has den going according to Plan."

  Again, the Teleologist buzz word. Their constant use of it had always bothered me, but now, in the stuffiness of the overcrowded aft-cabin, it was beginning to rankle.

  "You know," l said, "almost by definition, anything that happens is part of the 'Plan.' Hasn't it ever occurred to you that your reasoning is a little specious, logically speaking?"

  "Looking at it from a traditional viewpoint, yes, perhaps it is specious. But Teleological Pantheism is a process whereby one learns to adapt to different viewpoints. From a different perspective, you can view the entire history of logical discourse as leading to but one conclusion-that truth, ultimately and finally, transcends reason."