by Ted Weber
Kiyoko’s face morphed from incredulity to sadness to fury. “Get out of my room. I hate you.”
“You what?” The fog returned. Kiyoko, her sister, her only family. Pel, he hated her too. They all did. No. Come back later, and you can destroy me all you like.
Someone—Kiyoko—pushed her out the door. “Get out, crazy fucking bitch!”
She was back in the hall. The door slammed and she heard it lock.
“Kiyoko!” Tears blurred her vision. She threw her shoulder against the door, but it held—all the doors in this house were solid wood. “Kiyoko!”
Pel grabbed her right hand. Charles stood behind him, holding a bedsheet wadded into a big ball.
“We’ve gotta go,” Pel said. “Right now.”
“No, not without my sister.” She pounded the door with the side of her fist.
No response.
Pel seized her by the arm. “We’ve gotta get Charles out of here.”
She tried to shake him off, but he wouldn’t let go. “Kiyoko won’t come.”
“She’ll be okay, she didn’t do anything.” Pel pulled her away and led them downstairs.
When they reached the living room she heard screeching tires and car doors opening and closing. Their dog Laelaps—at least it sounded like him—started barking.
It couldn’t possibly have been fifteen minutes, could it?
* * *
Dingo
M-pat parked his black Honda across the street from the band house. Dingo threw on his data glasses. Mrs. Lockton had begged them not to leave her alone with her abusive husband. They tossed him out and told her they’d be back as soon as they could.
Two black tire-shaped objects—the ones Pel called Watchers—hovered over the house. The RV was still in the yard. Bad.
As soon as they got out of the car, Dingo saw the first police cruisers coming south down the long road into the neighborhood, sirens off but lights flashing. One of BPD’s toy helicopters flew overhead. Then from the west, unmarked black SUVs and town cars turned into the cross street, one after the other.
Dingo stood with M-pat in front of the Honda, watching the police arrive. “We gotta delay the po-boys.”
M-pat frowned. “How we gonna do that?”
“I don’t know, you’re the chief.” Dingo activated his data glasses. “DG, call Pel.”
No answer. Either they’d escaped on foot or they hadn’t gotten out yet and were busy scrambling around. Maybe Kiyoko insisted on feeding the cat first.
The lead cop cars and SUVs screeched to a halt alongside the house on both sides of the lot facing streets. The following vehicles, at least a dozen in total, stopped behind them. Doors opened and thugs poured out: men and women in police uniforms, grey suits, or baseball caps and windbreakers with three-letter obscenities like FBI or ATF, new divisions of Homeland Security. Most wore bulletproof jackets and pants and carried shotguns or pistols.
A military-style armored troop carrier pulled up and discharged men in full body armor and helmets. They brandished automatic weapons or sniper rifles and ran to positions on either side of the house. The biggest bullyboy carried a black battering ram with both hands.
“Stay here,” M-pat said. “I’ll handle this. You’ll just make things worse.”
“You got it, boss man.” He’d never seen Authority this serious, except in broadcasts where they were bombing compounds in Africa or Latin America. He turned up the microphone gain on his data glasses and pointed the voice tube at them.
A middle-aged white man in a suit seemed to be in charge, moving his hands around and talking into a headset mike. M-pat approached him. He was surrounded by police before he got close.
“Name’s M’patanishi,” he said in a loud, clear voice to the highest ranking badge.
“I’m the chief facilitator of this neighborhood. Can you tell me what’s goin’ on?”
“Police business. Get lost.”
“Excuse me, SIR, but the city council recognizes me as an authority here, so I will not get lost, as you put it.”
“Get lost,” another police thug said, “or we’re arresting you.”
Pel’s voice sounded in his ear canal. “We’re leaving now.”
Dingo moved back behind the Honda and scanned the streets with his data glasses, feeding the video to Pel. “You’re surrounded. Sort of. They’re on both streets by the house but they haven’t moved in. You can still get out the alley.” A narrow alley ran between the backyards on their block and stretched from one side of the neighborhood to the other. So far, the police hadn’t seemed to notice it, or maybe they would hit it on foot once they got positioned.
“Looks grim. Thanks for the tip.”
“I’ll distract them. Wait for the commotion.” He clicked off the connection and walked down the cross street, away from the band house and the cops. Once out of sight, he hopped a short chain link fence into their neighbors’ back yard. Home of the Johnsons—husband, wife, three kids. Their mangy golden retriever ran up to him, tail wagging.
“Not now, Killer.” He opened his backpack—his bag o’ tricks—pulled out the Dick Clark mask, and slipped it on. Good thing I kept it. A pair of transparent gloves followed.
As Dick Clark, superhero from beyond death itself, Dingo walked briskly up the narrow side yard, then casually into the front yard. He saw two columns of unattended police cars. Time for a joyride.
A cop cuffed M-pat, who didn’t offer any resistance. He could Krav Maga their asses, why’s he being such a pussy?
Dingo opened the Johnsons’ front gate and strolled over to the nearest unattended BPD cruiser. It was empty, key still in the ignition, power still on, no one paying attention. He opened the driver’s side door and slipped in, dumping his backpack on the passenger floor.
The control console looked just like a Comnet interface, a big touch-screen with all kinds of graphics displayed—speed, engine status, cameras, communications… Forward/Park/Reverse joystick was obvious, positioned right next to the driver’s seat. Dingo took the cruiser out of Park and creeped down the road, away from the band house. The car made no noise—hybrid motor used electric mode at low speeds.
So far, so good. He switched the radio to satellite and downloaded a classic rap anthem, NWA’s “Fuck tha Police.” He turned into a driveway, then reversed back into the street, facing the band house now.
Some of the Authority thugs stared at him. One of the others held M-pat’s Glock, the one he kept in his concealed holster. The high-ranking cop yelled at M-pat. He didn’t seem remotely fazed. He had a permit for it, after all, and Baltimore was a pretty dangerous place.
Dingo started the song and swiped the volume slider to max. Drums, bass, and shouted rhymes rattled his brain like the shaker ball in a can of spray paint. Bad ass speakers for a cop car. He drove slowly past the line of police vehicles and officers standing outside, middle finger raised in salute.
Living with musicians and all, Dingo occasionally wrote his own street poetry. He clicked on the mike to the megaphone mounted on the squad car roof, and put it to his lips. Middle finger still extended, he shouted out his own lyrics for “Fuck Tha Police,” keeping rhythm with NWA’s bass and drums.
Fuck tha police, cuz I sho’ ain’t a one
To respect fuckin’ fascists, cuz they got a badge and gun.
Oinkin’ on some donuts, then you come here and harass.
Put them guns away, I’ll kick your sorry ass.
Fuck tha police…
The entire contingent stared at him, from street thug to Master Suit himself. They seemed to have no idea what to do. Then, all at once, they reacted, pointing their guns at him, telling him to stop, and jumping in their cars.
Dingo mashed the accelerator down to the floor. The car took off like a rocket.
“Let the game begin!” he screamed over the pounding of the car speakers, houses flying by.
Pelopidas
Pel flipped through the camera views on their living room wall scre
en. He had retrieved his data glasses, but the cameras were hard-wired to thwart signal jamming.
The alley looked clear, just as Dingo said. Laelaps barked and barked at the intruders outside their side fence.
Waylee was right. They should have taken off last night when the Watcher returned. We’re totally unprepared. How the fuck did they find us?
Charles stared at him with wide eyes. His data gloves shook. “What do we do? We can’t leave Kiyoko.”
Waylee glanced back toward the stairs.
“She’ll be fine,” Pel said. “Let’s focus.”
Loud rap music blared from the front street, getting closer. Fuck tha Police. It had to be Dingo.
Pel switched to the camera covering the front. Dick Clark drove a police cruiser slowly past the assembled cops, blasting defiance, his middle finger extended.
Pel couldn’t help but laugh.
Neither could Charles.
Waylee, though, looked about ready to cry. “All our planning for nothing…”
The entire besieging force seemed to forget about the house. Most of the BPD officers ran for their cars. Dick Clark took off with half a dozen police cruisers in pursuit.
Pel switched to the back camera. Still clear. “Let’s go. No noise.” He put on his data glasses.
He unlocked a window on the side facing their next door neighbor, and pushed it open for the first time in months. The front of the RV lay just beyond. He slung the big duffel bag of gear and data cubes around his neck, then scrambled through the opening.
Charles followed, but got caught on the sill. Pel grabbed his arms and Waylee lifted from behind, and he tumbled to the ground.
Waylee came through last, gripping Charles’s bedsheet bundle, her face listless. She handed the sheets to Charles and closed the window behind her. They huddled in front of the RV, invisible from the street—at least for the moment.
Pel peeked around the side. Between the house and the RV, he could only see a narrow sliver of road. No cops there. He motioned with his arm and inched to the front passenger door.
He tried to yank the old fashioned keys out of his jeans, but he’d stuffed his comlink in the same pocket, and his fingers couldn’t get past it. You’ve gotta be kidding.
He took a deep breath, then fished out the comlink, then the keys. He glanced at the street again. Still no one visible, but he heard shouting and heavy footsteps.
Hand trembling, he unlocked the door. He jumped inside.
Charles followed, then Waylee. She closed the door, the noise barely audible.
Maybe we should stay here. Maybe the cops wouldn’t think to search the RV. Of course they will.
Pel climbed into the driver’s seat and slipped the key in the ignition. He glanced at Waylee, sitting shotgun.
She looked back, her eyes desperate, then opened the navigation program on her comlink. Charles huddled on the floor between them.
Ok. Here goes. Pel twisted the key to the right. The engine roared to life, loud and obvious.
He heard shouts, but didn’t look back. He slammed the accelerator down. In the side mirrors, the rear wheels threw up dirt and dead leaves.
Laelaps barked louder.
With the PowerPack and turbocharger, their RV had twice the torque of a stock model. But still it barely moved, lumbering down the side yard like an elephant. Come on, you bastard.
More shouts and barking. He heard gunshots, then a yelp.
Laelaps. I’m so sorry.
“Stop!” not far behind them.
His right foot stayed put. The RV knocked one of their rain barrels off its concrete block platform. It bounced off the front grill ahead of them, trailing hoses that smacked against the windshield like tentacles.
They entered the back yard, which was big by Baltimore standards. He drove right through the vegetable garden, crushing and mangling their winter greens. He aimed for the back fence, between two poles. They were going fast now, hopefully fast enough to get out. Momentum was a function of weight too, and the RV was heavy.
They smacked into the chain link fence and knocked over a big section.
More shouts and gunshots.
They were in the alley now, but he couldn’t turn the RV quick enough, and it smashed into their back neighbor’s fence, flattening it too.
He hit the brakes, then threw the vehicle into reverse.
“Cops are running after us,” Waylee shouted. “Go, goddamn it.”
“I’m trying.” He shifted into forward, yanked the steering wheel all the way to the left, and stepped on the accelerator again. Fence fragments and vines scraped down the right side as they fishtailed into the alley. “You’ll have to repaint,” he said to Waylee as he fought to straighten the beast.
Ahead, the alley ran two blocks to the road that would take them out of the neighborhood. It was barely wide enough for the RV. He floored the accelerator and they picked up speed.
More gunshots. He heard smacks against the back of the RV. Charles hugged the floor. Were they crazy, shooting guns like that in a residential neighborhood? He and Waylee had nothing to fire back with, not that either one of them could shoot anyway.
They barreled down the alleyway, bouncing over potholes, no one visible in the yards or houses on either side. A good thing – if someone stepped into the alley, he wouldn’t be able to stop in time.
He heard sirens to the left. Cops had gotten back in their cars. He glanced at the outside mirror. A black town car, flashing blue light on the dashboard, had entered the alleyway but gotten hung up in the broken fences. Hah!
Returning his eyes ahead, tree branches crossed the alleyway just above eye level. He winced as they collided. Branches bent and snapped and leaves flew everywhere.
The alleyway widened at the next block. Here, people parked their cars on concrete pads in back of their houses. An elderly African-American woman, Mrs. Henson, was hanging up laundry in her backyard. She cast wide eyes at them as they passed.
The alley ended ahead at the street that separated the neighborhood residences from a sprawling complex of warehouses and machine shops to the south. The local Baptist church blocked the view to the left and a two-story apartment building blocked it to the right, but he didn’t have time to stop and watch for traffic. He swung the steering wheel to the left and the RV screeched onto the street, tipping off its right wheels. The rear swung out of control. Next to him, Waylee gasped, then the RV plopped down again with a jolt.
No traffic—everyone was at work—but the sirens were closer now. Pel wrestled the RV back into position, then stepped on the gas again. They passed the street their house fronted. Police cruisers—two or three—accelerated toward him, overhead lights flashing and sirens blaring.
Fuck. We’ll never outrun those things. “DG, navigation.”
A local map appeared in his vision, charting a path through the adjacent industrial park. The plan was to ditch the RV and hoof it, but they’d have to lose the pursuit.
To the right, a featureless warehouse wall rose directly against the street. Ahead, the road sloped down toward the Gwynn’s Falls river valley. As soon as he passed the last side street, he pulled a knob hanging a few inches from the cab roof.
The knob released a hook, and a wide tray mounted on the roof sprang up and catapulted a hundred caltrops he’d snipped and bent from sheet metal. They bounced all over the road behind him and pointed razor-sharp edges toward the sky.
He heard two loud pops. In the mirror, a cop car with flashing lights skidded to a halt. The one behind swerved to avoid it, and its tires blew out too. The others slammed on their brakes.
“Fuck yeah!” Their pursuers would have to backtrack over half a mile to get around his trap.
Next to him, Waylee frowned. “One of those drones is following us.”
Pel tilted the side mirrors up and saw a Watcher behind and twenty to thirty feet above. He shouted over his shoulder, “Charles, stay out of sight.” Nothing to do but keep driving. “Waylee, which way sho
uld I go?” He didn’t dare look at her again, had to keep his eyes on the road.
“The interstate’s only two more blocks.”
“Yeah, but there’s no on-ramp here. Besides, we can’t exactly hide this thing on the interstate.”
“We’re fucked,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“Focus.” The road turned abruptly to the right. “How do we lose that Watcher?”
“Underground?” she said.
“What?”
“The storm drains.”
* * *
Dingo
Dingo was pretty sure this was the most fun he’d ever had in his life. Better than sex or drugs or both together with a band playing a few feet away. Every cell of his body screamed with the sheer joy of being alive.
He whipped the police cruiser to the right, out of their neighborhood onto U.S. 1. Toward the heart of Baltimore. Maybe it would have been better to go the other way. Too late now.
He switched on the vehicle’s cameras—one inside, pointing at him, and two exterior, one pointed forward and the other behind. He wasn’t Pel, and definitely not Charles, but he’d picked up enough skills to do what he needed. And the control interface had an audible command mode. Taxpayer dollars well spent.
“Broadcast on Comnet. All cameras and microphones.”
Some lights went on. He was live. He linked the communications to the public forums, making sure to include /snarknet, and called out every tag he could think of.
“Listen up, yo-yos,” he said then, looking into the interior camera but watching the road sufficiently to dodge cars who were too slow to get out of the way. “This here’s Dick Clark, rockin’ you out from beyond the grave, broadcasting live from a borrowed BPD car.”
The rear camera showed a good half dozen, maybe more, cop cars trying to keep up with him. “Unfortunately, you missed the best part, dear viewers, where I drove by a huge gathering of Authority thugs, and gave them the finger to feast their eyes on and an earful of anthem to rock their sorry world. You, dear viewers, should do the same. Give Authority the finger every chance you get.”
The four lane road was pretty empty headed downtown. He sped over Gwynn’s Falls and past the MediaCorp billboard he tagged or set on fire whenever he got the chance. Speedometer read 110. Fuck yeah!
