But I knew very little of what had been happening lately, having sworn off listening to news feeds long ago. T-Maze is big, thank God, and the Authority’s chubby fingers could not reach everywhere, nor could they control the Skyway, which has a life all its own. There were undercurrents of rebellion out here, to be sure, at the grassroots level, but this Roadmap affair spoke of vastly larger dimensions. Some sort of struggle for ownership of the map was going on, both inter- and intraMaze. It was a hunt, and many were riding to hounds. Call me Reynard.
And then there was Darla to think about…
There was a mirror above the wash basin. It was flush with the wall and rung hollow when knocked upon. Doubtless it hadn’t been put there with the prisoner’s cosmetic needs at heart. I was staring into the blind side of a one-way observation window, but that didn’t bother me. What did was the sight of my reflection, a thirty-five-year-old face on a chronologically fifty-three-year-old body that was gradually winning its war of attrition against antigeronic drugs. The face had aged some. People say I look perennially boyish, but the child was sire to the old gent I looked at now, wrinkle lines at the corners of the eyes, black curly hair gone dry and a tad thinner, jowls going slack and pendulous, skin a little more leathery, splotched, beardline more definite, its shadowy stubble more intractable.
Then again, I thought, I might just need a shave and a hot shower. I angled my face to get a profile shot. “Good profile,” Mom always told me. “Strong.” But what was that puffy area under there—the beginnings of a double chin?
Enough. I lay back down. Self-absorption is not my usual brand of neurosis; besides, I felt a sudden headache coming on.
I wondered if I could afford the luxury of regretting the escape attempt. The cop I had shot would probably pull through okay if they had gotten him to a hospital in time. But an escape/assault charge was going to be hard to beat. The only thing I had going for me was the illegality of my detention, but I had the feeling it wouldn’t go very far. Then there was the hit-and-run charge. True, I hadn’t been driving, but drivers are responsible for their automatic systems…
Damn, that headache was in a hurry. I heard a curious buzzing sound coming from behind my head, and it stayed there no matter which way I turned. It quickly grew louder and louder. I sat up, feeling suddenly nauseous and dizzy. I put my head between my knees, but that only made it worse. The buzzing became deafening, as if someone were tearing through sheet metal with a vibrosaw directly behind my neck. Blood pounded in my head and I could see the pulse in my field of vision.
Well, this is it. Heart attack or stroke. Antigeronic treatments or not, the body has ways of extracting its dues from you. I hoped somebody was watching through the window. Petrovsky seemed to want me alive. Maybe he’d convince Elmo I was worth bothering to cart off to the hospital.
I slumped back against the wall.
…keep me alive, Petrovsky being the dedicated professional that he was, but going around with one of those isohearts; well, I didn’t know about that… They still hadn’t perfected them—tendency to go into fibrillation without warning; they didn’t know exactly what the problem was, probably a mismatched enzyme that hadn’t replicated true…
I was awake, wide-awake. The cell door was open.
I shot to my feet. Someone had just been in here, doing something to me. What? There was a tingling on my upper arm, calling card of a tickler. It doesn’t leave a mark, but my jacket had been pulled down off my left shoulder. I still had no shirt. I hadn’t been out cold—the state had been like Semidoze, but very unpleasant at first, then a vapid nirvana. I had the distinct recollection of someone bending over me while I was sitting there, and I hadn’t even given him a glance; as if it hadn’t been important enough to trouble myself. But I had seen, out of the corner of my eye or with some part of my perceptive gear, a familiar face. Very much so, but the face had been a blank, a hole in the cognitive field, a missing datum. I tried to fill in that blank, but I couldn’t. The recognition signal was blocked somehow, lodged in the preconscious. I knew, damn it. I knew who it was, but I couldn’t say it.
But there was no time now. I walked out of the cell.
The turnkey was on duty at his desk, with one side of his face down in a plate of stew, eyes open, staring. Quietly, I lifted his master key, went over to the door and waved it at the code plate, and let myself out of the cell block.
Everyone in the station was out but me. Wide-eyed bodies littered the corridors, office workers were slumped over consoles. Cops sat against walls, leaned on doorjambs with their guns drawn, looking at them stupidly, transfixed. In one office a printer had been left on and was spewing out reams of hard copy in a continuous roll, piling up on the floor. From the size of the pile I guessed that everyone had been out for ten minutes at least.
I was looking for Petrovsky’s office, or failing that, trying to find where they stored prisoners’ valuables, or where they kept evidence. I needed Sam’s key. Nobody showed signs of coming to yet, but I hurried, running through the maze of white aseptic hallways, glancing into rooms and dashing off again. Reilly’s office was empty, and no sign of Petrovsky anywhere.
I tried a half dozen more offices, stumbled onto an employees’ lounge with two cops draped over a table awash with spilled beverage, found a communications room, a storage room filled with filing cabinets, a library, but nothing like a lock-and-key affair where evidence would be stashed. Maybe Petrovsky had been going through my stuff when the blackout hit—if I could find him…
I found him in another office sitting upright at the desk, eyes glazed, deep in a trance that made him look like a redheaded Buddha, helmet in his right hand, white handkerchief in his left, both arms extended over the desk top as if in supplication. His head lolled to one side, gaze on infinity.
And on the floor in front of the desk lay Darla.
Chapter 9
SHE WAS FACE-DOWN with her head resting on her right forearm. I turned her over to find unfocused eyes looking through me. She had changed clothes and was now in a dark green, ersatz-velvet jumpsuit, with black knee-high boots. She looked very different. I got her to sit up and she responded somewhat; moving as if underwater, limbs like taffy on a warm day, but when I got her to her feet she couldn’t walk, couldn’t draw it all together to perform all the motions in proper sequence.
I leaned her against me, reached over the desk, and pushed Petrovsky back in his chair. I opened the top desk drawer and searched through it for Sam’s key, but found only Darla’s Walther. I took it, then reached inside Petrovsky’s jacket for his pistol. I stooped, put my shoulder to Darla’s midsection, and she went up and over into a fireman’s carry like a sack of wheat. Her pack was near the overturned chair, and I threw her gun into it and grabbed it.
As I carried her through the station, I wondered how much time I had. I was getting the feeling that everyone would be coming around soon enough. I didn’t bother to guess what had caused the phenomenon, since several methods were likely candidates, but the extent and completeness of the effect were impressive. Nor did I waste time wondering who had done it. Later—if there was a later—I’d write a thank-you note on nice stationery and think about whom to send it to.
I reached the garage, went on through to the man-size door, thinking it strange that no one had come in from outside, unaffected and wondering what the hell had happened—cops returning from driving their beats, coming back from lunch, etc. I cracked the door and looked out into the lot. Two stalwart constables were slouched in their car parked near the door, stupefied grins beamed at no one in particular. I was really impressed now; even more so when further outside I found another cop who had been pulling into the lot when the effect hit—either that or he was in the habit of wrapping his vehicle around a heat-pump unit when he parked. His face was squashed up against the front of the bubble.
Which brought up our immediate transportation needs. Steal a squad car? No chance. No time to hot-chip the thumbprintlock or deactivate the tracin
g beacons. Besides, they’d know what I was driving, down to the serial number. Then I forgot the problem momentarily, staggered by the fact that pedestrians on the near side of the street had been hit too. Three people lay face down on the sidewalk. Good trick, that. I cut down an alleyway going parallel to the street behind the station.
Darla couldn’t have massed over sixty kg at one-G, but she was a burden on Goliath. Her pack was no bagatelle either. I found a walkway between two outbuildings, put her down, and propped her up against a wall. I firmly swatted her cheeks a few times, crossing carefully over the pain threshold, then shook her as hard as I could. Her cheeks blushed the color of winter dawn, her eyes fluttered, and she sighed, but she was still out on her feet. Well, time to get moving again. I levered her up on my shoulder, hoisted the pack, and stood there debating where I should go. Then I sensed movement behind me. I whirled around, almost toppling over.
Two Ryxx stood in the alley, gawking at us, scrawny birdlegs thrust out at oblique angles to the pavement, shoring up their fat ostrichlike bodies against at least twice the Ryxx homeworld’s gravity. Clear assist masks covered their faces, faces that did not belong on bird bodies, sour old faces like those of Terran camels, but the eyes were much bigger, and there were four of them, two above the snout in the usual configuration, two at the base of the long slender neck. They liked to look where they put those taloned avian feet. They were dressed in the usual manner, in skintight body suits of brightly colored material with embroidered gilt designs around the lower eyeholes. Their huge bony hands—hands that once were framework for wing membrane—were folded up with spindly arms in a very complicated manner at the sides.
I clucked the appropriate greeting, all I knew of their language, which, written out, comes out to:
“R-r-ryu-ryxx (click)r-r-ryxc,”
with each morpheme at a slightly different pitch. With my language ability, I had probably asked them to pass the salt.
The one on the right returned the greeting, and added in System, “And hello to you, Roadbrother.”
“And to you, Roadbrothers,” I said, “many thanks, if I am indebted to you for my freedom.”
I turned and walked away after I decided they were not going to respond or change facial expressions to give me some sort of clue. I didn’t look back, knowing they were following at a discreet distance.
I went out to the street on which the Militia station fronted further down. This was risky, but I had walked away from the Ryxx automatically, even though they made no move to obstruct me. I stood at the mouth of the alley next to a Stop-N-Shop. Colonists passed by, looked at me and the lithe young girl slung across my shoulder, frowned, and walked on. But I didn’t look at them.
There it was. The antique automobile, parked on the street in front of the store. The motor was running.
It had a key! Not an electronic signaller/beacon/radio like Sam’s key, but a key, for God’s sake, a piece of metal that fit into a mechanical lock. I marveled at the interior, the metal grillwork of the dash, the blue fur of the seats, the pink shaggy carpeting of the floor, the pair of fuzzy dice hanging from the rearview mirror… and the wheel, the steering wheel. Sweet Mother, a wheel with a shiny knob stuck to it. What was this? A gear shift, angling out from the salient hump on the floor that bisected the interior, a big old gearshift tipped with a bulbous handle with an H engraved on it, like so:
R 1 3
2 4
Gears? Steering wheel? Manually operated windows that appeared to be made of glass?
This was no Skyway-worthy vehicle. Wait a minute. Oh, here they were, under the dash, the readouts. Not the funny oil pressure and water-temperature gauges, the real ones hidden away: plasma temp, current delta, everything. This was a fusion-powered roadster. A mock-up, not the real thing: But still, what the hell was this? A clutch! Just like in the books. It couldn’t be, but I saw no other way of operating the thing.
Let’s see now, if I remember correctly … depress clutch pedal-letting out the clutch—and it should be in neutral. Where was the N? No N. Okay, the line connecting the two uprights on the H: Neutral. Now, shift into 1. First gear, Right, now…
The car lurched forward, and I felt the motor dying on me. I floored the pedal again and the car stopped, but something had been straining to hold it back. What was this, this handle over here? Ah, a mechanical brake. I guessed. Sure. I fiddled with it until the shaft popped back into its hidey-hole under the dash. The car rolled forward slowly, coasting down the gentle incline of the street. I finally got the car in gear, and we started moving. Darla was lying face-up on the seat next to me, showing signs of waking up. She moaned softly and moved her head from side to side.
As we pulled away, a tall young man with an odd haircut came running out of the store, yelling.
“Hey! Where the hell do you—? HEY! COME BACK HERE!”
I depressed the accelerator pedal and the car shot forward with alarming speed, the sound of the engine rising to a high-pitched whine.
“You lousy bastards!” the kid yelled as we roared down the street.
Lousy? I hadn’t heard the word in years. It was distinctly American and archaic.
The engine howled in protest, demanding to be shifted. I let out the clutch, and the engine raced wildly until I decided it would be a good idea to lift my foot from the accelerator. I wrestled with the gearshift until it found a notch to rest in, then tentatively eased up on the clutch pedal. The car gave a little shake and jumped forward in second gear. The owner had given up running after us and stood arms akimbo in the middle of the street. I waved.
The car had amazing power. More remarkable was how the guts of the machine had been altered to perform as if it were really an internal-combustion-driven vehicle with a mechanical transmission. I turned a corner to the left.
“Jake!” It was Darla, snapping awake. She sat up with a jerk, braced herself with one hand on the dash, one on the seat back, looking around at me and the car, her face frozen in wonder.
Finally, she gasped, “Jake, what happened?”
“Good morning. I don’t know, but we’re out of one pickle and into another.”
“Where did you—?” The strangeness of the vehicle hit her. “What is this thing?”
“Somebody’s idea of history on wheels. I stole it, if you must know. But first, tell me how you avoided getting burnt to a crisp back at the ranch.”
“Huh?” She screwed up her face, rubbed her eyes, and leaned back into the seat. “Sorry, I’m still feeling a little strange. How did I …? Oh, yeah.” She turned her head sharply to me. “They didn’t tell you? You mean, you thought I was dead?”
“Thought you were scorched meat.”
“Oh, Jake, I’m so sorry.”
“Never mind. Well, how did you manage it? That bolt was dead on target.” I clucked disapprovingly. “Little foolhardy to take potshots at a Militia flitter, don’t you think? Silly girl.”
She grinned sheepishly. “Dumb but proud, I guess.” Her expression changed. “Damn it, Jake, I didn’t want them to take you. I aimed for the impeller, thinking to send them out of control for a second so you could duck out of the light.”
I turned into a side street, getting off the main boulevard. The tires squealed. They didn’t crackle-squealed like a puppy getting a paw nipped underfoot. “Wouldn’t have made any difference. With their night-sight gear it was broad daylight to them. The searchlights were for our benefit. The human prey instinctively thinks darkness hides him.”
“I never thought of it.” She bit her lip and frowned, then shrugged it off. “Anyway,” she went on, “the impeller had extra shielding, so the point’s academic. I fired, then immediately hit the ground and rolled. Even so, I barely made it.” She pulled down the wide collar of the jumpsuit to reveal a soft bare shoulder seared with angry red burns. “I had them treated. It’s not too bad, really. Second-degree.”
“Still,” I said, “it was stupid, but I love you for it.” I leaned over and kissed her shoul
der.
She broke into a big grin and threw her arms around me. “Jake, darling, I’m so glad!”
“Whoa! I have to steer this thing.” Heedless, she covered my mouth with hers and blocked my view. My arms were pinned by her hug, and the car swerved to the right toward a rig unloading a pop-up dome at a vacant lot.
“Hey!” I yelled when my mouth was finally free, grabbed the shiny knob on the wheel, and shoved it to the right. A woman unloading the rig dodged out of the way, then cussed us out in what sounded like Cape Dutch.
“Whoops! Sorry.” Darla climbed down off me. She went through her little straightening-up routine, then looked at me. “Where’re we going?” she asked.
“If I knew where Sam was, I’d get out of town fast. I have a feeling that this thing could outrun any Militia vehicle, even an interceptor, maybe. But—”
“My God, I almost forgot,” she interrupted, and reached into her right hip pocket, took out Sam’s key, and handed it to me. “Petrovsky was trying to persuade me to call Sam in, lure him so they could immobilize him and search the rig. For the map, I guess. I managed to get the key in my pocket before I passed out.”
I took the black oblong box and pressed the call tab.
“Jake! Where in the name of Jesus are you?”
“Tooling around Maxwellville, looking for you. Where the hell are you?”
“Out in the bush near the Skyway to the Seven Suns Interchange portal. Looking for that damn ranch, or John, or Darla, or anybody who can … [sputter] … what the hell’s going on?”
“Everybody’s in town. Can you give me your position more exactly?”
“Not exactly. There’s no navigation satellite around Goliath. But I’m about twenty klicks north of the Skyway …[crackle]…”
The rest of the transmission got swallowed in static. “Sam; you’re fading out. Repeat.”
Starrigger Page 13
