by Jak Koke
Jittertime approached as Jonathon moved around the hulking form of Gorgon, lying next to his big hog.
"I’m not going to make it," Tamara said.
"No drek," came Smitty.
Jonathon looked up, riding exactly beneath her, matching her speed. "Ready for drop when necessary," he said.
Tamara pulled the flag from its latch and held it out at arm’s length, over the edge of the skyway ramp as she approached T-bone and Pollack. They must have known what she was about to do because they started to turn around. But she pulled the flag in close to her to lure them back. They would have to force her to pass it.
At the last second she dropped the flag and skidded to a halt in front of them. Jonathon focused on the falling shaft. Intentionally dropping the banner pole meant ejection from the match, but only if the pole’s base actually hit the concrete.
Jonathon saw T-bone fire his last concussion grenade down at him, while Pollack turned away to intercept. But Tamara let fly her polycarb net, which tied up Pollack all nice and neat and tangled in his spokes. All that happened in the background, and Jonathon was barely conscious of it. His focus was on the flag, its weighted end leading its plummet. He was in position; his velocity matched it.
Jonathon caught it in both hands just as the concussion blast seared the air around him, deafening him with its explosion. The grenade sent him sprawling, but he never lost his grip on the flag.
No penalty.
Jonathon pushed himself up onto his wheels and shook his head. He was in one piece. Whole. He jammed the flag into its latch and made straight for midline.
"Three, two, one. Jittertime, chummers!" It was Smitty’s voice.
Jittertime was a random amount of time between zero and thirty seconds, after which the bell sounded the end of the play. The team whose territory contained the flag when the bell rang forfeited a point to the other team.
Simple, neh! Only, nobody ever knew how long jittertime was going to be.
Jonathon had a clear lane to midline and into Buzzsaw territory. He only needed three seconds.
Null perspiration. He cleared the line and zoomed onto the blue-painted concrete toward the Buzzsaw goal area, pushing his little Suzuki toward the 100 kph mark in an all-out sprint. Going for the three-point conversion. Wind rushed past, hot and humid with the heavy smell of sweating bodies. "Talk to me, Smitty," he said. "Where’s the enemy?"
"I’m trapped groundbound. Try Tam."
Tamara’s voice came on. "Go for the score, Jonathon. Strike that, you got three lancers coming online in . . . well, now actually."
Even as she was speaking, three Buzzsaws on Harleys rounded the corner at the end of the. lane. They took up formation, side by side by side, their lances locked and pointed at Jonathon. Then they began their run, hoping to force him and the flag back across midline before time ran out. If he could get past them, he’d be in the clear. Free run to the goal circle. Just him and the goalie.
Time for the Winger special—a move he had patented. Don’t try this at home.
Jonathon kicked himself up into a wheelie, slowing to about 45 kph. He leaned forward to keep his balance and stay focused on the closing distance between himself and the trio of oncoming lances.
When the distance closed to less than three meters, Jonathon braked hard and threw his weight forward, pitching himself onto his front wheel. And just as his rear wheel came up, he activated the hydrojack built into the front fork. He sprang up into the air, tucking into a forward flip. The stadium blurred past above and below him as he spun, and he heard shots over the collective gasp of the crowd. When his natural balance and gymnastic training told him it was time to come out of the tuck, Jonathon arched his back, laying out the final rotation to land again. Two wheels, no wobble.
Null strain. Stupid dreks had their lances locked or they might've got me.
He had cleared the lancebikers by four lengths, and his momentum carried him toward the goal circle.
De-fense! De-fense!
Time to elude the goalie.
The task of scoring wasn’t easy, even though the flag could be placed anywhere inside the two-meter-diameter circle, and the goalie was on foot. The Buzzsaws’ goalkeeper was a massive troll named Big Ed. Armored like a tank with huge polycarb plates. Armed with an autoshot riot carbine and twenty stun rounds, plus a tetsubo—a huge Japanese quarter-staff covered with densiplast bosses. Wicked nasty.
But Jonathon was faster. Quicker. And hopefully smarter.
Jittertime was down fifteen seconds and counting. This was his only shot to score.
"‘You’re all alone on this one," Tamara said. "They’ve got us pinned down. No way we could reach you in time."
"Loud and clear, my love. Loud and clear." Jonathon began his final acceleration, swerving erratically to give Big Ed a harder time targeting. The riot carbine sputtered once, twice, missing. The third burst hit Jonathon’s leg. Pain shot from his knee. One last swerve, then he rushed the goal circle, full throttle.
He aimed straight at Big Ed.
The riot gun fired and fired, over and over, but Jonathon locked the throttle at full and steered into a skid, using the machine as a shield. At the last second he released the bike from cybernetic control and jumped away, taking the flag with him.
The troll swung his tetsubo, trying to deflect the oncoming machine.
Jonathon hit the concrete, hugging the flag pole to his body, and rolled. It was a semi-controlled landing; he’d done this more times than he could remember. Big Ed would be busy with the bike as Jonathon planted the flag on the far side of the circle.
Big Ed, however, was faster and more agile than he looked. He side-stepped the oncoming cycle and lunged at Jonathon, swinging his tetsubo.
Jonathon reached toward the arcing line of yellow paint that signified the goal, holding the flag in his outstretched hand, just as the big quarter-staff slammed into his ribs. He gasped for air as several plates of his armor buckled and a sharp crack of pain shot through his chest.
Big Ed swung the tetsubo again.
"STOP!"
The flag in Jonathon’s right hand was just inside the goal circle.
"Three points for—"
Big Ed’s tetsubo came down hard again, this time catching Jonathon in the side of the head, ricocheting off his helmet and slamming into his shoulder.
More pain. Briefly.
Then blackness.
10
Synthia stood in her box seat and watched helplessly as the medics and techs carried Jonathon’s unconscious form into the locker room. She knew she shouldn’t worry; this had happened many times before. But she did worry. She always worried.
She wanted to slip into astral space. To project so that she could pass down into the locker room and see that Jonathon was all right. But she couldn’t; astral projection during the game was against the rules. Once, the watcher spirits had let her roam astral space before play had actually started, but she’d never tried it during a game because it could disqualify the play, and they’d kick her out of the stadium.
Synthia sighed and sat down on the hard plastic seat. Then she pulled the portable trideo unit from her shoulder bag and turned it on. A male-biff commentator with slick black hair and a painted-on face looked out from the screen.
"Just moments ago," he said, "Jonathon Winger brought the count to six and three in favor of the LA Sabers. It was the first real goal of the match and will make it very difficult for Dougan Rose’s Buzzsaws to come back and win this game. Let’s take a look at the replay."
Just fragging tell us whether he's all right or not, she thought.
An image of Jonathon filled the screen, weaving his bike erratically as he barreled toward the camera. He crouched on one side of the bike as he approached, trying to stay out of the goalkeeper’s line of fire.
Synthia saw a portion of the armor over his knee rip away in slow motion as a burst from the troll’s carbine hit him. She winced and turned away from the rest, listening
to the screeching and crunching and amplified moans of pain that came from the small unit.
Finally it was over, and the commentator returned. "Jonathon Winger’s Sabers need to take this match to force a fifth and final world championship game in Los Angeles. It looks like they’re on their way back to LA. But is Winger out for good? I’ll give you an update when I come back."
Come on.
An ad came on and Synthia listened absently as she sat among the screaming, predominantly pro-Buzzsaw crowd. "You’re watching TSN, the Total Sports Network, you can pick up our live simsense and experience the match from the point of view of your favorite combatant. The cost is only—"
Synthia muted the trideo, wishing she didn’t care so much. These were the times when she regretted her relationship with Jonathon. These were the times when she thought that maybe, just maybe, she loved him too deeply.
11
Sharp, acrid. Jonathon’s nose burned and he jerked awake. He snapped his eyes open to see the smooth baby face of Ducky, the team trainer. Brown human skin, innocent smile, razor-cut afro.
"Where am I?" Jonathon said. "What happened?"
"You scored a fraggin’ goal, chummer. Put us three points up. That was one wiz move. Silenced the crowd; you could hear a fraggin’ chip drop. Ratings have gone stratospheric."
"Yeah, well, I’m glad you enjoyed it." Jonathon tried to sit up, but a sharp pain in the side of his chest cavity made him gasp. "That makes one of us."
Ducky pressed him back down onto the plastic-coated mattress of the examination table. "I injected your broken ribs with coral gel," he said. "It’ll straighten them and make a framework for the bone to heal, but you still have to wear this." He proceeded to wrap Jonathon’s chest with a band of fiberglass tape that immediately began to harden around him.
"Will this be strong enough for me to—"
"Don’t even think about going back in. Your trauma damper will dull the pain, and I’ve given you some Syndorphin, but Big Ed cracked you a good one. Right between two plates of your now defunct armor. Broke two ribs and bruised three more. The good news is—"
"There’s good news?"
Ducky smiled. "Most assuredly. The MRI shows no major skull damage, and your headware is fine."
"You still won’t let me back in?"
"Jonathon, the team makes more money when you’re riding. The producers want me to send you back, but I’ve got to think of the long term. Unless a miracle happens, there will be a game five, and we need you healthy by then. Now, I want you to rest."
"Should’ve had my ribs laced," Jonathon said. He eased himself slowly into an upright position. It ached to breathe, but the Syndorphin was starting to kick in and dull the sharpness. "Since I’m useless anyway, can I sim Tam’s feed?"
"Fine by me," Ducky said.
"Thanks." Jonathon stood carefully and limped out of the infirmary. He was bruised and battered, but with each passing step his strength grew.
The infirmary led to the team bunkers, where the players readied themselves to ride. Jonathon hobbled across the painted concrete toward the simsense decks. Here substitute riders could straight jack with simrigged teammates in order to learn their moves.
Through the bunker doors came the rumble of the crowd as the bell sounded the release of another bogey. New play.
Jonathon settled into a recliner and slotted his jack, punching up Tamara’s feed. He’d been worried about her concentration since the crying episode that afternoon. But she seemed as aggressive as ever, perhaps more so. Jonathon strove for zen in his game, but Tamara used anger to fuel hers.
Jonathon felt the anger flow through him as her feed came online and flooded him. His aches and pains dissipated, forgotten as he synchronized with Tamara’s senses.
Feral power coursed through her as she accelerated after the bogey, which had swooped into her lane and dipped toward the floor. She brought her Roomsweeper to bear, the red targeting circle on her retina flickering to life as the smartlink engaged. She fired, but the spray missed as the bogey dodged right, then up.
Dougan Rose appeared out of the corner of her left eye as she fired again, this time downing the small drone. The flag hit the concrete and rocked to an upright position on its weighted base.
Tamara gunned her engine to snag it. One second. Two.
Dougan flashed past on her left. He would reach the flag first unless...
She cast her net, a two-meter square made of high-tensile polycarb cabling and weighted at the rim. A wrapping filament looped through the edge to draw the whole thing closed.
Dougan grabbed the flag just as Tamara’s net entangled him. She tried to let go, but Dougan was too close; the net caught the handle bars of her bike and wrenched her front wheel, pulling her off balance. Jonathon felt the weight of Tamara’s Suzuki come down on her left leg as she fell.
Dougan jammed the flag into the slot behind his seat as Tamara pushed her bike off, and stood. She stepped up to him, targeting her Roomsweeper on his head. But before she could fire, he knocked the gun from her hand with a quick jab from his mace.
Then she heard a faint click, barely audible over the banshee scream of the crowd. Everything closed on slow motion as she turned to grab the flag from Dougan’s Yamaha, wondering what had made the noise.
She saw the crystal silver glint of the cyberspurs arcing out of his forearm. Flailing wildly, he used the blades to slice his way out of the net. The razors cut the polycarb with ease, sending fragments of netting fluttering to the concrete.
He looked at her then. Through the macroglass of his visor, he stared right into her eyes.
What the frag ?
His bladed arm connected with her neck, the monofilament-edged metal piercing the armor at its weakest point, up and under her helmet.
Tamara tried to jerk away but was too slow. She felt a cold sharpness against her throat. Then warm blood came gushing out. The iron smell of it filled her nostrils. The salt taste of it was sharp in the back of her throat.
Time slowed.
She’s dying, Jonathon thought.
Blackness engulfed her, seeping like ink into her vision as she slumped. The suffocating blood choked her, making her helmet heavy with its weight. At the last second she reached for her tear-away trauma patch. And as she tugged at it with numb fingers, she felt its cybersnake needle penetrate her chest and jab her heart.
Adrenaline pumped through her, momentarily clearing her head. Her vision returned, and she saw Dougan Rose above her, a horrible look of false remorse on his all too elven face.
Jonathon was buried deep into Tamara’s mind when her life shattered into a million frozen moments. Her emotions hit him. Surprise. Pain. Regret.
"Jonathon," she tried to say. "I . . ."
Love.
Then the dizziness washed away her sight, and her breathing gurgled to a halt. The blackout fringe approached in jerks and starts as the scream in her head arced through him.
Over the edge of fadeout.
Unconsciousness clawed at Jonathon’s mind, digging, scrabbling to take him along. And he felt Tamara’s darkness ooze into him like sweet molasses.
Flatline.
12
Grids bolted upright when he saw Tamara go down. He’d been watching the whole thing on the trid in Tamara’s Beverly Hills apartment, his sweaty T-shirt sticking to the synthleather couch as he gaped at the image. The trid coverage kept showing the accident over and over. Dougan Rose snapping out his cyberspurs, the amplified click as they locked into place. Even in the slow-motion replay, Grids heard the intent in that click.
Dougan had made it look like an accident while trying to cut through Tamara’s net, but Grids knew otherwise. The chances that Dougan could have breached Tamara’s armor by accident were astronomical. He had known exactly where to strike. And yet the commentators blathered on as though Dougan must feel awful about the unfortunate accident.
The Doc Wagon paramedics had taken Tamara away in a helicopter, but none of the tr
id reports gave any update on her condition. Dougan had been slapped with a three-play penalty for using cyberspurs, an illegal weapon. He would sit out for a while, but that was the extent of punishment.
Grids’ heart pounded; he could hear it in his ears. She looks dead, he kept thinking. He fell back against the soft cushions and stared distractedly at the 3-D images. Though he tried to focus on the game as it continued, the accident scene replayed itself over and over in his mind.
He couldn’t concentrate. He saw the grimace of surprise and pain of her face, viewed in super close-up through the scratched face plate of her helmet. He could hear her amplified gurgles and gasps as she struggled to keep breathing despite the gush of blood.
Michaelson must know about the simrecording, he thought. And somehow, he got Dougan Rose to kill for him.
Grids took a slow breath. No. Null chance.
The visions in his mind returned. Dougan’s monofilament-bladed spurs glinted in the white glare of the stadium’s phosphor lights. Slicing through Tamara’s net to plunge up into her neck. Slow motion. Close-up. Gigantic rivulets of her deep red elven blood cascading over the grotesquely magnified silver blades.
The images on the trid had shown Dougan Rose draw back in horror as Tamara clutched at her trauma patch, then slumped into unconsciousness. Then the DocWagon parameds had rushed in to get her out.
Gone?
Now on the trid, the gorgeous blonde with the impossibly full lips spoke. "Still no word from DocWagon on the condition of Tamara Ny, linebiker for the Los Angeles Sabers. Miss Ny, having a fabulous season this year, was inadvertently stabbed by veteran Dougan Rose in this earlier play."
"Trid off," Grids told the machine. He couldn’t stand to watch any more. The images dissipated as the trideo went into sleep mode. Grids put his head in his hands. Got to concentrate. Got to assume the worst.
"Which is . . ." he said aloud.
Tamara is gone. Scragged because she read the stuff in Michaelson’s briefcase.
"Which means . . ."
Michaelson probably knows about the simrecording. And people are probably coming after me right now.
