by J. Thorn
The CPD bikes followed me into the lane. I hadn’t been on scooter patrol in more than a decade, but I remembered kill switches had a range of about twenty meters, so as long as I had a sixty-foot lead, they wouldn’t be able to—
My engine died. Apparently the range had gotten better in the last decade.
I coasted, turning into an alley, smacking right into a powerbocker who was taking a leak in a biorecycle toilet, the opening thirty inches higher than the pedestrian version to accommodate the frog leggers. He toppled, and I jumped off the scooter, mostly to dodge the urine stream. I skidded onto the greentop, coming to rest on my stomach.
“WTF!?” The kermit was on his back. He’d been unable to stop his flow, and an arc of pee splashed onto his chest and drenched his Green Bay Packers shirt, which was not what the Packers deserved.
I got to my knees, trying to decide which way to bolt, when two CPD scooters pulled in, Tasers blazing.
I ducked behind my fallen bike, wax bullets exploding around me, Tesla bolts raining down everywhere. Piss Boy got hit twice, his fountain of urine sparking up and zinging his ding-a-ling in a way that could only be described as extremely uncomfortable. I scrambled to my feet and launched myself at the nearest cop, shots whizzing past my head, hitting him with a body tackle and taking him off the bike and into a lovely hydrangea bush. I landed on him, my knee in his solar plexus, then grabbed his gun hand and pressed his finger on the trigger, firing at his partner, making him dance to the million-volt boogie.
His partner flopped off his scooter, and I ran for it, ready to speed off into the street, when three more cops entered the alley from the other side, heading right for me.
A bike chase was a no-win proposition for me. They could go wherever I went, and they were armed.
I glanced at the kermit. He’d managed to stop peeing, and steam was rising from his wet chest. Without thinking I knelt next to him, hitting the release button on his left knee, the clamps of the frog leg automatically opening up.
Before I could second-guess myself, the spring stilts were on my own legs, automatically snugging themselves to a perfect fit.
Frog legs worked on two simple principles. Longer legs meant longer strides, and springs transferred energy. They were made of reinforced carbon slats, which curved backward in half-moon shapes. This allowed them to bend. Extra height plus extra bounce meant higher speed. I’d heard some folks could reach fifty miles per hour on them, which was faster than biofuel scooters.
But how in the heck did you get up once they were on?
The legs were lightweight but cumbersome. The added height made it impossible for me to stand because my knees were too high. I crawled to the alley wall and had to pull myself up on the ivy. Once erect, balancing was awkward, and I had no idea how anyone could walk in these things, let alone run.
The cops got within Taser range. I pushed myself off the wall, took three staggering steps, and then realized that the frog legs changed my center of gravity. Leaning forward corrected this issue. Head down, I sprinted at the scooters.
The rate of acceleration was surprising, blowing my hair back, the world blurring past me on either side. Each stride covered ten or twelve feet, and the bouncing—though it looked silly to an observer—actually felt steady and controlled. It was like regular running, only enhanced.
Time to try a jump.
The cops swerved out of my way, probably thinking I was just another kermit. Then one of them IDed me and raised his weapon, coming at me fast.
I bounced on my right leg and leapt up, clearing his bike easily. But my exhilaration was short-lived, because I actually kept going higher, as if gravity no longer had a hold on me, and when I looked down I was twenty feet in the air. If I landed wrong, it would break me, or possibly kill me.
After a momentary adrenaline surge of pure panic, I brought both legs together and leaned forward in a crouching position, clenching my teeth, ready to absorb the shock of impact.
I hit the ground hard, slamming into the greentop with incredible speed and force—and didn’t feel the impact at all.
The frog legs absorbed the kinetic energy, then released it, launching me into the air again. The relief that surged through me was short-lived; I was leaping into oncoming traffic.
I shifted my body in the air, trying to control my trajectory, even flapping my arms like a pigeon to prevent me from landing on top of a motorist. I managed to squeeze between two scooters, hopping on one leg, bending my knee so the next bounce wouldn’t be as high. My left stilt clipped a commuter’s helmet, throwing me off balance, and I did a bizarre pirouette, landed on both legs, and then did splits in the air like a freestyle skier, leapfrogging another two bikes and heading straight for a bus.
I had déjà vu of the train incident earlier, except this time I didn’t have gecko tape, and the bus was coming at me rather than moving in the same direction. I bent into a pike, managing to get my legs out in front of me, my ass brushing against the vehicle’s green roof as I barely cleared the top. My stilts dug two trenches in the flowers, then caught on the internal irrigation system. My body continued its forward motion, my knees bent, and I bounced off the roof, just as a gigantic bolt of Tesla lightning split the night and struck the bus less than a foot behind me.
The TTS had locked on.
THIRTY-SIX
I wasn’t a fan of heights, so seeing the ground whir by thirty feet below me made my stomach do flip-flops. The frog legs had amazing stabilizers and shock suppressors, but all I could think of as I plummeted to earth was, I’m on a one-way trip to Pancake Town.
I brought my ankles together, feeling the impact this time—a bone-jarring shock that made me bite my tongue. But I managed to keep my balance, and the spring stilts performed as advertised, once again bouncing me skyward.
Another Tesla bolt singed some poor sap in my wake. I managed to get the next bounce under control, and hopped into the frog lane, spitting some blood over my shoulder, heading for Wacker Drive. My bouncing gradually became manageable and I began to run once again, weaving through other kermits.
I easily outsped the CPD bikes, which were stuck in congestion, but not without personal cost. Though quick, the frog legs required a lot more exertion than simple running, and after two blocks I was a gasping, sweaty wreck. Every time I slowed my pace, the TTS threw a Tesla bolt at me, each one closer than the last. I needed to find some shelter and catch my breath.
I darted through more powerbockers, several of whom got zapped in my stead, then ducked into an office building. It was a typical Chicago skyscraper—a green lobby, a security island, about two dozen utopeons milling about amid the chrome, mirrors, and ficus trees.
“Hey! No frog legs!”
The security guard’s only weapons were a harsh tone and a stern glance, neither of which cowed me. I sighted the escalator and bounded toward it, relaxing a bit; TTSs didn’t work indoors.
“I’m talking to you, buddy.”
The guard waddled over to intercept me, perhaps driven by an inner desire to keep his paycheck. I tried to go around him, but he cut me off.
“We don’t allow kermits inside. Lose the legs or—”
The Tesla bolt hit him in the mouth, which must have stung like crazy. He flopped to the ground, and I ran to the right, searching for cops.
No cops. Which meant—
The Taser zap hit me in the stilt, making me fall over. I wasn’t stunned, at least not in the physical sense. The frog leg acted like a lightning rod, drawing the charge away from me. But color me shocked that TTS tech had advanced to the point where it now worked indoors.
Scooting backward on my butt, I reached the marble security counter and hoisted myself back up. Then I sprinted for the escalator, another lightning strike missing my nose by inches, so close I could smell the ozone.
The bottoms of the frog legs had rubber grips, about half the length of my feet. But I misjudged the moving stairs and began to topple on the first step. I grabbed the person a
head of me for balance. She swore, giving me a shove, pushing me out of the way as a Taser bolt struck her.
I fell onto my butt, then crawled like mad on all fours, over to the elevator. A dozen or so people in the lobby gave
me a wide berth.
“Hold the elevator!” I yelled.
No one in the elevator made any sort of move to indicate they heard me.
Another zap in the frog leg. I was fifteen feet away from the elevator, and doubted I’d make it.
That was when ten cops poured into the lobby. They sighted me and began to fire their Tasers.
I put my palms on the floor, kept my legs straight, and then walked backward on my hands until I looked like an upside down V. Then I bent my knees and pushed forward, as if diving into a pool. In three quick steps I was on my feet, then back on my belly, sliding into the elevator as the doors began to close, a Tesla bullet hitting me in the back. I fought the pain, my muscles bunching up, until the elevator climbed out of range and the current cut out.
I caught my breath, wiped away a few errant tears, and said, “Fifty-second floor, please.”
Someone pressed the button for me, but no one offered to help me up.
After a minute of rest, I crawled out onto my floor, wondering what to do next. This was the top of the building. Any second now, cops would be surrounding me. I could ditch the frog legs, take my chances on the stairs, but they’d be covering those as well.
I took a quick look around, and saw a door at the end of the hallway that had roof access stenciled on it, which gave me a really stupid idea. I got to my feet doing the upside-down V trick, and hauled ass over there. It was locked, but nothing my Nife couldn’t handle.
The two flights of stairs weren’t easy to climb. I balanced by palming the walls. When I reached the top I dealt with another locked door, and then I was on the roof. The greentop was regular grass, and hemp bushes competed for space with bamboo. The wind was fast and strong, changing direction randomly. Following a path in the lawn, I walked to the edge of the roof. The city was all lit up, spectacular, the famous Chicago skyline a marvel to behold.
I looked ahead, to the neighboring skyscraper. One story shorter, and perhaps ten yards away. Then I looked down and felt my stomach clench. This was way too high for me. There was no way I’d pull this off. I was better off surrendering.
A bolt of Tesla lightning hit me in the stilt. I staggered backward, then turned around and took five giant steps. I turned again, eyeing the edge of the roof, feeling like I had to vomit.
Just do it. The next building is only thirty feet away. You’ve jumped farther than thirty feet.
“Not in this wind,” I said to myself. “Not at this height.”
Noise, to my right. The cops flooding onto the roof.
I sprinted toward the building’s ledge.
I kept my eyes on my mark. I’d hit the edge with both feet, then spring out into the empty air. No problem.
My first two steps felt pretty good.
On my third step, I remembered a video I’d seen Teague watching, called Insane Kermit Deaths 17, which featured some idiot trying to jump from one building to another. He missed, and when he hit the ground his head came off his body and bounced several yards away.
I changed my mind at my fourth step, realizing this was the king of very bad ideas, but I’d already committed to it now, do or die. Or, more likely, do and die.
I hit the edge of the roof with both feet, bending my knees, screaming into the wind as I launched off the building with every last ounce of my strength.
In a day filled with some really scary shit, this was the worst. The terrifying and unnatural experience of no longer being tethered to the earth. I knew I shouldn’t look down, but I did anyway. A horrible, helpless feeling overcame me, quickly replaced by a wave of anger that I’d do something this monumentally stupid.
I looked ahead. The next skyscraper was fifteen feet away. But the wind gusted against me, pushing me, slowing me, and gravity took its cheap shot as well, mocking my attempt, dragging me down.
Halfway there I knew I wasn’t going to make it.
I thought about Vicki, about her seeing my splattered remains on the news. Would she always wonder if I was really guilty? Would she know my very last thought was of her?
Then the wind changed, an updraft that pushed me from behind, and I piked my feet in front of me, surprised, amazed, that I was actually going to survive.
I hit the roof, legs together, laughing aloud as my stilts kissed the lawn.
In hindsight, I should have landed on my belly or knees.
Once my feet hit, the frog legs bent and launched me into the air again. A huge hop, bouncing me way up over the top of the building, toward the opposite edge.
I was going too far. I’d miss the ledge by a few feet and fall to my death.
I pinwheeled my arms, trying to turn around in midair, and managed to face backward, watching the ledge disappear beneath me. I stretched out, my fingertips brushing the edge of the skyscraper, catching it for a moment, a moment that lasted long enough for me to have some hope.
Then my grip slipped.
I fell, hugging the side of the building, seeing my own terrified image reflected back at me in the pristine windows.
Insane Kermit Deaths 18, here I come.
This time my last thought wasn’t of Vicki. It wasn’t cursing my own stupidity, either. The only thing in my brain was raw, screaming, animalistic terror. The last few seconds of my life would also be the worst few seconds.
Then my chest smashed into something, followed by my chin. I spread out my arms instinctively, trying to grab whatever I had crashed into. My upper body had caught on some kind of platform, my legs swinging wildly in open air. I looked around and saw I was hanging on an automatic window washer. It slid up and down the side of the building on tracks, using a motorized spray and squeegee. The whole thing was no more than two feet side and five feet long.
It was almost enough to make me start believing in a deity.
Capitalizing on my luck, I kept a death grip on the squeegee arm with my left hand, and used my weaker right to fumble for my Nife. The shoulder strap attached to Teague’s TEV picked that moment to slip off, falling down the length of my forearm. I curled my wrist and caught the strap, and the wind caught the machine, making it—and me—sway back and forth.
Which was when I started to lose my grip on the squeegee.
It made me understand why organized religion failed; ten seconds after I’d begun believing in God, I cursed his name.
The simple solution was to drop the TEV. But it was probably the only unit left in Illinois, and if I lost it, I’d have no chance at clearing my name.
I grunted as the swinging got worse, rocking my lower body back and forth. Using the momentum, I waited for the pendulum to reach its apex, then continued the motion, throwing the TEV up onto the cleaning platform.
Unfortunately, the effort made me lose the little balance I had left. I stretched my bad right arm, trying to find some sort of handhold, but my lower body rocked too far to the side, and then I was in midair again, my body parallel to the street below.
My hand was yanked from the platform.
I might have whimpered, but I was too busy throwing up inside my mouth. I stared at the platform, only a few inches away but impossible to reach, and then that old bastard gravity gave me a bitch-slap, and once again I began to fall.
If I were a cat, I’d have used up my nine lives hours ago. But I wasn’t a cat, and the green ripper wasn’t ready to claim me just yet. I had a death grip on the TEV strap, and it must have snagged on something, because I swung beneath the platform and banged against the window.
I swallowed bile, amazed I’d made it this far. With my right hand I fumbled for my Nife, and managed to unsheathe it. I made a quick square in the reinforced window I was facing, the glass falling inward. Then I tossed the Nife into the building and swung through the opening I’d made.
&nbs
p; When I hit the floor I rolled over and kissed the carpet. It tasted sweeter than anything I’d ever eaten in my life.
The office I’d entered into was dark, empty. After a few seconds wrangling my nerves back into working order, I tapped my eyelid for night vision, and found my Nife. Chances were high I’d lost the cops, but did I lose the TTS?
I didn’t want to stand still long enough to find out. I pulled off the frog legs, found the stairs, and took it up a floor. I found the office directly above the one I’d swung into, and used the Nife to open the door and the window, retrieving the TEV from the window-washing platform.
Once inside the elevator, I cleaned myself up, patting the dirt off my clothes, tucking in my shirt. When I reached the lobby I walked out casually, like I belonged there. Then I merged into pedestrian traffic, walked north for two blocks, then ducked down an alley and relieved a kindly young lady of her biofuel scooter by pulling her off by her waist.
“OMG! You’re that guy! The one from the news!” She seemed more excited than scared. “You are soooo hot.”
She whipped out her DT and took a picture. I waved good-bye and hopped onto the scooter, heading north.
Half an hour later, I was back at Aunt Zelda’s. The adrenaline had all worn off, and I felt like a wad of gum that had been chewed for a week straight. Every muscle in my body was cramped and hurting. Competing for gold in the Pain Decathalon was a killer headache. I dry-swallowed two aspirin and an amphetamine, ditched the bike, and then took the elevator up to Aunt Zelda’s apartment.
I was about to get some much-needed answers.
THIRTY-SEVEN
The door was unlocked, as I’d left it. Neil was sitting at the kitchen table, eating a bag of chips. Apparently he hadn’t figured out that my Tesla account had been suspended, and that ergo his supplication collar no longer worked. If I’d been in a reflective mood, I might have quipped something about how the biggest boundaries people had to face were the ones they didn’t test. But I wasn’t feeling reflective. I was feeling tired and sore and mean.
