by Brian Craig
He gritted his teeth, and tried to be sensible. Was it too late to press the alarm button? Yes, he decided, it was. He’d touched the accused object, and was tainted. The only question which mattered now was how much GenTech cared.
“Anyone know you were coming here?” he asked casually.
“Nope,” said the Kid promptly. “And no one will know after I’ve gone. They won’t take me alive—not while I have Lady Venom.”
Homer sat down on the bed again and looked at the cover of The Twilight of the Idols. That was what clinched it. He succumbed to the temptation to ask questions.
“Why do you do it, Kid?” he asked tiredly. “Why do you want to take bites out of GenTech’s ass until they get so annoyed that they’ll turn around and stamp you underfoot like a bug? That’s what’ll happen, you know, in the end. They used to say that you couldn’t fight city hall, but the old city halls were pansies compared with today’s multinational corps. You’re no fool—you might actually find a way of making a living in this sick and crazy world if you’d put your mind to it. Why commit suicide in a war you not only can’t win, but can’t even begin to fight?”
“You know why,” said Kid Zero.
“Because of that bar-room story they tell? Because you fell in love with a whore who died because she’d been part of a GenTech experiment? Kid, this ain’t the Middle Ages and Don Quixote was a holy fool even then. That isn’t an explanation, and you know it.”
“So you tell me,” said the Kid amiably. “You’re the only guy in America who really understands what’s going on—or so you say. You tell me what the score is, and why.”
It was a challenge, and Homer had never been able to resist a challenge. An intellectual challenge, anyway. In physical terms he was yellow through and through and proud of it.
He sighed, and fetched two more beers from the fridge. Then he sat down again, and put his feet up.
“The way I see it,” he said, realizing as he said it that it was true—that this really was the way he saw it—“you and me and everyone else, we’re just ghost dancers. Most of us don’t know it, but that’s what we are. You know who the ghost dancers were, Kid? You ever hear of Wovoka?”
“No,” said the Kid.
“Wovoka was an Indian. A Paiute from Nevada. He started a Millenarian cult in 1889, which spread through the Indian tribes like wildfire, and was taken up by the Sioux at the time of their last desperate attempt to fight back against the white men who had stolen their land, destroyed their culture and all-but-exterminated their people.”
“What’s a Millenarian cult?” asked Kid Zero.
“Millenarians are Christians who think that the world we live in is just a temporary thing, and that Christ will return to put an end to it, hold a Day of Judgement, and then reign over the Earth-made-Heaven for a thousand years. Anthropologists have broadened out the term to refer to all cults which preach the message that the end of the world is nigh. There have been lots of times in history when particular groups of people have been thrown into such a state of crisis that they come to believe—usually rightly—that they and their entire way of life are finished, and can’t be continued. When that happens—when all their traditions are devastated and there seems to be no hope of carrying on in the way they know, people tend to go a little bit crazy. They put all their eggs into one basket and conjure up as much hope as they can for a supernatural redemption of their otherwise-hopeless situation.
“The white invaders put the Indians in that kind of situation in the last century, and when the breaking-point came there was nothing for the Indians to do but put all their trust in their gods. Wovoka played Christ for the Paiutes, promising that if only they’d perform this new dance he’d invented, they’d be okay. Before they went into that last battle the Sioux warriors were encouraged by Wovoka to make ‘ghost shirts’ which were supposed to be invulnerable to the white men’s bullets, and they rode into the fight believing—or hoping, at least—that their gods would give them the power to win. But the shirts didn’t work and the gods didn’t come through. The Sioux were massacred at Wounded Knee, and that was the end of their world. Their last and most desperate bid for salvation had failed.
“Now it’s our turn, Kid. The world has come full circle and the end of our way of life is just over the horizon. There’re a lot of people around who believe that the year 2000—the numerical Millennium—will see the actual end of the world, but it doesn’t really matter whether or not the planet blows up, or whether or not Christ returns to judge us all, or whether or not all the freakin’ devils in Hell are let loose to do what they will; the fact remains that our way of doing things has already come apart at the seams.
“Everything which is going on around us—the desert that’s eating out the heart of America; the attempt to save a few favoured enclaves of the old urban sprawls by building walls around the PZs; the attempt by the corps to make a new industrial revolution—is part and parcel of the material decay of our whole way of life. The American Dream is now the American Nightmare. And those of us who are standing on the sidelines looking on—those of us who’ve already given up the fight for lost—are just dancing our way through the steps of empty rituals which give us the illusion of purpose and the illusion of hope. That’s you and me, Kid: just ghost dancers. There isn’t any sensible explanation of what you do, any more than there’s a sensible explanation of what I do, because there aren’t any sensible explanations left for anything. Am I right, or am I right?”
For a moment or two he thought that it had gone right over the top of the Kid’s head—that the little freak was too stupid to understand. But then the boy laughed, and picked at the weathered surface of his old leather jacket.
“My ghost shirt,” said the Kid. “Invulnerable to GenTech bullets. I like it, Homer. Best of all I like the Day of Judgement. That’s me, you see—I’m GenTech’s Day of Judgement. For Snake Eyes and the whole freakin’ world. David and Goliath; Perseus and the sea-monster; Kid Zero and Doc Zarathustra. I like it, Homer, I really do.”
From which Homer Hegarty gathered that the mysterious Kid Zero was by no means totally uneducated, but was nevertheless a complete and wholehearted holy fool.
And he also realized that whatever he said by way of patter, Homer Hegarty wasn’t. Not quite. At least, not yet.
When the Kid had gone Homer got himself another beer, optimistically hoping that it might help him to think. He had put the disc which the Kid had given him on top of the microwave, propped up against a plastic bowl.
To fry or not to fry, he thought, that is the question. Whether it is nobler in the mind to…
He didn’t need to go on. It was obvious what the nobler course was; the real question was whether he wanted to take it.
He picked up the telephone and dialled his information service. It wasn’t a secure line; none of the lines to his information service were secure, despite the promises of confidentiality which he gave out over the air. One of the reasons that he was actively encouraged by all the honest and upstanding citizens who had a finger in the great bloated pie that was ZBC was that all his tipoffs were common property.
He knew that he had to be careful.
“Hi Homer,” said the night-man. “Why ain’t you tucked up in bed catching up on your beauty sleep?”
“Too hot,” said Homer tersely. “What kind of news do you have coming in about gang-ac?”
“Not much—it’s been a pretty quiet couple of days. One freaky thing, though—someone phoned to say that the Low Numbers and the Atlas Boys rode out of the Underground en masse, on some kind of revenge kick. Looks like someone iced Cyril Atlas.”
Homer swallowed, and reminded himself that he had to be laid back about this. He had to let the night-man put the twos together in order to come up with the fours.
“What’s that got to do with the Numbers?” he asked.
“I dunno—that’s what’s odd. Could be a Kid Zero connection, do you think? He was thick with both gangs once.”
“Could be,” said Homer, very casually. “What’s the Kid been up to lately?”
“Nothing that anyone’s seen fit to tell us about. We have had one or two enquiries, though—asking if we have any information.”
“Who from?”
“Couple of Ops. The big boys would know already whether we have any information or not. You want me to chase it up, ask some questions of my own?”
“Don’t know whether it’s worth it. Was it anyone interesting that iced Cyril Atlas?”
“Informant didn’t say. He said that there was only one car, though. Can’t have been an Op—contract killer, maybe, though it’s hard to imagine that anyone would put out a contract on a pussycat like Cyril. Shall I call the Spiders and ask them what’s going down?”
“No,” said Homer. “Don’t bother. It’s not important enough.”
He hung up, and lay back on the bunk.
It was something and nothing, he knew—but if the Numbers had gone out with the Atlas Boys to chase down some assassin it had to involve the Kid. That implied that whoever had iced Cyril had gone to the Underground looking for the Kid, and that they’d found something—presumably the hacker who’d duped the disc for him. The big question was: could they possibly track the Kid here? Could they possibly figure out that the Kid had come to see him? He knew that if they did, and he had kept quiet about it, he’d be up to his neck in shit.
On the other hand, he’d already kept quiet about it for an hour and more—and by now, the Kid would be well away from the trailer park. If he kept on keeping quiet, maybe—just maybe—he could get someone to crack the data on the disc for him. And then, just maybe, he might have something big enough to give him a hand to play in whatever game had started up.
Did he want to play a hand, though, in a game where fifty per cent of the players could easily end up dead?
Ghost dancers, he thought. At the end of the day, we’re all just ghost dancers, trying to fight the end of the world with magic.
He picked up the phone again, and asked information for the number of GenTech’s Security Division.
Sorry, Kid, he said silently, before he punched it out. Now and always, you’re on your own.
Part Two: The Unspeakable in Hot Pursuit
1
While Pasco was putting the message through the decoder and reading it off the screen the good side of his face seemed to get greyer—or so it seemed to Carl, who kept track with a series of sidelong glances.
“Aw, shit,” said Pasco softly, while the unscrambled text was still scrolling up the screen.
“Bad news?” prompted Carl, when Pasco said nothing.
“It’s from Carey Castle,” he said. “The cat’s out of the bag. We’re so freakin’ close—but now every greedy eye in the territory will be looking out for the Kid.”
“Carmona crossed us?” Carl guessed.
“We crossed ourselves,” Pasco replied disgustedly. “Zagorski had some kind of wire into Harriet’s hidey-hole, and when we shot our mouths off in there he got the lot. Carey sent the Spiders in to shut him up, but he’d already started making contacts. It’ll spread like wildfire.”
“We’re still the closest,” said Carl, trying desperately to find a bright side. “It shouldn’t matter that the word’s out. By coming down personally we got one step ahead. We’re still better off than if we’d followed your original plan.”
Pasco didn’t thank him for this particular reassurance, but his face was clearing as he realized the validity of the general point. “It’s not all bad,” he admitted. “Carey says the Kid’s been sighted up near Amarillo. That means we are close—and it also means that we can redeploy our birds into positions where we can call them up. Carey’s taken care of it. If we can just get lucky….”
“Amarillo’s on the edge of the worst part of the desert,” Carl pointed out. “It doesn’t have much of a population, and he sure as hell can’t expect to make contacts there. He might swing west again towards Denver.”
“No,” said Pasco. “He’s running scared—and at heart, he’s a sandrat. He’ll keep going north. We’re sending copter units to Dodge City as well as Amarillo, and we already have a hundred birds in Albuquerque. He can’t get away—and if we’re on his tail, anyone else who grabs him will have to deal with us. As long as we stay clear of the bikers…”
“What bikers?” asked Carl sharply.
“Nothing to worry about,” Pasco assured him. “Carey says that the Atlas Boys got a belated attack of bravery after we left, and they’re coming after us. The Low Numbers are with them. Maybe sixty bikes in all—but our interceptors will take them out before daybreak. We’re free and clear, Carl—it doesn’t matter a damn what’s behind us.”
No sooner were these optimistic words out of his companion’s mouth than Carl saw the headlights up ahead: three pairs, side by side, filling the road. For a moment he was dazzled by the light, and thought it might be six bikes pretending to be three cars, but one glance at the simulator which was co-ordinating information from the vehicle’s sensors told him otherwise. On the screen they were three bright blue rectangles, like targets in an arcade game. That was what they were in essence—and he didn’t dare to wait for them to fire the first shot. He keyed in an instruction to the computer telling it that they were hostile, then he okayed the programme to use the missiles from the roof-pod as well as the six-millimetre guns. Then he veered off the road and on to the dirt.
“Check the machine-guns,” he said to Pasco. “Take one on to manual if you want, but forget the mayday—there isn’t time.”
He knew immediately that the other vehicles must have pretty good equipment, because they swerved around the rocket which the computer released, and they hit the dirt as soon as Carl had taken the sneaker off the road. These weren’t Maniax out for fun; they were serious. The computer was still trying to work out exactly what they were and what they were carrying, but they had to be taken seriously.
The opposition opened up while Carl was still broadside-on, and he knew by the layered sound of the gunfire that they had at least one 15mm autocannon. It wasn’t a rapid-fire weapon, but it had the weight to put their armour under a lot of pressure if he couldn’t get out of the way. The computer was trying to tell him the same thing, but he couldn’t wait for advice.
Because there were three of them Carl didn’t dare swing back to face them, so he kept going away from the road, lurching over the stony ground. A couple of bullets pinged off the wing, but the range was too great and the angles of impact too shallow to damage them greatly.
He knew that it was no good putting down smoke because the opposition obviously had good radar, and until he could get them settled in behind him there was no point in laying down pattern-mines either, so Carl concentrated on fancy driving, zig-zagging out into the unknown. The simulator would tell him about anything tall and solid, but it didn’t register the gullies and low-lying ridges, so the ride was uncomfortably bumpy—but that helped to throw out the gunfire, and while the bad hats had three sets of weapons to Carl’s one he was happy enough have the random factor on his side.
Pasco took manual control of one of the machine guns—presumably feeling that the computer was too conservative in picking its shots—but when he started spraying bullets around it was obvious that it was sheer optimism making him do it—he couldn’t aim at all, and the sim wasn’t registering any hits.
Carl had little option but to bring the nose of the sneaker gradually around, so that it was following the arc of a circle, first west, then south. He was glad to see that as the pursuers tried to follow him they were getting strung out, so that they were now almost in single file. That reduced the flak that was screaming out in their direction, as well as bringing them slowly in towards a line which would make it worth his while to lay the mines.
The headlights picked out a narrow gulch between two ribbons of rock, and he headed into it gratefully, judging that once he was in it the walls would be high enough to pro
vide some cover. There was a danger that he might corner himself, but for the time being he was far more anxious about what was behind him than what he might meet up front.
He dumped a few mines in the mouth of the gully but two of the bandits swung sideways to run a parallel course without actually descending into the gulch, while the third turned its guns on the ground and blew the mines prematurely. Their vehicles obviously had good sensors and competent simulators—which meant that they were almost in the same class as his own. The blaze of light which accompanied the explosion of the mines was spectacular, but the sim told him that it was all futile so far as disabling the enemy was concerned.
Pasco was firing at the vehicle behind, cursing his failure to hit it. No doubt the gunner in the vehicle was cursing in very similar fashion.
“Who are these guys’?” Pasco complained.
“Certainly not gangkids,” Carl muttered. “This is enemy action in no uncertain terms. Has to be corp men.”
“How come they got between us and the Kid?”
“Just lucky—unless the opposition have interceptors scattered all over the western semi-desert. Unless…”
He had to stop in order to squeeze around a tight bend, lurching horribly. One of the vehicles on a parallel track had found better ground and was gaining—if it got level its crew or its computer would be sure to start tossing grenades into his path, and that was the last thing he wanted.
What he’d been going to say, though—as Pasco surely had worked out for himself—was that these guys might have been out here for two days and more, since before the disc had even gone missing. They might have been part of the contact squad which was supposed to collect the disc from the thief and run it on to wherever it was supposed to go.
The gully was much shallower now, and Carl had the option to climb out of it. He checked the positions of the other three vehicles in the sim and was pleased to see that they were now quite widely separated. He had only a couple of seconds to weigh up the alternatives, but it looked most sensible to swerve to the right and try to close with the vehicle that was almost level—that way, he could at least stop worrying about grenades.
