“Pinkley,” said Tom.
“We can’t just start driving. It would take too long. They’d be sure to catch us.”
“So we need a jet, Julia.”
“We can’t afford that!”
Peirce cleared his throat. “Why don’t we all head for the airport anyway? You can argue later, when BRA isn’t coming. And besides, it’s on the way.”
Kimmer nodded her support for his suggestion. “And maybe we could get a jet,” she said. “Borrow one? We need to check it out.”
Jim Brane shook his head. “You don’t borrow jets.”
“You, too, Dad,” said Tom, grasping Ralph Cross’s shoulder. For just a second, he froze. “Dad,” he had called the man he was touching. A wave of feeling washed over him, of shared history and identity and even love. Suddenly the biological connection to Jack seemed less important than it ever had before. This man was his real father. “From what Malzer said, you don’t want to hang around here.”
“But…” Ralph gestured impotently at the wreckage. “Someone should…”
“Yeah. But there’s no rush, is there? You already have everything that really matters in your apartment.”
“Except…”
“Mom. I know.”
Franklin Peirce had pulled his worrystone out of his shirt and was stroking it with his thumb. Jim and Julia had opened the doors of their Macks’ cabs. Julia waved an arm and cried, “Come on!”
“Here they come!” cried Muffy Bowen. She pointed past the beanstalk next door, in whose chalet Jim’s family lived. A Robin, a small utility jet, had just come into view, headed roughly in their direction, its course curving toward them. It was too far off for any of them to see whatever insignia might be blazoned on its pod, but it did not seem strange to expect the bird’s full name to fit the government agency whose agents they did not wish to meet.
No one wanted to wait to see whether Muffy was right in her assumption. They all ran for the Macks and crowded into the cabs. As soon as the doors had shut, the great genimals raced down the road, heading for the airport Peirce had mentioned.
The ground surrounding the airport was turf, bare of honeysuckle and shrubbery that might entangle a jet’s feet. In the distance, beyond the runways, were groves of oil trees. Discovered in Brazil in the twentieth century, even then their sap had been so rich in hydrocarbons that it could be used as fuel for diesel engines. Now, gengineered to thrive in cooler climates, the sap was rich enough to feed jet engines.
They had parked the Macks on the edge of a narrow roadway that let Macks hauling tankers travel between the fuel plantation and the hangars. They were as far as they could get from the airport’s public terminal, and from the small groups of Engineers that marched back and forth before the terminal’s tinted glass doors. On the other side of the chain-link fence that flanked the road they could see the hangars that served the airfreight companies and small charter firms. In the distance, Floaters hovered over a parking garage.
The green runways were carefully irrigated and groomed. Here the grass was often brown or missing, baked by the heat that shimmered above the corrugated metal of the hangars.
A few feet in front of Tige a gate broke the fence. Hooked into the fence’s mesh was an open padlock. Beside it dangled a length of chain. No Engineers had noticed that the gate was less impassable than it should have been, for they stayed where there were people to pay at least token attention to their futile protests.
“If we can get anything at all,” Franklin Peirce had said. “It will be here. Forget the airlines.”
While Tom Cross had unloaded the handcart and braced Freddy’s unwieldy form with cushions, Jim Brane had handed Ralph Cross his invoice pack, saying, “Pretend you’re official, taking notes or checking a schedule.” Julia had produced another pack for Peirce and added, “You two are the oldest ones here. So make like executives.”
Now Kimmer Alvidrez was walking toward the fence, fascination plain upon her face. “I’ve seen takeoffs and landings before,” she said. “From there.” She waved an arm toward the terminal’s observation deck. It was well removed from the runways. Now she was closer than she had ever been before, and she clearly did not want to miss a thing. As if to gratify her wish, an Alitalia Cardinal stepped away from a loading ramp and spread its wings. The passenger pod strapped to its back was as brilliant a red as its plumage. The engine and fuel tank fastened to the root of its tail were white with black lettering.
The jet stalked toward the runway, extended its wings, and activated its engines. As the roar swept over Kimmer and the others, Tom clutched at her shoulder. “Stay with us,” he shouted. “If we look like tourists, they’ll throw us out.” The others nodded in agreement. There was no doubt in any of their minds that they were about to trespass, to go where they were not wanted. If they were noticed, and that notice seemed all too likely, they would surely be expelled. Then they would have to set out on the long drive around the lake, or else fall immediately into the hands of BRA.
Obediently, she stepped back into the group. “Here,” said Tom. “Look busy.” He swiveled the handles of Freddy’s handcart toward her. Sighing, she accepted the task of pushing the pig. Still, Tom could tell from her eyes that her mind was still on the fence and what lay beyond. She showed no sign that she heard when Freddy wriggled in his carrier, rolled his eyes, and began to sing in a low voice:
“You’re spreading your leaves.
I smell it on the air.
Showers of pollen!
Shakin’ my anther for you!”
Tom looked at the airfield in an attempt to share her state of mind. What was enchanting her was not just the Cardinal, but a vast array of aircraft, mechanical and gengineered. The mechanical aircraft were all antiques, battered and worn and good for no more than short hauls and cheap cargo. Their more modern counterparts were the genimals, Pigeons and Starlings, Wood Ducks and Sparrows. The pod on a Goldfinch bore the emblem of the Trump family empire. In the distance were the larger airliners, an Air Canada Jay, a China Airlines Junco, an American Bald Eagle, another Cardinal. Still further off was a station of the Air National Guard with its Hawk-based Warbirds. Among them all roamed large litterbugs, seeking the refuse on which they fed.
Some of the gengineered birds, tied by neck-bands and cables to rings set in the pavement, preened their feathers. Others, wearing passenger or cargo pods and jet engines, awaited their turns at loading docks. Still others were bare, the fittings that made them vehicles instead of monstrous genimals slung from gantries by their sides. Some of the gantries were mere mechanical frameworks. Some were gengineered Cranes, as stiff, ungainly, and patient as steel.
Tom Cross worked the gate’s latch and, grinning, held the gate for his friends. Then, trying to appear as if he passed this way on business everyday, he led them toward the nearest hangar. As they neared it, he gestured broadly and said, “We need an operation that’s not too busy. There has to be someone around that we can ask about a cheap trip across the lake. But it can’t be too busy, or they won’t be able to help, even if they’re willing.”
His father and Franklin Peirce pretended to take notes as he spoke, and then to check off hangar after hangar as the little group walked toward the airport’s main terminal. Some of the hangars were frantic with activity. Most were deserted.
Only one seemed a possible candidate. It was small, its main door was open, and in the shade just within the entrance slouched a slender youth with a patchy beard and a drooping cigarette. He was studying a magazine with a cover that made Kimmer blush. Behind him crouched a Grackle whose frayed and dusty plumage had lost nearly all its iridescence. Its red-rimmed eyes brimmed with a thick, yellow fluid. Its pod, windowless except for the pilot’s compartment, was cracked and stained.
“No way,” said Freddy from his perch in the handcart. “I want to see my little Porkchop again.”
The others nodded, and Ralph and Peirce made conspicuous notations.
“I wish,” said Ji
m Brane. “That the Farm did some airfreight work. Then we could borrow…”
“But we don’t,” said Julia Templeton. “We don’t even have an airborne subsidiary or sister corporation. And we don’t do enough business with the airfreight companies to make them listen to us.”
They had walked nearly all the way to the terminal and were looking toward a broad corral full of tethered Bioblimps when a small Roachster pulled up in front of them. The vehicle bore on its flank a small shield-shaped decal with the single word, “Security.” It pulled behind it a trailer equipped with bench seats. Its driver wore mirrored sunglasses, a broad-brimmed hat, and a tan coverall. On the shoulder of the coverall was an emblem much like that which adorned Jim’s and Julia’s own outfits. He gave them little time, however, to study his insignia. He said immediately, “You will come with me, please.”
The gun holstered at his waist said that argument would be fruitless. Silently, they obeyed the man’s gestures, boarded the trailer, and sat down.
Their destination was the basement of the main terminal building. Their escort steered them through a discreetly unmarked door into a large room whose walls were covered with veedo screens that clearly could show any portion of the airport complex. Tom sighed with pleasure when they entered the building’s air-conditioned coolness. Then he thought, these people had been watching them all along. And when it became obvious that they were just prowling, they had sent the man out to pick them up. He said nothing aloud, but he was sure that everyone in the group was wondering the same thing: What would happen now?
The answer was simple enough: A clerk opened a door, their escort ushered them into a small room dominated by a rectangular table and two chairs, and the door closed behind them. For the next few minutes, they stared at the table and the small workstation inset into its surface. No one said a word, not even Freddy. Nor did anyone sit down.
Finally, the door opened again, and a man who might have been in his early forties joined them. He had a small roll of flab over his belt, a little grey in his hair, and lines in his face that suggested he spent as much time as he could outdoors. He wore a coverall much like that of the security guard who had collected them, but over it he also wore a sportscoat. He carried himself with a solid confidence that said as clearly as might have any badge that he was the chief of this particular airport operation.
As he took one of the room’s two seats, he said, “I’m Peter Barcano. And I need to tell you two things. First, we don’t appreciate visitors who have no legitimate business. In fact, we try to keep them out, since they could be terrorists with bombs in their hip pockets. I don’t know why the gate you came in by wasn’t locked.”
He shook his head ruefully and activated the workstation. “It is now. And I need your names.” As they identified themselves, his fingers moved surely over the keyboard and his eyes watched the line or two of text their names brought to the screen. To Franklin Peirce, apparently prompted by the computer’s memory, he said, “I’ve seen your operation. Nice.” Jim and Julia elicited, “Truckers, eh?” Kimmer Alvidrez’s name brought a pause while the screen filled, emptied, and filled again. Barcano smiled. “Your father has been of considerable help to us.”
Finally, he sighed and said, “No one here really thinks you’re terrorists. You tried to look official, but…” He shrugged and gestured toward the invoice packs Ralph and Peirce still held. “The packs were a nice touch, but you were still rubbernecking too much. You were looking for something.” He paused while he let his gaze settle on each of them, even the genimals, in turn. Finally, he asked, “What?”
Tom Cross began the tale: “We were just looking for a ride across the lake.”
“You have those Macks. Why?”
“They’re too slow,” said Freddy.
Barcano’s eyebrows twitched when the obvious garbage disposal talked, but he said nothing. He had, perhaps, seen too many unusual genimals and other things in his work to be surprised.
“BRA’s after us,” said Julia Templeton.
“His mother was turning into a plant, and they kidnapped her, and…” said Kimmer Alvidrez.
Barcano slowed the rush of explanatory fragments with a gesture. He searched them with his eyes, his expression quizzical. In a moment he seemed to settle on Tom, perhaps because he was the calmest. He pointed. “You, sir. You seem to have the story well in hand. Tell it all.”
Tom did. When he was done, Barcano sat quietly, thinking. He looked at Kimmer and at Peirce. Finally, he said, “You do need a ride, don’t you?” He paused while they nodded. He sighed. He focused on Kimmer. “Should I call your father and tell him you’re running away?”
She shook her head. “He knows I’m with them.” A gesture. “And he approves.”
He sighed again. “For him, then. And I don’t much like BRA myself. Or kidnappers. So maybe I can help. Come with me.”
Tom felt a surge of hope in his breast. Kimmer Alvidrez was not one of them. She had been involved in only a small part of the story so far. But as her father had said, she was indeed a help. Though not because of any expertise she might have with computers. Her presence alone was the key.
Peter Barcano led them out of the Security offices, down a hall, and outdoors again. “There,” he said. He was pointing toward the corral of Bioblimps they had nearly reached when the security agent had picked them up. Most of the genimals were smaller than the zoo’s merry-go-round. They would not be able to carry much weight, certainly not enough to serve as moving vans.
“Years ago,” he said. “When the Bioblimps bred, a lot of the young escaped. I was working in Colorado at the time, and they nested up in the mountains. They made problems for us, too. They were designed as moving vans, and they wanted to fill their pouches. So they’d attack the airport and steal the luggage. Among other things.”
Freddy laughed. “I can just imagine what the customers said when you told them wild moving vans had stolen their luggage.”
The security chief laughed as if the memory were uncomfortable. Jim Brane looked puzzled, as if he had never heard of such a thing. “You must have stopped them.”
Barcano nodded. “We hid in packing crates, and once we were in the air, we plugged control computers into their nervous systems. Now we have self-installing computers. Your father…” He nodded at Kimmer. “He designed them. We put them in the luggage carts. When necessary, we activate them by radio.”
“That’s how you got these,” said Tom Cross.
“Right. We find uses for them, too. There’s a lot of heavy lifting around this place, and there’s always some construction going on. We team them up, using two or three at a time, or even more for the largest jobs. And we always have more than we can use, except for jet food.”
“Then…”
“We don’t bother with crew pods. The controls are in the pouches, and that’s where we ride when we use them. That’s where you’ll ride if…”
“But they’re wild,” Julia Templeton interrupted.
He looked at her as if the comment confused him. “They’re controllable enough, as long as the computer is in place and active,” he said. “If you unplug it, or let the batteries run down…” He shrugged. “Yes, they’re used to freedom. So are most genimals.”
“Like hell,” said Freddy. “Most of us know where our food comes from.”
Barcano ignored the pig. “You can even take one of the Macks, if you wish,” he said. He pointed at a Bioblimp three times the size of any other in the corral. Its gasbag was easily eighty meters across. “Look at that sucker. Put the truck in one of the pouches. The other will hold all of you.”
“Not me,” said Ralph Cross. “Uh-uh. Petra…”
“We’ll have to take Blackie back to the Farm,” said Julia. “BRA won’t find you if you stay in our rooms until we get back.”
“You’ll need just a little training,” said Peter Barcano. “I’ll have one of my people take care of that.”
* * *
CHAPTER
12
Peter Barcano was as good as his word. When they reentered the terminal building, he stepped to a wall phone and spoke briefly. Then he led them back toward the Security offices.
The first time they had come this way, Tom Cross had been thinking only that they had been caught and were on their way to judgment by some stern authority. He had not been paying attention to his surroundings. Now, however, he could register the shabbiness of walls which, because they were never seen by the airport’s paying customers, were clearly last to be cleaned and painted. The ceiling hid above a maze of exposed pipes and electrical conduits. The tile floor, cracked and stained, scarcely better than the bare concrete he could see in spots, testified to the age of both the building and the airport, which had perhaps been new when mechanical airplanes first began to carry passengers across the great lake that now stood in the way of their quest.
The veedo hall was prettier, though it was still utilitarian. The floor was carpeted, the ceiling white acoustic panels, the walls, where they showed behind and above and between the banks of electronic equipment, a clean beige. It was working space, in which people spent much time, watching for trouble—more than one screen showed the Engineers in front of the terminal, and Tom noticed that Security agents stood in the borders of the views.
As they entered this room once more, they were joined by a slender figure wearing the now familiar Security coverall. The man’s face was a darker tan, the thin mustache and full beard an emphatic black, the surmounting turban snowy white. “Ranjit Singh,” said Barcano. “Don’t mind the headgear. He’s from India, a Sikh.”
Tom wasn’t sure he found that comforting. Of course the newcomer could not be a Moslem, for that sect was still officially barred from the country. Some remained, but they did not flaunt their religious allegiance. The Sikhs had no such inhibition. They had their own history of violence, their own terrorisms, their own self-assertive wars for supremacy over their Hindu fellows. Yet Sikhs did not believe that their ways were the only proper ways for all of humanity. They kept their wars closer to home than many groups.
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