Oh, what I wouldn’t give for a dragon wingman about now. Fred punched out the glass of the window behind him, then leaned out of the door with one arm wrapped around the post, firing carefully. “I hope you got more ammo for this thing, boss,” he snarled into the wind. His face was half feral now; probably adrenaline.
“Cantrip,” Humph shouted back. “Self-replacing slug in the last chamber. Just a plain-Jane lead slug, though.”
“They’re fracking Norms. Lead’ll frack ’em up just fine.” Fred really was in a rage. “Die, you murderous bastards!” Fred plugged away with the revolver, emptying it at the pursuing aircar as it swooped down behind them. When he finally reached the last chamber, he held out his hand for reloads; Humph quickly handed him three speedloaders, dividing his attention between that and driving. Even with the cantrip, it was more convenient and faster to use reloads instead of having to manually rotate the cylinder to reach the last chamber every time. At the rate that Fred was burning through the ammunition, it wouldn’t be long before he had to resort to the cantrip to keep shooting.
Humph spotted just what he was looking for; two high-rises with a narrow passage between them. Someone was about to get a show. The passage was big enough for the air-car—barely. He had no idea about the size of what was behind him.
More bullets pinged off the vehicle, as their pursuers realized where he was heading. “Pull your head in!” he yelled at Fred, who did a quick look-ahead and pulled in faster than a turtle taking shelter. Then they were in the slot.
To Humph’s acute disappointment, there was no boom behind them of the pursuit vehicle hitting one or both walls. Instead he caught a glimpse of them pulling straight up just short of the slot.
Well, that would gain them a little time and distance.…
To cement that, he dove as he exited, doing a dance around shorter buildings at about the three-story-height level. The more he could confuse their pursuers when they came back down and around the high-rise, the better.
“Where’d you learn to fly like this?” Fred shouted over the wind rushing through the broken-out windows. He leaned out slightly to look behind them, watching for pursuit.
“World War Two. Long story.”
“You’ll have to tell it to me some—look out!” Fred barely had time to duck fully back into the car before the pursuit vehicle slammed into them from above, partially crumpling the roof.
So, they were swapping out bullets for ramming. In theory that was less hazardous for the innocent bystanders. In practice though, an aircar on fire hitting an apartment block would not be good for anyone. Maybe they’re as fed up with this chase business as I am; if they get a good hit on us in the works of this jalopy, we’re landing—hard. The thought was punctuated with another jarring crash as the security car rammed them again, trying to force them to the ground; with the buildings on either side, there wasn’t very much room to maneuver.
It seemed that the same potential disaster had finally occurred to the other pilots—or maybe whoever was controlling them had figured out that a fiery crash into the side of a heavily occupied building was going to become a nightmare nothing could cover up. The two security cars were maneuvering to force Humph and Fred to the ground. Presumably it wouldn’t matter if they crashed, as long as they didn’t take anyone with them.
Now what Humph had to do instead of dodging bullets was to dodge in and out of the spaces between the apartment buildings so that only one of the aircars could get on top of him at any one time. His goal was to get above them; two could play their game, and if he could force one of them into the ground, the odds would even up.
Their handicap was that this was a civilian car. Their pursuers’…wasn’t. Armoring, heavier and with no speed limiters. He had to do a lot with braking. Fortunately, he’d learned his craft on prop-planes, which were a lot less forgiving than these glorified shuttles. He’d done dogfighting, for real, with machine-guns stitching their way across his wings. They’d likely only trained on simulators.
He got his chance when he managed to brake unexpectedly and dart upwards while he and one of the two security cars were in another slot between two buildings. There was no place for the security car to go. He dropped down on the top of it like a rock, and accelerated, forcing it down before the pilot had time to react. This wasn’t the sort of thing you got with simulator training. The two of them powered toward a parking lot, and the heavier engine on the security car was not able to prevail against the weight of two cars, the force Humph was applying and pitiless gravity. At the last possible second, Humph pulled their car up. The engine screamed for mercy but obeyed. It was too late for the security car; all that armor told against it. The security car made a barely-controlled crash, skidding across the paved area rather than slamming into it. But it couldn’t avoid the knot of parked cars ahead of it, and it did slam into them in a shower of glass and metal fragments.
One down. One to go. “Fred, is there any way for you to get the civilian limiters off this thing?” he shouted over the wind roaring in through the broken windows. If they could disable the limiters, it would open up Humph’s options for speed and maneuverability; by law, all civilian and commercial aircars were made virtually idiot-proof to keep the airways from becoming free-for-all destruction derbies.
“Not unless you want to die in a horrible crash,” Fred replied, snarling at the mess of crashed cars and the wobbly figures pulling themselves out of the security car. “It requires being on the ground and powered down, you big dope. And even if it didn’t, I’m not climbing out on the hood right now, thanks.”
Well so much for that idea. This last security car wasn’t taking any chances with Humph, and this chase couldn’t go on forever. Sooner or later—probably sooner—they’d get backup or be able to ground the aircar, and that would be all she wrote. He couldn’t high-tail back to the others; leading whoever was pulling the strings on this game back to Harry would get all of them killed, and not all that pleasantly or quickly. Humph made a snap decision, then started peeling his jacket off.
“I’m going to try something. It probably won’t work, but it’s our only shot.” He handed the jacket to Fred, focusing on driving while he talked. “Once I get low, you’ve gotta bail; find cover. My jacket has the last of the reloads for the pistol. No matter what happens, get back to the others. They’ve gotta know about what we found in that lab. I’m betting you and Jim can figure out ways to get it out to the Furs at least, if not the rest of the semi-civilized universe. Got that?”
“Yeah, boss, but…what the hell are you going to try?”
“Something incredibly stupid. Par for the course, right?”
“At least you’re consistent, boss.” Fred bundled the jacket up, tucking it under his arm. Checking the revolver a final time to make sure it was ready, he nodded to Humph. “I’m set, boss.”
Fred was, at heart, an engineer, not an action hero. Humph was going to have to give him instructions for this. “When I’m close enough to the ground and going slow enough that you think you can survive it, I want you to jump out, roll and get under cover.” He glanced over at Fred. “You might want to wolf-out for that.”
“But—”
“Don’t argue, just do it.” With one eye on the sky, Humph dove for the deck and began maneuvering around obstacles among the buildings. Fred went half-wolf rather than full wolf, but everything Humph knew about Furs told him that would give him just about all of the healing ability of the fully lupine form and none of the disadvantages. Fred didn’t bother opening what was left of the door; he just kicked it off its hinges, grabbed the A and B pillars, and poised on the edge. He must have spotted a good opening as Humph streaked down an alley, just above a lot of dumpsters laden with what looked like industrial stuff. One second he was there in the doorframe; the next, he was gone.
“Here goes nothing,” Humph muttered, gunning the throttle.
***
Fred landed hard, trying to roll with the impact and failing. The
result was that after tumbling over trash and broken crap he ground to a halt, the last foot of it on his face. He hardly felt the road rash, though; with the adrenaline and being partially wolfed out, he was back up on his feet and dashing for cover immediately. A dumpster that was still smoldering from being used as an impromptu burn-pit was the first thing that he found; he thudded his back against the side of it, crouching down.
Humph had laid on some extra speed after swooping back into the air, but he was coming to the end of the alley. There wasn’t going to be any room left to run, soon. Fred first heard, then saw the pursuing aircar as it zoomed overhead. He did his best to work his way into a corner between the dumpster and the wall it was nestled against; the last thing he needed was for one of the security goons in that car to fill him with more precious metal. C’mon, boss, whatever you’re going to pull out of your sleeve, now’s the time.
As if answering Fred’s call, Humph fishtailed the aircar at the very end of the alley; it was close enough that he could clearly see sparks lighting off of the rear of the vehicle as it scraped against concrete. As soon as he was righted, Humph floored the aircar; the engine whined in protest, but obediently responded and was going its maximum speed within seconds. The security aircar matched speed, facing the hopeless charge. Fred cried out wordlessly, jumping up and lining up Humph’s Webley-Fosbery with the aircar; it felt as if it weighed a ton, and that he was moving in slow motion. He knew what was going to happen, and had to do something, anything, to stop it. It was already too late, however; both cars were well out of range of the revolver, at least with how bad Fred’s aim was. All Fred could do was watch as the two vehicles hurtled toward each other. At the last second, the security car tried to swerve out of the way, but there was nowhere to go in the alley. The aircars impacted with a sickening and too-loud crunch, immediately followed by the percussive beat and pressure wave from an explosion as their engines and fuel tanks detonated.
***
Harry paced around the bunker restlessly. He had been ignoring Lori almost completely since Humph and Fred had left. She had stayed in the main compartment, watching the entrance and waiting. Jim was still busy, working on something at his computer terminal. Whenever Harry tried to ask him a question, the Zombie simply replied with a grunt or a single word. They were all nervous, and were doing their best to hide it with varying levels of success. He desperately wanted to be doing something other than sitting around in this warren. He couldn’t even seem to think in this hole; the lighting or just the tight spaces or Lori sitting there sort of distracting him, something was sapping his ability to concentrate, to make himself useful. If only I could get a latte, or some room service. Maybe one of my suits. That’d clear my head.
This entire episode had almost driven him to his wits’ end; if he wasn’t being dragged somewhere, he was being shot at. If he wasn’t being shot at, he was running. If he wasn’t running, he was hiding, and so on. It was enough to cause any sensible and sophisticated person to go insane. Despite all of that, he was starting to get into what he saw as the spirit of things. This was an adventure; not one of the lame, bought-and-paid-for trips that some of the more eccentric guests at the parties he attended would brag about. Holidays where they shot renowned and dangerous game on very carefully cultivated and sanitized hunting preserves, or “adventure cruises,” sailing or flying into situations like planetary storms or massive volcanic eruptions that gave the illusion of peril but where no one was in danger of so much as a hangnail. This was real. They could all be caught and killed at any moment, and he was at the center of it. In one of his rare moments of clarity, Harry realized that he was probably the happiest he had been in a long time, never mind the fact that a well-equipped and well-funded group of merciless killers wanted to turn him to dust.
When this is over.…Well that was the question, wasn’t it? It might be over with him dead, but if it wasn’t, what was he going to do with the rest of his life? This was the first time he’d ever been this close to Paras for this long, and he kind of liked it. They were more real than any of his so-called friends. If he went back to his old sort of life…I’ll be bored out of my skull.
Before Harry could ponder that line of thought any further, he heard the tell-tale screech of the exterior hatch opening. Harry and Lori looked at each other, then at Jim. None of them had heard the passcode they had all agreed on for anyone re-entering the bunker. There was a quick scramble for weapons, everyone trying to be as quiet as possible; Jim had thrown his helmet on and picked up a pipe, while Lori had produced a long knife seemingly from thin air. Harry twisted around, unable to find anything, and then stood in the center of the room, with a deer-in-the-headlights look plastered on his face.
Jim took pity on him and threw a broom at him just as the footfalls reached the inner door. Harry fumbled with the broom, sending it twirling in the air as he tried to get a grip on it. The final hatch swung open. It wasn’t a squad of mercenaries with guns at the ready. Just Fred, looking a little worse for the wear but otherwise fine.
The tension in the room broke, with Harry the first one to speak.
“Holy crap, Fred. Way to give a body a scare, huh?” He bent down to pick up the broom, leaning on it and doing his best to strike a manly pose. “I mean, we were prepared for any sort of violent encounter, but still, you mustn’t enter so abruptly and without announcing yourself; wouldn’t want the women to faint, right?” He grinned, looking back at Jim. The Zombie had removed his helmet, setting it down on the desk in front of him. Once Harry saw the stricken gaze on Jim’s emaciated face, his own expression soon fell.
“Fred,” Jim said slowly, something strange in his voice. “Where’s Humph?”
“Gone,” was the only thing that Fred could manage to say. He was holding what looked like Humph’s jacket; Harry’s gaze drifted down to the revolver stuck into Fred’s waistband. He heard a slight rustling of fabric on fabric behind him. When he turned around, Lori was already walking toward the door, the few things she owned in her bag. Her face was a mask of tears, but she was walking determinedly.
“Lori, please, just wait—” She silently pushed past Harry, then Fred, and then she was gone out the door without a single word. Just like that, just as suddenly and irrevocably as Humph, Lori was now gone. Harry knew that she wouldn’t be back, no matter how much he wished for it. He decided that maybe he didn’t like this adventure business all that much after all.
The three of them were silent for a long time, as if they were frozen in place where they each stood in the bunker. The thought floated through Harry’s mind that maybe if they were still enough, time would freeze too, maybe turn back and then Humph would still be alive.
***
“…the main thing is to get it all out to the Fur Dens,” Fred said, for about the fifth time. “After that, we try and get it to the Fang Hives. We let them work the media; there are enough of them that whoever this is won’t be able to stop them all.”
Inside information? Wishful thinking? Skinny Jim wasn’t sure which…but he did figure this much: “Whoever” was behind all of this, their adversaries were probably betting that now that their ragtag band of brothers had discovered just what was being covered up, and had gotten footage of it (which he had, via the spy-cam he’d glued into Fred’s hair right at the hairline), they’d go straight to the media themselves. So Fred’s plan made perfect sense.
Harry wasn’t buying it, though. It was too easy, too perfect. Something they could have conceivably done a while ago. Before Humph had…gone. Fred was repeating himself too much, as if he was trying to convince himself a little too hard as much as the rest of them. They were silent in the aircar for some time, all of them uncomfortable and distinctly aware of it. Harry cleared his throat twice before speaking. “I know that we’re not going to spill the story, not the way you two are talking about.” The long pause when neither Fred nor Jim denied the statement seemed to bolster Harry, shore up his courage. “You’re going to trade me in to save
yourselves, aren’t you?”
***
The Adjudicator was satisfied with himself. He had a real name, of course, but his own ego-mania sometimes overflowed into reality; most of his underlings were just as ruthless as he was, but few of them dared to call him anything other than by his self-styled title for fear of what he would do to them. He was a cruel man, a sadist, and only took joy when someone else was submitting to his will. Pain, terror, and violence were his favorite and most-used tools. Paired with that willingness to inflict hurt into the world was a cunning intelligence, cold and sharp. Without his mind he would have been just an average bully; someone to watch out for, but easily lost in multitudes. But he wasn’t the average bully; he was able to hide his cruelties, his excesses. His career afforded him all the opportunities he could ever want to kill and maim, all of it sanctioned and generously funded. It was good to be a government man.
This job was no different, really, than the dozens he’d had before it. Someone had done something or found something that they shouldn’t have; they had become an impediment to the smooth workings of the machine, and thus had to be removed. That’s where the Adjudicator came in; to turn the handle and grind whoever was between the gears. This time, it was a minor socialite; one Harry Somerfield. He was connected, but no one was above being dealt with when it came to the Adjudicator and those whose interests he protected. Mr. Somerfield had enlisted some help along the way; minor annoyances like that sometimes happened with a job, but that was part of the fun. The chase was part of what kept the Adjudicator hungry and interested; flushing his quarry out, and the attendant violence, all sated his bloodlust little by little until the very end.
It seemed that the end was fast approaching for Mr. Somerfield. Two of his compatriots had sold him out, and were now on their way to deliver the playboy in exchange for their lives. It always came down to something like this, with this sort of scum; begging and pleading, giving each other up for even a few more minutes of their pathetic lives. He had been hoping that he would be able to run down the entire mangy lot; seeing the realization on their faces when their little “deal” would prove futile would be almost as satisfying. Their naiveté was almost funny; after the little stunt they had pulled at the production lab, and then, the number of his underlings they’d taken out in that chase, how could they think that they’d ever be allowed to live? You don’t fuck with the government; we’re here to fuck with you.
Reboots: Diabolical Streak Page 13