"No," said Carl, "I don't suppose we can--that's odd."
Malko leaned forward at the tone of his voice. "What?"
"The car behind us is gaining on us." Carl moved a finger inside the holofield and touched the dot representing the car. Numbers danced at the bottom of the display. "Look. They're not plugged into TransCon, and they have their license caster turned off."
"Speedfreaks?"
"Probably." Carl turned on the rear holocams. A light-enhanced image showed what looked like an old Chandler 1770. "Why aren't they skipping?"
"I don't understand."
"The 1770 is a little lighter than the MetalSmith, with similar lift. It's not fitted for true flight, though, except in some heavily customized jobs. But they shouldn't be able to move as fast as they are without skipping all over the place. They're up around 230 kph. I couldn't do that, and we're heavier and have gyroscopes." Carl watched the dot. "They must be carrying a hell of a load."
The car behind them, already traveling above the maximum road speed for any hovercar Carl knew of, accelerated and passed 270 kph, still without instability.
"Something is wrong," Carl heard himself say. He took the car back from TransCon and assumed manual control. Time struck him like a whip, wrapped itself around him, and things slowed. His vision became as clear as though it were high noon. The car behind him seemed to slow, and Carl saw the two men inside it, the huge laser cannon mounted down the center of the craft, and without desiring to, without effort, Carl found himself outside.
The future crashed down into the present.
Carl watched...
... the laser cannon strikes the rear of the MetalSmith, and the canopy goes dark black instantly, all over, in a desperate effort to absorb and distribute the heat being pumped into it. Inside the MetalSmith, Carl is blind except for front instruments. He blows open the airscoops almost reflexively; he already knows he cannot outrun the modified 1770 on his tail, and in the time it would take him to reach flight speed where he can snap the MetalSmith's wings, the cannon will have destroyed them. Only the fact that the 1770 cannot carry the mass of a full military power supply has saved them so far. The airscoops brake the car as though a giant hand has grabbed it, and Carl swings the car up and to the left at the same time, over the fence and into oncoming traffic. The canopy begins to clear, ever so slightly, and suddenly blackens again as the car behind follows the MetalSmith over the fence. From somewhere behind them--behind, Carl has the impression, the 1770 following them--comes a thunderous explosion, and the hovercar is rocked by a shock wave.
The interior of the MetalSmith is blisteringly hot.
In the seat next to him, Malko is beginning to realize that something is happening.
A huge twelve-fan appears from nowhere, and at the last instant Carl closes the airscoop brakes and ignites the rear turbojets, veers off to the right, up again and back over the fence onto the correct side of the highway. He knows a moment's brief triumph as he realizes that the Chandler 1770 attacking them split to the left of the oncoming truck and that he has gained precious moments. It is a short lived triumph. He moves a finger across the contact that should kill the rear jets, and it does not. The roar of the turbos continues and he wastes a precious second evaluating his options.
At the end of that second the 1770 is back on his tail, and the laser fire strikes them again.
Carl Castanaveras has time to think, I have always wanted to try this.
He disengages the gyroscopes, snaps the car's wings open and brings full power to the MetalSmith's front fans. The nose of the car leaps up, and the new attitude of the rear jets sends the MetalSmith climbing up like a rocket. The car is shaking wildly, the frame itself vibrating.
Gently, gently...bring the nose up too fast, and the car will tumble backward. Bring it up too slowly and the laser cannon will remove all of your options. The MetalSmith stands nearly on its tail, nose pointing to the sky, five meters above traffic. The fans face into the car's forward movement, slowing the MetalSmith in the quickest possible fashion. Their pursuers cannot decelerate so quickly. Carl cannot see with his eyes; some other sense causes him to nudge the car gently to the right, to send the turbojets blasting downward into the space beneath which their attackers are passing. The jets themselves are not destructive but they push the modified Chandler 1770 down, into contact with the road itself. In seconds the 1770 ceases to be recognizable as a hovercar, shredding itself against the surface of the ferrocrete, disintegrating into a cloud of metal, still moving forward as the pavement rips at it.
The MetalSmith slows with astonishing speed, from 150 kph down to approximately 10 in the course of seconds. The car is vibrating insanely, roaring with the huge force with which it must push the air aside. When the MetalSmith stalls at last, it is moving less than 10 kph, and it strikes the pavement on its side and rolls over once before coming to a rest, slightly at a slant on a slope at the side of the highway. The rear jets are still burning. Somewhere in the course of it all, Malko Kalharri has struck his head, and blood mats his hair to his forehead. Carl sits without moving, staring blankly as the canopy fades and becomes clear again. A high-pitched whining noise rouses him at last, an unfamiliar sound he cannot place.
The word gyroscope occurs to him, and then he moves in a wild scramble, tearing off his seat restraints. The canopy is jammed shut, and the mechanism will not operate it. In a moment of berserk strength he strikes upward with both hands, and the canopy pops clear, swinging smoothly out from the nose of the vehicle. The car is shuddering again as the gyroscopes begin to spin out of balance. He rips Malko's restraints off the old man, climbs over Malko and out of the car, and is lifting Malko out of his seat when the car shakes itself like a wounded beast, screams as its metal tears like paper, and picks itself up from the ground to tumble end over end as the gyroscopes spin down, wasting their accumulated kinetic energy in a single horrible second. The car turns its length three times before the remaining fuel in the fore and rear jets ignites. The explosion is modest; the jet fuel used in hovercars is intentionally not very flammable except inside the turbojet itself when mixed with pure oxygen and catalyst. Carl sits down on the dirt at the side of the road, and feels strange, very distant, and time slows as he sits there next to Malko Kalharri's bleeding form, and Carl finds himself--
--sitting in the front seat of the MetalSmith with Malko, and the Chandler 1770 behind them, laser cannon at the ready.
He had just a moment after the vision ended to realize where and when he was.
And then it happened.
With a crack of thunder I came into existence standing at the side of TransContinental Highway Four. I was in fast time, enduring two seconds for every one that took place in real time.
Camber was not hunting me yet, on his private timeline; he was, at that moment in his existence, fleeing from me, believing correctly that I sought to destroy him. It would be many years in Camber Tremodian's future before he would search for me in the laboratory where I had created Carl Castanaveras. He had not yet learned how to fully use his ability to move through Time; later, he would not fall for a gambit such as the one I offered him now.
I knew already that the gambit would fail, but it was necessary to go through with it regardless. When one travels Time, free will is often moot.
Camber Tremodian cracked into existence on the other side of the highway, some sixty meters away.
Carl Castanaveras' vehicle came into sight, followed closely by the primitive vehicle that carried his attackers. Like Camber himself, they were doomed to failure; this was not the night for Castanaveras to die. Cloaked and cowled in the traditional black shadow cloak favored by the night faces of United Earth Intelligence, Camber Tremodian withdrew a weapon whose name would mean nothing to a human being of any time earlier than the twenty-sixth century Gregorian. The Ihmaldsen Relay was named after a twenty-second-century physicist, the human being who discovered the negrav nexus. Four centuries later the negative gravity locus was b
ound into a no-time stasis blade by a woman whose name is not spoken in the halls of UEI.
I am the Name Storyteller, and I tell you that her name was Ola, who was Lady Blue, who was Leiacan of Eastersea.
The IR is the most fearsome hand-held weapon known by any civilization, anywhere in the Continuing Time. During the height of the Time Wars, the Zaradin themselves knew no weapon so fierce. I withdrew the slim tube of my own IR from my cloak, and through the pressure of my hand upon the tube extended the force blade into the air over the highway.
Carl's car sped down the highway toward us. Camber Tremodian perceived my presence and ignored it. He brought the blade of his IR scything down toward the aircar. Camber did not, yet, know of fast time, though control of that aspect of Time, like every other, was latent within him. He could not know that I would move better than twice as fast as he. I brought the blade of my own IR out to slap his aside, and the negrav nexus contained in the tip of his force blade touched down on the surface of the highway, behind the two primitive aircars.
The negrav nexus is a grave force to unleash. Where it touched the highway, the stonesteel of the highway erupted and splashed as though a meteor had struck there.
I have never known for certain; I believe some of that flying stonesteel struck Camber Tremodian and near killed him before he fled through Time. I was gone myself long before the shock wave reached the spot where I had appeared.
Carl sat in the hospital waiting room with a cup of cold coffee at his elbow. His eyes were wide open, but he saw nothing. There was not much to see; a room with pale green walls that held a hundred chairs with video tablets chained to them, and a vending chef for those who wanted to eat in the waiting room. Jany sat in the chair next to him. She did not attempt to talk to him; she was reading what the press had to say about the attack. Both the Electronic Times and NewsBoard had logged major stories on it; the Times was giving it front screen treatment. AP had not yet filed on it; most of the other news Boards were licensing their reports from either the Times or NewsBoard.
Two heavily armed Security Services guards stood at the door to the waiting room with instructions to keep the press--and everyone else--out.
A little after midnight Suzanne Montignet made her way through the security guards and took a seat opposite Carl and Jany.
Jany said quietly, "So?"
Montignet shook her head in exhaustion. She was lovely enough that Carl had nearly made a pass at her more than once in the last decade; but she was nearly as old as Malko, and the strain of the evening had worn her down. "He's in bad shape, kids. Oh, he's going to live." She smiled rather wearily. "He was awake for about five minutes before they took him into surgery. He's a tough old guy. Said it was a 'proven fact' that you couldn't hurt a Kalharri just by bashing him in the head."
"What's wrong with him?" asked Jany.
"Shattered femur in his right leg, cracked ribs, fairly severe concussion, slight subdural hematoma, not severe." She looked at Carl. "He wanted to know, 'Did we get the bastards?' I had to admit I didn't know. Did you?"
Carl's lips curled of their own accord. "What do you think?"
The answer did not seem to please Suzanne. "I should have known."
"When can he have visitors?"
Suzanne looked at Jany. "Early morning, five or six o'clock. He's not suffering from anything serious except possibly the concussion, and I'm optimistic about that." She turned to Carl. "I'm going to suggest that he come home with me when he's ready."
"To Massapequa Park? Why?"
Suzanne put a touch of the whip into her voice. "Because I'm one of the best neurologists in the world, and I want to observe Malko for the next few weeks. Your ability to read minds is almost irrelevant in the context. Besides, I think Trent might like to have Malko for company. I believe I bore him."
Carl thought about it. "Very well. If Malko agrees."
Suzanne said very mildly, "If he did not, any decision we made would be quite moot."
"Yes."
Suzanne Montignet cocked her head to one side and regarded him. "You should go home and sleep. You don't look good."
He did not feel sleepy. "Perhaps."
She smiled almost gently. "But you're not going to. What will you do?"
"Go for a walk in the city." He shook his head. "I don't know yet." She seemed to be waiting for some further answer. "I really don't know. They hurt Malko. They blew up my car." He was silent for a second, eyes unfocused. "I'm really pissed about that."
Carl walked alone down windy streets made shiny with rain. That late at night, even the largest city on Earth grew quiet. Once the skies opened in a thundershower and he raised his face to the sky and let the wind-driven water pound down upon him. The water soaked his clothing, and rivulets ran down into his boots. He wandered aimlessly across the slidewalks and streets, and then ascended into the web of skywalks that linked the downtown spacescrapers. He passed the offices of Kalharri, Ltd. on Third Avenue, and continued on without going in. Two blocks later, on the level four skywalks, he was shot at from a point somewhere above him. He walked up a glowing spiral stairwell, two levels, and back down into a stairwell across from the skywalk where the stairwell lights had been shot out. He dragged out the teenage boys hiding there and left their bodies in the center of the skywalk. He walked without hurry to Grand Central Station and took a powered lift, down eight stories to the Bullet station. He waited without thought until the Bullet arrived.
He boarded the southbound Bullet and changed connections at the Fulton Street station. Three men wearing dramasuit holo generators at their belts boarded the Bullet at that point; one of them looked directly at Carl without apparent recognition. Carl stayed on until they reached the Bullet station two stops from the Complex.
Something abnormal was happening at the Complex; Carl felt the echoes of power before he left the Bullet.
The station was not the one closest to the Complex; the closest station was only three blocks away. But there was a 24-hour Ford Systems car rental at this location; he rented a Regal limousine and drove it home through the crowd. Security Systems was taking no chances with the crowd; they used the gate stunners liberally.
Carl walked through the echoing empty halls of the Complex, clothing still drenched by the rain. He stopped at some doorways and looked in upon sleeping children. Some of the children broadcast their dreams strongly, and at times the dreams took Carl and dragged him away from reality for a while. The dreams were all curiously similar, the dream of one Person, shared by many minds. Movement, wrapped in a golden light, wrapped in rainbows. He stopped by the bedroom he shared with Jany and looked in. Jany was back from the hospital and slept soundly, without dreaming. Carl suspected that it was an artificial sleep; Suzanne had probably given her something. He left her there and continued downstairs, making his way through the sleeping minds.
...he strode across a vast black plain, walking toward a huge fountain of light.
There was nothing in the kitchen or the huge dining room and nothing in the conference rooms. In one conference room, a copy of one of the children's favorite flat movies, The Rocky Horror Picture Show, had been left playing with the sound turned down. Carl recognized the scene--Riff Raff, Magenta and Little Nell doing the Time Warp again. Carl left the conference hall and wandered through the corridor that surrounded the ring of suites facing inward on the Quad.
He heard sounds from ahead, a gentle procession of piano chords, underlaid by a slow roll of drums. Light spilled into the corridor ahead of him through an open door.
He stood at the edge of the fountainhead, unable to reach out and touch it, staring into the fierce golden light, into the smooth, powerful dance of awareness.
The door to her room was open, and he came through into the bedroom. It was filled with the ordinary clutter any teenage girl would have accumulated, clothing and makeup keys and fashion templates. There was a poster of Willi dancing, and distantly, he was surprised by that; he hadn't thought she liked Willi.
The music surrounded him. One full wall was a painting done in electrolytes, of a long, winding road that stretched out across a bizarre, dark landscape over which hung a crawling silver fog. A verse in the corner of the painting read: "Running away to eternity/ Come walk my ways, it cried/ You left, left lesser things behind/ And a portion of you died."
The fountain pulsed, whispered to him, Join me. I am that which loves you.
A man stood on the road, half turned away. He had Carl's face. Carl turned his back on the painting, turned to meet what awaited him.
The huge glass door which opened on the Quad was wide open. Sunlamps glared down into the enclosed area, flooding it with a harsh pale light. The rain pelted down, and fragmented patches of rainbows shimmered, rippled through the hot wet air.
Heather danced naked in the rain.
Carl stood frozen, watching, unable to move. Sound washed over him, lyrically sad vocals nested between gentle drums and the rolling of the piano. The rain fell only centimeters away from him.
* * *
Lost boys and golden girls
Down on the corner and all around the world
Lost boys and golden girls
Down on the corner and all around
All around the world
* * *
Time had wrapped itself around her like a chain. She moved across the grass, under the lights, dancing for him with wild abandon. There was no separate identity in her, only a living fusion of the girl and something else.
* * *
We gotta be fast
We were born out of time
Born out of time and alone
And we'll never be as young as we are right now
Emerald Eyes Page 19