“Enough,” Conway told him. Since Hormat was speaking, Mike relaxed his diaphragm and took in a tentative breath. Nothing happened; the gas was dissipated. He heard Annie breathe, too, behind him.
“Really?” Hormat pressed. “Do you truly understand the danger, now? How close you came to destroying everything—even yourself?”
“I think so,” Conway said. “Don’t worry, Shorty, I have no intention of blowing your cover. I’m not even going to tell Haines. I like the universe just fine the way it is: I won’t risk changing history.” His insolent smile faded. “But I won’t let you clowns change it, either.”
“What do you intend to do?” Annie asked. Her voice was so tightly controlled Mike wanted to turn around in his chair and look at her, but he could not tear his eyes from the mouth of Conway’s shotgun. He had seen a gun like it before, during a drug raid: small, compact, with a thirty-round magazine. They were called “alley sweepers.”
“After I kill you clowns, you mean? Nothing that’ll make the papers, don’t worry. Just as quietly and unobtrusively as all those little runts from the future are infiltrating the world, I’m going to hunt them down and kill them to the last man. I’ve got the manpower and I’ve got the skill and I’ve got the motivation.”
“What motivation?” Annie asked. “Why do it? Haines doesn’t give a damn about the world or its woes, all he wants is Dreamworld shut—”
“Forget Haines. I have.”
“Then who’s your client?”
“All of them,” he told her.
“I don’t understand.”
“I think I do,” Hormat said sadly.
“Think about it,” Conway said. “I don’t get hired by rich people much. I get hired by powerful people. People that are into power only care about money when they can use it as a club. And you can only do that when it’s scarce. Powerful people don’t want the world to be rich—just them. And I have to agree. The kind of world Shorty there wants to build, pretty soon they won’t have as much use for guys like me. When I think about it, I like the world with a whole lot of losers in it…and a handful of winners to milk. Makes it easier, you see?” He grinned again. “If I ever wanted to retire, I could probably do it just on what the coffee industry is going to pay me for making sure that anybody who ever says the words ‘microwave roasting’ out loud winds up dead. I’m going to be bigger than Pinkerton. I’m going to be planetary.”
As Conway boasted, Mike’s mind was running around the inside of his skull like a rat trying to escape from a trap. What were they going to do? It was like watching a movie where you knew the Good Guy was going to win in the end, because he was too big a star not to, but for the life of you, you couldn’t figure out how. First you tried plausible ways, and if that failed, you tried Hollywood ways. Did he and Annie have anything here that could be turned into a plausible weapon? Wait a minute: the computer remote! No, he remembered where Annie had set it down—out of reach: she’d be cut down as she dove for it. So he entertained fantasies: Durl would show up to cover his pal’s back; Phillip Avery would pick right now to become aware of Annie’s presence and send a squad to arrest her; Hormat would have some other secret weapon besides his sleep gas, that he was only holding back to build up suspense; Conway’s gun would explode—
He stopped all at once and faced the truth. This was real life. He wasn’t a star. He didn’t have to win. For the second time since midnight, Mike accepted the certainty of death. He began trying to think of ways to die that might improve his friends’ chances, however slightly. Such as charging the gun—
Annie spoke. “I know a guy who can stop you. And he’s right here.”
C H A P T E R 18
FIXING THE RACE
For a moment Conway bristled like a cat and seemed to grow eyes in the back of his head. He carefully backed up a few steps and stopped just outside the doorway in the atrium, where he could still cover the entire small room, but could also keep track of the holowall entrance on his right with his peripheral vision. Then he let a corner of his mouth curl. “Oh yeah? Who?”
“A Mr. John Nurk,” Annie said clearly.
Conway frowned. “Hell is he?”
Mike was almost as puzzled. He got the reference at once—any Dreamworld regular would: John Nurk, half of the Nurk Twins, aka John Lennon—but he didn’t understand what Annie was driving at.
“Hormat knows,” Annie said. “You remember, Hormat: you met Mr. Nurk only minutes after you met Mike—although you never did see him.”
Mike was even more confused. The next person Hormat and Durl had met after Mike had been Annie, as far as he knew.
“Who is he, I said?” Conway snarled. “And how’s he going to stop me?” He was trying not to show it, but he was just the least little bit rattled now, more by Annie’s obvious confidence than by anything she’d said.
“It’s perfectly self-evident,” she replied elliptically. “I mean, it must be high or low.”
Mike got it at last.
He understood now not only what she was driving at, but why she was talking about it in code. She had a plan—she had a weapon after all—and it was crucially important that he and Hormat both take right action the instant she employed it. Which would be sometime in the next few seconds.
“Last chance,” Conway said, pointing the shotgun in Annie’s direction.
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll tell you: it’s high. Not low.”
Conway frowned slightly, sighed in exasperation, and took a bead on Annie’s face. At that range, the blast would get all three of them, clustered as they were at the table. “Fine,” he said. “The hell with it. So long—”
Annie laughed aloud. “The funny part is, you’re not an ignorant man. You’ve probably read it yourself a dozen times, in adventure stories. What’s the one way to ambush someone that always works, Conway?”
His frown deepened as he thought about her question in spite of himself. Mike didn’t have to look behind him to know where Annie’s right hand was. It was near her left wrist…
She chuckled again. “Silly, considering our species used to live in trees once—but for some reason, even the most alert, cautious man never looks up…”
And everything seemed to happen at once, then.
CONWAY’S EYES WIDENED as he took her meaning. Even if he’d had more time to think, he’d probably have reached the same decision. All it would cost him to find out if Annie was bluffing was a split-second glance upward. A lesser man might have decided not to risk it, but a part of the combat computer that lived in Conway’s skull had long since inventoried this tactical situation and was quite certain all three targets were at least a full second away from anything in the room that could pose a serious threat to him. So taking his eyes from them momentarily was the lesser risk, and he chose it. And sure enough, it took him well under half a second to be absolutely certain there was nothing dangerous overhead, that just as he’d thought the bitch had been bluffing, stupid enough to think she could dodge a scattergun in a small room. Conway was almost smiling as he flicked his eyes back down and began to bring the barrel back down, too, but he stopped smiling and moving almost at once because the room was empty now.
Even then he did not stop thinking clearly. He never did figure out that all Annie’s baffling remarks had been veiled references to Johnny’s Tree in Strawberry Fields, did not waste any time at all wondering exactly how the three little bastards had managed to make themselves invisible. He didn’t care how; how was a good trick he could steal later; the point now was to counter it, and the counter was perfectly obvious and perfectly simple: just let off two rounds into that little room, three tops, and wherever they were hiding they’d probably be hamburger. Again, a lesser man might have done so without even thinking about it—but Conway, the master survivor, never lost sight of one important factor. Dreamworld Security was, in his professional opinion, almost as good as he was. The moment he pulled the trigger, he was going to have to turn on his heel and run like hell,
instantly, if he was to have any hope of slipping through the cordon that would begin closing in at once. He was very reluctant to do that until he was certain all three of his targets were dead. So he delayed half a second, hoping to catch movement somewhere or hear footsteps or furniture banging, something to aim by.
But then he decided the hell with it, lowered the barrel and began to take up slack on the trigger, and again his own competence betrayed him. Force of habit wanted him to aim his shotgun blasts at the traditional correct height, at waist level—but he was professional enough to remember that his targets were a midget, a dwarf, and a short kid. He adjusted his aim accordingly, laid the muzzle at what would ordinarily have been a little under crotch height, and as he squeezed off the first round almost forty kilograms of absolutely nothing hit him square in the face.
That started his head and upper torso moving backward, and he might have been able to backpedal quickly enough to keep his feet under him, but the shotgun went off again. It blew a large ugly hole in the ceiling and gave him additional momentum both backward and down: the first thing to hit the atrium wall behind him was the top of his skull, with a sound almost as authoritative as the gunfire. Remarkably, he did not lose consciousness then, or even a moment later, when the forty kilos—now visible: the goddamn kid—rebounded more gracefully from the wall, fell on Conway, bore him down to the plasteel floor, and whacked the back of his skull against that. But he did lose the shotgun.
No matter. It was worse than useless now anyway: they would be looking for a man with a shotgun. Time to break off the engagement and get clear. Shouting inarticulately in rage and pain, he flung the boy from his chest, got his feet under him, and without even stopping to snap the brat’s neck, hurled himself through the holowall and out into the corridor, taking what consolation he could from having nailed two out of three.
MIKE SHOOK OFF Annie’s help and got to his feet, glaring at her. “You never told me you had the place tricked up to do that,” he accused.
“You never asked. Security here is good; I had to be prepared for a raid.” She tapped at her Command Band and canceled the effect; behind her, Hormat became visible again, standing on the tabletop.
And visibly upset. He leaped to the floor, crying, “Catch him we must,” and tried to muscle his way between and past them.
“Whoa,” Annie cried, and Mike helped her restrain him. “Are you trying to get us busted? Let Conway look out for hims—”
“He either gets away or Security gets him,” Hormat grated, struggling feebly with them. “Either way…what happens next!”
Mike looked at Annie and Annie looked at Mike, and then they both shoved Hormat away from the door—but only accidentally, in the process of using him as a starting block.
In those first couple of running steps, while he was still planning how to make his right turn as he passed through the holowall, Mike assumed it was hopeless. Conway had a lead of several seconds on them and did not care if he attracted notice as long as nobody stopped him. Mike and Annie had to live here. And even if they threw caution to the winds and raced flat-out…Conway was over two meters tall, with long legs, and he looked to be in the peak of physical condition and training. Mike was a short twelve-year-old, and Annie was an aged midget. They were both unarmed except for Annie’s Command Band, and she couldn’t very well have all of Dreamworld tricked out with booby traps. Mike was prepared to give it his best shot—he understood the fate of everything was at stake—but he didn’t give much for his chances.
Until he passed through the holowall and into the corridor, where he saw two things, one happy-sad and the other just happy, which between them explained some of the odd half-heard noises out here that had been nagging at his subconscious.
The happy-sad thing he saw was a pair of semiconscious midgets lying in the corridor in his path, both moaning feebly. A heavy pipe wrench lay near the larger one. With no idea how he could possibly know it, Mike knew who they were and why they were there, though he had never seen either face before. They were Max and Amparo—the tunnel rats who had almost caught him in the air shaft. The only explanation for their presence here, far from their station, was that they had noticed a stranger skulking through Dreamworld, carrying what looked like it might be a weapon, and tailed him. Why hadn’t they just reported it and let Security handle it? Because Max either knew or guessed that the guy was heading straight for the Mother Elf’s place! Annie wasn’t quite as Under as she thought she was. Max and Amparo had waited outside in the corridor, unable to hear anything, debating their move…then they had heard the shotgun blasts, and that gave them time to get into position before Conway came out. It hadn’t helped them enough, of course; they were civilians and Conway had taken them both easily.
But even he hadn’t been able to do it without breaking stride: the happy thing Mike saw at the same moment he saw Max and Amparo was Conway’s right foot, only just now disappearing around a corner down the hall. There was now at least a hope in hell of catching him.
Mike leaped over the prone pair and poured on the steam—and soon he saw a really startling thing. Annie was at least thirty years older than him, he was sure of that, with legs just as short as his, and he had seen little in the few days he’d been here to suggest that she lived anything but a sedentary life, and furthermore she was a girl—
—and she was smoking him.
Trashing him; by the time he got it through his head that she had a lead and was going to keep on widening it, it was up to thirty meters. He almost grinned, until he realized it made her more likely than him to get killed by Conway first, and then he stopped thinking altogether and concentrated on running.
She was better on straightaways, he was better on stairs. By the time they burst out into the open above ground, they were neck and neck again. People who had just been staring after Conway turned and stared at them. Many were Guests, both adults and kids; Dreamworld had opened for the day while he and Annie were playing out their real-life drama underground. Mike blinked at the bright sunlight and reacquired Conway. He was racing straight into Heinlein’s Worlds, the most direct route to the nearest exterior wall of Dreamworld. The parking and entrance area was over at the other end of the park; there was nothing beyond the wall Conway was heading for but forest. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Mike and Annie coming, increased his pace. Mike frowned—
Then he caught sight of one of the omnipresent clocks and began to hope. Once Conway was into Heinlein territory, he would almost certainly race right past Podkayne’s Mars and straight into Westville. It was, again, the most direct route to the outer wall. But Mike knew it was not necessarily the fastest—not at this time of day. Just now it was smarter to deke left through Kip Russell’s place—what was it, Centerville?—to avoid Westville. Where Lummox the huge Star Beast was just about to reenact his awe-inspiring March to the Bon Marché for the first time that day, eating Buicks as he went…and blocking the whole street.
Maybe they could pass Conway, beat him to that wall, be waiting to surprise him when he got there.
There was no time or breath to explain his logic to Annie; all he could do as the turnoff approached was yell, “Follow me,” and hope she would trust him. The shout caused her to turn her head and miss a stride, just as a bullet passed through the space her head would have been occupying. Bang! At once she was down and rolling. Mike started to do the same, but saw that Conway was running again now, so he stayed in motion. He could see the little holdout gun Conway had in his right hand; he must have had it all along, for Mike had never seen him pull it. This was really not good. Conway could turn and fire again at any moment…
And then inspiration came to Mike.
He sucked in all the air he could and let it out in a desperate bellow, using his “adult” voice. “Stop him: he tried to shoot the Mother Elf!”
The world went silent. He had not noticed until then that it was making sounds. Everyone stared at him. Annie stared up at him, openmouthed, from the positio
n of cover she’d rolled to. Then she sprang to her feet, tilted her head back, and brayed at the top of her lungs.
“Hey, Rube—”
If there was any place on earth where the carny’s ancient emergency call to arms was still remembered, it was Dreamworld. Many if not most of its older employees were ex-carny, and the rest had heard the legends. As one, every employee in sight, and one or two of the Guests, stopped staring at Mike and Annie—
—and turned to look at Conway.
All heaven broke loose then. Those still in a position to stop him began moving, while those behind him started yelling variations of the things Mike and Annie had just said to bystanders farther ahead who hadn’t heard it. The words “Mother Elf” were heard more than once. Conway began running broken-field, trying to avoid being boxed into a gauntlet, but at first he kept assuming kids would be harmless, and that was wrong. Two of them almost succeeded in tripping him by rolling a trash can into his path while he was looking in another direction.
Never for an instant did Mike hope any of them would actually stop Conway. But he was pretty sure they’d slow him down—and so would eight-legged Lummox, taking up most of the road in his path. And Mike felt that Conway, already at risk of being caught or identified by Security cameras, was not stupid enough to make things even worse by shooting any Guests or legitimate Staff who got in his way if he could possibly avoid it. Mike had caught up with Annie now; he stopped watching the traveling chaos, helped her up, and hissed again, “Follow me!”
They took the left into Centerville, and luck was with them: Conway was too distracted to notice until they were out of sight. Within a block Annie must have figured out Mike’s plan; she again moved out in front of him and began building a lead, just as the Russell Family came boiling out of Kip’s House, wondering why the spaceship had come early today. In no time Annie and Mike were thundering past the spaceship itself; he could see Pee-wee and the Mother Thing gaping from its airlock.
The Free Lunch Page 22