Anti-Grav Unlimited

by Duncan Long

  The job finished, I stood back and was thankful I didn’t own any stock in the major conglomerates. Or—worse yet—was a member of the great business minds who had decided to sack my team’s six year’s of work just as we were achieving success. They would be lucky to keep their heads connected to the proverbial neck bone.

  For some reason, that reminded me that I’d failed to get in touch with my lab team. They had to be on pins and needles wondering what had happened to me and whether I’d be forming a new team. I thought it all over for a bit and decided to bring them back together with me later, but at this point I wanted to keep them in the dark about our success. It would be better for them and my

  “company” if they thought we’d failed. The new power we could generate was going to make some major changes in society, and the fewer people who knew that ahead of time the better.

  So my plan was a little hazy at that point. Basically, what I hoped to do was get a few working examples of the anti-gravity rods’ possibilities cobbled together to attract investors, and then get my team back together to refine the various generating systems we might market. In the meantime, I didn’t have the space or money to get the group going. And there was security. I knew that a lot of people would like to get rid of us if they ever knew what we were up to. We stood to make money, but a lot of someones were going to lose a lot. A whole lot. That doesn’t make for friendly feelings among the businesses we would be displacing.

  Thus I figured my best bet was to convince the members that the project had finally failed but that they should keep in touch so we could restart our project when I finally got some money for continuing.

  Before giving the van a test drive, I called all eight of my lab team members during the next hour (Linda was the hardest to get and I spent 45 minutes tracking her through her pager). I broke the “news” to them that the rods were a dismal failure but that we must be on the right track, we’d get back together soon, keep in touch, etc.

  That done I raced back into the garage after a side stop to keep from having kidney failure.

  The test of the rod-driven motor in the van was about to begin!

  I got the bot into the corner, ordered him off, then jumped into the van like a kid on World Freedom Day.

  Almost backing through the garage door, I remembered to use the scramble coder to open it and—barely containing myself—put the van into reverse and eased out.

  It worked like a charm.

  I tooled up to the interstate (consciously going the opposite direction from the rest stop that I’d dumped the two body bags in) and tried out the motor’s full power for a mile or so. (Luckily no hi-pees were about.)

  I quit when the van hit 200 clicks. That’s just a little fast considering that the top speed for a brand new van is only 80. Besides becoming a bit worried about the van shaking itself apart on the bumps in the road, it was apt to draw someone’s attention. And I figured bureaucratic someones would probably like to get their hands on the van to create a new tax category if nothing else.

  So I drove back to the garage at a sedate speed.

  With one side trip.

  I headed to a telebank where I deposited my pay chip and then hit my favorite Radio Dome electronics store where I spent every centime I’d deposited on equipment for the next project I had in mind. It was crazy, but it seemed to me that the next step for the van would not only demonstrate what the rods could do, but also help me realize one of my longest held dreams. To fly on my own.

  Only this time, the sky would not be the limit if things worked out.

  Chapter 5

  I won’t bore you with the details. My team always said I talked them to death and after a while I started to take the hint.

  Here’s basically what I—and my able labbot assistant—did: First we got several of the complete rods and welded them to the frame of the van so that it had an apparent weight of only a few kilograms. That done, we cut about half the rods to manageable lengths (I used the outlets in the van to power the laser), welded the short lengths to the thousand and some military surplus step motors I’d purchased (the clerk must have thought I was trying to corner the market, though he didn’t say anything), anchored the motors all over the inside of the van, tried to locate the center of gravity for the van and place the gyroscope there, and wired the motors and the gyroscope so that they were controlled by one of the lab computers which was also securely anchored in the van between the driver and passenger seat. (Figuring how to place the rods was harder than wiring them up; they had to go where the combined forces of the anti-grav rods wouldn’t tear the van apart—that could be embarrassing.) Even with the labbot doing most of the work nonstop on autoprogram, the work took two days. The next day was spent trying to tell the computer how to control the array of step motors properly. It’s one thing to make a van float, it’s another to make it float where you want it to. And I also had to make the computer realize that pointing the rods the wrong way could crush the passenger and/or the computer itself (and I quickly learned that even the new sentient computer’s don’t have much sense when it comes to fear for their own well being).

  Suddenly the computer and I both got the hang of it and there the van was, floating about two feet off the garage floor. It sort of hovered while several of the step motors moved back and forth to counterbalance the hole thing.

  It took a moment to sink in: It worked!

  Before dashing out, I was a little cautious and placed the other computer into the van. It would be my backup to control the step motors if computer one failed. (Number one assured me it wouldn’t, but who ever trusted a computer? So number two went in and number one whispered all its secrets into its little electronic ear.)

  I loaded up more tools than I could ever possibly need in case I would had to make some repairs “on the road,” and then I hopped into the van. This time I fastened my seat belt very tightly.

  I stayed close to the ground until I got the hang of it. Though the computers normally work with spoken commands, I was afraid that wouldn’t be fast enough so I had connected the regular controls into the system: the steering wheel controlled directions, the brakes and accelerator pedal regulated the speed, the turn signal became the upward/downward control. (And in case you’re wondering, the computer too the brake lights and turn signals off line when the flying mode was engaged.)

  Later that night, a blue van-shaped UFO moved across the sky and barely set down to become a van again just before three World Military fighters came screaming through the area looking for the UFO that must have appeared on radar. They darted to and fro like angry dragonflies on their flex winds; they hovered a moment, searching in vein for their prey, then wheeled on a silent command and streaked out of sight.

  I decided to drive home—or at least hover close to the road. Fighter planes can get mean and I didn’t want to see if I could outrun a missile with my name on it.

  While I was out flitting around, playing with the van, someone blew up my house.

  That’s right. When I got home, only a pile of burnt plastic and black ash marked the square of land where my dome sweat home had been. Bits of the building and my belongings had dented the domes around it; there was nothing left to claim.

  If I had been crazy enough to try to claim anything. I wasn’t because it was obvious that a real pro had played demolition dynamite with my home. That was when I realized that in all likelihood the project hadn’t been canceled by mistake at all. The whole purpose had been to get my team out of sight—then out of existence.

  I glanced at the rubble that had been my dome, and then got out of the area as fast as I could.

  I don’t know why I knew that my dome had been destroyed by someone who was after me. Sixth sense, maybe. Maybe just some odds and ends in the back of my mind that hadn’t added up. At any rate I didn’t stick around the area.

  Talk about mixed emotions…One minute I was gliding through the air with the world on a string and the next I felt as if I were a hunted an
imal.

  I didn’t have a cell phone. And if I had, I wouldn’t have used it since that would most likely have resulted in someone homing in on me. Instead I stopped at the first Mastivisa vidphone booth and tried to call some of the team members, figuring they were in real danger, too. The machine told me my card had been canceled.

  I got out of that area as quickly as I could since I suspected that someone was probably coming to check me out who was using my card. At least, I was paranoid enough at this point to think so. Since I never carried money, I was now not only homeless but also centimeless.

  I did have some tools, however, and soon an old fashioned coin phone had given up its change. Racing away, I stopped at a third phone to try calling again.

  None of the members could be reached. All out? It was getting late and now I was beginning to sweat. What is going on?

  I parked the van in a hedge on a back road and slept fitfully with my Beretta across my lap.

  * * *

  The next morning the last of my stolen money was spent for a news sheet.

  The day’s plastic sheet carried my death notice along with those of my lab team. No details. I knew I was alive, but were they?

  I hoped so but knew that it was just by the slimmest of chances that I hadn’t been at home in bed when my house had been ripped apart. I had a queasy feeling they had all been killed.

  I had other worries, too. There aren’t that many vans on the road these days. I knew if anyone was looking for me, my blue van stuck out like the milk glands on a dinocow.

  The first order of business was a trip to Nervous Eddy’s. Ed was where I did all my black market business. I hid the van behind his store and walked into the old concrete building he worked out of. I stood just inside for a moment so my eyes could adjust to the dark interior.

  Nervous Ed sat on a tall stool behind the front counter. He looked just as apprehensive as his name suggested. I always wondered why he persisted in carrying on his illegal business—

  camouflaged as a tool store—if it made him so jumpy.

  “The walking dead,” he said with a twitch of his left eyelid.

  “Yeah, I need some help.”

  At this point his black sentinel bared its three rows of teeth and gave a growl that danced up and down my spine. Ed didn’t say a thing to the sentinel but gave a quick hand signal which made it leap over the counter and vanish out of sight. “What’d ya need and what’d ya got?” Ed chanted, a tic pulling his leathery face into a scowl.

  I was glad I’d left the dome with a lot of extra tools. I slid two electric wrenches and a compucalc—that I hoped I wouldn’t need—across the scratched glass counter top toward him. Ed normally doesn’t betray any emotion but he raised one eyebrow at the wrenches. He’s a sucker for electric wrenches.

  “I need some clean tag decals and instapaint. Red and white. And some swirl controls for the paint.”

  “You can get most that stuff at a retail store. The decals are illegal; that’s harder,” he squinted at me trying to figure out what my angle was.

  “If you have a card; mine’s been revoked,” I told him.

  “You are in trouble.”

  He thought a moment, then started collecting cans of instapaint, swirlers, and the illegal tag decals from various cubby holes in the store. I’ve never known Ed to be generous or trade without dickering. The fact that he was pulling out everything I needed without a fuss drove home the fact that I was in pretty deep trouble and that he probably wanted to get me out of his store as quickly as possible so he wouldn’t be there with me.

  “Anything else?”

  I thought a moment and then remembered the magazine I’d taken out of the pukers assault rifle (which was in the back of my van). I pulled the magazine out of my hip pocket, “Got any ammunition for one of these? And I need some more nine millimeter, too.”

  Ed held the magazine a moment as he studied it, hiked up his thick spectacles on his broad nose, then handed the magazine back. “Hummm.” The turned and sunk from sight behind the counter. I heard him rummaging about in a drawer.

  “These are hard to come by. Cost ya extra.” He shoved three dog-eared boxes of ammunition across the counter toward me.

  I fished for a moment in my front pocket for my last barter chip: an electric screwdriver.

  Ed’s eyes twinkled, “Done…And…” He reached under the counter. “Here, you’ll be needing this, too.”

  My eyes must have displayed my surprise: A Mastivisa card.

  “It’s stolen. But should be good for another day or two. Just don’t go over fifty creds at a time.

  I figure you’ll need it.”

  I didn’t know what to say but just nodded. I scooped everything up and headed toward the door, “Thanks Ed.”

  “Be careful.”

  * * *

  After inspecting the lot behind Ed’s store, I backed into the abandoned building next to his.

  Out of sight, I quickly placed the decals onto the tag impressed in my rear bumper. Soon the numbers of a different van appeared on the bumper. It wouldn’t pass a check, but if they were looking for my specific tag number, it might get me by. The tag number changed, I set up the instipaint on the swirl pattern controller and painted the latest of bopper designs on the van.

  I hoped the van would now look enough different enough to get me out of the area. I stowed the extra cans and the controller in the back of the van, jumped in, and pulled out onto the street.

  There was just one place to go. I started the long trip with the sound of my growling stomach filling the van.

  Chapter 6

  About a full minute into the journey to New Denver, I realized that using the stolen Mastivisa card could get me killed because using it would leave an electronic trail that, once the authorities figured I’d been using it, would lead them directly to me. Until I knew just who was trying to ace me, I didn’t want anyone to be able to track me.

  That meant retracing my route for about fifteen minutes, crossing back into Missorark under the east side of the old and—in the smog of the late evening—nearly invisible KC dome. As I traveled under the edge of the giant dome that spanned most of the New City area, I left the darkness of the night, and the blue-green of the city’s sky lamps startled my eyes; I turned off the van’s headlights and darkened the tint of the windshield.

  Knowing I’d need food, I watched the old concrete storefronts which were interspersed with new plastic buildings and slowed at the first auto-grocery store I came to and turned pulling into the line of vehicles in front of the huge yellow bubble store that proclaimed: Happy Dog Groceries and Supplies.

  After waiting in line a few minutes, I eased the van to the window and opened the van window so that I could place my order. My nose was assaulted by the stale fumes of garbage and burnt coal that seemed to always float in the decrepit city’s air.

  “Good evening. Generic or name brands?” the purple dog asked with a crazy, toothy grin.

  I wondered why adults would want to talk to a robot dressed like a dog. “Whichever is cheaper for each item,” I answered, figuring paupers with stolen cards had to get the most they could for their money.

  “Please speak slowly as you give me your list of needs,” the “dog” instructed with a wink.

  Off the top of my head I recited a quick list of the freeze-dried and irradiated foods I might need, wishing I’d thought to make a list while sitting in line. “And a few of my favorite unsugar candies,” I finally finished.

  “Is that all?”

  I nodded.

  “Total is 65 creds. Card?”

  Great, I thought. A card can’t go over 50 creds without a quick scan. That would be a disaster with a stolen card.

  “Uh… I don’t have that much in my account,” I said with a blush creeping up my neck. “How

  ’bout cutting it down?”

  At this moment I noticed the growing din from the group of vinyl-and-leather-clad bikers just behind my van. They were tired of
all the waiting and expressed their anger by loudly voicing obscenities. I glanced into the rear-view mirror to see what kind of brain-dead beings I might have to contend with.

  “Any preference as to what we remove?” the bot asked, its mechanical smile now having vanished.

  “No. Anything. Just get the total to… Uh… 48 creds. Leave the candy.”

  “OK. Card?”

  “Yeah,” I handed it over. The bot held it in front of its eyes and videofaxed it.

  Obscenity, obscenity “Hurry up!” came from behind me.

  Just what I need; a nice, unobtrusive riot.

  “Retina, please,” the bot said.

  I gave the bot a wide-eyed stare while it videofaxed my eyes.

  “Drive on around to the loading dock and have a good evening.” The smile was back on its face. The card had passed the cursory check and all was forgiven. I let out a sigh and was thankful that my actions hadn’t tripped any programs in the bot to cause it to do a detailed credit check on my card so that it would compare my retina to that of the card’s owner. As it was, when the banks discovered that the card was stolen, the authorities would be able to find out who had used the card by checking my retina pattern. But that would take a while and I would be long gone by then.

  Besides, I figured my death had already shot my credit rating to hell.

  I eased the van around to the back of the building and stopped. I ordered the bots to be careful when they placed the food into the back of the van. But like typical work bots, they managed to throw the packages of food around despite my instructions. Added to their clumsiness was the fact that they were all configured as pink dogs, all the while barking as they worked. As I leaned against the scarred loading dock, I made a mental note never to shop at a Happy Dog store again.