Tara Dean also would have heard a low, rumbling growl vibrating from the cyberfox’s throat. Her eyes inflated to saucers as the fox drew back its jowls and exposed a row of ragged, synthetic teeth. But the teeth were not white, they were… chrome? Silver?
Tara felt herself chill with terror.
Synthetic jaws? A fighting battborg?
Before she could follow the thought further, three, four, five botulinum darts slammed into the fox’s head. Each projectile glanced off the animal, clear liquid payload splattering on the hovcar’s windshield.
That fox ought to be a pile of spaghetti.
She was relieved to see the creature turn its attention, now focusing on the drone. The drone floated directly overhead, squawking like an raging parrot. Blinding light. The Mustang’s screaming levfans. The hovcar rocked and Tara cringed. The second fox leapt from the roof with so much force that the back window on the Mustang cracked down the center. The animal on the hood followed, claws ripping gouges into the light metal as it too went airborne.
One directly after the other, the foxes collided with the security drone and brought it crashing down to the asphalt. Tara gasped, her lower lip shaking. The foxes savagely drove their teeth into the security drone’s dorsal ridge, ripping through the unit’s Kevlar chassis. Sparks erupted from the downed drone, and its sensor array flickered and went black. One fox pulled a small black box free with its teeth and spat it on the ground.
Another private security drone, just arriving, immediately changed course and flew higher into the sky as it fired nine, ten more botulinum darts that harmlessly glanced off the foxes’ heads. Two of the darts penetrated each animal’s ratty skin and the needles stuck, dangling from their necks.
Tara Dean could not believe what she was seeing.
The foxes raised their paws in unison and swiped the darts to the ground. Then they turned back to her. Two blue eyes glowed angrily on one animal. A single eye pulsed in the other’s dark face.
Tara didn’t have time to know what was happening. As she yanked the Mustang’s door closed she noticed… more eyes? Twenty to thirty additional blue lights hovered in the bushes at the edge of the docking lot. For a moment she thought she heard a high pitched howling.
Fuck me…
She dropped the hovcar’s air brake and slammed her foot against the accelerator. Instead of dodging left or right like one would expect, the eery metal-mouthed foxes leapt straight into the air as the hovcar rocketed forward. She had every intention of running the damn things down, but they were obviously smart. The Mustang lurched as it flew over the carcass of the trashed security drone. Tara could see the gates on her left rolling shut as she took a wide swing towards the Exit.
“Shit and balls!” she screamed at the dashboard.
The Mustang’s steering wheel was heavy in manual mode. She hauled on it with both hands. Proximity klaxons blared through the cabin as she accidentally sideswiped a docked hovtruck, ripping away both vehicles’ side mirrors, shattering the pilot’s side glass and one of her headlights.
A warning LED in the dashboard monitor began beeping, followed by an irritatingly calm female voice that said, “Oh my, port headlight malfunction. Safety at risk. The sun will rise in 5.6 hours. Travel is not recommended until that time. Reinitiating Govcloud auto control in ten seconds, nine, eight, seven, six…”
She pulled free of the hovtruck and stomped on the juice, screeching, “Negative com! Full manual pilot! Safety regs off!”
The klaxon silenced.
A robofox dropped out of the sky and landed on the back bumper, barely missing the center of its target. The cracked rear window of the hovcar shattered completely, littering the interior with shards of safety glass as the Mustang bucked violently from the heavy impact and the fox rolled into the docking lot.
“Time to get the hell outta Kansas, Dorothy!”
Fifty meters directly ahead, the security gates had already rolled shut.
She engaged the morpho-adaptive seatbelt and re-tied the scrunchy around her ponytail with one hand.
“Here we go.”
She nailed it.
The Mustang roared forward, punching headlong through the antique iron gates that adorned the hospital’s entrance. Tara Dean glanced in the rear view HUD as she and the hovcar flew past the enormous brick and mortar pillars that had held the gates in place. She could see the gray, streaking bodies of the blue-eyed robofoxes tearing across the parking lot with impossible speed behind her. The animals stealthily dodged the collapsing gates, peeling through the clouds of cement dust and iron carnage in focused pursuit. The wind howled through the hovcar’s shattered back window while a thousand glimmering chunks of shattered glass skittered across the floor board beneath her boots.
Trying to read the GPS data on the Mustang’s holoscreen, she looked up, barely in time to glimpse a single file scatter of more blue lights closing on her position from the left. The Mustang was traveling 105 kph as it found the open road. The blue lights moved with an unpredictable, jolting motion. She watched them intently, captivated by an overwhelming sensation of deja vu.
I know these things…
But no lights she had ever seen glowed like that. Or moved like that. And then they were gone. Just as quickly as they had appeared, the string of lights simultaneously vanished.
Tara was still holding her breath. She glanced at the rear view HUD.
Hah!
The robofoxes were no longer chasing her either, gone as if they had never been.
Thank you, Spencer. This pony floats!
She grinned to herself, weirdly calm on the adrenaline high, despite the feeling that her heart was about to tear through her rib cage.
For a fraction of a moment… things seemed almost peaceful, hushed. The pitch darkness of a crisp winter night roamed far and wide ahead as the Mustang flew down the hovroad through the Kansas countryside like a ship disappearing into the belly of a midnight sea.
Behind Tara Dean, too far dim and too far gone to see, 18 pairs of cobalt vidorbs the size of acorns re-illuminated in the blackness. They coherently aligned themselves into a single file orientation, then flashed away in a bouncing tracer of light moving due southwest over an adjacent soybean field.
The non-emergency tower lights in the hospital’s docking lot blinked on with a jolt. Three black, football-shaped security drones hovered back and forth, their searchlights scanning the grounds for unregistered motion. A fourth drone hovered one meter above the broken chassis of its colleague that had been shredded by the robofoxes. Greystone Hospital security klaxons bleated senselessly over and over from every available com. The faces of patients and evening staff members peered out of windows, stupefied at the smoldering carnage on the hospital’s western grounds.
One of those windows framed the sallow, ghost-pale face of orderly Spencer Hotshine. He rubbed his temple in dull-eyed pain. He could still hear the words repeating, repeating, repeating, repeating.
Help… they’re hurting me. I need you.
Beside him, closer to the glass, fogging it with her breath, stood Nurse Marlene Fossbender. Her face was contorted and serpent-like, and the caterpillar flesh beneath her chin undulated in a sweat-glistened fury.
Wikipedia.holo Excerpt (Last Updated 2071.04.13) Regarding North American United States Hovroad Infrastructure:
Completed in 2059, The NAUS Magnetic Hovway Reapplication System was the largest Federal infrastructure project in history. All antique Federal, state, county and city interstates and roads, both gravel, and obsolete tar asphalt or concrete, were retrofitted with subterranean magnetic levitation conduits. Similar to antique maglev train technology, hovlev as it is popularly known, assists all independent hovercraft with vertical lift and passive perimeter awareness systems. It is the foundation upon which all current autopilot technology functions. All NTSB certified hovercraft manufacturers have been required by Federal mandate to integrate hovlev rail technology into all vehicles following model year 2060. The
self-regenerating, rubcrete-asphalt, hybrid road surface utilized today is based upon this now standardized float automation system.
Chapter 1.7 – Live Free or Die
Only the windshield remained intact. The Mustang’s dashboard was aglow with so many com warnings that Tara had no choice but to ignore them. The built-in holoscreen blinked constant red text: MULTIPLE WARNING! PLEASE ADDRESS! MULTIPLE WARNING!
“Multiple warning,” repeated Tara with an angry smirk. “First, we’ll lock you in solitary. Then, you’re going to get raped. And the next morning, we’ll tie you down and shove a microscopic drill bit through your eye. Aside from that, everything’s cool.”
Her black boot pushed the hovcar’s accelerator to the floorboard. The propfans moaned with pleasure. The speed limit on the rural, two-lane hovway was beyond unrealistically low for a modern hovercraft; and, in addition to the visual alerts, the Ford’s onboard computer chattered constantly. Spencer Hotshine, of course, had the hovcar’s com set to the smooth, sexualized voice of Ford’s 2079 holoflix-star sponsor, Jessyca Lopez.
The Mustang communicated breathlessly, “Oh my, I’m afraid we have a guest pilot warning! The maximum speed limit on County Hovway 1900 is 70 kilometers per hour. Your current speed is 153 kph. Would you care to increase the hovlev gradient for a more secure float?”
“No!” shouted Tara. “Hovlev to minimum!”
Klax!
“Oh my, guest pilot warning! The Douglas County Sheriff’s Department assesses speed citations at a rate of 1,000 digidollars for every ten kilometers over the legal limit.”
Klax!
“Oh goodness, we have another safety warning! Hovcar integrity compromised. Emergency conditions include damaged structural components, damaged glass shields. Recommend immediate return to Govcloud autocontrol for guidance.”
Klax!
“Oh my, guest pilot warning! Incoming public safety units requesting system access. Manual override is in place and I cannot comply. I recommend guest pilot grant authorities system access. Legal penalties may be incurred. Do you wish to grant Douglas County public safety units remote system access at this time?”
Tara Dean slammed her fist into the dashboard, cracking the glass monitor, “Hairy fucking balls NO! Computer, maximum manual encryption! And mute! Full system mute!”
Jessyca Lopez’ seductive voice responded gleefully in surround sound, “I’m terribly sorry, guest pilot, but I am unable to mute audio. Non-compliance with regional public safety regulations may endanger your safety. I am unable to mute at this time…”
Tara punched the dashboard holoscreen and screamed, “North American piece of shit! Where’s a Bimmer when you need one?!”
The red glow of warning lights in the dash illuminated her soft, angry features as she gripped the steering wheel. She kept the accelerator jammed to the floor. With only the windshield left, the whistling air made her eyes water so badly that it was near impossible to see. Behind, the Mustang’s roaring propulsion and lateral stability fans spit up billowing clouds of dust and uprooted grass ripped from the hovway’s gravel shoulder. Shards of glass and metal reflected sparkles of disco light throughout the vehicle. She had cut her hand unknowingly when fleeing the robofoxes. A stream of blood slicked the steering wheel and the five degree wind raging through the broken cabin seemed determined to tear her hair from its roots. It blew madly against her cheeks, so cold it burned. The onboard environmental systems attempted to compensate by blasting hot air from all vents directly at the pilot’s seat. Her torso and legs quickly covered in sweat, though her ears were icing, hair freezing from the tips down, slapping her neck like tiny, sharp whips.
The dashboard chimed on perkily, “Hello there, guest pilot. The intersection for Douglas County Hovway 1500 is approaching in .15 kilometers. Do you wish to turn? We should probably slow down if so.”
“Mute your Dogdamn, bitch-ass!” Tara screamed.
She futilely slammed her bloody fist into the holoscreen again, and once more for good measure.
Shit!
Tears of wind, panic, pain and frustration poured down her freckled cheeks. The wound at the base of her palm ripped open a little further each time she slammed her hand into the holoscreen. Blood flowed freely, dribbling down the cold poly-leather steering column. It congealed in her flying hair as she uselessly attempted to brush it from her line of sight.
The octagonal, LED Stop sign that marked the intersection of the perpendicular county hovways was fast approaching. The sign barreled towards her like a UFO in the night.
Suddenly, the hovcar and country landscape blurring past were illuminated in a swath of white light.
The computerized vocal processor of the Douglas County Sheriff’s drone was fierce and loud, emanating through the Mustang’s speaker array, “External override initiated. Tara Dean, you are a fugitive operating a stolen vehicle. You are ordered to halt immediately and exit the hovercraft with your hands above your head. Release manual encryption now, or we will physically disable you within sixty seconds.”
“You’re gonna shoot me in less than a minute?” Tara whispered under her breath. “I’d rather crash.”
She realized she had no plan in place beyond stealing the hovcar.
Where am I even going? Hide in the city. Get to where people are.
She kept her boot on the Mustang’s accelerator, thighs aching as she cranked the wheel hard right, burning around the sharp turn onto westbound Douglas County Hovway 1500. The Ford’s stability controls engaged, lateral fans pealing with brutal dismay as the silver hovcar ripped through the turn at 165 kph.
The com blared, “Oh my, your speed is excessive! Unable to maintain hovway integrity! Speed is excessive!”
Tara’s head collided with a crumpled section of roof as the Mustang jolted, banked right and skipped over the gravel shoulder into a winter wheat field, dropping ten centimeters as it broke traction with the hovlev conduit. The propfan intake manifolds ripped up dead stalks of wheat by the roots as inertia carried her in a long, sweeping arc back onto the hovroad, a rooster tail of skittering dust, gravel, ripped up soil and shredded winter wheat following in her wake.
One of the Mustang’s eight vertical levfans sucked in a fist-sized rock and exploded, scattering sparks beneath like broken fireflies. Tara screamed like a woman crazed. Her hands clenched the wheel in a white-knuckled death grip. Blood streamed from her cut brow and mingled with the chilled sweat burning her eyes.
The Mustang’s ceramic core turbine motor shuddered violently as she tortured the prop pedal. The hovcar momentarily hiccuped, all lights blinked to black. The vehicle dropped to the asphalt, squealing and scraping as it slid down the hovway ripping out divots of asphalt.
“No, no, no, no!!” Tara screamed.
She smashed the fist of her good hand into the blood stained instrument console, at which point the electrical systems, seeming to hear these dying wishes, reinitialized and the Mustang exploded forward once more. The Mustang re-bridged with the hovlev conduit and her body was thrown back into the seat with gratifying force.
Jessyca Lopez chatted happily as if the vehicle had just started anew, “Well, hello! Welcome, guest pilot. Warning! Levfan six is experiencing mechanical obstruction. I recommend visiting an authorized Ford service center during regular business hours. What’s this? We have an incoming transmission from a nearby Douglas County public service drone.”
Then the usual bevy of klaxons and vocal transmissions resumed, flashing alerts across the dash, “Oh my, warning! Speed in excess of posted maximum! You are…”
Hot white light surrounded her again as the sheriff drone’s computerized voice hacked the sound system, “Tara Dean, you are a fugitive. You have 41 seconds to terminate manual encryption. You are operating a stolen vehicle. We will physically disable your hovcar if you do not comply.”
As she roared west down the empty rural hovway in the direction of the outlying Lawrence suburbs, the only number Tara could keep in her mind was
the distance between herself and The Greystone Behavioral Modification Hospital, now 9.8 kilometers and rapidly increasing. As the distance reached ten kilometers, Tara realized that she was going to die. Or at least severely hurt herself trying to die… so there would be no reason for the Feds to return her to a Bmod hospital. Ever.
Perhaps a crushed spinal column would get her paralyzed corpus shipped off to a nice nanoneuromatics regeneration facility in Cuba? Cuba was nice in January. Maybe a graphene splinter from the Mustang’s motherboard would sever her esophagus? Bionic throat reconstruction? Even a euthanization clinic would be better than returning to Marlene Fossbender’s slaughterhouse.
“Tara Dean, you are a fugitive. We will disable your vehicle in nineteen seconds. For your own safety, release manual operation encryption codes now.”
The Mustang ripped down the hovroad at its maximum governed rate of 199 kph. Distance from Greystone Bmod Hospital, 12.6 kilometers. Waves of dust thrown up from the gravel shoulders billowed behind, partially obscuring the hovcar from aerial view. Tara spit furiously, steering with her left hand, which seemed to be the only part of her body not slicked with blood. Her loose strands of black hair had congealed into half frozen clumps that banged painfully against her ears.
A decidedly human, authority-drenched, male voice now began speaking through the Mustang’s com over the dizzying rush of wind.
It was a live feed, “Ms. Dean, I know you can hear me. This is Deputy Brick Talboy of the Douglas County Sheriff’s Department. My drones are going to open fire on your hovcar with rubberized Faraday bullets in about thirteen seconds. You’re eighteen kilometers from the city limits, okay? If you wanna hurt yourself, I can’t do much about that. But I can’t let you enter the city and risk the lives of innocent citizens. This is your last warning. You need to give us access to your coms before someone gets hurt!”
Dawn of the Courtezan: Phase 01 (The Eighteenth Shadow) Page 10