Red Limit Freeway

by John Dechancie

  But Carl was helping.

  “Fifty-six real blips,” Sam said. “That’s it, Carl! Get ‘em at the top of the arc! Forty-two, forty-one…”

  Carl was firing his magical weapon continually—doubtless it, too, was under some sort of computerized control.

  “…eighteen, seventeen…”

  Just then another piece of the bad roller broke off, wafted past the cab like a gigantic snowflake, caught the slipstream and disappeared. The rig lunged to the left and I fought to get it under control.

  “Sorry, Sam!” I yelled.

  “Keep moving! Three of ‘em left!”

  A shell exploded to our right. Shrapnel spanged off the hull. “Dammit, one got through.” Sam said. “Must have MIRVed off one of the ones I registered as destroyed. Son of a bitch.”

  “Sean? You okay?”

  “Right, Jake. We’re still with you, but I’m afraid Ariadne’s had a relapse. We’re losing power very quickly here.”

  “Have you lost fusion altogether?”

  “No, I don’t think. Wait a minute.”

  “Another salvo, Jake,” Sam announced. “Right. Sean, what about it?”

  On the rearview screen, I could see the magenta roadster dropping back precipitously.

  “Absolutely right, Jake, we’ve lost it. We’re working off a small light-hydrogen combustion engine. Afraid we won’t be keeping up with you very well.”

  “Continue evasive action! Sam? How many this time?”

  “About twice as many as before, it looks like.”

  Carl began firing again, a glowing green tube of energy bristling from the roof of his car like a straight lightning bolt.

  “Sam, I want to slow down. Got an idea.”

  “Do it now!”

  I slowed until Sean’s buggy was tailgating us.

  “Sean, listen to me. Do exactly as I say. Sam, I want you to—”

  “I know what you’re up to. The door is open and the ramp is down.”

  “Sean, do you see what I want?”

  “Right, Jake. We’ll try.”

  “Keep her steady, Jake,” Sam warned. “Don’t give me more numbers to crunch than you have to.”

  The rearview showed Sean lining his buggy up for the impossible docking procedure. He faded off, accelerated, drifted back again, all too tentatively.

  “Sean! Shoot it in there! It’s your only chance!”

  He shot. I felt the trailer shift the slightest bit as the roadster dipped out of camera range. I switched feeds to the camera inside the trailer to make sure they’d made it, then reached for the switch to take in the ramp. Then a tremendous explosion rocked us.

  “Sam, did we take a hit?”

  “Don’t know. Rearview camera’s out, though.” “Sean, can you read me? Sean? Liam?”

  “Their signal won’t punch through the hull, Jake.”

  “That shell sounded like it could have penetrated the trailer and gone off inside it. Camera in the trailer’s out too.”

  “Afraid you might be right. Damage sensors show a hull breach. Possible one, anyway. No, that may be because the back door won’t close and the ramp’s stuck. Getting all red lights back there.”

  “Jake? You guys okay?”

  “We’re all fine in the cab, Carl. Did you see us take a hit to the trailer?”

  “I was looking back. You’ve got damage back there.”

  “Yeah. Can you see Sean or Liam?”

  “No. The door’s halfway down and the ramp’s still dragging on the road.”

  “That’s bad. They may have bought it. Carl, does that buggy of yours have any missiles?”

  “Sort of. You have to understand something. The weapons an this vehicle are mainly defensive, except for the Tasmanian Devils. And I had to argue with ‘em over those.”

  “Argue with who?”

  “The manufacturers. Never mind, can’t go into it right now. Anyway, I can’t fire at a vehicle unless it’s in line-of-sight and it’s shooting at me.”

  “Hell. Maybe—”

  “What I can do, though, is maybe screw their tracking radar momentarily. ”

  “Huh? You can?”

  “Yeah, I think. I’ve never tried this gizmo before, but it should work.”

  “Christ, Carl! Why did you wait till now?”

  “I just now figured out what the hell it was for. Jake, you’ve said that this jalopy of mine puzzles the hell out of you. Well, it does me, too, sometimes. They never fully explained how it’s all supposed to work.”

  “Just what is this gizmo you’re talking about?”

  “I call it the Green Balloon. That’s what it is. A big green sparkly bubble. I launched one once and got out of the car to watch it. I felt itchy all over and my hair stood on end, so I figured it was some kind of electrical phenomenon.”

  “Sounds like it. Sam, reprogram the missiles for a ballistic trajectory. All of ‘em.”

  “Roger.”

  “Carl, can you keep that thing low to the ground so that the effect doesn’t extend very far up?”

  “It doesn’t float too far off the ground, Jake. But it might knock out your radar … scanners, I mean.”

  “Just so it doesn’t knock out the missiles’ homing mechanisms.”

  “I can’t promise that.”

  “We don’t have much to lose by trying. Moore seems to have it over us in the black box department. Unaided, our missiles’ll never hit him. So, stand by to fire that thing. Okay?”

  “Will do.”

  “Ready, Jake. All targeted.”

  “Fire away.”

  “Missiles off.”

  A series of loud whooshes came from the roof of the cab. “Gimme the skyband again, and tell Carl to fire the Green Balloon when the missiles reach the apex of their trajectories.” “Gotcha.”

  “Breaker, breaker. You still back there, Moore?”

  “Indeed we are. What can I do for you?”

  “You can take a look at your scanners and see death.”

  “Jake, those old firecrackers of yours don’t worry us at all. We’re just waiting for that roller to go completely to pieces. Won’t be long. You’re leaving chunks of it all over the road.”

  “There’s gonna be pieces of you all over the road, goodbuddy. Are you sure you see those missiles?”

  “Clear as day. And you didn’t fool us any by giving them a ballistic curve instead of cruising them. Actually, it doesn’t make much difference—”

  Suddenly, everything went out. The instrument lights flickered, went out, came back on. The scanner screens went blank for a moment. The engine powered down, groaned, sighed, and then came back to life.

  “We just caught the edge of the effect zone,” Sam said. “I zonked out there for a second.”

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah. Missiles seem to be on course. Looks like our friends are trying to take evasive action.” Sam laughed wickedly. “Fat lot of good it’ll do ‘em. They’re blind, and it looks like their engines have quit on ‘em too. They won’t be able to roll out of the zone in time. Unless…”

  “What?”

  “Damn.”

  “What, what?” I said.

  “We were on a curve when Carl fired. I don’t have an accurate fix on that thing, though I’m painting some fuzzy stuff that might be it. It looks as though it’s drifting off. They may get out of the effect zone just in time.”

  “Oh, hell.”

  “We’ll know in a few … Yeah, looks like they’re back on full power, and they’re starting to fire. Five seconds to impact. Four … three … two … Huh?”

  I shot a glance into the rearview parabolic, couldn’t see anything. “What happened, Sam?”

  “Son of a brick. Those missiles detonated before impact. All of ‘em, all at once.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “Yeah? How come it happened? I’m not entirely sure they detonated, but they all disappeared from the scope in a flash.” “Moore couldn’t have done that,” I said. �
��He would’ve got some of them, but not all of them in one clean sweep.”

  “I think you’re right. They were just about to be hit hard when it happened. Two more seconds and we would’ve got ‘em. Hell. There goes the fuel on the drone. I’ll have to recover it.

  “Send up Number Two drone,” I told him. “Going up right now.”

  “I’m going to slow down.” I reached for the band selector switch. “Carl?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Feather back a little. Want to see what the hell happened back there, and this roller’s going to go any minute.”

  “Okay.”

  “Sam, do you see anything?”

  “They’ve dropped back.”

  “Maybe we did get ‘em.”

  “Don’t see how. Those missiles airbursting over them wouldn’t’ve done any damage.”

  “Well, they’re not following and that’s all I care about.” I noticed that the terrain had changed. We were out of the swamps and onto rolling plains of purple grass. The portal cylinders were gray-black stumps against a gray horizon. We still had time to check on Sam and Liam without having to stop.

  “Roland!” I yelled. “Unstrap, go back, and unbolt the hatch to the crawltube. Get back to that trailer fast!”

  “Right!”

  “Hold it a minute, Roland!” Sam shouted. “Something coming up. Right, and I think this’ll explain what happened to the missiles.”

  “A Roadbug?”

  “Yeah, looks like one.”

  “You think it intervened?”

  “Yup. They don’t like rowdy behavior on their road.”

  “I hope it’s in a lenient mood today.”

  Roadbug behavior was difficult to predict. They were traffic cops, theoretically with only one law to enforce:

  “Thou shalt not close the road, nor interrupt traffic in any way on any section thereof.”

  As in any legal system, however, judgment sometimes turned on interpretation. Running battles on the road often were tolerated, but in some cases a Roadbug might blast one or the other of the warring parties if it detected a general pattern of illegal activity. In other words, you couldn’t just travel the Skyway taking potshots at anybody and everybody. Sooner or later the Bugs would get wise—there was no doubt that they kept files on specific vehicles, perhaps on all vehicles regularly using the road—and you’d get stomped. Flat. The Roadbugs were notorious for conducting quickie trials on the run, taking testimony from both suspects and witnesses, and rendering summary justice. These decisions were irreversible; there was no court of appeal.

  Who were they? What were they? Roadbuilder machines? Or were they the Roadbuilders themselves? Nobody knew. “It’s a Bug, all right,” Sam announced.

  Since the rearview camera was out, I looked out the port at the parabolic mirror. Within the converging edges of the road behind us, a silver blob was swelling rapidly to take on the shape of a Skyway Patrol vehicle. Their speeds were always fantastic. Sometimes they would overtake you at such a terrific clip that the shock wave would nearly send you sailing out of control. This one appeared to be decelerating, as usual at a bone-pulping rate. I slowed. Doubtless the Bug wanted a chat with us. Pass the time of day.

  “Son, tell the truth. Always best when you’re dealing with Bugs.”

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  “Don’t get smart. Yep, here’s his hailing signal. I’ll put him on the cabin speaker.”

  “OCCUPANTS OF COMMERCIAL VEHICLE: YOU WILL PROCEED AT ONCE TO THE NEXT SECTION.”

  The Roadbug’s voice was like a needle through the eardrums. Imagine all the unpleasant noises you can: the creak of chalk against a blackboard, the tearing of metal, the snap of bone, the crash of vehicles colliding, the buzz of a vibrosaw. Take those waveforms and bunch them up around the extremes of the audible range, then superimpose a ghastly, nonhuman voice over top. The description is inadequate. I suppressed a shudder, and tried to answer in a calm voice.

  “Following your order will cause us hardship and put us in danger.”

  A pause. Then: “EXPLAIN.”

  “This port? I will take us away from our planned route and leave us stranded. We have no maps for that section. Also, we have a dangerously defective roller.”

  The Roadbug pulled alongside us. It looked like an immense silver beetle, its surface featureless and glossy. Blotting out the sky to our left, it drew close for an inspection of the roller. As if to demonstrate, the roller obliged by throwing off another huge chunk of itself. Apparently satisfied, the Bug edged away.

  “DEFECTIVE COMPONENT CONFIRMED. NEVERTHELESS, YOU WILL PROCEED TO THE NEXT SECTION. WE WILL ASSIST.”

  I squelched the mike. “Goddammit,” I said. “Sam? Can you think of anything?”

  “Ask him why,” Sam said. “Ask nice.”

  I reopened the mike. “We respectfully request the reasons for your order.”

  “YOUR RECENT CONDUCT ON THIS SECTION HAS BEEN DEEMED POTENTIALLY DISRUPTIVE OF TRAFFIC FLOW. YOU MUST BE SEPARATED FROM YOUR OPPONENTS.”

  “We were fired on without provocation.”

  “THAT IS OF NO CONCERN. YOU WILL PROCEED TO THE NEXT SECTION OF ROAD. INCREASE YOUR SPEED AND PREPARE FOR TRANSITION. YOUR OPPONENTS WILL NOT FOLLOW.”

  “Dammit it! I said we’d be stranded!”

  “THAT IS OF NO CONCERN. END OF TRANSMISSION.”

  “Fuck you.” Sometimes I prefer good old Anglo-Saxon. The Roadbug dropped back, moved behind us, and inched up until it was tailgating.

  “And we don’t even get a phone call to our solicitor,” Sam said.

  I nodded and heaved a sigh. We were being sentenced, banished to the far side of a potluck portal with no hope of appeal. I had heard of Roadbugs doing this, but had never thought it would happen to me. I looked back at my passengers.

  Well, it wasn’t only happening to me. I looked at the road ahead. The cylinders were almost upon us. I had no choice. It was either shoot the potluck—the Roadbug version of a commuted death sentence—or get smeared.

  But there still was the matter of the failed roller. As our speed increased, it began tossing off pieces of itself with abandon, trailing a snowy plume of powder. This might be a death sentence after all. That roller was ready to break apart any moment.

  “Take her through at minimum speed, son. Steady as she goes.”

  “Right. I’ll need every assist.”

  “I’m right with you.”

  “Dad, I don’t think we’re going to make it this time.”

  “I’ll be with you every step of the way, son.”

  The instrument panel was adance with flashing red lights. The landscape whizzed by in a purple blur.

  “People,” I announced. “No way I can take this rig through a portal with a failed roller. Unless the Bug makes good on the assist promise—and I don’t see how he can—this could be it. I thought you should know.”

  I glanced back again. Susan was white-lipped and pale, John grim but steady-eyed.

  “We’ll make it, Jake,” Roland told me. “We have to.”

  “Do our best.”

  Darla …

  I turned around once more. Darla was smiling at me! Those ionospheric blue eyes glowed with the strangest light. I saw eternity in them. My destiny.

  I blinked my eyes and the smile was gone. I had glanced back for the barest fraction of a second. Now I wasn’t sure if I had seen her smile at all.

  The rig lurched to the left and I fought to keep us on the road. The commit markers—two red-painted metal rods to either side of the roadbed—went by almost before I caught sight of them. I had to straighten out… now!

  The roller started breaking up, deep fracture lines opening up along its surface, shooting out blizzards of white powder. “Dad! Is there anything on the other side?”

  “Of the portal?”

  “No. Life.”

  Sam didn’t have time to answer. Suddenly … everything was normal.

  It was as if a huge hand had grabbed the rig and s
teadied it. Warning lights still flashed, the roller continued its breakup, but our course was true and steady. We were right in the groove. The guide lane markers came up and we were smack in the middle of them: The cylinders marched by, two by two, then the aperture assumed its vague shape out of the optical miasma ahead. We slid neatly into it.

  Then the Roadbug let us go. The roller flew apart in an explosion of snow and ice, sending the rig careening toward the wind-combed dunes lying along the road. We hit sand and the sudden deceleration popped our eyeballs and crushed our chests. I hit the antifishtail jets, torqued up the antijacknife servo and kept us straight for a hundred meters. Angular momentum was conserving all over the place, dragging us back in the direction of the roadway, but the trailer didn’t want to follow. The cab bumped over the lip of the berm. I straightened out, but the trailer still angled to the left, burying its back end into the sand. It would either tip over or fall in behind eventually. I didn’t wait for it to make up its mind; I accelerated, flipped up the safety door covering the quick-release toggle and reached in, crooking two fingers over the ring. Gradually, the trailer swung back into line. I braked—which was a very difficult proposition because there was almost nothing left of the bad roller. Stripped to its yellow, spongy core, it whumped and bumped over the road, flop flop flop flop flop flop, again causing us to veer to the left. I had no intention of going offroad again. I disconnected the front rollers from the braking system and juiced up the rear set. But it was still rough going. The cab shifted suddenly, listing to the left, and sparks began to fly as the edge of the ground-effect vane touched roadmetal. I was able to handle the drag factor, though, and we were coasting nicely to stop when the Roadbug lost patience and whoosed by us in an incredible burst of acceleration.

  I don’t remember what happened next, exactly. We were all over the road, then we were in the sand again, then out of it, and back in once more. Plumes of yellow sand arced up, covering the forward port.