by J. Thorn
It wasn’t even a choice of what to chase. I splayed out my arms and legs to slow down, then went after the TEV.
I didn’t know how much time I had left, but I figured I wouldn’t have a second chance if I screwed up. The TEV was spinning like a top. Depending on how long the wormhole stayed open, it could potentially swallow up a good portion of the earth, along with me, the moon, and anything else the lens passed over. I sidled up close to it and reached out a finger, giving the corner a tap. It slowed the spin enough for me to read the counter.
0:11…0:10…Rather than freak out, I brought my arms in closer to
my body…Increasing my speed…And accidentally bumped the TEV out of reach.
0:08…0:07…The very definition of calm and cool, I once again
accelerated…
Carefully stretched out my hand…
Accidentally bumping the TEV out of reach again.
I didn’t get this far to lose because of panic or impatience. Plus, my nudges weren’t a total loss. I’d managed to get it to stop spinning.
Unfortunately, the lens was now facing the earth. And, be it coincidence or some omnipotent force controlling the universe who enjoyed irony, the TEV was aiming right at Chicago.
0:05…0:04…The wind blew me off to the side. I dropped my right
flank…Sped up…Got in close again…
And clasped my arms around the TEV—accidentally bumping it out of reach for the third time.
0:03…0:02…
Fuck being careful.
I plowed into the damn thing hard, wrapped my arms around it, and aimed the lens at the giant blue expanse of Lake Michigan.
The TEV shuddered, and I heard a whump.
As I stared, a section in the middle of the great lake hollowed out, like a giant ice-cream scoop had been taken to it. Millions—maybe billions—of gallons of water vanished.
Then the water filled in the indentation, rushing back on all sides at once, causing the blue to turn white with an enormous splash.
Chicago was safe. Plus I still had the TEV, which could be used to bring Boise back.
I allowed myself a small grin. All in a day’s work. Cue the applause.
Compared to saving eight million people at the last possible second, the remainder of the free fall should be cake. I wrapped the TEV strap around my wrist and hit button “5” for cruciform.
The square parachute billowed open above me—a jarring sensation but nothing I wasn’t able to handle. The toggle ropes dropped down next to my hands and I grabbed them tight, braking and steering and making my way north up the coast of Lake Michigan, miles past Chicago.
Opening my chute this high above the earth’s surface meant a long and turbulent descent. I spent the time alternating between adjusting my course and scanning the skies for Sata.
I didn’t see him.
I postulated on his survival rate. From the blood inside his helmet, I guessed his eyes had popped in the Tesla field. He could have still released his chute and landed safely, but my fifteen-minute scan of the sky didn’t reveal him.
I turned my thoughts to Vicki, Alter-Talon, Teague, Boise, and the poison coursing through my system. Hopefully I’d be able to wrap up some of these loose ends, perhaps even with the authorities on my side. Certainly there were cameras at the Arthur C. Clarke Station, which showed Sata on his rampage. It would be nice to stop running and get some actual help instead. While I couldn’t figure out how the wormhole TEV worked, I had no doubt some government egghead could.
The wind got stronger, whipping me around. Though I was still a long way from safety, the adrenaline had worn off and I actually yawned. I adjusted my direction, heading toward Milwaukee and my wife.
That was when the first bolt of Tesla lightning hit me.
It was a big bolt, obviously from a Tesla Taser satellite. I should have guessed that once I fell into US airspace I was being monitored. My displacement of Lake Michigan water, instead of being viewed as a heroic act that saved a city, could have been mistaken for an attack.
Another bolt struck me, confirming my hypothesis. Luckily, Sata’s hypersuit deflected the charge. But I knew TTS would only be the first strike. Next would probably be—
—missiles. Two of them. Ground to air, coming up fast. I stared down between my legs and watched them rocket up at me, trailing long plumes of gray smoke.
FIFTY-TWO
Some days a guy just can’t catch a break.
If the TTS had locked onto me, the missiles had locked on as well. I guessed them to be airburst, which meant they wouldn’t even need to hit me to kill me. They would explode within a few hundred feet, the shock wave and shrapnel ripping me to shreds.
I tried to recall if anything in my peace officer training dealt with dodging missiles while parachuting at fifty thousand feet, and came up empty. But I hadn’t gone this far to get shot out of the sky like a fat, lazy duck.
Pulling up the TEV to chest level, I fumbled with the counter, trying to find a button or knob to reset the countdown. Sata wouldn’t make it obvious. But there had to be some way to program it, some way to reset the wormhole.
I glanced beneath me. The missiles had gotten much bigger, and I could hear the roar of their engines. I didn’t have much time left.
The normal TEVs—the ones that didn’t transport matter to dinosaur planets—worked by tuning in to the fabric of spacetime. When I pet the bunny and found the octeract point, I did it through concentration and slight adjustments of the control knob.
This TEV didn’t have a control knob. Or did it?
What if the knob wasn’t physical?
I remembered when Sata set the device. He’d done so without touching anything. He’d closed his eyes, and the LED had begun its countdown.
I closed my eyes as well, letting my brain stretch out into infinity, trying to block out the missiles, the environment, and all physical sensation. Not the easiest thing to do while parachuting, exhausted, and terrified, but I didn’t have time to fail. Instead of manipulating a knob, I imagined it, fine-tuning until my mind was flooded with light and the bunny appeared.
I pictured the bunny with a timer on its head that displayed 0:03.
When I opened my eyes, the TEV displayed three seconds, and was counting down.
The missiles were within airburst range. I pointed the lens and held my breath.
The counter reached 0:00.
The TEV shuddered.
The missiles disappeared. So did another chunk of Lake Michigan. I hoped I hadn’t hit any boaters.
“Can anyone hear me?” I asked. I had no idea what radio frequency the helmet microphone was tuned to, or how far its range was, but it was worth a shot. “This is Talon Avalon. I’m carrying a device that can destroy the entire city.”
“This is the Chicago Coast Guard,” came the response. “What are your demands?”
Demands? “Uh, it would be nice if you stopped firing missiles at me.”
“Why are you shooting your device at Lake Michigan?”
“It’s not my device. It belongs to Michio Sata. He programmed it to destroy Chicago, and I jumped out of a space station to stop him.”
No answer.
“Hello?”
I wondered if I’d gone out of range. I checked around for more missiles, but didn’t see any. Maybe they actually listened.
Leaving the TEV to hang from my wrist once again, I altered my course, continuing on to Milwaukee.
“Avalon, this is Mayor George W. Dailey. You really think you can force your demands on the great city of Chicago and get away with it?”
“My only demand is for you to stop shooting missiles at me.”
“We don’t negotiate with terrorists, Avalon. And we won’t bend in the face of extortion.”
“What am I extorting?”
“You’re scum, Avalon. There isn’t a place on earth you’ll be able to hide. We’ll hunt you down like the rat you are.”
So much for getting the authorities
on my side.
“Listen up, Mayor Dipshit, because I’m only going to say this once. Leave. Me. Alone. Any further attempt to talk to me, shoot at me, or otherwise engage me in any way will be viewed as an attack and will be dealt with harshly.”
More silence.
“Hello? Mayor Asshole? You there?”
“Look, Mr. Avalon, my legal advisors have informed me that I may have come off a bit, um, harsh, and they’d like me to once again ask what your demands are. Under no circumstances do we want to provoke you any in way.”
I didn’t trust politicos, especially Chicago politicos. But if they thought I was a real threat, maybe they’d give me some breathing room.
“Here’s what I want, Dailey. I want you guys to check out the video from the space elevator station earlier today. I also want you to locate Neil Winston and interrogate him. He’s in Zelda Peterson’s apartment at thirteen twenty-two Wacker.”
“What do you want us to ask him?”
“Ask him what he knows.”
“Anything else?”
I thought it over. “Yeah. I want my neighbor, Norm Chomsky, to go on the six o’clock news tonight, and apologize to me for being a dick.”
“Which channel?”
“All of them. And better make it national news.”
“Is that all?”
“That’s all. Now, stay out of my way, and don’t try to contact me again. My device is wired to my heartbeat. Any attempt to attack me will destroy fifty square miles.”
“You have my word I’ll do everything in my power to see your demands are met.”
Satisfied I’d be left alone, I drifted toward Milwaukee to save Vicki and face my doppelganger.
FIFTY-THREE
I was sure my every move was being watched when I landed without incident on a rocky beach several miles south of Milwaukee. I disconnected the chute, watching it blow into the water, and then retied the TEV to my chest.
The authorities apparently believed the “wired to my heartbeat” bullshit and gave me a wide berth. I kept my space suit on just in case someone got cute with the Tesla satellites, but had to remove my helmet to call Vicki. It was nice to breathe fresh air again, and listening to the waves lap against the shore was tranquil, almost peaceful.
“Hello?”
Hearing my wife’s voice brought tears to my eyes.
“Vicki? Are you okay?”
“Talon? Why are you calling me from the bathroom?”
My whole body tensed up. “Vicki, listen to me carefully. That’s not me in the bathroom. You have to get out of there.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Run away. Right now.”
“You’re not making sense. I’m with you right now.”
“The man you’re with looks like me, but he isn’t me. He’s the killer the cops are after. Tell me where you are right now.”
“I’m at—”
“Who are you talking to?”
I froze. I would recognize that voice anywhere.
It was mine.
“No one,” Vicki said.
“Is that him on the headphone?”Alter-Talon asked.
“Who?”
I heard a slap. My heart shrunk.
“Stop being coy, bitch. Is that you, Talon?”
I closed my eyes, picturing him with his ear pressed to Vicki’s.
“It’s me,” I said.
“I haven’t heard anything about Chicago disappearing. Sata underestimated you. Is he dead?”
Talking to myself ranked as one of the strangest experiences of my life.
“I don’t know.”
“Doesn’t matter. He served his purpose.”
“Which was?”
“To bring you to me. I’ve got your wife, and the antidote. How far are you from Milwaukee?”
“An hour. Maybe less.”
“Meet us at the abandoned brewery on the outskirts of dissytown. You have forty-five minutes. Come alone, no weapons. Any funny stuff—”
I heard another slap, and Vicki cried out.
“You understand?”
I did my best to keep my voice steady. “Why are you doing this?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
“Talon, I love—”
Vicki’s words were cut off. I imagined the bastard pinching her ear to hang up.
I stood there for a moment, impotent, wondering how this was all going to end. Sata seemed to be motivated by nothing other than insanity, and I’d assumed Alter-Talon was similarly bent. But he didn’t sound like he was having fun. He seemed controlled. Calculated.
This guy wanted something from me. And I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what it was.
A squadron of heliplanes passed overhead, in a classic military wedge formation. I had no doubt they had something to do with me, and could only hope Mayor Dailey could convince the cops in Wisconsin to leave me alone.
Zipping open a side flap on my suit, I tugged the DT from my utility belt and found my current location. Eleven point four miles to the brewery. I also did a quick GPS search for me and Vicki, coming up empty. Alter-Talon must have worn an obfuscation disk over his chip, just like I did, and he had probably put one on my wife as well.
I broke into a jog, running up the beach, climbing some concrete steps to street level, then borrowing a biofuel scooter from a very rude woman who knew so many dirty synonyms for rectum she would have made Harry McGlade blush.
It took half an hour of maddening stop-and-go traffic before I made it to Milwaukee’s dissytown. During the trip my imagination conjured horrible scenarios of Alter-Talon hurting Vicki. I’d dealt with a lot of abuse over the last twenty-four hours, but there was nothing that could be done to me worse than hurting my wife.
By the time I motored into the ranks of the disenfranchised, I was ready to strangle anyone who looked at me cross-eyed. Like Rockford’s dissytown, this one was filled with a lot of dirty folks looking confused, shell-shocked, and deviant. More crumbling buildings. More crushed dreams. And no BHVs to speak of, at least not any as attractive as Yummi and her cohorts.
I kept one eye on my DT, steering around piles of garbage and making my way to the brewery. I stopped in front of an alley, trying to determine my best route, when a gang approached.
Six of them, dressed like a homeless hyperhockey team, complete with filthy pads and sticks stained with dried blood.
“Nice bike,” their leader said. “Why don’t you give it to me, then get the fuck out of our neighborhood.”
I checked my DT. Four minutes to get to the brewery. I didn’t have time to uncork a bottle of smack-down on these punks, much as they probably deserved it.
“Where’s the brewery?” I asked.
“You say something, butthead?”
They couldn’t hear me with the helmet on. I yanked it off.
All six stepped back, and the leader raised his hands in supplication.
“Talon! Shit, I’m sorry, man. I didn’t know it was you.”
“The brewery,” I repeated.
“You know it’s right down the street here.”
“Where?”
He pointed. “End of the block. On the left. Look, you’re not pissed or nothing, are you? How can we make it up to you, buddy?”
I considered sending him and his droogs to the dinosaur planet, but I had a feeling I wasn’t the Talon they were afraid of. The alter-Talon had been here, and apparently left a serious impression.
“Beat each other up,” I ordered.
By the time I put my helmet back on, they were kicking the shit out of one another. I motored past. With one minute remaining I ditched the bike and walked through the front door of the Milwaukee Brewing Company.
The interior was quiet, dark, warehouse-sized. I flipped open my visor and tapped my eyelid, bringing on infrared. Nothing stood out. I switched to night vision, creeping silently past rusty old lauter tuns that stretched to the ceiling, the foul smell of mildew assaulting my nostrils.
/> My headphone rang, and I answered.
“Keep going, straight ahead. At the end of the walkway, there’s a door.”
“Where’s Vicki?”
I heard a slap, and my wife whimpered. I was going to rip out this guy’s spine and stab him through the heart with it.
He hung up. I moved a bit quicker, but stayed cautious. When I got to the aforementioned door, I tapped my AVCL back to infrared, and spotted the heat signatures of three people behind the door, all standing in the center of the room.
Flipping down my helmet visor, I turned the knob and entered.
Unlike the dank, decay, and filth I’d just walked through, this room was brightly lit and clean. It resembled the infirmary at Yummi’s parking farm, down to the two metal patient tables. There was also a tray topped with wicked-looking knives, clamps, and tools. Several expensive-looking pieces of medical equipment stood between the tables, beeping and making machine sounds.
Alter-Talon wore what he had in the timecast transmissions—black jumpsuit, black gloves. To his left was a tall, thin man in a white lab coat. He was bald, and had thick glasses that magnified his blue eyes to three times their normal size. To Alter-Talon’s right…
“Vicki.”
“Talon.”
She was handcuffed to a metal pipe. I hurried to her, yanking off my helmet and letting it fall, hugging her tight, never wanting to let go. We both said, “I love you,” and, “I’m sorry,” several times. When I pulled back to kiss her, I noticed her black eye.
I turned on Alter-Talon, feeling myself grow very cold.
“Well, hello there, handsome,” Alter-Talon said.
When I took a step toward him he held up a small, black device.
“Hold it! Any closer and Vicki’s dead.”
I halted, fighting the urge to rip his face off. “What have you done?”
“My associate, Dr. Coursey, has implanted a small bomb in Vicki’s molar. I press this button, it blows her head off.”
“You’re bluffing.” I turned to my wife. “Vicki?”
She nodded slowly. “He attached something to my tooth.”
“It won’t actually blow her head off,” Dr. Coursey said. He had a German accent. “Just blow a big hole in her neck, tearing through the carotid artery. I’ve done trial runs on several dissys. Death occurs within twenty seconds.”