by Tom Clancy
"You talk to Jay this morning?" she said.
"I checked his vox around six, heard his update."
Toni had also checked the coded message, but to keep the conversation going she pretended she hadn't. "Anything new?"
"No. Nothing good or bad. We haven't run the terrorists down, though we've got all kinds of little clues. No new rascals on any systems—at least none we've found. I'm waiting for it, though. These guys are going to drop a big brick on us, I can feel it coming."
He looked at her. "I also feel a little guilty about taking the day off."
"Nothing you could do at the office."
"I know, but even so—"
A big double-cab pickup truck whipped by in the speed lane. It had to be going eighty-five or ninety. The wind of the truck's passage rocked the minivan.
"Where are the cops when you need one?" Toni said.
That got a little smile from him.
She said, "I've buried the system break-in as best I can, but we probably need to talk about what happens if it becomes known outside the house. Just in case."
He glanced at her, then back at the freeway. "Oh, I'd bet my next paycheck against a stale doughnut that Senator White'll know about it by Monday—if he doesn't know already."
"You thought about what you'll say if he calls you on it?"
"Sure. The truth. It's easier to remember." He smiled again. "I'll throw all of Jay's rationalizations at him, but that won't matter. He would like to get rid of us and pretend we never existed. Any excuse will do."
"We could sacrifice a goat," she said, half-joking. "Somebody high enough up to take the fall."
Now he looked harder at her. "You have somebody in mind?"
All right, if they were going to go down that road. She took a deep breath and started to speak. "Well, yeah, I was thinking maybe I—"
"No," he cut in. "Don't touch that control. I don't want to hear it. Nobody is falling on her sword here, certainly not you!"
The vehemence of his response surprised her. She was at a loss.
"There are always going to be idiots like White," he said. "We'll always have one wolf or another chasing our sled and howling for blood. We'll deal with them, but we won't throw any of our people off, understood?"
"Okay."
He smiled a little, to take the sting out of it. "Besides, if something happened to you, I wouldn't be able to find the door to get into HQ."
Okay, that was a compliment. You can follow that one up. Go—
She heard a siren, looked into the outside rearview mirror, and saw a police car coming up fast. The siren dopplered louder as the car drew closer. The driver sure had his foot in the fuel injector; he was flying.
Alex drifted from the slow lane over onto the wide shoulder and slowed.
The flashing light strobed Alex's face as a Virginia state trooper's unit blew past them.
"He's going after that truck," Alex said. "How about that. There is some justice in the world."
She nodded. She was in a car with Alex going somewhere other than Net Force business. Maybe there was justice.
Or maybe Guru's kris had some magic left in its black and convoluted steel. She grinned.
"Something funny?"
"No, just a pleasant thought," she said.
Saturday, January 15, 7:45 a.m. Quantico, Virginia
Joanna wasn't scheduled to work this morning, but she was on her way into HQ anyway. She still hadn't run down the SOB who had used her station to post that fruitcake militia thing, though she had figured out it was done by remote and not in person—big surprise there. This latest incursion with the finger image pissed her off even more, even though it hadn't come through her in particular. It was a slap in the face, a direct challenge to Net Force that she took personally. She was going into the net for some serious webwalking to find these creeps.
Or, at least that was her intention. As she was heading in, she saw Julio Fernandez in his sweats, limping back from the direction of the obstacle course.
Well. She hadn't been able to connect with him for the last couple of days, they'd played message tag, and now there he was, in the flesh. It wouldn't hurt to say hello. Maybe she could kill two birds with one stone.
He saw her, smiled, and nodded. "Lieutenant."
"Sergeant. You on duty?"
"No, ma'am. I just finished hobbling through my morning constitutional and was gonna hit the showers before I headed home."
"I'm going to be doing some work on the web," she said. She waved at the HQ building. "You want to come along, sit in? I can show you some of the more interesting aspects of VR."
"I'd like that. I still ought to hit the showers first. I'm a little ripe."
She sniffed. "You don't stink too bad. I think I can stand being in the same room with you. Come on."
"Yes, ma'am."
They both grinned.
Truth was, she didn't mind a man who smelled like a man instead of a fruity aftershave or deodorant. Nothing wrong with a little clean sweat. It was probably all the pheromones that appealed to her…
Saturday, January 15, 9:00 a.m. Washington, D.C.
The thing was, Tyrone realized, you could only lie in bed staring at the ceiling for so long before it got boring. Real boring.
He had gone over what he'd said, what she'd said, every detail of what had happened between him and Bella a thousand times. Nothing was going to change. It was like a big rock—no matter how many times you poked at it with your finger, it was still going to stay a rock.
He sighed, rolled out of bed, and headed for the bathroom. He did the control finger-jive in front of the vidwall's sensor, and the default channel, the newscom, flicked on. Dad had programmed the house com unit to default to the news channel, the idea being that it wouldn't hurt any of them to watch the news now and then. Tyrone had been meaning to reprogram the thing—lock-chips were a joke if you knew anything—but he hadn't gotten around to changing it yet.
The multimedia local news blared and flared. They were doing the traffic. First, real-time traffic, streets and highways, then virtual traffic, which parts of the net were clear, which parts were clogged, which subservers were down or wounded.
He made it into the bathroom, listening to the news with half his attention while he peed.
Dad was gone, off on his survival thing. Mom had a breakfast with her women friends—the Goddesses, they called each other—and wouldn't be back before eleven, at least. So he had the house to himself. Lying in bed wasn't going to solve anything, so he might as well do something.
The temptation was to log into the net and catch up on his computer work. He'd been slack to the point of droop on that during the last few months, all wrapped up in Bella, Bella, Bella. Now that he thought about it, that was pretty much all he'd done. When he wasn't with her, he had been dreaming about her, thinking about her, or talking about her.
In a flash of clarity, Tyrone realized how boring he must have been to be around lately. It was Bella this or Bella that, or Bella the other, and his friends—such as they were—must have elected him King of the Dull and Stupids on the first ballot. Particularly he owed Jimmy-Joe a big sorry-sorry. He remembered saying to him, "It's just a game," about the computer stuff, and the look of horror on his friend's face when he'd said that.
Man, was that a data no-flow, slip. Stupid squared to the tenth power.
But—okay, okay. That was then, this was now.
Somehow, though, the idea of sitting down and going VR just didn't lube his tube. He needed to do something, but it wasn't the computer.
So, what? What else was there?
He grinned at himself. Pretty sorry when the only two things in your life were computers and a lying girlfriend, and you didn't even have her anymore.
He could go to the mall. No, overwrite that option, Bella lived at the damned mall. He could go for a walk, ‘cept his neighborhood was about as interesting as a bag of kitty litter. He could surf the entcom channels for a vid…
No, no, he needed to do something, not just sit back and suck up data, whether it was VR, vids, or whatever. But what to do on a chilly, sunny day?
"And now for local events," the vox from the newscom droned. "Students from the Kennedy High School marching band are having a car wash to raise money for new uniforms. This will be at the Lincoln Mall Vidplex from noon to four, Saturday."
Oh, yeah, a car wash, that was exciting, helloooo slipper!
The drone continued. "The Foggy Bottom Children's Library welcomes writer Wendy Heroumin for a reading of her latest book, The Purple Penguin."
Hey, hey, a children's book! Whoa, tachycardia city!
"And the Sixth Annual Boomerang Tournament begins in Lonesdale Park at eight a.m. Saturday and runs through Sunday at five p.m."
Tyrone was finishing his hands when he heard this last announcement. A boomerang tourney? What was a boomerang tourney? Those aborigine things? The sticks?
Well, hey, slip, you got zip on your drive—why don't you go and find out?
He grinned. All right. Yeah. He could do that. The new park was only a dozen blocks away, so he wouldn't even have to take pubtrans. He could just Nike on over there and check it out. One thing for sure, he wasn't going to run into Bella there. Or likely anybody else he knew either.
Why not? He'd never even seen a boomerang, except in VR, and that only as background scenario. Why not?
A short guy built like a brick was in the middle of the soccer field. He reared back with a dayglow orange boomerang in his right hand, concave side forward, one end up, and threw the thing so hard his hand went forward and touched the ground.
The boomerang did this kind of eccentric egg-rolling end-over-end flight, swooped about fifty meters straight ahead, then started to curve to the left. It kept going up, twisted so it was flat-side-down, twirled and twirled and circled back around the guy, maybe ten meters high, went behind him, headed out in front of him again, a full circle, then did a little jog up and spun toward him. The spinning orange delta-shape came right at the guy, who held his hands about a dozen centimeters apart in front of himself, palms facing each other. When the stick was just about to hit him in the chest, he slapped his hands together and trapped it.
The guy never moved his feet, he didn't have to, it came right back to him.
This was so flowing fine!
I got to have one of these!
Tyrone had been watching for about an hour. This was fantastic, there were ems and fems out there doing things he couldn't believe. They were making the things swoop and twirl, making them dive and circle, keeping two or three in the air at one time, running and catching them, laughing, tumbling, it was great.
His favorite demo had been—according to the woman narrating on the portable PA system—the war boomerang. Unlike the sport models, this one was not designed to return. The man who threw the thing was tall and thin. He wound up, putting everything he had into the throw, judging by what Tyrone could tell, and the stick, which was almost straight, and about twice as big as the sport models, flew like an arrow, straight ahead, maybe a meter and a half above the ground, it flew, and flew, and flew, just… kept going, on and on.
Man!
When it finally dropped, Tyrone couldn't believe how far it had flown. Two hundred and twenty meters, easy. It was like it had a jet motor in it.
There was a break in the action. Tyrone headed for the little tables they'd set up for sales. There were maybe twenty different models on the tables, various angles, sizes, colors. He couldn't begin to figure out what they all meant.
"New at this, mate?" the man behind the table said. He had an accent so thick you could lean against it. Australian.
"Yeah," Tyrone said. "But I want to learn."
"Right. How much you lookin' to spend then?"
Tyrone pulled his credit card out of his pocket and called up his balance. He'd floated a lot of shine on Bella, but he had about fifty in his account.
He told the seller the amount. What else did he have to shine it on?
"Hey, for that, you can get just about anything on the table. Though you might want to start with a sturdy model until you get the hang of it." The Aussie picked up a light-brown boomerang with one of the blade tips painted white. He handed it to Tyrone.
"You hold it by the white tip, if you're right-handed, yeah, like that, just like making a fist, thumb on the outside, there you go. When you throw, it's straight ahead, you put a little wrist into it. You need to allow for wind direction and all, but we toss in a little how-to chiplet, tells you everything you need to know to get started."
Tyrone examined the boomerang. It was wood, plywood, and while it was flat on the bottom except for a scalloped outer edge under the paint, the top edges were angled. The leading inside edge was blunt, and the leading outside edge had been sharpened so that it sloped from the full thickness to a thinner margin. The part you held onto was cut to mirror the leading edge—thick on the outside, thin on the inside. Tyrone guessed that the thing was almost half a meter long, maybe a centimeter thick in the center. Probably about a forty-five- or fifty-degree angle. He turned it over. Laser-cut into the center of the flat side was a tiny image of a black man holding a boomerang in one hand, ready to throw, and the words "Gunda-warra Boomerangs—Kangaroo—Crafted in Wedderburn, Victoria, Australia."
"Until you learn to throw it right, it's gonna hit the ground pretty hard a few times. The plywood models tend to hold up longer than the solid wood ones. And they're cheaper than NoChip. This one'll run about twenty dollars U.S."
Tyrone hefted the stick. He realized he hadn't thought about Bella but once since he'd gotten here, and then only briefly.
"Comes with a membership in the International Boomerang Association. We've got a great web site."
Tyrone grinned. "I'll take it."
Chapter Thirty
Saturday, January 15th, 11:55 a.m. Eastern Oregon
Howard found a sunny spot to break for lunch. The relatively level patch of snowy ground was partially sheltered from the weather by some Douglas fir trees and stunted shrubs on the east side, though the growth had collected its share of solid precipitation. A couple of the smaller trees were so heavy with snow, they leaned over precariously, branches drooping.
It was warming up under the clear skies, though it was still not what you'd call warm, probably a degree or two above freezing. Big clots of partially melted snow fell from the trees to splatter on the shallow snow below, landing with wet plops.
Howard chose his cook spot away from overhanging branches. He tamped the snow down with his snowshoes into a ragged circle next to a big flat-topped rock. He used his virgil to beep in, showing he was still alive, then shrugged out of his pack, pulled the snowshoes off, and set his stove up on the rock. He dumped a couple of handfuls of snow into his cook pot, then began melting the snow to reconstitute some freeze-dried chicken and vegetables, kind of like a pot pie without the crust.
He walked around the site as he waited for the water to heat up, stomping a more solid path in the relatively shallow snow. He looked for signs of small animals, and checked for any tokens that humans had passed this way recently. He found nothing to indicate man or animal had visited here, and certainly there were no other tracks in or out but his own.
On his own, far away from home. He liked the feeling, being master of all he could see.
He rolled his shoulders, stretched his neck, and did a couple of squats and toe touches to loosen his legs. It had been two hours since his last break, and two hours of snowshoeing took a lot out of you. No matter how old you were…
The metal cup of water began to bubble. He circled back toward his stove, passing beneath the trees. He glanced up and saw a blob of melting snow slip from a high branch and fall, coming right at him.
"Oh, no, you don't!" he said, laughing and dodging to the side. The big chunk missed him by a good two feet, but he stumbled and put one hand out to catch himself on the tree. That was a mistake, because his weig
ht was enough to shake the tree a hair, and that brought a big cascade of ready-to-fall snow. He laughed again, spun around the tree and away, pleased with himself at avoiding most of the icy bath.
He didn't stay pleased.
The tree that lost its snow load popped upright like a bent spring released. It hit the tree next to it, hard.
The second tree snapped in half ten feet off the ground. Like a man breaking a pencil—pop!
The snow was not that deep, but it was too deep to run in.
He barely had time to get his arms up over his head before the tree fell on him.
Saturday, January 15th, 3:05 p.m. Fredericksburg, Virginia
From under the Miata's hood, Alex said, "Okay, try it again."
Behind the wheel, Toni said, "Okay," and turned the key in the steering wheel ignition. The motor coughed, deeper than it had before.
"Give it a little gas, pump the pedal!"
She did. After a second, the engine caught and began a throaty rumble.
"Yes!" she and Alex said at the same time.
They were alone in the garage. Greg Scates, the car's former owner, had come and gone. Alex had taken a quick look at the Miata, then as soon as he'd seen the odometer, had said to her, "Jesus, it's only got nine hundred miles on it!"
He'd made the man an offer right then. Greg had been surprised at how much the offer was. Way more than he'd expected.
Alex had transferred the agreed-upon sum from his credit card to Greg's account and waved bye-bye as the man left.
Now Alex closed the hood, wiped his hands on a red rag, and grinned at Toni.
They'd been working on the car for several hours. They had found the tires, which were in remarkable shape inside plastic bags, and pumped them full of air using a little compressor that ran off the van's electrical system. They'd put the wheels back on the car. They had added gasoline, oil, water, transmission and brake fluid, and other lubricants, replaced the battery, and tinkered with the fuel injector. Alex had done something with the plugs and wiring, cleaned preservative off various components, fiddled with this seal and that one, and now, finally, the tiny car purred.