Star Blaze (18 page)

“Stop this right now,” said Colonel Hartman, aware that the pair were drawing quite a crowd.

Most kept a discreet distance, but one large woman moved forward, bravely saying, “What's going on here? Do you need any help?”

“Mind your own business,” said the colonel.

The woman, clearly shocked, was about to reply when another figure, wearing an immaculately tailored dark suit, stepped through the circle of onlookers. Taking off his sunglasses to reveal ice cold, gray eyes, Stevens said, “It's OK, ma'am. I'm the boy's father. I'll take it from here.”

Johnny wanted to shout out that it wasn't true, but the look from Stevens strangled any words before they could form. Johnny searched the crowd for more help, but found Krun operatives in matching suits were standing behind the three pretend cleaners. The woman who'd come forward was backing away, taking Johnny's only hope with her.

Colonel Hartman finally released her grip and looked from Johnny to Stevens. “You!” she said, as her eyes narrowed. “This is my operation. You don't have jurisdiction here.” She pushed Johnny away and raised her pistol, pointing it at the Krun.

Someone in the crowd screamed and the ring of bystanders
widened as they edged backward. Oblivious, another station announcement came over the tannoy. Ignoring it, Stevens said, “I'm changing the terms of our agreement. When I want jurisdiction, I'll take it.” As he spoke, he reached for the blaster he always carried but, even as he pulled it from its holster, three shots rang out in quick succession from Colonel Hartman's gun.

Johnny saw more screams written on the faces of those still watching, but could no longer hear them. The only sound was the ringing in his ears from the gunfire. He watched Stevens wobble from the impact of the bullets, but the Krun didn't fall, instead putting his free hand to his stomach as a mixture of blood and a thick black fluid oozed out. With his right hand he pointed his weapon at the colonel. She sprang at the Krun, forcing the blaster upward just as it fired a bolt of green energy, which struck the starry ceiling, punching a hole through to the darkening sky beyond.

Masonry clattered onto the floor, snapping Johnny out of his trance. The colonel was scratching at Stevens's face and biting his arms, while the cleaners were wrestling with the other Krun on the ground. The other people in the hall were running every which way, trying to reach the various exits. Johnny did the same. He set off toward the big desk at the center of the concourse but, as he neared it, a bolt of green lightning struck the golden clock, sending it flying through the air, narrowly missing him. He leapt up some stairs, which crumbled just in front as another ray pulverized the stone steps. Turning away, he sped toward and up an escalator, scrambling alongside everyone else fleeing from the shooting. At the top he followed the terrified runners through a narrow corridor that opened into a wide entrance hall and then, through revolving doors, onto the street. The crowd split in two directions and Johnny turned left, running under a bridge and quickly right again
round a corner. Steam was rising from a couple of thin red and white drums nearby on the edge of the pavement, so he ran toward and past it, hoping it might help hide him from his pursuers. He had no idea where he was or where he was headed, except away. There was a buzzing in his ear—for a moment he thought it was still the ringing from the gunshots, but then he realized it was someone trying to talk to him.

“Master Johnny—are you there? Master Johnny—please answer if you can hear me.”

“Alf,” Johnny shouted, relief washing over him as he ran with renewed energy, now with his left hand raised to his mouth. “It's me.”

“Oh thank goodness,” replied the android. “How on Melania did you escape General Nymac?”

“Later,” Johnny shouted. “Where are you?”

“I am in the
Jubilee
above, I believe, the Atlantic Ocean. What is your status?”

“Not good,” Johnny replied, thinking that was quite an understatement. “I've just been attacked by some nasty humans and the Krun. They're probably still after me. And I think I've broken my nose.”

“Oh my goodness,” said the voice inside Johnny's ear.

“And I'm lost,” Johnny went on. “I'm in New York, but I've no idea where.”

“Stay calm, Master Johnny,” said Alf, which seemed very unfair as it wasn't the android who'd just been shot at. “I can locate you through the wristcom. Give me a moment and I'll devise a plan—it sounds as though this is a problem for Kovac.”

“Kovac?” said Johnny, but there was only static in his earpiece. He was starting to get a stitch and was now just jogging. At the end of the road he turned left and slowed to walking pace, but even that was too much. Putting his hands on his hips he stopped and stood for a few seconds, gulping down deep
breaths, alert to any danger, watching as New Yorkers flowed either side, ignoring him as they went on their way. None looked suspicious. Then, without warning, he found himself standing alone at the center of a circle of one of the brightest white lights he had ever seen.

Johnny moved to the side but, with just a fractional delay, the light followed. A voice from above, distorted through speakers, said, “Stay exactly where you are. Do not move. Any attempt to resist arrest will be met by deadly force.” As the words finished, Johnny realized he could just make out the whirring of a helicopter's rotor blades above the sound of the passing traffic.

Very slowly, he raised his hands, looking as if he was surrendering, but really so the left was close to his mouth. “Alf—if you're there, I need help now.”

“All sorted, Master Johnny. You want to turn right traveling northwest 376.7303 meters, enter …”

“Alf!” said Johnny, as calmly as he could. “There's a helicopter above me—if I move, they'll shoot.”

“Just one moment,” said Alf and, infuriatingly, the static returned in Johnny's ear. Two small black vans, their windows tinted to match, turned the corner only fifty meters down the street and began their slow but unstoppable progress through the rush-hour traffic toward his position. Despite, or perhaps because of, the lack of writing on their sides, they simply oozed security forces.

Johnny looked the other way—to the direction it sounded as if Alf wanted him to go. It seemed clear of danger for now. Then the overhead spotlight blinked off and he heard the rotor blades lifting higher, as the helicopter disappeared out of earshot.

He ran. Looking over his shoulder, two men, still wearing cleaner's overalls, got out of the front van—stuck in traffic down the street—and began chasing after him.

“I have removed the hindrance,” said the voice in Johnny's ear,
but it wasn't Alf—it was Kovac. “Turn right now onto Madison Avenue.”

“Kovac,” shouted Johnny as he ran. “They're right behind me. What's going on?”

“I reprogrammed the helicopter's computer—though that's perhaps too grand a term for such an antique collection of circuitry—and gave it a new mission. The
Jubilee
will reach Manhattan in 3 minutes 14.159 27 seconds. I have prepared a suitable rendezvous point, extrapolating your fitness levels and maximum running speed for the required duration. Monitoring your position I must say you are not performing optimally—please increase your speed by 1.618 0339 kilometers per hour.”

The stitch had returned in Johnny's side, his nose was agony and he was still struggling to breathe. Even worse, cars started to overtake him—the traffic was moving more freely and the two black vans had turned the corner, passing the men in overalls and were gaining very fast. “Kovac,” he said, desperate for oxygen as his legs pumped faster. “I can't outrun a car even when I'm … performing optimally. They're right behind me.”

“Why didn't you inform me earlier? I should never have agreed to oversee this mission when there's such an intolerable absence of information.” Ahead, Johnny saw the traffic lights change to red, buying him a few vital seconds from the pursuing vans. The quantum computer continued, “(a) You are a highly unpredictable variable and, if I may say so, behaving absolutely to form, and (b) there are so few CCTV cameras in your surrounding area that I cannot assure myself you are following my instructions to the letter.”

From all around, car horns began to honk, the noise becoming louder and louder. Even as he ran, Johnny realized that no cars seemed to be moving anywhere.
All
the traffic lights
seemed to have turned red. He figured Kovac must have something to do with it.

“Finally,” said the computer. “Turn left now onto East 49th Street. Then cross the main road heading to the right and enter a pedestrian area.”

Johnny could hear his heart thumping furiously in his chest. The stitch was like a knife beneath his ribs and the back of his throat had begun to burn. As he turned the corner he paused, just for a moment, to gather his strength and look behind. The two men in cleaner's outfits were only a few meters back while some others had got out of the vans and were also chasing, not much further behind. Even though his whole body was crying out for him to stop, Johnny knew he had to run faster.

Kovac spoke again, sounding as exasperated as ever. “Try to keep up. You know I have far more interesting things to do with my time than wait for you to jog to the Rockefeller Center at your leisure.”

“I'm going as fast … as I … can,” gasped Johnny, while it seemed no air at all was entering his lungs. He reached the next street, Fifth Avenue, which was massive and jammed with cars, their drivers all beeping their horns, many of them shouting out of open windows. The sign at the junction he came to flashed “WALK” in white letters so he ran straight across, turned right and immediately left through a large entrance. He was off the street and it was downhill, but the path was blocked by hundreds of sightseers. He couldn't afford to ease up, so took the only route available, hurdling a bench into a rectangular fountain and splashing his way through two more identical pools and out onto the far side. He landed in a narrow band of dry tarmac before, like a steeplechaser, he was hurdling again. Three further water jumps took him in front of an open-air ice rink at the base of a tall building, with sides tapering toward its narrow top. As Johnny approached, he saw the skaters shoot to
the sides of the rink, like charged particles repelled by each other. Then he understood why. A black helicopter was coming down to land in the very center of the ice.

“Kovac,” shouted Johnny. “Another helicopter.”

“Have a little faith in my abilities,” replied the computer. “I take it you don't want the thing blasted out of the sky unless absolutely necessary—although it might make this whole exercise fractionally more interesting.” Right now, Johnny felt he'd be more than happy to see the chopper blown up. “Why I bother I don't know,” the computer went on. “At this rate my circuits might atrophy with boredom—I could be working on my new solution to Fermat's Last Theorem.”

“Kovac!” said Johnny, who felt as if he was running toward certain capture. The men behind had struggled to follow him through the water, but were now gaining again. The whole thing looked desperate, but he couldn't give up. He thought of the horror in Captain Valdour's eyes when recalling the supernova. However much his body ached and wanted to shut down, he wasn't going to let that happen to Earth's Sun.

“The plan remains within acceptable tolerances,” said Kovac. “Turn right in front of the skating rink, follow the path round onto the street and, by a sign that reads ‘Radio City,' enter the main building through a large door on your left-hand side. Climb one flight of stairs and proceed to the security check, informing the authorities your name is Jonathan Cavok and you are performing an inspection of the tourist elevators.”

Johnny didn't think Kovac's “plan” sounded worthy of the name, but took another lungful of air and ran even faster.

“I have provided a full description of you, which appears to come from the City of New York's Department of Buildings.”

Johnny turned in front of the ice rink and ran up some steps and past a ticket booth, just as the helicopter touched down. The rink was lined by flags from every country. He knew the
United Nations was based in New York—perhaps Kovac was leading him to some sort of sanctuary within it. The next moment there was an almighty bang—he wondered if someone was shooting at him, but then saw the ice had cracked beneath the helicopter's weight. Its rotors were still spinning furiously as Colonel Bobbi Hartman emerged from the machine onto the ice, only to slip and fall wildly. Johnny was on the main street now. As two men carrying rifles jumped out and lifted the colonel onto her heels, he put his head down and ran for all he was worth. There was an entrance, with a sign reading, “Radio City” and “Top of the Rock.” Johnny ducked inside as he heard something whistle past his ear and guessed they really were firing at him now.

Inside, he turned left, following a circular staircase up one floor, his feet squelching as he went. At the top, people stood queuing in front of a rectangular metal arch. Johnny followed his instructions and ran to the front of the line, ignoring the muttering of the waiting tourists. A burly security guard stepped forward and he had to stop.

“Where d'ya think you're going, young man?”

“Inspector … elevator inspector,” said Johnny, trying to catch his breath and feeling his already red face turn scarlet as the words spilled out.

Infuriatingly slowly, the guard raised a walkie-talkie to his mouth and said, “Bif—there's a guy here … kind of young looking … and wet. Says he's here to check the cattle trucks.”

Johnny picked up a few snippets of the response. “Five-four … blond …”

As the man listened he raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Gee—sure sounds like him,” he said into the device before asking Johnny, “What's your name, sir?”