Lesser Gods (30 page)
Surprised at the location, but satisfied I had all I needed, I backed out of the university system. I didn’t replace the booby traps on Huntington’s computer since I didn’t want to be responsible for blowing up the next burglar or any agent who happened to find the system.
After kicking away the skull fragment and brain tissue left over by the dumb crook of the year, I scrambled through the trap door, dropping into the bedroom below, averting my eyes from the deceased’s body. Then I went downstairs, crawled out the opening I’d come in through, and hit the mean streets of the Valley of the Shadow.
Streaking down the street on my skates, minding my own business and avoiding anyone who looked like trouble, I was greeted by a familiar voice. “Hold it right there, buddy, boy.”
This made me speed up.
But I had to stop because my way was blocked by three heavy duties who suddenly were no longer milling around on the crowded sidewalk. One held a sticky net, ready to embalm me if I tried to escape.
So I stopped and turned to learn what the gentleman stepping from the shadows had to say. I had no trouble recalling his ugly puss; it was the knife wielding elephant man whose ballistic vest I’d stitched with bullets earlier that evening.
Only this time he had brought a gun to the gunfight, and its .45-caliber barrel focused on my nose.
Although my hands were empty and I had enough meat standing around me to avert a famine, all was not lost. Because I could see the genius with the gun had managed to leave the weapon’s safety engaged. Worse for him, he came right up to within arm’s length of me.
“Are you somebody important’s nephew or what?” I asked, perplexed how such a dumb ass had survived the night in the world’s toughest neighborhood.
“Do you want to eat lead or get into my car?”
I looked at the ancient Cadillac he’d motioned toward. I needed a car and this one would do nicely. Through the open door I could see it was a pre-DNA ID unit with a key waiting in the ignition. And it was obviously armored, judging by the two-inch thick windows. Big, roomy, it had an engine purring hydrocarbons into the breeze.
What more could a young man ask for?
I unceremoniously placed the toe of my skate in the groin of the elephant man with enough force to do the job. Only I could feel that nothing would happen since the guy wasn’t quite as dumb as I thought and had a metal codpiece under his baggy pants.
At the same instant, he pulled the trigger on his pistol, thereby discovering the safety was engaged.
Before he could activate his weapon, I threw myself forward, twisting his gun out of his fat hand, and at the same time slamming my forehead into his chin. Then I twisted and sidestepped to avoid the club one of his buddies was swinging at me. I kicked into the side of the giant’s knee, dropping him with a bellow of pain and rage.
Not pausing to do more damage, I dodged the sticky net that fell onto the cursing giant, and I leaped into the Caddie, slamming and locking the door behind me before the elephant’s buddies could react. They pounded at the door and turned the air blue with curses as I pulled away from the curb, flashing them a peace sign.
Well, actually it was only half of a peace sign, more a single-finger salute.
Dead on my feet — or, more correctly, my rump since I was driving — I managed to navigate my way out of the Valley of the Shadow keeping traffic fatalities below five among the would-be hijackers who tried to stop me. Once into safer territory, I drove into an armored parking lot, paid the bot with nearly all the e-cash I’d collected from my recent exploits, and parked in a stall.
Knowing the security system in the parking lot would give me fairly good protection, I reclined the front seat with the government-issue pistol across my lap and was asleep within minutes.
I slept dreamlessly for several hours — I know this because I woke up and checked the clock in the car. But when I settled back to continue napping, that state of dreamlessness vanished and I again found myself in one of Huntington’s nightmares.
I stood up next to a palm tree, the humid air smelling of smokeless powder from the recent barrage we’d launched into the air at the American chopper. My comrades around me were excited, talking rapidly in sing-song Vietnamese, spiced with an occasional word in French — all of which I understood fully.
We’d just lured the American chopper into the cables we’d strung between palms, bringing it down in a violent display of flashing blades and grinding metal.
Now we were racing through the brush, intent on killing the US pilots who had slain so many of our comrades. Realizing I was back in a SupeR-G, I forced myself to hold back, knowing that Huntington was probably one of the pilots and that he wasn’t going to lose and was likely planning to slaughter the Vietnamese soldiers.
I fell away from the squad, creeping off the trail and sliding through a patch of elephant grass, staying low to avoid being hit by the stray bullets cracking overhead. Ten seconds later I’d transgressed the patch of tall vegetation, pushing the last of the foliage aside with the barrel of my SKS so I could see what was happening in the depression where the helicopter had gone down.
There, in front of me, were the two American fliers, leaning against the side of the chopper. Without thinking, I brought up my rifle and took careful aim at the helicopter gunner who now wore a field bandage over one eye — typical Huntington trademark and the type of thing that gave him away to me every time.
Flicking the safety forward inside the trigger guard as I brought up the rifle, I placed the ring of the front sight around his head and lined the rear notch with the post. Slowly squeezing the trigger, I took up the slack in the pull until my finger met greater resistance. I held my breath, keeping the front sight centered on the gunner’s head as I pulled the trigger. The rifle kicked back with a deafening report. I lowered the barrel in time to see the bullet connect, smashing into Huntington’s head, causing it to explode since I had previously cut notches into the tips of my bullet.
The American’s nearly headless body tumbled into a pile of limp flesh. I drew a bead on the remaining pilot.
And didn’t fire.
I remembered that this was just a SupeR-G. Whoever was playing the part of the pilot might easily stroke out if I blew him away now. I withdrew my rifle and hunkered down in the grass as the pilot whirled around with his Colt .45 pistol, looking for a hint of where the shot that had killed his companion had come from.
He failed to spot me. I peeked through the grass to see the corpse sit, feel around in the grass to locate the larger pieces of its skull, and reassembling its head atop its body. The torn flesh melted together and the zombie stood, drew his gun, and started directly for my position.
I awoke screaming in the car, gulping for air.
Was that only a dream?
I didn’t think so. It was too vivid, the feel of the dirt under my body too real — I could still smell it, feel the impressions of the tall grass under my thin black pajama outfit, and the itch of insect bites.
No, something very extraordinary was happening to me. Somehow I was still going back into the SupeR-G games without any exposure to jet and without any computer connections.
My experiences weren’t random. Somehow Huntington was pulling me into them, or I was somehow gravitating toward his games. Either way it seemed like only a matter of time until he would finally cause me to stroke out.
And what about Alice?
The more I thought about her, the more attracted to her I became. It was crazy. I didn’t know her at all. I was as dumb as a teenage boy with a girly magazine, falling in love with each pretty picture.
I started the engine, knowing that I’d get no real rest until I’d dealt with Huntington. Since he altered the games so he survived and others died, the only chance I had was to track him down and turn the tables with a face-to-face confrontation in real life. The SupeR-Gs were a no-win situation I had to avoid at all costs.
When I got to the airport I made two important discoveries. The first was a briefcase in the trunk. A briefcase full of e-cash. Things were looking up for me, if not for the other discovery in the trunk: One ripening corpse. The latter led to a careful wipe down of the vehicle to remove my prints from it.
I loaded my pockets with all the e-cash cards I could carry in case someone managed to swipe the briefcase from me, then tossed the keys to the car into the truck and slammed it shut, hoping it would be a while before anyone discovered the body.
I toyed with the idea of splitting for Tahiti. But I wasn’t sure that distance would protect me from getting sucked back into Huntington’s games. So I went with plan B.
I made a side junket to an electrical parts store at the port authority where the cyber clerks were thankfully ignorant of the court decision that prohibited my purchase of computer equipment. I bought the electronic gear I might be needing along with a subcompact super computer.
Next I checked all my armament and armor into a local lockbox, bought a businessman T-shirt and plastipants along with a larger briefcase into which I transferred my electronic hardware and most of the e-cash cards. I then discarded the old briefcase so it couldn’t be traced to me. I then fought off the urge to purchase a synthafur coat, figuring it would brand me as a tourist when I reached my destination.
I rented a cubicle at the port, cleaned and shaved so my fellow passengers wouldn’t faint should they get downwind of me, and then went to the port’s ticket counter and purchased a round trip ticket. Half an hour later, all my body orifices had been searched by the bomb squad and I was standing in line to board a shuttle headed south.
Far south.
As far south as it was humanly possible to go without leaving the globe.
Ralph Crocker
“Ever been to Antarctica?” the redhead next to me asked.
I wanted to make mad love to her then and there. I wanted her to have my babies. I wanted to say, in my most sophisticated way (with that snobby English accent women seem attracted to): “Why, yes, little bird, I’ve been there many a time.”
Only I knew she was sharp enough to spot a liar. So, instead, I offered a witty, “No.”
“Me, neither,” she said.
So there had been no need to impress her. We were newbies on equal footing. Babes in the woods. Visions of naughtiness danced in my head. Yes, hope springs eternal in the human penis.
And then my love, my tigress, crushed my hopes. “I’m headed there to meet my fiancée.”
The visions of sugarplums no longer danced in my head. My dreams thoroughly deflated, I didn’t talk much the rest of the fifteen minutes while we waited for the flight to begin.
Except for a businessman whose panic attack caused his hasty removal by security bots, we boarded without incident. The computerized staff warned passengers to fasten their seat belts. I pulled my shoulder harness tight. Thirty seconds later I was plastered into the seat by the violent takeoff. After the initial wrench of our intestines, we were in micro-g during which my empty stomach attempted to climb my esophagus. I ruined any chances I might still have had with the redhead as I puked into a barf bag. I was thankful only that I hadn’t grabbed her purse by mistake.
Undoubtedly she was, too.
The ship swung around for the next leg of the journey, initiated with another five minutes of blast that once more flattened me into the seat as the rockets decelerated the vessel.
Reentering the atmosphere, the pulse rockets steered us onto a gliding path toward the landing pad where we touched down with mechanical precision. The passenger module was transferred to the Ronne-Filchner Ice Shelf entry port where we disembarked into short-sleeve shirt comfort.
I placed five e-cards into the hotel manager’s slot and gained a hotel credit account keyed to the heat patterns of my face. That done, I crossed to the observation balcony of the hotel to see the sights.
The floor, railing, and walls were all made of clear Crystan giving a wide-open view of the slowly melting Ronne-Filchner Ice Shelf that the hotel was built on. The sea of ice wore a mantle of newly fallen snow, whipped about by the howling Antarctic wind. Not surprisingly, no penguins or tourists were to be seen outside in the cold, polar daylight.
