Timecaster (10 page)

When I healed, I married Vicki, and lost my best friend.

I knew he hated me. But I didn’t think the hate ran so deep in him he’d frame me for murder. Or that it ran so deep in me that I’d be clenching the steering wheel and barreling at him at sixty miles per hour.

Since he was matching or surpassing my speed, there was no time for second thoughts. No time for dwelling on actions or consequences or repercussions. I was going to run the fucker off the road or die trying.

I expected no less from him, which was why it really threw me when he hit the brakes.

In the millisecond before impact I swerved, my tail end clipping his front bumper, enough energy, speed, and momentum to send both of our cars rolling end over end like dice.

The airfoam package Vicki insisted I install—because it was far superior to air bags—deployed as advertised, filling the interior of the Vette with a protein foam matrix as I flipped, turned, and eventually came to a stop on my hood.

The foam was clear, permeable enough to breathe in, but strong enough to keep me pinned in my seat without a bit of damage. I was dizzy, but unharmed.

“Solvent,” I said.

The solvent sprayed out of the dashboard jets, instantly dissolving the foam. Gravity kicked in, and I felt the weight of my body as I hung upside down from my seat belt.

“Seat belt.”

It released me, dropping me onto my shoulder.

“Door.”

The twisted door blew off, the recessed explosives ejecting it into the street. I crawled out of the tight opening, kissing the greentop.

I may have been fine, but my car . . .

Oh, shit. My beautiful car.

It looked like an angry god had crushed it in his fist. I shook away the motes floating around in my vision and locked onto Teague’s Porsche. The same god had smote him as well. But Teague hadn’t opted for the expensive airfoam package, and an old-fashioned air bag pressed him into his seat. I hobbled over, knowing I needed to get out of there, but not willing to leave my former friend if he needed help. An odd feeling, since moments before I’d been ready to kill him.

I unclipped my folding knife from my utility belt and jabbed the air bag, pulling it away from him. His nose looked like a mashed tomato, and his arm hung at a funny angle. I felt for a pulse in his neck.

Strong. For some reason I was relieved by this.

Then his hand shot up, pointing his Taser at me.

I ducked the shot and sprinted away, toward the intersection, blending from near-deserted Wabash onto megabusy Monroe. The people were packed so densely it was tough to walk through them. I managed to push into the street, and then stepped in front of a kindly looking old man on a biofuel scooter.

“Sorry,” I said, plucking him off.

He stared at me, angry and confused.

“Are you fuct? I’ll just call a timecaster.”

“Don’t bother,” I said, taking his helmet. “I already know I did it.”

I twisted the gas handle and melded into traffic. While I knew I was being tracked, I wouldn’t be easy to spot in a stream of several million bikes. I kept executing quick turns, changing directions, backtracking, making it hard for the peace officer bikes—if they knew who to look for—to catch me.

When I finally buzzed past the front of my house I wasn’t surprised to see twenty cops standing guard around the property.

It wasn’t good for my health to try to talk to Vicki right now. But it might be the only way to save my marriage.

I kept my head down, whipping around the corner and ditching the biofuel bike in front of my neighbor’s house. I hung the helmet on the handlebars, the engine still on. Then I swallowed my pride and rang his videobell.

Chomsky’s face appeared on the monitor. He was bald with a big nose and looked pissed, but that was his perpetual look. We’d been neighbors for more than ten years, and friendly for the first few, until his vines grew across to my rooftop and I harvested them for biofuel tax, figuring they were on my property. He took offense and raised a big stink with the local alderman, resulting in a big fine for me.

Chomsky was a dick. But he was also my only shot at seeing Vicki.

“What the hell do you want, Talon?”

Good. Apparently he hadn’t seen the news yet.

“I had an accident and can’t get in my house. I need to get on your roof to jump over.”

“You look like shit.”

The remnants of the airfoam had become a slimy mucus, which gave my coat of stinky biomass garbage a glossy sheen.

“Please, Chomsky. I know we don’t get along. But this is an emergency.”

“A month of foliage.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’ll let you on my roof, but you’ll owe me a month of foliage for biofuel tax.”

I glanced at the corner. Two peace officers were coming my way.

“Sure, Chomsky. A month.”

“Really? You sure agreed to that quickly. Let’s make it two months.”

“Two months? You’re such a dick.”

“That’s the offer. Take it or leave it.”

The cop duo had picked up their pace. One was holding his earlobe.

“Deal,” I said.

“And apologize for calling me a dick.”

I ground my molars. “I’m sorry, Chomsky. You aren’t a dick.”

“That’s right. Who’s the dick?”

The cops were almost on me.

“I am, Chomsky. I’m the dick. Now, please open the door.”

“Wipe your feet before you come up.”

He buzzed me in. I didn’t bother wiping my feet. I pushed past him in the hallway, running up his stairs as fast as I could, bursting out onto his green roof. I hurried to the edge and looked down.

Cops were everywhere, many of them focused on their DTs, tracking my chip.

“Talon, you ass-master! You trailed shit all through my house! And it stinks!”

I judged the gap between my roof and his. It was only six feet, but the height made it seem a lot farther away. Did I have the strength to make the leap? I was exhausted, beaten up, covered with twenty pounds of gunk.

“The stink is making me puke! You owe me a carpet cleaning as well, mister!”

“Shut up, Chomsky! You’re such a dick!”

“I’m calling the alderman!”

Dick.

Chomsky stomped off. I looked at the gap again, sure I wouldn’t be able to make it across. I wondered if my dick neighbor had a pair of frog legs. A kermit could make the jump, easy.

“Talon?”

I glanced over at my roof. Vicki was there. Vicki, the love of my life. My wife. My everything. And suddenly I had the strength of ten men. I took five running steps, then launched myself into the air, sailing toward her, soaring like a bird on the wings of love.

Halfway there I knew I’d be about a foot short.

SEVENTEEN

The wings of love fuct me, and I slammed into the side of my house, frantically trying to get a handhold even as I felt one or two ribs snap. Vicki raced to me, pulling my shirt just as the bullets started to fly. I hooked an ankle up on the ledge and hefted myself over, lying on my back and panting like an asthmatic at a hayseed festival.

“Talon . . .”

My wife knelt next to me. She had tears in her eyes, her face a sad snapshot of concern.

“In order of importance,” I heaved, “I love you, I’m sorry, and I didn’t do it.”

“I know, I know, and I know. I love you, too, baby.”

She kissed me, which proved she loved me because at that moment I was the worst-smelling object on the planet.

“Cops in the house?”

She nodded. “A dozen.”

“Are you in trouble?”

“No.”

“They’ll use you to get to me. Go to Sata. He knows what’s going on.”

“I tried calling you . . .”

“They cut my headphone. But I’ll get in touch.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise. If you don’t hear from me, I’ll meet you at the space elevator. Tomorrow.”

She nodded. I wanted to kiss her again, but she was already covered with foul-smelling gunk and I didn’t want to add to it.

Vicki had no such concerns, and she leaned in to kiss me. For ten magical seconds, all was right with the world.

I heard a snoring sound, and turned left. My raccoon visitor was sleeping in the hemp bush, all four legs in the air. He had marijuana all over his whiskers, and I may have been projecting but it sure looked like he had a smile on his furry face. I pulled my knife.

Vicki’s eyes got wide. “What are you doing?”

“This needs to be done. You don’t want to watch.”

I advanced on the animal with my blade drawn, trying to get my courage up, trying not to hesitate.

“Talon!” Vicki covered her eyes. “Oh . . . Talon . . .”

When I was finished, I tossed the raccoon onto that dick Chomsky’s roof. Then I crawled to the sprinkler and turned it on, cleaning myself up as best I could and drinking at least a half gallon in a futile effort to quench my thirst.

“Talon! They’re here!”

Three cops poured through my roof door, guns drawn. I struggled to my feet, got up a head of steam, and threw myself into the air again. And once again, I came up short, hanging from the edge of Chomsky’s building. But my bloody hands couldn’t hold on, and before I could get a leg up I lost my grip.

Luckily, Chomsky’s wall was covered with thick vines—the same vines that I’d been fined for harvesting. I hooked my hands into the vines, ripping them off the wall as I fell. They lowered me gently down. By the time I reached the ground I had two hundred credits’ worth of foliage in my arms. I gave them a rough yank, uprooting them. Served Chomsky right, the dick.

Cops appeared in front of me, Tasers raised. I backpedaled, squinting against the glare as the wax bullets struck my armful of vines. I dropped them and tore ass around the corner, finding my abandoned biofuel scooter, the motor still running. I put on the helmet, jumped on, and revved it, cutting into an alley, right into a swarm of two dozen peace officers.

They surrounded me, guns raised. I braced myself for the Taser attack, knowing that if more than ten of them shot me, it would likely be fatal.

But no one shot me. They all ran past, oblivious to my presence.

I turned around, confused, then saw what they were chasing.

My raccoon buddy was scurrying along the edge of Chomsky’s roof. But the cops weren’t looking at the animal. They were looking at their DT screens, which tracked my chip. After cutting the chip out of my wrist, I’d shoved it down the sleeping raccoon’s throat. Chips ceased functioning when their biological host died, or if they were removed from the body—with the exception of GPS. That worked as long as there was some biological matter still attached. Apparently I’d removed enough tissue for it to still work for a while.

I stitched myself into westbound traffic, heading to an old friend’s house.

Well, maybe
friend
was the wrong word. He was an ex–peace officer, and currently a tracer. I’d worked with him when we were both cops, and used him freelance on runaway cases after he was fired. After the Libertarian Act emancipated children, giving them the option of quitting school and living on their own if they got qualified employment, those without jobs but still yearning to be free of their parents went the dissy route. It was possible to track them by timecasting, but the process was painstaking and lengthy, especially since runaways weren’t technically breaking the law.

Harry McGlade had his ear to the ground in the dissy community, and could often find people faster than a timecaster could. He also had his hand in any number of underground, potentially illegal activities, one of which I needed his help with.

I merged onto the expressway, heading north to Rockford. I hadn’t seen him in a few years and hoped he still had the same address.

The three-hour ride was grueling. I was in considerable pain. My arm still wasn’t fully operational from when Sata hit me. The skin left on my knuckles kept scabbing over and bleeding every time I moved my fingers. The hole in my arm where I dug out the chip had clotted, but unless I cleaned it out and took some meds I was sure to get an infection.

The worst pain of all came from my ribs. After a selfinspection I felt two that were wiggly. The stop-and-go traffic, while sitting on a biofuel bike, wasn’t quite torture, but if I’d had to endure it for more than those three hours, I would have gladly confessed state secrets to make it stop.

McGlade’s house was as I’d remembered it; run-down and ugly, his front yard covered with junk, half-buried by weeds. Rockford had a lower biofuel tax, and McGlade apparently paid it in credits rather than foliage, because he hadn’t done any gardening here since Mary-Kate Olsen was elected president.

I parked the bike and limped to the front door, giving his videobell a ring.

His face appeared. Unshaven, sweaty, with what looked like dried egg stuck in the corner of his mouth.

“C’mon in, Talon. Been hoping you’d drop by.”

The door buzzed, and opened.

Apparently, McGlade really had been hoping I’d drop by. He was standing right there when I walked inside, pointing an antique .44 Magnum between my eyes.

EIGHTEEN

“Is that a real gun?”

McGlade scratched himself in an unattractive place. He was in his midthirties, wearing a dirty undershirt and a bathrobe, both of which were too small for his pudgy body. “Fuck yeah, it’s a real gun. I just saw you on the news. You know what kind of reward I’m gonna get from bringing you in?”

“There’s a reward?”

“I dunno. Lemme check.” McGlade pinched his earlobe. “Hello? I’m calling about the fugitive, Talon Avalon. Is there a reward for his capture?” He frowned. “Excuse me? Why not? . . . What? . . . Fuck no, I haven’t seen him. Find him yourself.”

He lowered the gun, scowling at me. “You’re worthless,” he said.

“Sorry about that.” I hadn’t been too worried about McGlade shooting me. At least, not with an illegal weapon. Not unless he wanted to share a prison cell with me. “Where did you get a gun? I thought they rounded them all up after CWII.”

“It was my grandfather’s. I ever tell you he used to be a cop? Then he went private. Just like me. They made movies about him.”