Timecaster Page 17

  THIRTY-FIVE

  I stared in disbelief as Alter-Talon violated my wife. He had one hand on her throat, squeezing hard, a sick grin on his face as he pumped away. I’d been angry before, many times. But seeing this filled me with such absolute rage I would have killed the guy if he were in the room.

  And he had been in the room. Almost two weeks ago, according to the TEV. But how? And why hadn’t Vicki told me?

  I tried to remember two weeks back. Had she seemed upset? Had she covered up her black eye with makeup? Why hadn’t she said anything?

  I paused the scene and rechecked the date. It couldn’t be right. Two weeks ago, I had the house to myself. Vicki was visiting her mother in New Los Angeles. She wasn’t home when this took place.

  So how . . . ?

  My eyes drifted to the prism ball, the button still depressed. I thumbed it off.

  The TEV monitor went fuzzy, and then showed an empty kitchen.

  I pressed the on button.

  The monitor showed Vicki being assaulted.

  That was when I figured it out. This hadn’t happened to the Vicki I was married to. It had happened to an alter-Vicki, in a parallel universe. Somehow this prism ball made a TEV tune in to past events in an alternate universe.

  I flipped the ball off. Had Neil created this thing? Had he been the mastermind all along?

  No. This tech seemed way beyond Neil. And he’d passed the voice-stress detector. Neil was involved, but he wasn’t the mastermind. I thought about following him backward, letting him lead me to the person who gave him the prism ball, but the TEV was at its limit and couldn’t go back any further.

  Then I realized the obvious. If this prism forced a timecast in a parallel world, then there had to be a prism at Aunt Zelda’s apartment that made me pick up the transmission of Alter-Talon killing her.

  I put the prism ball in a pouch on my belt, then tapped my eyelid for infrared. The two cops on the first level were still in the den, lying next to each other on the floor. It looked like they were spooning. I checked the perimeter of the house, and the chatty duo walking the route was passing by the front door.

  Time to go.

  I snuck downstairs and outside, happy to take the hepafilter off my face and breathe some fresh air. I barely took two steps before I heard a whistle.

  It was my dick neighbor, Chomsky, out for a stroll with his genipet—some sort of mini alpaca or llama. He had his fingers in his mouth, producing a loud, shrill tone that could be heard across Lake Michigan and all the way to New Detroit.

  “It’s Talon Avalon! The fugitive!”

  He whistled again, and his miniature critter seemed to be getting agitated by the sound. It bumped Chomsky with its head, then spit on him.

  “Barack O’Llama!” Chomsky chastised, slapping his pet on the snout. “Behave!”

  I saw the two cops hauling ass around the corner, Tasers drawn, so I didn’t have a chance to break Chomsky’s nose, like the dick deserved. I began to run.

  Chomsky whistled again. “He’s going that way!”

  Barack bit him in the nards. I always liked Barack.

  I beat feet through the alley, hopping on Teague’s biofuel scooter. My biggest concern was a satellite spotting me. I wasn’t sure if the old Tesla Taser satellites were still in operation, since violent crime was pretty much eliminated in Chicago. They worked like giant, orbiting versions of my Glock Taser, sending lightning from the Tesla field and zapping targets on earth. But unlike a handheld version, TTSs were computer controlled and not subject to human error. If you were moving less than five miles per hour, and a TTS locked onto you, it rarely missed.

  Zipping up the street, I heard Chomsky scream as his llama gnawed away. Then I was immediately intercepted by three peace officer scooters. Teague’s bike was also CPD issue, so I aimed the kill switch laser in their direction and gave them a rapid-fire burst. It cut their engines, but they still coasted toward me, shooting their Tasers. I swerved left, merging into traffic, and found six more cops on my tail. Like Teague, they were also equipped with kill switches. And if they killed my bike, I’d be easy pickings for the TTSs.

  I weaved through the sea of motorists, listening to the sirens behind me, and then hit my siren and pulled into the frog lane. The kermits freaked out, jumping out of the way, some of them falling over and eating pavement. I tailgated one, very close to running him over, but he saw me in his headband rearview mirror and jumped backward, completely over me, clearing my bike by at least five feet. It would have been a lot cooler if he didn’t look so goofy doing it.

  The CPD bikes followed me into the lane. I hadn’t been on scooter patrol in more than a decade, but I remembered kill switches had a range of about twenty meters, so as long as I had a sixty-foot lead, they wouldn’t be able to—

  My engine died. Apparently the range had gotten better in the last decade.

  I coasted, turning into an alley, smacking right into a powerbocker who was taking a leak in a biorecycle toilet, the opening thirty inches higher than the pedestrian version to accommodate the frog leggers. He toppled, and I jumped off the scooter, mostly to dodge the urine stream. I skidded onto the greentop, coming to rest on my stomach.

  “WTF!?” The kermit was on his back. He’d been unable to stop his flow, and an arc of pee splashed onto his chest and drenched his Green Bay Packers shirt, which was not what the Packers deserved.

  I got to my knees, trying to decide which way to bolt, when two CPD scooters pulled in, Tasers blazing.

  I ducked behind my fallen bike, wax bullets exploding around me, Tesla bolts raining down everywhere. Piss Boy got hit twice, his fountain of urine sparking up and zinging his ding-a-ling in a way that could only be described as extremely uncomfortable. I scrambled to my feet and launched myself at the nearest cop, shots whizzing past my head, hitting him with a body tackle and taking him off the bike and into a lovely hydrangea bush. I landed on him, my knee in his solar plexus, then grabbed his gun hand and pressed his finger on the trigger, firing at his partner, making him dance to the million-volt boogie.

  His partner flopped off his scooter, and I ran for it, ready to speed off into the street, when three more cops entered the alley from the other side, heading right for me.

  A bike chase was a no-win proposition for me. They could go wherever I went, and they were armed.

  I glanced at the kermit. He’d managed to stop peeing, and steam was rising from his wet chest. Without thinking I knelt next to him, hitting the release button on his left knee, the clamps of the frog leg automatically opening up. Before I could second-guess myself, the spring stilts were on my own legs, automatically snugging themselves to a perfect fit.

  Frog legs worked on two simple principles. Longer legs meant longer strides, and springs transferred energy. They were made of reinforced carbon slats, which curved backward in half-moon shapes. This allowed them to bend. Extra height plus extra bounce meant higher speed. I’d heard some folks could reach fifty miles per hour on them, which was faster than biofuel scooters.

  But how in the heck did you get up once they were on?

  The legs were lightweight but cumbersome. The added height made it impossible for me to stand because my knees were too high. I crawled to the alley wall and had to pull myself up on the ivy. Once erect, balancing was awkward, and I had no idea how anyone could walk in these things, let alone run.

  The cops got within Taser range. I pushed myself off the wall, took three staggering steps, and then realized that the frog legs changed my center of gravity. Leaning forward corrected this issue. Head down, I sprinted at the scooters.

  The rate of acceleration was surprising, blowing my hair back, the world blurring past me on either side. Each stride covered ten or twelve feet, and the bouncing—though it looked silly to an observer—actually felt steady and controlled. It was like regular running, only enhanced.

  Time to try a jump.

  The cops swerved out of my way, probably thinking I was just another kermit.
Then one of them IDed me and raised his weapon, coming at me fast.

  I bounced on my right leg and leapt up, clearing his bike easily. But my exhilaration was short-lived, because I actually kept going higher, as if gravity no longer had a hold on me, and when I looked down I was twenty feet in the air. If I landed wrong, it would break me, or possibly kill me.

  After a momentary adrenaline surge of pure panic, I brought both legs together and leaned forward in a crouching position, clenching my teeth, ready to absorb the shock of impact.

  I hit the ground hard, slamming into the greentop with incredible speed and force—

  —and didn’t feel the impact at all.

  The frog legs absorbed the kinetic energy, then released it, launching me into the air again. The relief that surged through me was fleeting; I was leaping into oncoming traffic.

  I shifted my body in the air, trying to control my trajectory, even flapping my arms like a pigeon to prevent me from landing on top of a motorist. I managed to squeeze between two scooters, hopping on one leg, bending my knee so the next bounce wouldn’t be as high. My left stilt clipped a commuter’s helmet, throwing me off balance, and I did a bizarre pirouette, landed on both legs, and then did splits in the air like a freestyle skier, leapfrogging another two bikes and heading straight for a bus.

  I had déjà vu of the train incident earlier, except this time I didn’t have gecko tape, and the bus was coming at me rather than moving in the same direction. I bent into a pike, managing to get my legs out in front of me, my ass brushing against the vehicle’s green roof as I barely cleared the top. My stilts dug two trenches in the flowers, then caught on the internal irrigation system. My body continued its forward motion, my knees bent, and I bounced off the roof, just as a gigantic bolt of Tesla lightning split the night and struck the bus less than a foot behind me.

  The TTS had locked on.

  THIRTY-SIX

  I wasn’t a fan of heights, so seeing the ground whir by thirty feet below me made my stomach do flip-flops. The frog legs had amazing stabilizers and shock suppressors, but all I could think of as I plummeted to earth was, I’m on a one-way trip to Pancake Town.

  I brought my ankles together, feeling the impact this time—a bone-jarring shock that made me bite my tongue. But I managed to keep my balance, and the spring stilts performed as advertised, once again bouncing me skyward.

  Another Tesla bolt singed some poor sap in my wake. I managed to get the next bounce under control, and hopped into the frog lane, spitting some blood over my shoulder, heading for Wacker Drive. My bouncing gradually became manageable and I began to run once again, weaving through other kermits.

  I easily outsped the CPD bikes, which were stuck in congestion, but not without personal cost. Though quick, the frog legs required a lot more exertion than simple running, and after two blocks I was a gasping, sweaty wreck. Every time I slowed my pace, the TTS threw a Tesla bolt at me, each one closer than the last. I needed to find some shelter and catch my breath.

  I darted through more powerbockers, several of whom got zapped in my stead, then ducked into an office building. It was a typical Chicago skyscraper—a green lobby, a security island, about two dozen utopeons milling about amid the chrome, mirrors, and ficus trees.

  “Hey! No frog legs!”

  The security guard’s only weapons were a harsh tone and a stern glance, neither of which cowed me. I sighted the escalator and bounded toward it, relaxing a bit; TTSs didn’t work indoors.

  “I’m talking to you, buddy.”

  The guard waddled over to intercept me, perhaps driven by an inner desire to keep his paycheck. I tried to go around him, but he cut me off.

  “We don’t allow kermits inside. Lose the legs or—” The Tesla bolt hit him in the mouth, which must have stung like crazy. He flopped to the ground, and I ran to the right, searching for cops.

  No cops. Which meant—

  The Taser zap hit me in the stilt, making me fall over. I wasn’t stunned, at least not in the physical sense. The frog leg acted like a lightning rod, drawing the charge away from me. But color me shocked that TTS tech had advanced to the point where it now worked indoors.

  Scooting backward on my butt, I reached the marble security counter and hoisted myself back up. Then I sprinted for the escalator, another lightning strike missing my nose by inches, so close I could smell the ozone.

  The bottoms of the frog legs had rubber grips, about half the length of my feet. But I misjudged the moving stairs and began to topple on the first step. I grabbed the person ahead of me for balance. She swore, giving me a shove, pushing me out of the way as a Taser bolt struck her.

  I fell onto my butt, then crawled like mad on all fours, over to the elevator. A dozen or so people in the lobby gave me a wide berth.

  “Hold the elevator!” I yelled.

  No one in the elevator made any sort of move to indicate they heard me.

  Another zap in the frog leg. I was fifteen feet away from the elevator, and doubted I’d make it.

  That was when ten cops poured into the lobby. They sighted me and began to fire their Tasers.

  I put my palms on the floor, kept my legs straight, and then walked backward on my hands until I looked like an upside down V. Then I bent my knees and pushed forward, as if diving into a pool. In three quick steps I was on my feet, then back on my belly, sliding into the elevator as the doors began to close, a Tesla bullet hitting me in the back. I fought the pain, my muscles bunching up, until the elevator climbed out of range and the current cut out.

  I caught my breath, wiped away a few errant tears, and said, “Fifty-second floor, please.”

  Someone pressed the button for me, but no one offered to help me up.

  After a minute of rest, I crawled out onto my floor, wondering what to do next. This was the top of the building. Any second now, cops would be surrounding me. I could ditch the frog legs, take my chances on the stairs, but they’d be covering those as well.

  I took a quick look around, and saw a door at the end of the hallway that had ROOF ACCESS stenciled on it, which gave me a really stupid idea. I got to my feet doing the upside-down V trick, and hauled ass over there. It was locked, but nothing my Nife couldn’t handle.

  The two flights of stairs weren’t easy to climb. I balanced by palming the walls. When I reached the top I dealt with another locked door, and then I was on the roof. The greentop was regular grass, and hemp bushes competed for space with bamboo. The wind was fast and strong, changing direction randomly. Following a path in the lawn, I walked to the edge of the roof. The city was all lit up, spectacular, the famous Chicago skyline a marvel to behold.

  I looked ahead, to the neighboring skyscraper. One story shorter, and perhaps ten yards away. Then I looked down and felt my stomach clench. This was way too high for me. There was no way I’d pull this off. I was better off surrendering.

  A bolt of Tesla lightning hit me in the stilt. I staggered backward, then turned around and took five giant steps. I turned again, eyeing the edge of the roof, feeling like I had to vomit.

  Just do it. The next building is only thirty feet away. You’ve jumped farther than thirty feet.

  “Not in this wind,” I said to myself. “Not at this height.”

  Noise, to my right. The cops flooding onto the roof.

  I sprinted toward the building’s ledge.

  I kept my eyes on my mark. I’d hit the edge with both feet, then spring out into the empty air. No problem.

  My first two steps felt pretty good.

  On my third step, I remembered a video I’d seen Teague watching, called Insane Kermit Deaths 17, which featured some idiot trying to jump from one building to another. He missed, and when he hit the ground his head came off his body and bounced several yards away.

  I changed my mind at my fourth step, realizing this was the king of very bad ideas, but I’d already committed to it now, do or die. Or, more likely, do and die.

  I hit the edge of the roof with both fee
t, bending my knees, screaming into the wind as I launched off the building with every last ounce of my strength.

  In a day filled with some really scary shit, this was the worst. The terrifying and unnatural experience of no longer being tethered to the earth. I knew I shouldn’t look down, but I did anyway. A horrible, helpless feeling overcame me, quickly replaced by a wave of anger that I’d do something this monumentally stupid.

  I looked ahead. The next skyscraper was fifteen feet away. But the wind gusted against me, pushing me, slowing me, and gravity took its cheap shot as well, mocking my attempt, dragging me down.

  Halfway there I knew I wasn’t going to make it.

  I thought about Vicki, about her seeing my splattered remains on the news. Would she always wonder if I was really guilty? Would she know my very last thought was of her?

  Then the wind changed, an updraft that pushed me from behind, and I piked my feet in front of me, surprised, amazed, that I was actually going to survive.

  I hit the roof, legs together, laughing aloud as my stilts kissed the lawn.

  In hindsight, I should have landed on my belly or knees.

  Once my feet hit, the frog legs bent and launched me into the air again. A huge hop, bouncing me way up over the top of the building, toward the opposite edge.

  I was going too far. I’d miss the ledge by a few feet and fall to my death.

  I pinwheeled my arms, trying to turn around in midair, and managed to face backward, watching the ledge disappear beneath me. I stretched out, my fingertips brushing the edge of the skyscraper, catching it for a moment, a moment that lasted long enough for me to have some hope.

  Then my grip slipped.

  I fell, hugging the side of the building, seeing my own terrified image reflected back at me in the pristine windows.

  Insane Kermit Deaths 18, here I come.

  This time my last thought wasn’t of Vicki. It wasn’t cursing my own stupidity, either. The only thing in my brain was raw, screaming, animalistic terror. The last few seconds of my life would also be the worst few seconds.