CHAPTER SIX
Jonathon’s headclock showed 03:27:46 PM and counting. Four hours to game time. The Louisiana Superdome stretched above and over him as he ran the maze of concrete barriers that made up the playing arena. He always ran the entire field on foot before a match, just to get that extra sense, that extra edge which might prove to be the tiny advantage he needed.
The corridors of the maze varied in width from one to five meters, each side a uniform 2.5 meters in height, curved into a half pipe so that the bikes could ride high on the walls for acrobatics or fast turns. The lanes were painted navy blue on this side of the arena and yellow on the other—the colors of the Buzzsaws—and streaked with black tread stains.
The stadium was quiet this early, only the faint echo of the training room’s sound system audible to Jonathon as he increased his pace and concentrated on the details of the maze. This was a tricky one. Few straight lanes, many twists and curves that doubled across the midline. When jittertime came, knowledge of location was crucial.
Jonathon was breathing heavily by the time he reached the goal area on the far side—a two-meter-diameter circle, painted yellow with a huge circular saw in the center. Only three lanes opened up to the goal circle. Jonathon increased his pace, running across to the corridor that led to the skyway—a ramp that traveled across the center of the maze from one end to the other. This one was about two meters wide, perhaps enough for two bikers side by side. Two excellent linebikers or one lancebiker.
Jonathon stopped at the apex of the skyway, about three meters above the top of the maze. He took one last look at the whole, letting his mind absorb the arena. Then he ran down the other side of the elevated track and headed out through the penalty bunkers and quickly past the communication bay where Terry was warming up the team’s trideo and simsense equipment. Terry was a grotesquely fat ork with a crush on Jonathon. Luckily she didn’t look up from her work as he ran by.
Jonathon breathed a sigh of relief as he slowed to a walk and made his way past the offices where he could hear Coach Kalish’s raspy voice bitching at one of the promoters about too many reporters in the secure areas. Jonathon bypassed the check station where the referees would soon survey each player’s motorcycle, armor, and weapons to make sure everything was consistent with World Combat Cycling League regulations.
The training area was underneath the actual playing arena, down a wide spiral ramp. It consisted of a locker room, exercise equipment, a warm-up track, and several simulators. Jonathon found Boges and Mason in the garage area, drinking hi-carb shakes as they watched Vic, the dwarf mechanic, work on Mason’s BMW Blitzen.
Mason was an ork of uncommon ugliness, which was saying something because Jonathon found orks, as a rule, the ugliest of all metahumans. Mason was also unusually lacking in the intelligence department, but when it came to jittertime, there was no one else Jonathon would rather have gunning in front of him. Mason handled his bike with ease, was wicked nasty with a lance, and almost impervious to injury.
Boges was one of the goalies—huge even for a sasquatch, bulked up to nearly troll weight. His fur glimmered silver and black in the fluorescent light. Rumor had it that Boges was pretty smart, but Jonathon thought not; nobody with half a synapse would play goalie in this game at this level. Of course, he’d been super-equipped with skillsofts and other neural implants to make possible full communication with the rest of the team.
“Hoi, chummers,” Jonathon said as he walked in.
“Hoi,” they said.
“Seen Tam?” Jonathon asked as he picked a towel from the clean pile and wiped the sweat from his neck. Earlier, Tamara had seemed distracted and distant. Something was wrong, he could tell. He could always tell. And the feeling had bothered him, insinuating into his thoughts until he couldn’t shake it. He had to find out what it was, get it behind him before the game.
“She’s over at the simdecks,” Boges said. “Going over some Dougan Rose pulses. Said something about looking for weaknesses.”
“Dougan has no weaknesses,” Jonathon said.
Boges laughed. “That’s what I told her.”
Jonathon crossed to the row of simsense decks where Tamara lay in a recliner, jacked in, simming one of the Buzzsaws’ earlier matches. He dropped down into the simrecliner beside her and jacked in to the same recording, choosing Dougan’s point of view from the menu.
Sudden disorientation, slight nausea pulling at his gut as he became Dougan Rose. Cold sweat ran down his back, soaked into his fireproof plycra unibody. Over the unibody was the thick Kevlar III armor, integrated with panels of slick polycarbonate like segments of an armadillo so that Dougan could maneuver inside. The segments were painted bright yellow and blue, with a huge buzzsaw on his plated pectorals.
The plexishield faceplate of Dougan’s helmet was scarred, making Jonathon’s vision slightly uneven for a moment before he adjusted mentally. A fiber-optic line integrated into his armor, letting the datajack at his temple connect through to the command module in the seat of the extensively modified Yamaha Rapier at his tailbone. He piloted the bike cybernetically, like an extension of himself, leaving his hands free for more important things like weapons.
Clamps on the Yamaha locked into hooks along the armor of his legs, making him inseparable from the light machine. The clamps were linked through the bike’s dog brain into his mind and would release at his command. The Yamaha weighed less than he did; it was for high-speed moves and acrobatics. For showing off and scoring. Dodging and running, not fighting.
A concussion grenade exploded two meters ahead as Dougan accelerated toward the flying bogey. Dougan’s cybereyes automatically compensated for the flash, something Jonathon’s natural eyes couldn’t do without special glasses. Dougan’s transparent tactical display showed the clock at five seconds and an overlay of the arena maze, his teammates’ positions showing as yellow motorcycle icons. The opposing team’s positions were unknown, as per the rules.
Dougan mentally cranked the accelerator on his Yamaha. Dougan’s vehicle control rig wasn’t as responsive as Jonathon’s, but the millisecond of sluggishness didn’t seem to affect his scoring ability. In the sim, Dougan flashed through the smoke left by the grenade blast and unleashed his polycarb whip, sending it cracking toward the bogey, which carried the red game flag.
Jonathon used the same type of tool as his weapon of choice; great reach, better for snagging the flag. Better for dismounting opponents at a distance. Just evil.
The bogey drone hovered just above the tops of the lane dividers, zipping along a quasi-random path, with the thin, flexible flagpole on it. The tip of Dougan’s whip coiled around the pole and pulled the weighted flag from the bogey. With a quick jerk of his wrist, he snapped the flag toward him, then grabbed the pole and jammed it into the slot behind his seat.
Dougan slowed slightly to allow his teammate, Gorgon—a large human lancebiker—to rumble past into a blocking position. The lancebiker rode a huge, armored Honda Viking, his blunt plastic lance locked into the brace above the right fork of the front wheel. Dougan accelerated into formation, his front tire just to the left and slightly behind Gorgon’s rear wheel.
A voice crackled over the headset. “Oncoming. Two lancers and one liner.”
Dougan barked into his helmet mike. “Copy, T-bone. Lay suppression. Pollack and Webster run interference.”
“Copy, Dougan.” There was a distant ka-thunk, as T-bone fired.
The concussion grenade hit around the curve just ahead of Dougan and Gorgon. A blinding flash of white, dimming as his eyes compensated, followed by a ball of flame billowing up toward the stadium’s rafters. Then the thunderclap hit, rattling the air around him.
A deafening cheer went up from the crowd, watching from behind the thick macroglass shielding. T-bone’s voice filled Dougan’s head: “Concussion ineffective. Pollack and Webster won’t reach you in time.”
Dougan took a deep breath. “Fragging-A,” he muttered. The curve approached at breakneck speed. “Okay, Gorgon, this is gonna be tight. I’m going up and over. You scan, chummer?”
“Not enough distance, Dougan.”
“I’m the flyer,” he said. “Let me worry about it.”
“It’s your funeral.”
Dougan stopped his bike for a second to let Gorgon move his big Honda into position near the curve of the lane. Cranking the throttle with a mental command, Dougan crouched low against the bike as the Yamaha squealed into a full-out run.
T-bone’s voice boomed in his ear, “Five seconds to enemy contact. I’m gonna cross the skyway to declaw their thunderbiker.”
Gorgon came to a full stop a few meters from the curve and unhitched his lance from its bracket. As Dougan reached forty klicks per hour, Gorgon braced his lance upright against his boot.
Dougan unleashed his whip, sending it cracking toward Gorgon just as the four enemy bikes rounded the curve, the blunt tips of three lances jutting at Dougan.
They’ll hit Gorgon regardless, Jonathon thought. But Dougan might just make it.
The tip of Dougan’s whip coiled around Gorgon’s heavy lance, and Dougan locked the handle into the holster pin on his bike. The whip cord came taut as Dougan swung out wide, riding up the slope of the pipe. It pulled him into an impossible arc. His bike cut a sharp half-circle using the whip as radius, up the steep, half-pipe bank of the lane to shoot straight into the air.
Dougan threw his weight back as his wheels cleared the top of the barrier, sending himself and his bike into a backflip. The crowd gasped in unison as he tucked in close to the machine to complete the flip, then came down on the other side of the wall into a clear lane. He clamped on full brakes, skidding to a halt.
“Talk to me, T-bone,” he said. “Where’s the enemy? Where’s backup?”
“Ion and Chibba are six ticks behind you. No enemy between you and ground zero.”
Dougan checked his tactical. Clock ticking toward the thirty-second mark. Toward jittertime. “No enemy?” Dougan asked as he swung his Yamaha around and rocketed toward the Timber Wolves’ goal circle. Ground zero.
Jonathon felt Tamara jack out of the sim. The slight discontinuity as she unplugged herself from the recorder. He stopped the simulation and jacked out.
Tamara hadn’t moved. She sat stock-still in the simrecliner next to him, her hands over her face.
Crying?
“Tam, what’s wrong?”
She drew her hands from her eyes slowly. Then gave a heavy sigh. “Dougan Rose,” she said. “He never makes a mistake.”
But that wasn’t it, Jonathon knew. “Come on, Tam. What’s going on?”
“Mistakes,” she said. Then she sat in silence for a minute. Finally, barely a whisper, “I fragged up.”
Jonathon leaned in. “What is it. . .what’s wrong?”
She just shook her head and wouldn’t look at him.
“Talk to me, Tam,” he insisted.
“It’s bad.”
“Is it something to do with Michaelson? We can fix it. I know we can, but you’ve gotta tell me if I’m going to help you.”
“You can’t help, Jonathon. Nobody can. You’re going to have to let me fly solo on this one.”
“But—”
“No. I won’t drag you into it.” She put her hands over her eyes again, trying to hide her emotions from him. “If I got you into another mess like the Multnomah Falls thing, I’d never be able to forgive myself.”
“That was an accident,” Jonathan said. But he knew that whatever she’d done must be serious for her to bring up Multnomah Falls.
Now she was murmuring to herself, “Grids was right, it’s too big. Too dangerous. Too fragging dangerous.”
“Grids? What did that dreamer—?”
“Leave him out of it!” she yelled suddenly. “It was all my idea so just leave him out!”
Jonathon held his hands up. “Sorry, Tam. I didn’t. . .”
But she stood, wiping her eyes, and walked away. As he watched the retreating shape of her rigid back, the memory of the accident at Multnomah Falls came over him. The day everything changed in their lives.
After flight school, Jonathon and Tamara had flown prototype Federated-Boeing fighter jets out of Fort Lewis in Seattle. He still considered that the best time of his life, and often dreamed of climbing into the cockpit of an FB1680 once more. Of sliding into the narrow, form-adjusting seat in his blue-gray flight suit, jacking himself through his helmet and into the powerful bird.
The FB1680 was code-named Falcon, and as such, it was smaller and faster than its predecessor, the Eagle. Sleek, single-wing design, painted a radar-absorbing matte black, nearly invisible to electronic detection. It had fully vectored thrust, VTOL maneuverability, and blazing speed. The only things quicker were a few elite cruise drones, and that was only because they could pull gees that would kill any metahuman.
Jonathon remembered the day of their sixth test flight as clearly as his breakfast with Synthia. How could he ever forget? He had strapped himself into his bird on an overcast day in mid-March. Wednesday, March 13, 2054. He tried not to think about the fifty-million nuyen price tag on this little military toy, and slotted the datajack. Mind to metal. The cybernetic kiss of electronic lips.
Suddenly he became the machine. Cameras and sensors embedded into the black metal skin of the bird gave Jonathon 360-degree vision, hearing, touch. Plus he had extra senses. Radar relayed from the tower showed him a 3-D view of the surrounding airscape. Digital information about wind speed and altitude were translated into taste and smell.
When Tamara jacked into her Falcon next to him, her simsense link synchronized with his, and they merged. Two planes and two minds becoming one entity. UCAS military headware made it possible.
When Jonathon and Tamara had enlisted together and volunteered for the special pilot-training program, Colonel Carmen Johansen had interviewed them. She was looking for non-magicians who were psychologically compatible and could survive the intense scrutiny of prolonged and continuous wet-feed simsense interconnection. Many previous attempts had ended in insanity or mutual addiction.
After their basic and advanced flight training, he and Tamara had undergone an extensive and grueling series of physical and mental tests. Then they were asked to participate in the test-pilot studies. They accepted instantly; it had been one of Jonathon’s dreams to fly fighter jets, and this was that dream coming true in a way he could never have imagined.
After they signed the liability release, both he and Tamara went under the knife. The headware they got was a prototype vehicle control rig, very fast. Very advanced. Plus the doctors installed a full-X simrig and a sophisticated transmitter that acted as a simlink as well as a single-channel remote control unit for the vehicle rig, so if Jonathon ever had to eject, he could still remote-pilot the expensive aircraft to a safe landing.
The simsense ‘ware kept Jonathon and Tamara connected to each other during their flights; it allowed Jonathon to switch instantly to Tamara’s point of view during a test move, then back. And over the course of months, they grew to know each other more intimately than he’d ever thought possible between two people. They knew each other’s emotions, sensations, actions, responses. The technology had created as close to a telepathic link as could be accomplished without magic.
That thirteenth day of March, their sixth test flight of the Falcon, was their 213th mission together. And their last.
Their tactical officer was a dwarf named Theodore Rica. Theo was a brilliant mathematical mind in a squat, muscular body. Under his black curls, he was equipped with the same headware as Tamara and Jonathon, but he didn’t fly with them. He remained in the control bunker in Fort Lewis, pulling together radar and satellite recon data to reconstruct an accurate taste of the airscape. He also took in the digital data flow from the two jets, flew the “enemy” test drones, and orchestrated the exercises.
That day, Theo directed them up and south of Seattle, over Salish-Shidhe territory. Burning fire rocketed through Jonathon as he throttled up his jets. His meat body sank into the cushioned seat as his metal body directed thrust down. With a searing push he was airborne, angling then hurtling then blasting across the forests of the Salish-Shidhe tribal lands.
Tamara nudged his left-wing space, flying just outside his slipstream. Jonathon knew from her stance, from her surge of adrenaline, her laughing, which he felt through the link. From a million tiny and subtle clues, he knew she wanted to lead this run. So he acquiesced, letting her slip past into lead formation.
They moved low and fast, edging down to skim the treetops, feeling the tickle of douglas fir needles as they blew past. Theo’s voice crackled over the com, “Bogey at ten o’clock.” He highlighted the target on the tactical overlay—an Aztechnology Cheetah class drone, a remote-rigged unit that was no match for the Falcon speedwise, but could turn on a credstick, and maneuvered through trees and canyons like a cockroach through dirty dishes.
The drone flashed in and out of radar, but once Theo had highlighted it, Tamara and Jonathon never lost track. Flying as a unit, one or the other always sensed it. Simulsim-linked. One being made of two minds, two black metal bodies in perfect unison.
“Closing,” Tamara said as she narrowed the distance with a spark of afterburner, and they found themselves weaving through the fissures of the newly erupted Cascades. The ice canyons around Mount Rainier, then the scarred earth near Mount Saint Helens.
Tamara had the targeting array nearly locked down when the drone made an unexpected move. It cut south in a quick turn and bolted for the Columbia River, toward the elven nation of Tir Tairngire. Later, Jonathon learned that part of the test centered around their response to this move.
The overly paranoid elven security forces were under orders to shoot down any aircraft violating their airspace, and any pilot would know that, but this was a drone. No time for complex analysis. Their mission was to destroy the bogey, and that’s just what Tamara was going to do. She angled her thrust and spun into a sharp carving turn.
Jonathon let his autopilot slave to her commands, though he was ready to assume control if necessary. She’s trying to play hero again, he thought.
“Tam, we’re too fraggin’ close to civilians for anything so risky,” he barked into his headset, even though she would know how he felt from the simlink long before she heard the words.
Tamara always had a craving for ratings. Always wanted to be admired, the center of attention. And that was her ultimate dream, to feature in sims, to become a megastar whose name was known to the whole world.
“Just three more seconds,” came Tamara’s reply as she armed two of her Ares Rattlesnake III air-to-air missiles.
Jonathon readied his own with a thought as the air below them grew cool and moist. They dropped to skim just above the surface of the broad river. Sun glared off blue water, smells of fish and mist hit him, and the water flew up behind them into the vacuum of their wake.
“Abort,” came Theo’s voice. “Repeat, abort.”
But it was too late.
In the split second before Tamara fired, a gathering of people on the far bank came into view. The drone cut sharp, downriver, its tiny wings glistening a dull bronze against the twinkling silver of the river’s surface.
Ahead, a tall waterfall fell from the top of the gorge. Multnomah Falls. At its base, tourist buildings sat, crammed with unsuspecting civilians. The two Ares Rattlesnakes locked on target and flew from Tamara’s bird. One hit the drone just as it turned downstream. The other missed.
Jonathon never discovered why it happened. Why the missile didn’t track its target. Perhaps it encountered some electronic jamming from Tir Tairngire. That would be up to the elves’ typical paranoid standards.
The other missile rocketed into the parking lot of the tourist attraction, retargeting on a huge bus full of corporate children, the sons and daughters of sararimen from Portland. Blew it to shrapnel in a huge mushrooming fire cloud. Jonathon saw the silver shape of the bus lift in the middle, split open for a brief moment before the whole thing turned to shrapnel engulfed in flame and smoke.
They learned later that nearly two hundred people burned to death in the explosion, but it was a number Jonathon could not comprehend. How could he and Tam have done such a thing, even by accident?
Tamara went into shock, and Jonathon had to take control of her jet. Fly them both back to Fort Lewis, with a growing sense of distance, the increasing numbness of unreality surrounding his brain. The Tir Tairngire government demanded prosecution of all the responsible parties. Theo, Tamara, and Jonathon were court-martialed, sentenced to five years in the military prison in Fairfax, and permanent ground. They’d only had to serve two years, but they’d never fly again; the elven High Council had warned the corporate world that any attempts to hire them as pilots would be considered a direct affront.
Jonathan and Tamara had decided to try professional combat biker. And though riding the line was thriller chiller and another of his childhood fantasies come true, it couldn’t compare to the rush of flying.
Now, Jonathon gritted his teeth against the frustration of the memory and pushed himself up from the simrecliner. He took a deep breath and went after Tamara. “Wait,” he said, catching up with her. “Whatever happened, whatever trouble you’re in now,” he said, “I want to help if I can. We were a team back in Fort Lewis. And we still are.”
Tamara bowed her head and stared down at the gray concrete floor. “No, Jonathon,” she said, slowly shaking her head. “You know too much already.” Then she looked up at him. She stared into his eyes with a dull, glazed expression.
He saw conviction in the flat color of her irises, in her dead stare. And he knew what her response would be.
“I fly solo on this one, Jonathon,” she said. “Solo.”
Jonathon had never felt more alone.
…
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sharp, acrid. Jonathon’s nose burned and he jerked awake. He snapped his eyes open to see the smooth baby face of Ducky, the team trainer. Brown human skin, innocent smile, razor-cut afro.
“Where am I?” Jonathon said. “What happened?”
“You scored a fraggin’ goal, chummer. Put us three points up. That was one wiz move. Silenced the crowd; you could hear a fraggin’ chip drop. Ratings have gone stratospheric.”
“Yeah, well, I’m glad you enjoyed it.” Jonathon tried to sit up, but a sharp pain in the side of his chest cavity made him gasp. “That makes one of us.”
Ducky pressed him back down onto the plastic-coated mattress of the examination table. “I injected your broken ribs with coral gel,” he said. “It’ll strengthen them and make a framework for the bone to heal, but you still have to wear this.” He proceeded to wrap Jonathon’s chest with a band of fiberglass tape that immediately began to harden around him.
“Will this be strong enough for me to—?”
“Don’t even think about going back in. Your trauma damper will dull the pain, and I’ve given you some Syndorphin, but Big Ed cracked you a good one. Right between two plates of your now defunct armor. Broke two ribs and bruised three more. The good news is—”
“There’s good news?”
Ducky smiled. “Most assuredly. The MRI shows no major skull damage, and your headware is fine.”
“You still won’t let me back in?”
“Jonathon, the team makes more money when you’re riding. The producers want me to send you back, but I’ve got to think of the long term. Unless a miracle happens, there will be a game five, and we need you healthy by then. Now, I want you to rest.”
“Should’ve had my ribs laced,” Jonathon said. He eased himself slowly into an upright position. It ached to breathe, but the Syndorphin was starting to kick in and dull the sharpness. “Since I’m useless anyway, can I sim Tam’s feed?”
“Fine by me,” Ducky said.
“Thanks.” Jonathon stood carefully and limped out of the infirmary. He was bruised and battered, but with each passing step his strength grew.
The infirmary led to the team bunkers, where the players readied themselves to ride. Jonathon hobbled across the painted concrete toward the simsense decks. Here substitute riders could straight jack with simrigged teammates in order to learn their moves.
Through the bunker doors came the rumble of the crowd as the bell sounded the release of another bogey. New play.
Jonathon settled into a recliner and slotted his jack, punching up Tamara’s feed. He’d been worried about her concentration since the crying episode that afternoon. But she seemed as aggressive as ever, perhaps more so. Jonathon strove for zen in his game, but Tamara used anger to fuel hers.
Jonathon felt that anger flow through him as her feed came online and flooded him. His aches and pains dissipated, forgotten as he synchronized with Tamara’s senses.
Feral power coursed through her as she accelerated after the bogey, which had swooped into her lane and dipped toward the floor. She brought her Roomsweeper to bear, the red targeting circle on her retina flickering to life as the smartlink engaged. She fired, but the spray missed as the bogey dodged right, then up.
Dougan Rose appeared out the corner of her left eye as she fired again, this time downing the small drone. The flag hit the concrete and rocked to an upright position on its weighted base.
Tamara gunned her engine to snag it. One second. Two.
Dougan flashed past on her left. He would reach the flag first unless. . .
She cast her net, a two-meter square made of high-tensile polycarb cabling and weighted at the rim. A wrapping filament looped through the edge to draw the whole thing closed.
Dougan grabbed the flag just as Tamara’s net entangled him. She tried to let go, but Dougan was too close; the net caught the handle bars of her bike and wrenched her front wheel, pulling her off balance. Jonathon felt the weight of Tamara’s Suzuki come down on her left leg as she fell.
Dougan jammed the flag into the slot behind his seat as Tamara pushed her bike off, and stood. She stepped up to him, targeting her Roomsweeper on his head. But before she could fire, he knocked the gun from her hand with a quick jab from his mace.
Then she heard a faint click, barely audible over the banshee scream of the crowd. Everything closed on slow motion as she turned to grab the flag from Dougan’s Yamaha, wondering what had made the noise.
She saw the crystal silver glint of the cyberspurs arcing out of his forearm. Flailing wildly, he used the blades to slice his way out of the net. The razors cut the polycarb with ease, sending fragments of netting fluttering to the concrete.
He looked at her then. Through the macroglass of his visor, he stared right into her eyes.
What the frag? she thought.
His bladed arm connected with her neck, the monofilament-edged metal piercing the armor at its weakest point, up and under her helmet.
Tamara tried to jerk away but was too slow. She felt a cold sharpness against her throat. Then warm blood came gushing out. The iron smell of it filled her nostrils. The salt taste of it was sharp in the back of her throat.
Time slowed.
She’s dying, Jonathon thought.
Blackness engulfed her, seeping like ink into her vision as she slumped. The suffocating blood choked her, making her helmet heavy with its weight. At the last second she reached for her tear-away trauma patch. And as she tugged at it with numb fingers, she felt its cybersnake needle penetrate her chest and jab her heart.
Adrenaline pumped through her, momentarily clearing her head. Her vision returned, and she saw Dougan Rose above her, a horrible look of false remorse on his all too elven face.
Jonathon was buried deep into Tamara’s mind when her life shattered into a million frozen moments. Her emotions hit him. Surprise. Pain. Regret.
“Jonathon,” she tried to say. “I. . .”
Love.
Then the dizziness washed away her sight, and her breathing gurgled to a halt. The blackout fringe approached in jerks and starts as the scream in her head arced through him.
Over the edge of fadeout.
Unconsciousness clawed at Jonathon’s mind, digging, scrabbling to take him along. And he felt Tamara’s darkness ooze into him like sweet molasses.
Flatline.