Part 19 (1/2)

20.

0942 hours, November 14, 2053 Falcon stared in stupefaction at the rows of cars. They were beautiful. He'd never seen anything like them. He ran a hand, tentatively, almost tenderly, along the hood line of a 9-series BMW. Thirty years old-twice as old as him-but it looked like it had just rolled off the a.s.sembly line. Any one of these would be worth more money than his whole family would see in their whole lifetime. And there were, what, a dozen of them? He shook his head in awe at all this high-speed engineering in one place.

But they didn't save their owner, did they?

He felt rather than heard Sly come up behind him.

She was taking the death of the old slag really hard. No surprise there, of course. It had trashed Falcon out, too, and he hadn't even known the b.u.g.g.e.r. Bad enough to see anyone who'd gone that way, let alone if he was a chummer.

But even though Sly was emotionally drek-kicked, she still seemed to be tracking okay. Her face was pale, her eyes haunted, but it looked like she was still with it. She had a set of car keys in her hand, a bulky-looking portable computer under her arm.

”What's that for?” he asked, pointing at the computer. ”We've got this.” He patted the cyberdeck slung over his shoulder.

”We still need pa.s.ses to get over the border.” Her voice sounded flat, emotionless. ”I think I can rig something up with this.”

He nodded. He hadn't really thought about the actual logistics of slipping the border. When he'd envisioned himself ducking out of the plex and heading southeast into Sioux, the daydreams had never included any details of border posts, immigration, and all that a.s.sociated drek. He'd just done it. But this was reality, not daydreams. ”Good thinking,” he said.

She threaded her way through the nearest cars, heading for a low-slung monster near the big up-and-over doors. Unlocked the driver's door.

He examined the car as she stashed the computer in the luggage s.p.a.ce behind the front seat. It was almost five meters from b.u.mper to b.u.mper, he guessed, and not much more than a meter high, the top of the Targa-style roof only coming up to his belly. The strangely contoured hood hinted at a beefy power plant. It looked blindingly fast, even standing still. He kicked at one of the fat tires. ”What is it?” he asked.

”It's a Callaway Twin Turbo,” Sly answered dully. ”A modified Corvette, built in nineteen-ninety-one. It's ...” She hesitated, and he heard her swallow hard. ”He told me all about it, but I don't remember what he said. Get in.”

Falcon nodded. He walked around the sleek machine and opened the pa.s.senger door. The seats were low, almost like fighter plane combat couches he'd seen on the trid. There was no rear seat-and no room for one-just a small, carpeted s.p.a.ce behind the two front buckets. He stashed Smeland's cyberdeck there, trying to arrange it so it wouldn't rattle around too much. Then he slipped inside, the seat almost wrapping around him, supporting him from the sides as well as the back. He shut the door. Sly was sliding into the driver's seat, arranging her long legs under the steering wheel. She shut her door, too, with a solid thud-click.

He looked around the car's interior, staring in unabashed amazement at the wraparound dash, the complex stereo mounted in the center above the gears.h.i.+ft. (A six-speed gearbox, he noted.) They built this in nineteen ninety-one? he thought in wonder. Tech wasn't this advanced sixty years ago, it couldn't have been. Could it? He remembered Nightwalker's comments about how technological advance had been slowed by the crash of twenty-nine. Maybe it could. . . .

He saw Sly looking with befuddlement at the instrumentation, the steering wheel, the stick s.h.i.+ft. Craning down to look at the pedals.

”What's the matter?” he asked.

”No rigger controls,” she muttered, almost to herself.

Well, of course not, not in 1991. ”So?” he asked.

Then he looked at the datajack in her forehead and understood. She couldn't drive something that was manual.

”Want me to handle it?”

She looked across at him, doubt in her eyes. For a moment, he felt a flare of anger. She's still thinking I'm a kid, he realized, just a fragging kid.

”You can drive something like this?” she asked skeptically.

”This? Null perspiration, chummer.” His anger injected a touch of scorn into his voice.

She hesitated.

”It's me or nothing, isn't it?” he added, more reasonably.

Another moment of hesitation. Then she nodded. ”Do it.”

They changed places. The driver's seat was even lower than the pa.s.senger side, the pedals way forward, right against the fire wall. Falcon searched for the seat adjustment, found the small panel of b.u.t.tons. With a little jockeying around, he set the right position, tilted the wheel down so it almost touched the tops of his thighs. Then, shooting Sly a smile expressing more confidence than he actually felt, he reached forward and turned the key. It was a twin turbo. Even sixty years old this thing was probably a rocket.

The engine caught at once, a low, full-throated rumble. The instruments came alive, the gas gauge creeping up until the needle sat steadily on the F. At least I don't have to worry about that.

He blipped the throttle, watching the needle on the tach jump responsively. A six-grand tach, with the red line plainly marked at fifty-five hundred rpm. The speed was marked in miles per hour, graduated up to 210. He ran the conversion in his head. That was what, three hundred twenty-five klicks? No, more. Probably full of drek. But then he glanced at the big turbo boost gauge, the six-speed stick.'Ninety-one? Wasn't that before most of the heavy emission-control legislation came down? Maybe it wasn't drek after all.

He depressed the clutch, which was smooth as silk, and tested the throw of the s.h.i.+ft. The gearbox was tight, precise, much better than anything he'd ever driven. He was starting to doubt whether he could handle this thing at all.

But then he forced the doubts out of his mind. Like he'd said, it was him or nothing. ”What about the door?” he said.

Sly reached up to a small box clipped to the sun visor, pushed the b.u.t.ton on it. The big door directly in front of the car silently rose.

Checking the gearbox pattern on the s.h.i.+ft k.n.o.b one last time, Falcon slipped the car into first. He gave the engine a little gas, watched the tach needle rise to about fifteen hundred revs. Then-carefully, almost gingerly- he began to let the clutch out, paying attention to exactly where it began to catch. Smoothly, the big car pulled out and cruised up the ramp to street level.

The Callaway was a pure joy to drive. Now that he'd gotten the feel of the pedals. Falcon's fear of the big engine had turned to unadulterated admiration. The torque was incredible. Even though he knew the car would be much happier cruising faster than safe city speed, the application of power was smooth and well-mannered enough that he never had the feeling the vehicle was trying to get away from him. For the first couple of blocks, he kept one eye on the boost gauge, nervous that he'd accidentally rev high enough for the turbos to kick in. But then the car started to feel like an extension of his own body, of his will. He didn't think it was going to do anything that would surprise him.

He glanced over at Sly, glad to see she'd released her white-knuckled grip on the door handle. ”Where to?” he asked casually.

”The east route,” she answered after a moment. ”Highway Ninety. But go around Council Island,” she added quickly.

He snorted. ”I can figure that out for myself.”

She reached behind the driver's seat to pull out the computer she'd acquired from the dead man's place. Set it on her lap and opened out the keyboard. Then, as if second thoughts had hit her, she shot a doubtful look at Falcon.

He grinned broadly. ”Chill, Sly,” he told her. ”You do what you got to. The wheels are totally under control.”

As if responding to the confidence-real, this time- in his voice, she nodded with a quick smile. Then she busied herself powering up the computer and unrolling the fiber-optic lead.

Let her play with her toy, Falcon thought, still grinning like a bandit, and I'll play with mine.

Highway 90, but bypa.s.sing Council Island. The quickest way was north on I-5, across the Highway 520 floating bridge, and then south on Route 405. All freeways. Which was just fine with Falcon.

He cruised the Callaway south along Broadway, then hung a right on Madison, heading southwest toward I-5. As he pulled up the on-ramp, he saw that the freeway traffic was relatively light. His grin broadened. Why not? He pushed down the gas pedal.

Even though he was watching the boost gauge and antic.i.p.ating the extra power, the sudden added thrust as the twin turbos kicked in caught him by surprise. The big rear tires chirped, and the car surged forward, throwing Falcon and Sly back in their seats. The car wobbled alarmingly for an instant before Falcon got her back under complete control. Sly yelped in fright.

”Null persp, chummer,” he crowed as he threw the Callaway up through the gears. ”Just seeing what this baby can do.” He could feel her eyes on him, but didn't take his gaze from the road and traffic ahead. ”I could get used to this.” He took the car up to 115 mph-more than 180 klicks!-before he backed her off to a more moderate speed. The machine felt as smooth and steady, as much under precise control at speed as it did cruising at fifty klicks on back streets.

Yeah, he could really get used to this.