Futuretrack 5 (20 page)

Then Arcdos took great exception to the psychopter. Kept on shooting holes in it, till its fuel tank blew up.

Then it started shooting at my boot heels again, so I pulled its plug for the very last time. I grabbed Keri by the hand and ran like hell. Psychopters have friends;

within half an hour, half the psychopters flying out of Glasgow would be after us.

It was a nightmare, running back up our happy path through the calm dusk. Our blackbird was singing; every leaf whispered peace, peace. But we knew what was coming.

Panting, we bundled everything up and into the back of the cave. Coaxed back the bent bracken where the tent had been. Then we lay down in our sleeping bags, in the deepest part of the cave. I took a big bottle of sleeping tablets out of Blocky’s medicine kit and gave her six. Two was the safe dose.

“Do we have to, Kit? Can’t we run for it?”

“We wouldn’t get ten miles. …”

“Can’t we stay here and fight?”

“With eight shotgun cartridges?”

“They mightn’t spot us. …”

“Because your mind is so calm and tranquil?”

She forced a strained grin. “Okay.”

I slipped my first pill up in the air, caught it in my mouth like a trained seal. That made her laugh; she swallowed hers quickly.

“We’ve taken too many, haven’t we? We mightn’t wake up?”

I swallowed my sixth. “If we wake up, we’ll be free. Better than …”

“Yes, better than …” Her voice was growing slurry. “Cuddle me, you bastard.”

I cuddled her; kissed her, too. Might be my only chance. She murmured protests in her sleep. I was far from sure my scheme would work, but it was the only way. Asleep, near coma, her mind was buried too deep to be reached by their machines; buried among the roots of this land, among the flicker of rabbit and stoat, caper-caillie and grouse.

Good night, Keri. God bless.

I was fading myself, listening to the sounds of the little burn, when I heard the first psychopters coming.

I swam up out of blackness. The Paramils had got me. Beaten me all over with rubber hoses. Broken my right hip, snapped my spine in three places. The lobo-farm wasn’t
supposed
to hurt…

But they’d left me Keri. Her warm body fitted into mine, snug as a hand in a glove. I tightened my arms around her, and she sighed contentedly. If this was the lobo-farm, I’d stay all day.

But the Paramils were demolishing my hip with a road drill.

I opened my eyes. Ragged stone overhead. Smell of greenery, song of blackbirds.

“Keri, we’ve
done
it!” She murmured, her face rosy, peaceful. But she wouldn’t wake up. I was horribly reminded of Idris, who had also looked so peaceful.

Go and get water to splash on her.
I tried to stand, but the force of gravity had increased ten times. I crawled instead. Getting past Mitzi was a problem that took ten minutes to solve. I crawled all the way to the burn, shoved in my face like old Brer Fox, and nearly drank it dry.

Rabbits playing; not a flicker of a psychopter. I looked at my watch. We’d slept two days and three nights.

First round to us. In the old days, they’d have searched with long lines of plodding policemen, with dogs and sticks. Used shepherds and ghillies, who knew the country. And they’d have caught us.

Now, there was no one left who knew these hills. Few dogs of any sort. Now they did things from the sky, the quick, sure, mickey mouse way. And failed. I sat in a daze, watching the rabbits, till a faint cry called, “Kit, Kit.” At first I thought it was a bird.

She had bags under her eyes like coal sacks; couldn’t even sit up. But it was Keri. “Seen my head anywhere? Got any painkillers?”

“I’ll give you a sleeping tablet,” I said.
“That’s a joke!”

I hardly felt the punch she threw at me.

We stayed in our gulley ten more days, getting hungrier and hungrier, happier and happier. Keri was content to stay for the foxes and rabbits; never spoke of the dead Paramils.

Strangely, the Paramils’ deaths never bothered me, not like old Vic. Old Vic had been real, with bad breath. The other two had been too far away: Action-men, discarded. Part of the system, killed by another part of the system. Nothing to do with me.

I knew the Paramils hadn’t given up. Just pulled back, to kid us we were safe. They even put out a newsflash on the radio, blaming Glasgow terrorists for the killings, saying they’d been caught and dealt with. That didn’t fool me: I’d used Mitzi’s radio to burgle their security transmissions. They were waiting for us to break cover, on the edge of the forbidden zone. Let their little faces turn blue with waiting.

I listened on the radio a lot, waiting for something, I didn’t know what. One night, about midnight, all hell broke loose. Three restored castles near Glasgow caught fire, one after another. The Paramils were going berserk.

A present from Blocky. What I’d been waiting for. I got Keri packed and onto the bike before she could draw breath.

“I’ve been happy in our little place,” she said, as she started Mitzi.

“Maybe we can come back, someday. It’ll all be waiting…

She stared at the trees, the hills, the cave, as if she was a squirrel storing up nuts for winter.

Another newsflash came in. Paramil HQ, Glasgow, was under attack. Someone had blown up the aerial of their security transmitter.

Blocky, I almost love you.

We went south without lights, driving like hell. Only Mitzi and Keri could’ve done it. By dawn, we were on the motorway south of Newcastle, weaving through light rain and the old dreary procession of robo-trucks.

I let Keri go on driving south, even though she’d been driving all night. I had to think what to do next. And I hadn’t much time. Somewhere ahead, Laura would be endlessly processing her daily data intake, at ten million facts a minute, twenty-four hours a day. Never getting bored or tired like a human copper. Looking for coincidences, discrepancies… death of Vic Huggett, death of Paramils, disappearance of the MacDonalds from work and home. Any minute now, Laura might make a logical pattern of it and put her electronic digit on Kitson-Sellers-MacDonald.

Whose face, habits, hobbies, funny little ways, places of residence since birth including holidays would immediately be flicked up on a computer printout. It made me as nervous as a hermit crab changing shells. Brood,

brood. At first Keri tried pointing out cheering items, like sparrow-hawks hovering over the motorway. But I just grunted, so she left me alone.

Just north of Stamford she suddenly swerved, braked hard, swore. I came to with a jolt. I’d been nearly asleep, head tucked out of the wind behind her shoulder.

She’d tried overtaking a yellow Tech van marked “East Midlands Water.” It had swerved out, nearly knocking us into the central barrier. Not unusual behaviour for Ests, but these people were Techs. First thing a Tech’s taught is respect for machinery.

The van roared ahead again, black smoke pouring from its exhaust. Tilting badly on corners: tires underinflated. One winker was cracked across, and there was rust showing all along the bottom of the doors. What kind of Tech runs a van in that condition?

“Get past that so-and-so quick—he’s trouble.”

As she did, up the inside with plenty of room, I glanced sideways. The yellow paintwork was rough: hand done, with brushmarks showing. A face peered down from the cab: not superior, cynical, but rather stupid and gleeful, mouth open. The crewcut hair was right, the white coat was right, the face was wrong.

“Must be getting hard up for Techs,” I muttered.

“Nice car ahead,” said Keri, still being determinedly cheerful.

A vintage Jag, British Racing green, polished like a Paramil’s boots. XST 143 X. I felt suddenly, irrationally happy, as I saw two faces peering out of the rear window. Diane and Loretta, Major Arnold’s kids. I used to baby-sit them, read them
The House at Pooh Corner.
Back in third year, I’d once even changed Loretta’s nappy.

I waved. They looked puzzled, but Loretta waved back. Loretta would wave to anybody. Then Diane told her not to wave at strange men. I’d show them who was a strange man…

“Pull alongside and stay there!”

“He might sideswipe us.”

“Not this guy.”

We pulled alongside. There was Major Arnold, still chewing his moustache. Mrs. Arnold, short blond hair, calm blue eyes, and, under a pink mohair sweater, that luxurious bosom I’d so often stolen crafty looks at, when I was younger. The girls were wearing flowered dresses, white knee stockings.

I was home again; nothing had changed. I broke out into a sweat of pure relief. It had all been a terrible nightmare, but a chat with Major Arnold…

Idiot. How could a chat with Major Arnold undo two dead Paramils and a burned-out psychopter? It wasn’t exactly like getting in a muddle with your history essay. But I kept on grinning until Major Arnold gestured us on with an impatient flick of his hand.

He hadn’t recognised me. Of course… crash helmet. I took it off, doing nearly a ton, even though my hair was flogging my face to pieces and my eyes were watering so much I might have been crying.

They recognised me now. Major Arnold’s eyebrows had shot up in that old, quizzical way. Mrs. Arnold smiled. The kids were jumping up and down, waving till their hands looked like falling off.

Then they remembered what I was now. Major Arnold’s eyes snapped back to the road, the old muscles twitching along his jaw. Mrs. Arnold shook her head sadly. The kids argued, kept on throwing puzzled looks at me. But in the end Major Arnold spoke to them sharply, and they did an eyes-front as well, sitting like little statues.

An icy fist clutched my guts; I didn’t have a home anymore.

Be damned to self-pity. I had to talk to Major Arnold, tell him what was going on. I shouted to Keri, “Drop back. Throttle down.” Then, risking my neck, I leaned over and pulled a book out of the pannier. Found a stub of pencil; wrote shakily: i have to speak to you. life and death!

While I was writing, there was an aggressive honking behind. The yellow van again. It had all the road to itself, but was driving on our tail with malicious perversity. Three guys; I didn’t like the look of any of them… stuff them. I got Keri to pull alongside the Jag again. Held the book against Major Arnold’s window, practically touching the glass. Good job Keri was the rider she was.

Major Arnold didn’t look up for a long time. The book kept fluttering like a mad bird. I thought my arms were going to drop off. Then he read my notice, gave one decisive shake of his head, and went back to driving. His whole body said he wouldn’t turn his head again. Then I lost my grip on the book…

We went back for it. No use. The spine had cracked, and soaking pages were spilled all over the motorway. So I sent Keri chasing him again. How could I get him to listen? Jump onto his bonnet?

When we caught up, the yellow van was riding his tail, honking, trying to force him out of the fast lane. Someone had really souped up that van; Tech vans are only meant to do sixty. This was overtaking the Jag at ninety. At least … it drew alongside.

Then it sideswiped the Jag, hard. I saw sparks fly, even in daylight. Then the Jag’s hubcaps came spinning back toward us, forced off by the impact. Like silver animals leaping for our throat.

We ducked. When I looked again, Jag and van, grinding together, were veering over into the slow lane. They humped onto the hard shoulder, flipped their tails up, and vanished.

“Pull off!” hammered Keri on the shoulder.
“Pull off!”

A screeching jugger with a white-faced driver missed us by inches. Then Mitzi mounted the hard shoulder, slewed round, and dumped us on the grass.

A hundred meters back, Jag and van had rammed a high perimeter fence and were lying in a field beyond. The Jag was still upright, its nearside wing crumpled, the scraped metal gleaming in the rain. Major Arnold just getting out; the kids’ heads still bobbing in the back.

The yellow van, fifty meters nearer, was lying on its side. Three figures climbing out of the cab, passing up bottles to each other. Drunks!

But they went on passing up bottles; too many bottles, with bits of white rag sticking out of their necks…

Major Arnold had been heading toward them, shoulders set in a way that meant trouble for some. Now he hesitated, glanced round, and ran back to his car. Puff of smoke from the Jag’s exhaust, as he restarted. Back wheels spinning, throwing up divots of black earth, digging themselves in deeper.

The Jag shot forward ten meters, then stuck. Now the three men were round it, dropping some of their bottles on the turf.

Major Arnold tried reversing; got stuck again.

A flame glinted; touched the rag in a bottle. The bottle curved toward the Jag, the slow curve of a cricket ball, leaving an arc of white smoke. It burst on the Jag’s front bumper; the bonnet vanished in a rose of flame.

“Oh, God, oh, God!” I heard myself shouting. I looked back at the motorway, but it was hidden by the banking. Only the tops of robos and juggers passing, indifferent. Nobody else could see what was happening.

I started to run. Keri grabbed me.

“Don’t go, Kit. Don’t get involved. There’s nothing you can do.”

We fell in a heap on the grass. She was screaming, “Don’t get involved, Kit. For God’s sake, don’t get involved.”

I put my hand against her screaming face and pushed till she let go. Jumped up and ran, followed by her despairing cry of “Kit, wait!”

I knew I was too late. The Jag was still backing and turning, churning up the field in a spiderweb of ruts. But the petrol bombers were all round it, dodging like bullfighters, throwing, throwing. Like a bull, Major Arnold was trying to run them down. But the car was encased in fire. Through the back window, the children still watched, saucer-eyed. I saw Loretta put a thumb into her mouth, saw Diane cuddle her, protectively. Their faces shimmered through a transparent wall of flame.

Then I slammed into the first bomber. He went full-length, the bottle in his hand spewing a fan of flame across the grass. Then I was up and at the second one. Caught his arm as he poised to throw, snatched the burning rag from the bottle, and threw it away. Petrol sloshed down over both of us; he got most of it in his face, broke away howling.