Roadmarks (13 page)

Red cut suddenly to the right, taking a narrow turnoff without slowing. "What," Flowers asked, "are you doing?"

"Twelve hours of driving is plenty," he replied. "I want to sleep now."

"Collapse the seat and I'll take over."

He shook his head. "I want to get out of this damned car and get some real rest."

"Then please use a phony name when you register."

"No place to register. We're just going to camp. It's a devastated area. No problem."

"Mutants? Radiation? Booby traps?"

"No, no and no. I've been here before. It's clean." After a time he slowed, found another turnoff, narrow, poorly surfaced. The sky phased into a pink and purple twilight. In the distance, a shattered city appeared in the sunset glow. He turned again.

" ' . . .
Et que leurs grands piliers, droits et majestueux, rendaient pareils, le soir, aux grottes basaltiques
.' "

Flowers observed. "You're going to camp in a death museum."

"Not really," he replied.

They were on a dirt road now. It ran across the face of a mountain for a time, crossed a creaking bridge over a narrow gorge, rounded a bluff, and reached a plain within sight of the city again. Red pulled off into a field, dotted here and there, amid its craters, with rusting equipment
—
mostly damaged vehicles, surface and air. He braked to a stop in a clear area.

The curiously shaped shadow which now lay across the vehicle's roof took on a reptilian outline, darkening, thickening . . .

"Alter the truck's appearance to resemble one of these wrecks," Red instructed.

"Occasionally you have a decent idea," Flowers observed. "It will take about five or six minutes to do a really fine decadent job. Leave the engine running."

When the alteration began, the shadow contracted suddenly into a circle, dropped from the vehicle and slid off quickly across the ground in the direction of a crashed aircar. Red and Mondamay climbed out and began stringing a barrier. The air stirred sluggishly about them, dry, with a faint hint of coolness to come. A bank of clouds was building in the east. Somewhere, an insect began buzzing.

In the meantime, warped areas appeared in the truck's body, deepening, twisting. Random dents appeared. Rust-colored spots flashed across the vehicle's surface, slowed, settled. The machine tilted to one side. Red returned to it and unloaded a parcel of rations and a sleeping bag. The engine stopped.

"That's it," Flowers said. "How's it look?"

"Hopeless," Red replied, sprawling on the bag and opening a food container. "Thanks."

Mondamay approached, halted and said softly, "I detect nothing of an overtly hostile nature within ten kilometers."

"What do you mean 'overtly'?"

"There are a number of undetonated bombs and unfired weapons amid the wreckage."

"Any of them underfoot?"

"No."

"Radioactivity? Poison gases? Bacteria?"

"Safe."

"Then I guess we can live with the situation."

Red began to eat.

"You say you have been working for a long while," Mondamay asked, "trying to alter things back to some situation you remember from long ago?"

"That's right."

"From some of the things you'd said earlier about your memory, are you certain that you would even recognize it if you were to find it?"

"More certain than ever. I remember more now."

"And if you locate the road you seek, you will take it and go home?"

"Yes."

"What is it like there?"

"I couldn't tell you."

"Then what is it you hope to find?"

"Myself."

"Yourself? I am afraid I do not understand."

"Neither do I, entirely. But it is getting clearer." The sky blackened, came down with a case of stars. A piece of moon drifted rudderless, low in the east. Red lit no lights other than his cigar. He drank Greek wine from an earthen flask. The wind rose, cool now. Flowers was doing something barely audible which might have been Debussy. Blackness within blackness, a coil of shadow slid near to Red's extended foot.

"Bel'kwinith," he said softly, and the wind seemed to pause, the shadow froze, an impurity in the cigar caused it to hiss and flare for a moment.

"The hell with it," he said then.

"What do you mean?" Mondamay asked him. "The hell with what?"

"Getting Chadwick."

"I thought we had been through all this. None of the alternatives struck you as sufficiently attractive."

"It's not worth it," he said. "The fat fool is just not worth it. Won't even do his own fighting."

"Fool? You once said he was a very clever man."

Red snorted.

"Humans! I suppose he's clever enough, as far as that goes. It still comes to nothing."

"Then what are you going to do?"

"Find him. And make him tell me some things. I believe he knows more about me than he ever let on. Things I may not even know."

"Because of things you are remembering?"

"Yes. And you may be right. I
—
”

"I have detected something."

Red was on his feet.

"Nearby?"

The shadow retreated about the rear of the vehicle.

"No. But it is moving in this direction."

"Animal, vegetable or mineral?"

"There is a machine involved. It is approaching cautiously . . . Get into the truck!"

The engine started as Red leaped into the vehicle. The doors slammed. A window began closing. Another shape-change commenced.

Flowers suddenly broadcast Mondamay's words to him.

"What a beautiful killing machine!" he said. "Spoiled in many ways by the organic adjunct. Nevertheless quite artfully designed."

"Mondamay!" he shouted as the truck shuddered. "Can you hear me?"

"Of course. Red. I wouldn't neglect you at a time like this. My, it's coming on fast!"

The truck creaked and twisted. The engine sputtered twice. A door opened, then slammed.

"What the hell is it?"

"A large, tanklike device packed with an amazing array of weapons and guided by a disembodied human brain which is, I believe, somewhat mad. I don't know whether it really hails from around here or was shipped here to await your coming. Are you familiar with it?"

"I think I've heard of battle wagons like that somewhere along the line. I'm not certain where, though."

The sky caught fire like a sudden dawn, and a wave of flame rolled toward them. Mondamay raised an arm and it halted as if it had encountered an invisible wall, boiling for half a minute before it finally subsided.

"He's got atomics, all right. Neatly done, that," he commented.

"Why are we still alive?"

"I blocked him."

Mondamay's arm flared for a moment and a distant hilltop took fire.

"Right in front of him," he observed. "That crater will slow him. You had better be going now, Red. Flowers, take him away."

"Right."

The truck turned and headed back across the field, still changing shape as it bounced along.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Red shouted.

The sky blazed again, but the small fireball was blocked, filtered, dimmed, forced back.

"I have to cover your retreat properly," came Mondamay's voice, "before I'll be free to deal with him. Flowers will get you back to the Road."

"Deal with him? How do you propose doing that? You can't even
—
”

There came an enormous explosion, followed by a burst of static. The truck shook, but continued on toward the dirt road. Dust swirled about them.

“—fully operational again," came Mondamay's voice. "Flowers was able to analyze my circuits and direct me in repairing myself
—
”

There came another explosion. Red was looking back, but their camping area was filled with smoke and dust. He was momentarily deafened, and when his hearing returned, he realized it was Flowers's voice that was now addressing him.

“—are going? Where did you say we are going?"

"Huh? Out of here, I hope."

"Next destination! Coordinates! Quick!"

"Oh. C Twenty-seven, eighteenth exit, fourth right off that, second left from that, third left from that. It is a large white building. Looks sort of Gothic."

"Got that?" she said.

"Yes," Mondamay's voice came through the static. "If I can locate the Road, I will try to follow when this is finished."

There came another explosion, followed by uninterrupted static. They hit the dirt road, turned and continued on.

Randy faced the slim Victorian gentleman whom he had met in the foyer. The man's bag was on the bench near the door. He ran a hand through light, thinning hair.

" . . . That is correct," he said. "Three days ago. They shot it out right in this parking lot. And I'd come down this way for a holiday! Violence!" He shuddered. The tic at the left comer of his mouth returned. "Mr. Dorakeen departed that night. I really cannot tell you where he went."

"Is there anyone here who could?" Randy asked.

"The host
—
Johnson
—
perhaps. They seemed to know one another."

Randy nodded.

"Could you tell me where I might find Johnson?"

The man gnawed his lip and shook his head, looking past Randy, across the dining room and into the bar, where an argument between a stunning redheaded woman and a heavyset black man was taking place.

"Sorry. Today seems to be his day off. I've no idea where he's gone. I can only suggest that you inquire at the desk, which is in the bar. Excuse me."

He moved around Randy, took a nervous step in the direction of the altercation. At that moment, however, it ended. The woman said something sweet and taunting, smiled, turned and walked away, heading toward the foyer.

He sighed, retraced his route around Randy and picked up his bag. He offered the woman his arm as she approached. She took it and they departed together. He nodded sharply to Randy as they went out the door.

The man who had been arguing with the woman stared at Randy as he entered the bar.

"Pardon me, but don't I know you from somewhere?" he asked. "You look very familiar . . . "

Randy studied the dark features.

"Toba. The name's Toba," the other added.

"I don't believe so," Randy said slowly. "My name's Randy Carthage. C Twenty."

"Guess not, then." Toba shrugged. "Let me buy you a beer, anyway."

Randy looked around the room
—
rough wood and ironwork; no brass, no mirror. There were four people at the bar, which also served as a reception desk, and two were at another table.

"The bartender stepped out a few minutes ago. Draw yourself a beer
—
they're very informal here
—
and I'll settle up when he comes back."

"Okay. Thanks."

Randy crossed the rush-strewn floor, filled a mug from the keg on the rack, returned to the table and seated himself across from Toba. There was a half-filled glass to his right and the chair stood angled away from the table beyond it.

" . . . bitch," Toba muttered softly. Then, "Traveling this way on business?" he asked.

Randy placed Leaves on the table, shook his head and sipped his beer.

"I was looking for a guy, but he's already left."

"Just the opposite of my problem," Toba said. "I know where the guy I'm looking for is. I just stopped here for lunch. Then the damn girl I'm working with picks someone up and takes off to visit a half-assed ruin! Now I'm going to have to get a room here and wait till she's done with him. Probably a day or two, damn it!"

"Who is he, anyway?"

"Huh? Who?"

"Your friend. The Englishman you were talking with."

"Oh. I don't know him. I was just asking him something. But he did say his name is Jack, if that's any help."

"Well, that's his problem, poor bastard."

Toba took another drink. Randy did the same.

"What?" came a raised voice, French-accented, from one of the men at the bar. "You have never been beyond C Seventeen? My God, man! You owe it to yourself to get as far as early C Twenty at least once in your life! To fly, that is why! A man is not complete until he has known the freedom of the heavens! Not the big sky-boats that came later, where you might as well be taking your ease in a provincial parlor
—
no! You must leave your petty bourgeois concerns behind and get up in a light craft with an open cockpit where you can feel the wind and the rain, look down at the world, the clouds, up at the stars! It will change you, believe me!"

Randy turned to look at him.

"Is that who I think it is?" he asked, and he heard Toba chuckle. But they were both distracted at that moment by the arrival of the woman.

She came in through the hall entrance on the left, opposite that from the restaurant. She wore black denim jeans bloused over high, efficient-looking boots of the same color, and a faded khaki shirt; a black scarf bound her black hair above a broad forehead, heavy brows, large green eyes, and a wide, unpainted mouth.

The butt of a weapon protruded from the holster at her right hip, and its heavy belt also bore a sheathed hunting knife on its left side, low on her narrow waist. She was close to six feet in height, full-breasted, somewhat wide across the shoulders, and moved with her head held high. She carried a large leather purse as if it were a football.

Her eyes cast about the room for only a moment, then several quick strides bore her to the table at which Randy and Toba sat, and upon which she dropped the purse.

The half-filled glass the redhead had left toppled, slopping its contents toward Toba and into his lap.

"Shit!" he announced, springing to his feet and running his hands down the front of his trousers. "This just isn't my day!"

"I'm sorry," she said, smiling, and then she turned to Randy. "I was looking for you."

"Oh?"

"I'm going to find whoever's in charge and get a room and go to bed!" Toba stated, throwing some money onto the moist tabletop. "Nice meeting you, kid. Good luck and all that. Shit!"

"Thanks for the beer," Randy told his back.

The woman seated herself in the chair that had been the redhead's, removing Leaves from the path of the spreading puddle.

"You're the one, all right," she said. "Lucky I got you away from that guy."

"Why?"

"Bad vibes. That's what I've got at the moment, and that's enough. Hi, Leaves."

"Hello, Leila."

A rampant
déjà vu
resolved itself in that instant.

"Your voice
—
” Randy began.

"Yes, Leaves has my voice," Leila stated. "I was handy to provide the matrix when Reyd obtained this unit."

"I warrant a pronoun these days," Leaves said slowly and with a touch of menace, "and it is feminine."

"Sorry, old girl," Leila said, patting her cover. "Correction noted. No offense." She turned toward Randy and smiled. "What is your name, anyway?"

"Randy Carthage. I don't understand
—
”

"Of course not and it doesn't matter a bit. I've always been very fond of Carthage. Perhaps I'll take you there one day."

"Take her up on it," Flowers said, "and you'll be into back braces for a while."

Leila slapped the cover with more force.

"Have you had lunch yet?" she asked.

"My time sense is a little skewed," Randy replied, "but if that's the next meal, I'm ready for it, yes."

"Then let's move over to the other room and I'll get you some. We'd better start out with full stomachs."

"Start out?"

"Right," she said, rising and snatching up her purse.

He followed her into the dining room, where she selected a table in the far corner and seated herself with the corner to her back. He settled down across from her, placing Leaves on the table between them.

"I don't understand . . . " he said again.

"Let's order," she said, gesturing to the waiter and studying the several other diners near the front. "Then we'll have to head for C Eleven, chop-chop."

The waiter approached. She ordered a massive meal. He did the same.

"What's at C Eleven?" he asked then.

"You are looking for Reyd Dorakeen. I am too. That is where he went when he skipped out on me a few nights ago. I saw the second black bird circling him there."

"How do you know this? How did you know who I am? What black bird?"

"I had no idea who you were to be. I only knew that a man with a copy of
Leaves of Grass
would be in the bar this afternoon, that he, too, would be looking for Reyd, and that he would be kindly disposed toward him. I came down when I did to meet you and to join forces, since I saw that he would be needing help. before too long, somewhere along his way."

"Okay, I see," he said. "But I am still confused as to your source of information. How did you know I'd be there? How do you know where
—
”

"Let me explain," Leaves broke in, "or she'll be at this all day. Her conversational patterns tend to resemble an avalanche. Thank the Great Circuit I didn't acquire that with the voice-imprint. You see, Randy, she possesses paranormal abilities. She calls them something different, smacking of Stone Age rituals and magic, but the results are the same. I'd guess she is about seventy-five percent effective precognitively
—
maybe more. She does see things, and they do often come to pass. I've seen her be right too frequently for it to be mere chance. Unfortunately, she acts as if everyone else understands this, as if they share her visions, or at least should automatically accept them. She knew you were coming because she knew you were coming, that's all. I hope that explains some of what is bothering you."

"Well
—
some," he said. "But it still leaves other gaps. Tell me, Leila, has Leaves stated the situation adequately?"

"Pretty much so," she said. "I don't feel like quibbling, so let's let it stand. I saw you coming, that's true."

"It still doesn't tell me who you are and where you come from and why you are so interested in Red's safety."

"We have been many things to one another, but mainly he is an old and special friend," she said, "and we are alike in many ways. There are so many debts between us that I've lost track of how they balance out. Also, the son of a bitch ran out on me when I told him to wait around."

"Something you didn't foresee?"

She shook her head.

"Nobody's perfect; Leaves just told you that. What's Reyd to you, by the way?"

"I believe he is my father.

She stared, her face immobile for the first time since they had met. Then she bit her lip.

"How blind of me," she finally said. "Of course . . . Where were you born?"

"C Twenty, Cleveland, Ohio."

"So that's where he went . . . " She looked away. "Interesting. I foresee our lunch. Now."

Their waiter entered the room, carrying a tray.

"What was wrong with that guy I was with
—
Toba?" Randy asked as they began eating.

"He is someone connected with the dark birds," Leila said between mouthfuls.

"What dark birds? This is the second time you've mentioned them."

"Reyd is the subject of a black decade. I see his would-be assassins that way."

"Black decade?" said Leaves. "What's he done?"

"Made an enemy he shouldn't have, apparently. He thinks it's Chadwick."

"Oh, my! Chadwick can be very nasty."

"So can Reyd
—
you know. Or do you?"

"I have often suspected this, though
—
”

"Someone's out to get him?" Randy broke in.

"Yes," said Leila, "someone who can afford the very best. There will be a lot of bookmaking on this one, up and down the line. I wonder what odds they'll be giving? It might be worth putting some money on one side or the other."

"You'd bet against him?"

"It depends on the odds, the circumstances
—
quite a few things. Oh, I'm going to try to help him, all right, but I hate to miss out on a good thing too."

"Doesn't your talent give you an unusual advantage in betting situations?"

"You bet, and I love money. Too bad we don't have time to pursue the second one now. I'd go for Reyd now that he's been warned."

"This is probably my father you're talking about."

"I've known him a long while. He'd be betting if it were me. Make a bundle too."

Randy shook his head and addressed his attention to his food.

"You're strange people," he said after a time.

"Just a little more open than most, maybe. Look I wouldn't have spent three whole days getting back into shape for just anybody. I'm on his side all the way. Waiter! Bring me a box of cigars, the good ones."

"About this black decade thing . . . " Randy said. "How do we get him out of it?"

"See him through the encounters, I guess. Then the game's over."

"What's to stop this Chadwick guy from continuing the game then, or starting it all over again?"

"The rules. Everyone plays it by the rules. If he didn't, he'd be barred by the Games Board from ever getting another permit and playing again. He'd stand to lose a lot of prestige."

"And you think that would be enough to restrain him?"