“Hello Mick.” I couldn’t tell if the voice belonged to a male or female. It was filtered through some type of scrambler that disguised its true tone and cadence. “You like to be called ‘Mick’ now, don’t you?”
“Who the hell are you? How’d you get this number?”
The laughter came across as crackly static. “Anything coming back to you? Any sudden flashes of clarity from the past?”
I jabbed a finger at the screen. “Listen, pal. You’re boring me with the cloak and shadow shtick. Howzabout we sit down somewhere and talk things over a drink? Better than ominous calls and veiled intentions.”
The figure tilted its head. “But it wouldn’t be as much fun, would it? I want to know who you really are, Mick. I want to know if any of the real you is inside of that ridiculous façade Dr. Faraday created.”
I felt my blood turn cold. “How do you know that name?”
“Let’s play a little game, Mick. Remember the trials you went through before you became an agent? Think you can shake the rust off and think on your feet? Let’s see if you still have what it takes.”
The screen went dark. I scratched my head, trying to ignore the knot that had formed in my stomach. “Benny, I think we need to—”
“Mick, we got trouble.” Benny nearly choked on the words as he pointed to the side window.
I tilted my Bogart back, allowing a clear view of the airbus that hurtled across the opposite airlanes straight toward us. The long, massive metallic beast was usually packed with passengers and floated slowly from one stop to the next. This one appeared to pick up speed with every passing second. The headlights were twin moons, blinding me to anything except the approaching collision.
“What the ever-lovin’ hell?”
Floaters are programmed with evasive maneuvers in emergency situations, which was the only reason we didn’t get plastered like bugs across the airbus’ windshield. The side thruster pulsed, slamming me against the interior panel. The airbus still clipped us on the backside with a crunching sound. We span toward blurry lights and buildings while fragments of the fender whirred around us. I tried not to think about the swirling alcoholic contents in my stomach because things were drastic enough without throwing airsickness into the equation.
“Dive, kid. Get this crate on the ground!”
Benny’s eyes rolled in his head as the floater revolved in a tailspin that threatened to send us into the nearest building or turn us into street pizza if we couldn’t get it under control.
“I can’t… it’s in autodrive.” I couldn’t see clearly, but it looked like tears streamed down his face. He looked outside the window and gave a very unmanly scream. “We’re gonna die. Oh God… ”
I leaned over and actuated the steering controls so they slid over to the passenger side. “If all you’re gonna do is sit there and cry, you can get out right now, boy. Saves me the trouble of shooting you when we land.” I clicked over to manual operation. The floater’s holographic aide flickered on, revealing a headshot of a cute blonde dame who was too perfect to be anything but a synoid.
She smiled. Thank you for activating the Help System. Warning: manual control is illegal except for emergency situations. Please be advised that—
I thumped the console with my fist. “Whaddya think this is, a walk in the park? Stabilize this crate and find the nearest place to land safely — pipe that?”
Initiating emergency landing protocol. Stabilizing with backup thrusters.
The sensation of imminent death lessened when the floater quit spinning and sputtered into a semblance of controlled flight.
Warning: suspected threat approaching. Evasive maneuvers limited by engine and thruster damage.
“Where the hell is it?” I frantically peered out the window, but couldn’t spot the airbus. The rain was gleefully intent on reducing our vision to blurry streaks of light and mammoth shadows. I tapped the patented Instavision button in the corner of the window to clear the distracting drizzle and light up the view, but still couldn’t clap peepers on the attacking tank of a floater.
“I don’t see nothin’!” Benny's side windows were completely fogged up, and he appeared on the verge of tears again. What a load he turned out to be.
We found out where the bus was right about when the heavy hunk of junk slammed directly on top of us. The rooftop buckled without much protest, crushing the windows in a glittering display of hovering glass. Benny shrieked like a baby with a ruined diaper as we slid to dashboard level to avoid being becoming human pancakes. The stomach-clenching sensation of sudden descent told me we were on a one-way trip to the land of sudden stops and dramatic explosions. The cityscape blurred as we plummeted toward the concrete jungle below.
Warning. Life-threatening impact imminent. Please assume crash positions. Chance of survivaclass="underline" four hundred eighty seven million to—
I managed to squirm around so I could yell at the smiling hologram. “Damn the odds! Divert all remaining energy to the rear thrusters.”
Diverting.
“What are you doin’?” Benny’s eyes were golf balls of fear in his head. “We’re falling even faster now!”
I introduced his meaty jaw to my right cross, knocking him out cold. As he slumped peacefully against the headrest, I tried to judge the time we had until impact. I figured about a second and a half. Most people couldn’t do much in that amount of time.
I’m not most people.
“Fire rear thrusters now!”
The thrusters pulsed, pushing us from the weight of the airbus and firing us down the mostly lifeless street. The airbus slammed down behind us, splintering the asphalt and shuddering the nearby buildings from the wake of impact. Dust and rubble erupted in a cloud that could be seen for miles. The Tesla motor was guaranteed not to explode like the gasoline vehicles before the Cataclysm, but the collision sure didn’t do the neighborhood any favors. One of the buildings leaned drunkenly before imploding in a rumble of concrete and glass, burying the majority of the airbus in the wreckage.
Our floater skipped like a stone across water before skidding down the street in a shower of sparks. I gritted my teeth and hung on as Armor Foam impact gel jetted from the vents and enveloped us, leaving only our faces uncovered as it solidified into a rubbery shell. The floater finally slammed into a wall, further crumpling the vintage casing. Smoke wafted from the ruined undercarriage, filling the air with the stench of scorched metal.
The computerized dame’s voice was muffled through the foam. Successful emergency landing completed. Have a nice day.
“This is why I hate flying.” I spoke to no one in particular as I tried to brush the sticky Armor Foam from my rags. The stuff was great for protecting the body from harmful impact, but it didn’t do your clothes any favors. Not that it mattered, since it was still raining.
The Transit responder mandroid turned from surveying the wreckage. “Shucks, mister. You should count yourself one lucky duck to be alive right now. I’d say the chances of surviving an accident like this are around four hundred eighty-seven million to—”
“Yeah, I heard.” I glowered at the automaton. “What I wanna know is who was driving that heap, and whether they’re still breathing or not.”
Transit usually deploys synoids as responders to handle accidents in the Uppers. But the clunky, dome-headed mandroid was deployed because we crashed in the Flats, a district a bit more resistant to law and order. Mandroids are a lot cheaper to replace than their more advanced cousins. The one that showed up for our incident couldn’t rightly be called a mandroid at all. It looked like a water heater come to life and equipped with a bowling ball head, flashing eyes, a rusty mustache along with an equally corroded bowler hat. Its yee-haw accent was evidence its creator had a sense of humor.