“Come on. I can’t do this alone.”
“Did you join a dissy monastery this morning and take a vow of stupid? There is no way I’m getting anywhere near that thing.”
I thought about Chomsky’s atomizer, still on my roof. That would mellow him out. Maybe I could sneak over, grab it, bring it back, atomize some marijuana…
“Fuck it,” McGlade said.
He shot the raccoon with his Taser. A bolt of Tesla lightning zapped the little guy right between the eyes, knocking him over.
“Dammit, McGlade!”
“Had to be done. You can send me the medal.”
The animal had keeled over onto its back, all four legs sticking straight up. But it still appeared to be breathing. Without hesitation I opened the cage and shoved all five pills down its throat, managing to lock him back up just as he was reviving.
“My work here is done.” McGlade folded his arms. “Where are the books?”
“The Magnum first. And the living skin.”
He handed them over. “I’ve only got those six bullets. No idea if they work or not. Now the books.”
I gave him Aunt Zelda’s address and said, “They’re yours. But you might want to wait a few days to pick them up.”
“Why?”
“Because the man I’m chasing has threatened to destroy Chicago in less than two hours.”
“I hate you, Talon. I really-”
The raccoon squealed, spinning around and lifting its bushy tail. He ejected an impressive fountain of animal waste, soaking McGlade’s pants. I’d seen less force come from fire hoses.
Ignoring McGlade’s string of invectives, I toed through the mess and found my chip. I brought it over to Chomsky’s sprinkler, rinsing it off. Then I went into the house.
In Chomsky’s bathroom, I found a bottle of hydrogen peroxide under the sink. I poured a liberal dose on my arm, and on the chip. Then I set the chip on a clean towel and unsheathed my Nife.
Removing the chip had been easy-a quick gouge in my arm fueled by panic and adrenaline. To put it back in, I’d have to fillet my skin and muscle down to the nerves, and I wasn’t looking forward to the experience. Chomsky had a decent assortment of painkillers in his medicine cabinet, but I didn’t want to take anything that might dull my senses.
Making a fist, I held my forearm over the sink. Gripping the Nife in my bad hand, I waited for the shakes to stop. They wouldn’t.
I’d just have to try my best.
I placed the flat of the blade against my skin. My fingers were numb, my control marginal at best. I took a deep breath, then got ready to “You need help?”
I startled, spinning around. McGlade stood in the doorway, buttoning his pants.
“Do I want to know why you’re pulling up your pants?” I asked.
“The little bastard shit on me. I returned the favor.”
“There’s something wrong with you.”
“Give me the Nife. You’re gonna cut your arm off.”
McGlade washed his hands, then took the blade. Unlike me, his hands were rock-steady. He opened up a U-shaped flap in my skin, deftly avoiding the major veins and arteries, while I chewed on a bath towel. Then he placed the chip back inside its nerve slot, closed the flap, and sealed it with the living skin. For my part, I only cried a little bit.
“Thanks, man. Let me know if I can ever return the favor.”
He looked at me, hard. “Just stop the bad guy and save the city.”
I appraised him. “You turning humanitarian on me, McGlade?”
“Fuck, no. I just don’t want all the stuff you owe me to get destroyed.”
He offered his hand. I took it.
Then I covered my chip with the obfuscation disk and went off to find Vicki and save Chicago.
FORTY-FOUR
Space elevators worked on the simple physics principle of centrifugal force. A large rope, made of woven carbon nanotubes, was anchored to the ground. It extended up to low-earth orbit, where it was tethered to a space station. The station acted like a yo-yo being twirled around, keeping the rope straight. In this case, the twirling was provided by the rotation of the earth.
Prior to space elevators, leaving earth’s atmosphere required an incredible amount of energy. Now a simple motorized lift could climb the two hundred miles to LEO using regular old electricity, rather than the expensive and bulky liquid hydrogen used by rockets. As a result, space had become a tourist attraction.
Chicago’s Arthur C. Clarke Space Elevator was one of the newest in the nation. It transported close to two million people a year to six hotels in geosynchronous orbit. Besides the spectacular view, and the novelty of zero gravity, these hotels offered an assortment of unique games and activities. They’d become one of the biggest tourist destinations in Illinois.
I ditched the bike a few blocks away from the station, and checked the time. Half an hour until Sata had told me to be there. As I dressed in the things I’d taken from Sata’s house, I tried to picture how I could pull this off without getting caught.
The CPD had red-flagged my name and run it through the system. If they didn’t already know Vicki had bought me an elevator ticket, they’d know it as soon as I arrived at the main gate. That meant the cops were already waiting for me on the off chance I showed up, or the place would be locked down once I got inside. I’d have to swipe my chip at check-in, and again at security.
Other than my clothing, there wasn’t much I could do to prevent a full-scale takedown. I’d either make it, or I wouldn’t. Dwelling on it wouldn’t improve my odds.
Lugging Sata’s suitcase, I walked over to the station entrance. The building was easy to find, viewable from miles away in any direction. The black nanotube tether was as thick as a skyscraper, extending up into the clouds like Jack’s legendary beanstalk. Along the outside were lift cars on tracks, ten of them, simultaneously raising or lowering passengers in groups of fifty. The cars left every ten minutes, and a ticket allowed you to take any one you wanted, much like waiting in line for a roller coaster at a hyperamusement park.
I adjusted the celebrity veil over my head and strolled into the building, prepared for the worst. I wasn’t immediately tackled, which I took to be a good sign.
As expected, the station was packed. The building formed a decahedron around the tether, each inner section leading to a lift car. Departures and arrivals were staggered. The wraparound section was comprised of various shops and restaurants, a waiting area, and the check-in counter. There were at least two thousand people milling about, which was to my advantage. The bigger the haystack, the harder it was to find the needle.
Above the crowd murmur, a recording announced which cars were coming and going. The three o’clock would be car number seven. I strolled past, and saw a small line. No Vicki or Sata.
I walked the perimeter, which took only fifteen minutes, eyes peeled. I passed a few cops, but was ignored. A few dozen folks had celebrity veils on. Some of them might have been real celebrities, or celebrity wannabes, but a lot of teens also treated veils as a fashion statement. The emoticon on mine probably helped me pass for young and hip.
The check-in line went quickly. I unzipped the top of Sata’s bag, ready to throw on the men if the need arose. When it came time to scan my wrist, I peeled off the obfuscation disk, swiped it over the reader, replaced it, and waited for the alarm to sound.
There was no alarm. The turnstile opened, allowing me through.
I looked around, trying to spot anyone coming for me. Utopeons milled about, minding their own business. I wasn’t rushed by cops. I wasn’t surrounded by government agents. Everything seemed entirely normal.
I queued up for the security checkpoint, waiting to get my bag X-rayed. Unlike airlines, which were a cinch to get through quickly, space elevators had to have security because certain things, like aerosol cans and, oddly enough, microwave popcorn, weren’t allowed in LEO. Nothing with the potential to explode was allowed up in space, though I believed the bias against popcorn had more to do with the difficulty in cleaning it up in zero gravity.