hall—
—he was into the darkened library and through it, and through the doors, and onto the porch—
—he was vaulting the porch rail, hitting the soft grass running . . . running and running across it, catching sight of other running shapes out of the corners of his eyes . . . over the wall, through the fence, into the woods. . . .
He took care to slow his pace, to move with caution and stealth through the damp woods. Behind him, the night sky was aglow with the burning. Sirens and amplified squawks from commlinks and the guttural roar of high-powered, hydrocarbon-burning engines approaching up the main drive drifted on the night, covering the squish of wet leaves underfoot and the scraping of branches as he worked his way through the woods.
His car was parked some twenty minutes’ walk ahead through the night woods, well off the road, but a glance at his plastic-covered watch showed he had a wider time margin than he’d planned, so he kept the plastic suit on; it was all that protected him from the bitter cold.
He found the car without trouble—he was a confident nighttime navigator—and tossed his pack into the forward luggage compartment. He slammed the hood down upon it, then opened the door on the driver’s side. He reached in and fetched his sliver from under the seat. He inserted it in the ignition; the board showed power to the wheel motors.
He reached to rip open the front of his plastic suit, which would disable the heat transfer system. Once he was safely away, he could dump the stored energy in the suit’s heat sink. Before he got his hand on the seam sealer, they came out of the woods—
—three of them in white uniforms, all young, all blond, none looking very happy.
“Hands up,” said the leader softly. He was a tall kid with a blond crewcut so short he looked bald.
They had him on three sides, and all of them were pointing assault rifles at him. At this range it didn’t matter whether the bullets were rubber or not. They could still rupture his spleen or put out his eyes or break something else valuable.
Baldy looked at Blake, naked inside his clear plastic suit, and sneered. “Fetching outfit.”
“Glad you like it,” Blake said, his words muffled through the plastic film that covered his mouth. What could you do when you were wearing nothing but sandwich wrap, except try to hold on to your sense of humor?
Baldy gestured to his two companions. They bundled into the cramped back seat of the little electric while Baldy kept his rifle pointed at Blake’s lower middle section. “You drive,” he said.
“Four people weigh a lot,” Blake mumbled. “I don’t know if I have enough charge for all of you.”
“We’re not going far. Get in.”
Blake eased himself into the driver’s seat, hunched forward because of the heat-sink unit between his shoulder blades, intensely aware of the gun muzzles pointed at his neck from the back seat. Baldy slid in beside him. Blake eased off the clutch; the motors whirred and engaged and the car slithered over the muddy track. When he reached the paved country road, Blake turned in the direction of the lodge’s main drive.
They drove slowly and silently, until Blake asked, “How did you happen to get to my car ahead of me?”
“Not something you need to know.”
“Okay, but are you sure you want me to drive you all the way back to the lodge in this thing?” “Just drive.”
Blake glanced at the pale blue digital display on his left wrist. “I have to get out for a minute. Just for a minute.”
Baldy smirked at him. “It will have to wait.”
“It won’t wait.”
A muzzle pressed Blake’s neck, and an intimate whisper sounded close to his ear. “We don’t care if you fill up your whole body-baggie,” said the boy behind him. “You’re not getting out of this vehicle until we tell you to.”
Blake shrugged and drove on, down the tree-crowded road, his headlights illuminating bare tree trunks like
—he was into the darkened library and through it, and through the doors, and onto the porch—
—he was vaulting the porch rail, hitting the soft grass running . . . running and running across it, catching sight of other running shapes out of the corners of his eyes . . . over the wall, through the fence, into the woods. . . .
He took care to slow his pace, to move with caution and stealth through the damp woods. Behind him, the night sky was aglow with the burning. Sirens and amplified squawks from commlinks and the guttural roar of high-powered, hydrocarbon-burning engines approaching up the main drive drifted on the night, covering the squish of wet leaves underfoot and the scraping of branches as he worked his way through the woods.
His car was parked some twenty minutes’ walk ahead through the night woods, well off the road, but a glance at his plastic-covered watch showed he had a wider time margin than he’d planned, so he kept the plastic suit on; it was all that protected him from the bitter cold.
He found the car without trouble—he was a confident nighttime navigator—and tossed his pack into the forward luggage compartment. He slammed the hood down upon it, then opened the door on the driver’s side. He reached in and fetched his sliver from under the seat. He inserted it in the ignition; the board showed power to the wheel motors.
He reached to rip open the front of his plastic suit, which would disable the heat transfer system. Once he was safely away, he could dump the stored energy in the suit’s heat sink. Before he got his hand on the seam sealer, they came out of the woods—
—three of them in white uniforms, all young, all blond, none looking very happy.
“Hands up,” said the leader softly. He was a tall kid with a blond crewcut so short he looked bald.
They had him on three sides, and all of them were pointing assault rifles at him. At this range it didn’t matter whether the bullets were rubber or not. They could still rupture his spleen or put out his eyes or break something else valuable.
Baldy looked at Blake, naked inside his clear plastic suit, and sneered. “Fetching outfit.”
“Glad you like it,” Blake said, his words muffled through the plastic film that covered his mouth. What could you do when you were wearing nothing but sandwich wrap, except try to hold on to your sense of humor?
Baldy gestured to his two companions. They bundled into the cramped back seat of the little electric while Baldy kept his rifle pointed at Blake’s lower middle section. “You drive,” he said.
“Four people weigh a lot,” Blake mumbled. “I don’t know if I have enough charge for all of you.”
“We’re not going far. Get in.”
Blake eased himself into the driver’s seat, hunched forward because of the heat-sink unit between his shoulder blades, intensely aware of the gun muzzles pointed at his neck from the back seat. Baldy slid in beside him. Blake eased off the clutch; the motors whirred and engaged and the car slithered over the muddy track. When he reached the paved country road, Blake turned in the direction of the lodge’s main drive.
They drove slowly and silently, until Blake asked, “How did you happen to get to my car ahead of me?”
“Not something you need to know.”
“Okay, but are you sure you want me to drive you all the way back to the lodge in this thing?” “Just drive.”
Blake glanced at the pale blue digital display on his left wrist. “I have to get out for a minute. Just for a minute.”
Baldy smirked at him. “It will have to wait.”
“It won’t wait.”
A muzzle pressed Blake’s neck, and an intimate whisper sounded close to his ear. “We don’t care if you fill up your whole body-baggie,” said the boy behind him. “You’re not getting out of this vehicle until we tell you to.”
Blake shrugged and drove on, down the tree-crowded road, his headlights illuminating bare tree trunks like
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