Transmaniacon by John Shirley Page B

there were about two hundred of them, marching in a disorderly parade half a mile long. They followed a sparse cart-track that wound up into the mountains ahead then disappeared in a forest of pines.
    Beside the pilgrims crawled heavily burdened pack-animals; from this altitude Ben couldn’t make out exactly what they were, but he assumed they would be Genetic Manipulations’ flesh-tractors.
    The sun was well up and the sky, solid blue, broken only by a few creamy clouds scudding near the eastern horizon.
    Ben circled the caravan twice, wondering if it could be of use to him. He decided against contacting them, and turned the fly-car back to its northern course.
    He didn’t get far.
    Ten minutes later, something with glimmering crystalline wings and burning, multifaceted eyes shot out of the sun.
    Ben swung down and right, trying to get under the wasp-car.
    They were about a hundred feet over the crest of the nearest hill, which was spiny with tall pines. There was no running, now. But if he could get around the hill and come up behind, he could get a clear shot at them.
    He heard a shudder and a whine, and he knew the fly-car had lost its right wing. Laser rifle? He peered out the side-window, the wasp-car was nowhere in sight. The loss of a wing had little effect on the mobility of the fly-car; nulgrav didn’t rely on such aerodynamics. But a shot through, the midriff would cut their power-spine, and down they’d go.
    He handed the pistol to Gloria. She took it with a steady hand and shining eyes. “Crank that side window-slat open. There. Yes. Now, fire out the window, but only when you’re sure you’ve got a good bead on them—we’re short on bullets. They’ve got a laser rifle, at least. It looked to me like a passenger vehicle—not built for fighting, fortunately. So they’ll have to shoot out through their window, too. And they’ll be slower than us.” *
    He took the fly-car down until it was scarcely ten feet above the tree-tops. The waves of tree-tops whipped past like a furry green sea as they cut down into the valley and rounded the hill.
    The wasp-car shot abruptly into sight, at nearly the same altitude. Coming straight at them. They had ten seconds to look it over before it was upon them. Moving as rapidly as it was it seemed a real insect, monstrously inflated, its antennae bent back and vibrating in the wind, its wings nearly invisible as they blurred. So. It was using wings! Then it wasn’t a nulgrav car, it was an ornithopter upheld by air-pressure. That gave the fly-car an advantage in maneuverability. Perhaps they could run.
    But the elongated, segmented yellow body grew. A gray-metal rectangle gleamed from its belly—an overland vehicle hooked to the thorax. Ben could make out two figures at the control panel, and a flare of crystal tubing as the laser rifle poked from the side-window. The wasp-car pilot approached from the left, thinking he had the edge, but Ben decided to chance moving closer to the hill. Gloria needed a clear shot.
    He angled left, putting the fast-approaching wasp-car to the right. The tops of trees brushed the fly’s wiry legs.
    Gloria propped the pistol, steadied it on the window-ledge. She drew a bead as the two vehicles closed. “I see that sumbitch Fuller at the wheel.” She muttered. Then the wasp was on them, its laser-stinger flashing from the window.
    Gloria fired three times. Ben felt heat lightning crackle at his left cheek. For three seconds, he was blinded.
    When his vision cleared the wasp-car was gone, behind them. Ben swung around, blinking, eyes still misty from the laser shot that had seared a rough hole through the fly’s left eye and scorched the left side of his face. He held his breath, watched the world whirling crazily as they U-turned. They would have the drop on the wasp-car; it would take an ornithopter longer to turn. But the wasp-car was wavering, and there was a man hanging