Some Fine Day (35 page)

The tunnel widens, becomes four lanes across. A few seconds later, it opens out in every direction and we’re speeding through a commercial shopping district. The streets are clogged with black umbrellas and slow-moving cars. I’m forced to brake and weave through it, and the agents behind us close the gap until they’re less than fifty yards back.

A beam sears past the windscreen and hits a garbage truck parked on the side of the street. Flaming trash scatters across three lanes of traffic, setting off a chain reaction of skidding, crunching metal and general mayhem.

“Multiple vehicle accident ahead,” the stern male voice warns. “Would you like to retract the wheels? It is the recommended–”

Retract the wheels?

Let’s see. Under the circumstances, it seems the prudent course of action.

“Hell yes!” I say.

There’s a thunking whirr under the engine as some secondary propulsion system kicks into gear, and suddenly we’re airborne, sailing over a sea of astonished, terrified faces.

It’s a convertible hoverbike.

Ah
.

I’ve heard of them but never driven one. They’re way too expensive for raw recruits to play with.

We clear the pileup and I glance at the map. Nu London station is less than a mile away. Will has gone very quiet behind me.

“You OK?” I call.

“Mmm-hmm,” he responds faintly.

I know he’s still weak from what was done to him at the Helix. Just because he doesn’t look old anymore doesn’t mean he’s healthy. The arms wrapped around me are thinner than they used to be, and I can feel tremors running through the muscles.
Please God, don’t let us die here
changes to:
Please God, don’t let Will fall off.

More beams scorch a row of storefronts as the agents follow suit. Panicked pedestrians run for cover, and I hear the wail of sirens, faster and higher than the ones at home. The locals are about to get involved. It complicates things for us, but also for our pursuers. They’re not supposed to be here. Samer said we don’t even have diplomatic relations with Nu London anymore.

I lean forward and open the throttle, bringing the bike down to just a few feet above the ground. We tear into a labyrinth of cobblestoned side streets lined with two-story townhouses, the GPS calling out directions so fast that even the computerized voice starts to sound a little frazzled.

“Arriving at destination,” it says, as a huge stone structure looms into view.

This is not the time for subtlety, so I go straight through the main entrance. We duck low as the bike smashes through a set of double-doors. The noise is tremendous, but the big windscreen protects us from the rain of glass shards. I swerve to avoid a suitcase-lugging family of four just ahead and barrel toward the information booth at the center of the main terminal. It’s capped with a four-sided holoclock that reads 17.57 NLMT.

The perfectly synchronized dance of several hundred people rushing in all directions without bumping into each other screeches to a halt, as if someone just yanked the needle across an old phonograph record.

For a second, I let myself hope the agents have turned back. It depends on what their orders are, and whether Raven Rock wants us badly enough to risk a major international incident.

Then three more hoverbikes roar inside, and total chaos erupts.

There’s my answer.

We need to get out of here, get into the tunnels. But which ones? If I get it wrong, we could end up running straight back to Raven Rock. I stop the bike.

“What are you doing?” Will hisses in my ear.

It’s the tail end of the commuter rush hour. Nu London’s metro underground system also comes through this station, and the terminal is packed. People are pushing and shoving and running in all directions, and the panicked crowds are slowing down the bikes but they’re still getting closer by the second.

“I need to think,” I say.

“Well, do it fast.”

I close my eyes and picture the maglev system map Rafiq showed us. We have to find that L junction. But it won’t be advertised, since it’s closed to the public. I wish I’d had more time to talk with him.

I wish he was still alive.

“Hourly shuttle to Prussian Alliance departing in five minutes, Track Four,” a recorded female voice echoes above the din.

I can’t focus. Everything is happening too fast. Colored lines blur and tangle in my mind. We’re never going to make it. I have no idea how the map relates to the track numbers in the station. They’ll just chase us around in circles until they have us cornered. Or the locals will get us first. Which is definitely the better option.

“We have to move, Jan!”

No diplomatic relations means no extradition. Maybe if we just turn ourselves in. . .

Suddenly, it hits me and I feel like an idiot for not realizing it before.

“The GPS!” I yell.

We just have to get into a tunnel.
Any
tunnel.

I look around. A holo-display is flashing over Track Four. That’ll do. Especially since the terminal police have snapped out of their stupor and are now swarming at us from all sides.

“What?” Will sounds exhausted, like he’s at the end of his tether.

“Just hold on!”

I weave through the stampeding crowds to the platform entrance. The police are now firing on our pursuers. One of the bikes takes a direct hit and flips end over end into a cappuccino stand. The rider skids feet-first into a table of teenagers. Pastries take flight. I yank the steering hard to the left to miss an elderly couple who are standing in our path, their mouths frozen into Os of surprise. A moment later we’re through the archway of Track Four. The platform is deserted, its passengers wisely choosing to locate the nearest exit and run like hell. I accelerate to the far end, where there’s a small gap between the train and the tunnel.

“Two still behind!” Will yells.

The Metropolitan police force needs to hit the range more, I think sourly, and then we’re flying through the gap and I can finally let the engine open up all the way.

“Seal it,” I tell the computer.

A plastic g-force bubble deploys and we go from fifty to two-fifty in about twenty seconds, which does interesting things to the stomach. The good news is that these tunnels were built for things that move much, much faster. They’re designed for high speed.

The bad news is that those things are sharing the same space.

“GPS, pull up maglev tracking, real-time,” I say. “Locate relative position, please.”

The screen comes alive with flashing dots.

“They’re coming up on us, Jan,” Will says. “I can see the headlights.”

He leans over my shoulder and studies the readout.

“Those are trains?”

“Yes. I think we need to get over here.” I point to the left, where a tunnel snakes northwest. Now that I’m seeing it, Rafiq’s map is starting to make sense. “There’s a Y junction coming up. See, it crosses another track, and then runs straight north. It’s the only one that goes that way. The tunnel to 99. We’ll drive it.”

“OK, but. . . it looks like this train is going to get there first.”

He points to a dot running parallel and a little behind us.

“No, I think we can make it.”

Will’s face is hidden, but I easily picture the look I’m getting right now.

I touch the dot and a bunch of data pops up. It’s a Trans-Global Shipping freight train, six hundred and twenty cars. Slower than the passenger models. Only 311 miles per hour.

“If we can pass in front, we’ll lose them. This honey goes on and on,” I say.

Three bursts of laser fire light up the darkness, and that seems to decide him.

“OK, do it,” Will says.

I push the bike as hard as I can, until the speedometer reads 287 and the computer informs me that the engines will overheat in two minutes. We only need one and a half.

Trans-Global Shipping is still behind us, but gaining steadily.

“Uh, Jansin?” Will says, as I bring us through a long curve. “What’s that?”

I glance down. There’s a new dot. On our track.

“Where the hell did that come from?”

We’re approaching the Y junction. I see a glow ahead. Filling the tunnel.

“Collision imminent,” the computer announces, gratuitously.

The bubble we’re in cuts off all outside noise, but I fancy I can hear the roar of ten thousand tons of metal hurtling towards us at speeds that don’t bear thinking about. According to the readout, Trans-Global Shipping is almost even.

Too late, I think. Too late to back out. Oh my God, too late, too late. . .

“Now!” I scream, and we fly into the junction.

The whole thing probably takes two seconds, but it feels much longer. Like being a gnat caught between two giant clapping hands. Lights blind us from all sides and it’s all I can do to keep the bike upright. The shockwave of the passing trains sends us scraping against the wall of the third tunnel. Sparks trail off into the darkness for a good half mile before we steady out. I ease up on the throttle with hands that barely function and let us roll to a stop.

The engine light is flashing but coolant systems have already kicked in.

Will clings to my back. We’re both shaking like epileptics.

“Five minutes for self-service,” the computer says.

He takes a shuddering breath. “You are a complete maniac, do you know that?”

“Yes.”

“OK. I just wanted to make sure.”

I peel my sweater away from my stomach and flap it in a futile attempt to get some air. “Oh my God, I am soaked with sweat,” I say. Then: “I mean, I sure hope that’s all it is.”

Will starts to laugh, and then we both dissolve into the kind of hysterics that leave you sick and aching all over. When we finally get control of ourselves, Will looks at me and whispers, “I think I just peed a little.” Which naturally gets us going again. It’s the gasping, helpless laughter of two people who really have no right at all to be alive, but somehow are.

They came for us and we beat them. Now there’s only one way out. And it’s at the end of this tunnel.

The geothermal heat that powered the prefectures was also a liability, with ambient temperatures running from 390 degrees Fahrenheit in the Upper Crust to 750 at the Moho.

We shut off the GPS, set the bike on cruise control, and ride north for about three hours. It’s boiling hot in the tunnel without full climate control. No lights appear behind us, although we both know they’ll come eventually. Once they realize we’re not dead, the first team will simply be replaced by another. And I’m not cocky enough to believe we’ll get lucky again.

Finally, the tunnel ends at a platform about forty feet long. There are no signs, just a rusty metal door with a keypad. And we don’t have the code.

“Hold on,” Will says.

He reaches into his pocket. I’d almost forgotten that Rafiq gave him something right before he was shot. I wipe the sweat from my eyes and examine it in the headlight beam. It’s a phone. There’s no stored contacts, so I press redial and hear a faint ringing. I know in my heart that he’s dead, but I can’t help hoping that I’ll hear his voice on the other end of the line, telling us what to do next. Telling me that he’s OK, that he wasn’t murdered in front of my eyes. After two minutes, I hang up.

“No answer.”

“I’ll get the gun,” Will says. “We’ll shoot the lock off.”

“Actually, there may be something better.”

We hop back on the bike and retreat a short distance down the tunnel.

“Computer, run a weapons inventory, please.”

A brief debate ensues. I’m in favor of something called MAHEM, a Magneto Hydrodynamic Explosive Munition that drives molten metal penetrators into a target and sounds utterly demented. Will convinces me that we’d probably blow ourselves to bits along with the door. Eventually, we reach consensus on a good old-fashioned grenade launcher.

“Fire in the hole,” I yell.

We rush through the door with dust still raining down, and stop short. There’s only one guard inside, and he’s already dead. Will kneels next to the body. No visible wounds, but the guy’s lips are blue and his eyelashes are coated with frost. In fact, the entire room is freezing cold. Lights along the walls flash yellow but there’s no alarm sound, which makes it eerier.

I shiver as hot air from the tunnel pours into the room.

“There’s something in his hand.” Will cracks open the guard’s fist and holds up a small electronic key.

The poor guy was watching some horror movie with insectile aliens and it’s still playing on a 3D console near the desk. Guard duty for 99 must be a boring shift. Most of the time.

The room is otherwise bare, with a bank of three high-speed elevators along the far wall.

“It looks like something already triggered the tube’s defenses,” I say. “They’re all different. Gas, fire, seawater. This one is pretty clever. Deep freezing the room wouldn’t damage the tube’s infrastructure, and it would preserve the scene perfectly for when backup arrives. They’d want to know exactly who was knocking on their door.” I look at the corpse and feel a stab of pity. This kid is chubby and no older than his late teens. Not an agent. Just a low-wager. “I guess he was trying to deactivate it but didn’t get there in time.”