Saga (16 page)

“Yeah.”

“Someone mention me?” Athena’s words were muffled; she was brushing her teeth.

“Cindella last night, disappearing and coming back. It makes you angry,” Nathan repeated.

She nodded, saying nothing.

Nathan gave his characteristic shrug. “I rather like it. I want to get to know them, the outsiders. Also, it’s an opportunity. There’s a lot I don’t like about our world. But now I feel optimistic; it can be changed.”

Athena raised one eyebrow. She was good at that.

“What matters is that you two can still hold it together, right?” I looked from Athena to Milan. “You aren’t thinking of going home or anything?” I needed reassurances from Milan, especially, about where his insecurities were leading him.

“Ghost.” He shook his head. “I thought you understood me. What I’m talking about has got nothing to do with home. It’s, like, much deeper than that. It’s about the point of life.”

That was a good answer. I shouldn’t really have doubted him; it’s just that now they were in one of my favorite living places, the closest I had to a home. In his distant, grumpy way, Arnie had been good to me. If Milan were to go back, then I could never come here again, working on the assumption that if the authorities were after us, they would make him talk.

“Well, what was the point of life yesterday?” Nathan picked up on Milan’s doubts.

“To party.”

“Fine. So what’s the point of life today?”

“To party, I guess.”

“That and win the air race,” added Nathan with enthusiasm.

“Yeah.” For the first time that morning, Milan smiled. It was good to see, even if it came from his daydreaming about that stupid aircar race.

 

Downstairs, Arnie had set out four chipped but welcome mugs of coffee. The corners of his eyes were tinged with red, but his gaze was lively, jumping around and willing to overlook our bedraggled appearance.

“Bring ’em with you; come and look.”

So we trooped into the wide bay where Arnie did his serious repair work. The tank was clear of all the debris and tooling that had previously been attached to it. Close up it was huge, with immense, thick slabs of armor all around its body. A heavy turret with a massive cannon, squat and low, made the vehicle look like it was frowning. Nathan rested his mug on the unpainted body and stroked the metal surface musingly. I knew he was considering the design he intended to paint upon it.

“It’s huge. Is it gonna float?” Milan looked skeptical. “It must be at the limit.”

“At the limit and then some.” Arnie grinned, proud but a little shy.

“Go on then.” Milan gestured with his chin.

Arnie leaned on the front plates of the tank and, with a grunt, pulled himself off the ground. He straightened and walked up to the nearest hatch. Somewhat clumsily he lowered himself inside the vehicle.

And up it went. The buzz of the power being eaten by the tank filled the garage and caused tools to jitter in their racks. It was a meter off the floor, vibrating just enough to slop Nathan’s coffee onto the plain gray surface of the armor.

“Class!” Milan was excited; the color was back in his cheeks and forehead. He braced himself and pushed at a large plate that covered the front of the nearest set of tracks. Slowly the tank began to turn. Smiling, Milan looked back over his shoulder at us, delighted at his ability to move such a massive vehicle.

Arnie popped his head up.

“Get in. We need to check that it can take your weight, too.”

We needed no second invitation, and using the tracks as footholds, we vaulted up on top. Milan went straight for the turret; the rest of us lowered ourselves through hatches into the main body.

There was a surprising amount of room inside; Athena and I wouldn’t even have to duck except where it narrowed toward the front and rear. She was already in the command seat, her computer unrolled and switched on, nodding to herself as she read.

“Well?” Arnie was crouched back on his haunches, looking at us. He was tired, but the tears in his eyes were of pride.

“Good job, Arnie.” I smiled at him, trying to communicate my admiration. For all his brusqueness, Arnie had his moments of self-doubt. As an overweight red-card mechanic, working in the seediest part of town, he would be seen by many people as a failure. Even if he often spoke confidently of his ability to win the aircar race, Arnie must have been affected by the knowledge that many people thought he was simply a fool. Well, this race would prove his critics wrong. The tank was the business.

“Good job? This is awesome, man. The greatest work anyone outside the big corporations has ever done.” Milan was better in these situations than I was. “I mean, I really think we have a chance of winning.”

“Really?” Arnie shuffled forward under the turret so he could look up to see Milan.

“Really. This baby is gonna rock!”

With a high-pitched whine, the weapons systems powered up.

“Aha. Thought so.” Athena was flicking the switches above her head. “Whoa! Get a load of the visuals.” Her eyes widened.

In front of each chair was a screen; I slipped into place to check it out. Milan had his targeting system up: a series of diminishing circles that swept around a view of the garage as he began to move the turret, raising and lowering the cannon.

“Auto-target locking won’t function for objects this close,” Athena commented. “We need to be outside.”

Arnie immediately stuck his head and arms out of a hatch, and soon the fact that the garage shutters were rising was visible on our screens.

“Yes!” shouted Milan. “Let’s take her for a cruise.”

“What’s the plan, Arnie?” Even I was getting into this, despite my innate reluctance to move out of the shadows into public view. Driving in a tank was pretty class.

He popped back down. “Yes, we ought to give it a trial run. I was thinking I’d be driver. You can sort out all the rest between you. One on the main cannon, one on the secondaries, one on missiles and anti-missile defenses, and one on systems.”

“Systems,” announced Athena.

“Main gun.” Milan was only a fraction of a second behind her.

“Which do you want, Nath?”

“Secondary cannons, if that’s all right?” He glanced across from the chair he was in.

“Sure. Missiles for me.”

“You two have to swap seats,” Arnie pointed out as he made his way past us to the back. Nath and I were up front, Athena very near the center, and above her, in the turret, Milan. All of us had our screens on. You could rotate the views, but I was happy with dead ahead. My console had a load of switches, which were clearly labeled with deployment commands like “counter-measures” and “interceptor.” There was a “missile launch” switch above a crimson display that allowed you to toggle through a choice of missiles: Stellar Burst, Arrow, Streamer, Red4, and Blitz. Cool, although I hadn’t the faintest idea what they did. Then there were the two joysticks on my panel; those really had me confused.

“Hey, Athena, do you know what these joysticks are for?”

“One sec.”

I continued testing the dials of my console. There were a few switches that got targeting patterns to come up on the screen, just as Milan had done.

“Ghost?” Athena called out.

“Yeah?”

“You know how to toggle your missile to Streamer, right?”

“Affirmative.” Gotta get into the military language when you’re the missile commander of a serious battle tank.

“Well, it’s a wire-guided missile. Those are to steer it with.”

“Neat. Um, affirmative.”

“Wow! Nice, Ghost. Makes me wish I’d picked your job.” Nathan gave me a thumbs-up.

“Don’t worry, Nath,” Athena called out from behind us. “You should see what a kick you’ve got on those cannons.”

All this time, we had been moving slowly out into the road. It was so early that the streetlamps were all still on, white blurred patches on our gray view screens. You got used to the background hum very quickly, and the motion of the tank was smooth, so that it felt as if we were coasting quietly downhill, even though, if anything, we were heading up a slight incline. Arnie steered us into a dirty-looking yard, at the far end of which was a basketball hoop.

“That’s your target, kids. Get practicing.”

The weapons for the aircar race were supposed to be non-lethal; they were all anti-electrical devices only. Every entrant had a spherical defense shield. The tactic in the race was to shoot until you wore holes in the shield and could fire through it to hit the vehicle inside, which would then immediately come to a halt, having lost all power. The aircar race, therefore, was supposed to be safe, in theory at least. About five years before, two people had died when the power was cut from their swift-racing aircar, just as it was taking a sharp corner between two skyscrapers. But that was just unlucky.

“Locked on,” Milan announced.

“Go for it,” Nathan called out.

The tank rocked and emitted a glowing pink bolt, along with a loud, high-pitched grunt. The bolt flashed across the yard, dissipating after striking the basketball hoop. Two streaks of green immediately followed. Then another pink cough. Milan and Nathan noticed the slightly different pitch of the sound of their weapons and were firing now so as to make a distinct rhythm. Pink—green—green—pink—green—green.

“All right, all right. You have it, boys,” Athena cut in. “Now Ghost.”

“Can I use up one of the wire-guided missiles, Arnie?”

“Sure, we’re allowed only three in the race; you have eight there.”

I toggled “Streamer,” grasped the joysticks, and thumbed the “fire” button on the left-hand one. This time there was no motion from the tank but a rushing sound as the missile shot out of the front of the vehicle. It swerved upward.

“Where you going, Ghost?” Milan laughed.

I let it go higher, confident. I could feel it obeying me. When the flashing blur of metal and light was nearly out of view, I pushed the joysticks forward as far as they would go, sending the missile crashing to the ground, having first passed perfectly through the hoop.

“Slam dunk!”

“Ace!”

“Class!”

Even Arnie grunted approvingly.

“So, that’s the plan. If we get in a scrap with something tough, you boys pick a spot on their shield and wear it down, until Ghost can send a missile through.”

“Roger that.” I wasn’t sure where that phrase came from, but it sounded right.

We were all
up early again. Too early. It meant sitting at the table, clasping a mug, waiting in a strained silence, when I would rather have been asleep. I could understand Arnie being nervous; this was his one and only shot at a card upgrade. He was also on edge because of the way he felt his guild had betrayed him. They had dismissed him as an irrelevant eccentric, so for Arnie today was also about proving Valiant wrong, about affirming his own existence to the world. But why did I feel as anxious as everyone else at the table? After all, I hadn’t even wanted to get involved in the first place. Perhaps because now we had reached this moment, I felt there really was a possibility we might actually win the race. With this tank, anything was possible. It was a first-class entry; Arnie had done a great job. Winning the aircar race: I could see how that thought had overwhelmed Milan and even Nathan. They no longer joked about how awesome it would be to be aircar race champions. Since it actually might happen, victory simply couldn’t be mentioned, or even thought about.

The room’s wall screen was showing a newscast; Athena had switched it on earlier. There was only one story: the coming race. The pictures showed that already the grandstand at the spaceport was filling up. Spectators wanted to be present in person at the start and finish. Nor did you miss any of the rest of the action once there; huge screens displayed the race from the point where the vehicles exited the spaceport, flying cameras monitoring the battles over a hundred miles of highway before the race returned to the grandstand for the finish. The excitement was far more intense at the spaceport than for those watching the race through a newscast. I used to go along every year. Mind you, that was more to steal bagfuls of color cards than to watch the race.

 

Clips of the new Grand Vizier talking about the event’s having been upgraded were being intercut with interviews with guild leaders, tank crews, and former winners of the race. It took some effort by Athena, scrolling through lists, to find our entry: Arnie’s Repairs. We were listed among the non-guild entries, usually a group of desperate no-hopers, participating just for their moment of glory and their chance to be in the public eye. That reminded me.

“Hey, Athena, how is Defiance doing? How many members have you got?”

“As of last night, we have two hundred and forty-one.”

“Not bad.” It wasn’t that promising, though. Since I had never really had a great interest in guilds, I hadn’t paid much attention to how they gained position. It was a complex calculation based on the number of members and the color of their cards. To get allocated an office or civic responsibility, you needed around ten thousand red members; to get a seat on the High Council, a hundred thousand.

“It’s all right.” Athena shrugged. “Hopefully today will give us a boost. The word is only slowly getting around. I’ve posted on all the punk boards, explaining that we’re a kind of protest guild. The problem is, the sort of person who would like the charter of Defiance doesn’t join guilds.”

After a glance at the wall clock, Arnie got up and left us without saying a word. A short while later, the garage shook and was filled with a deep rumbling sound. The tank was floating. Milan looked around and then shrugged.

“Here goes.”

In the end, the design was a simple one. Nathan had drawn a line diagonally across the tank, from front left to back right. One side of the line had then been painted entirely black, the other red. In front of the turret, on the large flat panel, was the Defiance tag. Here and there a few smaller decorations could be seen, classy little touches. On each of our hatches was a small image. Mine was the ♥, Arnie’s a wrench, Athena’s an owl, Milan’s an arrow, and Nath’s own, a yin-yang symbol. It was simple but effective. Too effective. It was bound to draw attention. Mind you, I did realize that if we were going out to win, and there was a possibility that we might win, there was no way to avoid attention. Could they arrest the winners of the aircar race? In full public view? Were they even looking for us still? Probably. Sitting in the tank, I felt a very strange mix of excitement for the coming race and nervousness that we were putting ourselves in danger. It was too late to back out now; the others would feel completely betrayed.