The Blue-Haired Bombshell (5 page)

I moved the Colt closer to her face. ‘‘It’s not a remote or a joystick. It’s my new gun.’’

‘‘Really?’’ Electra said, her eyes catching fire. (Electra has a thing for weapons. I try not to think about it too much).

‘‘Really,’’ GUS said.

Electra looked at me. ‘‘Your gun talks.’’

‘‘Tell me about it . . .’’

‘‘I’m the Gun’s User System! You can call me GUS!’’

Electra lowered her eyes and sat back in her chair. ‘‘Your talking gun has a name,’’ she said.

‘‘Such is my life,’’ I said. ‘‘It’s very chipper.’’

‘‘Sure am!’’ GUS said.

I heard HARV moan inside my brain.

‘‘HARV hates it, therefore GUS is growing on me.’’

‘‘Thanks!’’ GUS said.

Electra simply laughed. ‘‘For the man who has everything, a talking gun.’’

Electra took the Colt 2062 from my hand.

‘‘With an electronic conscience,’’ I added.

‘‘You’re kidding?’’ she said.

‘‘I wish I was.’’

Electra steadied the gun in her hand. ‘‘It has a nice feel to it. I assume it will only fire for you.’’

I nodded.

‘‘So there was a woman from the Moon with Randy?’’ Electra said, finally concentrating on something other than my new weapon.

‘‘Yes.’’

‘‘That’s an interesting coincidence,’’ she said.

‘‘How so?’’

She reached into her pocket and pulled out her personal paper computer. She unfolded it in front of me. She pressed a button. She read the message. ‘‘We are honored to invite you to the Moon for the 1st Annual Amigo Relating Culture or ARC Conference. The purpose of this worlds-altering event is gather the greatest five thousand minds on Earth to share culture and ideas with their friends on the Moon.’’

Electra was beaming. ‘‘Do you believe it? They say I’m one of the five thousand most influential people.’’

‘‘I’m not surprised.’’

A chill ran down my spine. First the Moon woman; then the fancy new gun. Now Electra is going to the Moon. This was beginning to feel like I was going to hit one of those stretches I seem to get into every year, where the universe and I have a love-hate relationship going on. It will fall into my lap to save the universe (well, at least my small part of the universe) while the powers that be throw everything they’ve got at me to stop me.

We heard a scream coming from across the street. ‘‘My baby!’’

I turned toward the cry to see a shapely lady lookingon in horror as the baby carriage she must have been pushing was careening down the street.

I grabbed the Colt 2062 from Electra and rushed into action. HARV came back online as I darted into the street. The carriage was rolling straight down so I decided to cut a diagonal path through the traffic to close the gap between the carriage and myself as quickly as possible.

‘‘You know, this would never have happened if the new San Fran City Council hadn’t decided to straighten out Lombard street for aesthetic reasons,’’ HARV noted.

HARV was correct, but not all that useful, as is often the case.

‘‘I’m pumping more blood to your legs so you can run faster,’’ HARV said. ‘‘I’m also tracking all the cars on the street now so hopefully you won’t get splattered all over the pavement.’’

Without a doubt, rushing across a busy street during morning rush hour wasn’t the brightest thing I’ve ever done in my life. Sadly though, it was far from the dumbest. As for the difficulty level of dodging traffic, it was par for the course of my life.

I stopped a nano. A green bullet-shaped car whizzed past. The driver flipped me off. Racing forward, I caught a red bullet-shaped car coming at me out of the corner of my right eye. I calculated that if I increased my speed a touch I would be able to get past him without getting squished. Rushing onward, I breathed a sigh of relief as I squeaked past.

Funny, I never knew that all the time I spent playing the ancient classic video game Frogger would turn out to be life training. I knew my mom was wrong when she insisted playing that game would be bad for me.

Weaving and bobbing in and out of traffic, I dodged a yellow bullet-shaped (you see the pattern here) car. I was grazed by an orange glowing car, but my underarmtook most of the damage. I was just humiliated that out of all the cars to get hit by it would have to be the orange one.

Despite my best efforts, I was still only halfway across the street and only through one direction of traffic. I was closer to the carriage lurching downhill but still not close enough. No way I was going to reach it in time. It was a sheer miracle that the carriage hadn’t tipped over yet. There couldn’t have been much time left. I needed to act fast.

I stopped in the middle of the street. A purple rocket-shaped car swerved past me. The driver didn’t seem to notice. I lifted up my Colt 2062.

‘‘I’m going to need the tractor beam, GUS,’’ I shouted.

‘‘Splendid idea!’’ GUS shouted back.

I aimed. Problem was, I couldn’t get a clear shot with all the traffic zooming by.

‘‘HARV, stop the traffic,’’
I screamed in my mind.

‘‘
Message relayed to the CAP systems.’’

I glanced around. All the cars on the street had slowed down and were pulling over.

I adjusted the Colt 2062 in my arm. ‘‘Let’s lock and, well, lock,’’ I told GUS.

‘‘Got it!’’ GUS said.

I squeezed the trigger pointing at the carriage all the while continuing forward. The carriage came to an abrupt halt. The baby in the carriage went flying upward.

‘‘For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction,’’ HARV lectured.

‘‘Newton’s Second Law,’’ GUS chipped in.

Out of pure reflex I pushed the trigger on the Colt 2062 again, releasing the carriage. As the carriage continued its unguided stroll down Lombard Street, I aimed at the flying baby. I squeezed the trigger again. The baby stopped falling and hung there suspended in mid air.

‘‘I deduced that you wanted to catch, not destroy, the occupant of the carriage,’’ GUS said.

‘‘Good deduction, GUS,’’ I said.

‘‘He’s a wonder,’’ HARV said, cynically.

I worked my way across the street, positioning myself right under the wrapped baby. By this time the mother and her camera crew (which I just noticed) had also made it down the hill.

‘‘My baby! My baby!’’ the woman cried.

I motioned for her to stay back and to give me room. I had the Colt 2062 pointing upward. I needed to cut the power then catch the baby.

‘‘Just turn the handle right,’’
HARV coached in my brain.
‘‘It will allow the baby to fall slowly.’’

I moved my wrist ever so slightly to the right. The baby started to lower. Moving my wrist a little more right, the baby lowered more. I turned my wrist even more.

‘‘Too much!’’
HARV shouted in my brain.

The baby started to plummet. I dove to the ground, hands extended, much like a wide receiver lunging for a football. I hit the ground with a thud, never letting my eyes leave the baby. Extending my arms out I caught the baby a couple of centimeters from the ground.

I pulled the baby toward me. He (or she) licked me. Yes, licked me. The baby was either really ugly or a dog.

The young woman, who I now totally recognized as mass media darling Madrid Ramada, came rushing over to me.

‘‘You did it! You did it! You saved my baby!’’ Madridcried. She grabbed the baby—I mean dog—from my arms and started kissing it on the lips. She turned to me and kissed me on the cheek. I wasn’t sure if I was offended or glad.

Madrid Ramada is one of those famous people who is famous just because she is famous. If the media wasn’t constantly harping on her every move she would have no claim to fame at all, except for being born rich. Yet in a sort of Catch-222 of fame effect, the media couldn’t get enough of her which, in turn, fueled more and more coverage about who she was dating, who she wasn’t dating, what size dress she wore, and what type of deodorant she used. You name it, the press (and therefore the mass populace) wanted to know.

She’s constantly being hawked by her own impersonal personal press corp.

Madrid took a step back and sized me up. ‘‘I know you,’’ she said.

I tipped my fedora. ‘‘Zachary Nixon Johnson, Ms. Ramada.’’

She eyed me. ‘‘How do I know you?’’

‘‘I made a bit of press a couple of times when I saved the world as we know it.’’

She shook her head. She removed her gold sunglasses to get a less rose-colored look at me. ‘‘No, it’s from something really important.’’

I let out a little groan. ‘‘I took Sexy Sprockets for a ride in my Mustang once.’’

She looked at me. ‘‘Everybody has taken Sexy for a ride
on
their Mustang.’’

I pointed to my car parked across the street. ‘‘It’s not a euphemism. I really
did
take Sexy for a ride,
in
my classic car.’’

Madrid put the sunglasses back on. She looked toward my car. She pushed a button on the top of the glasses. I assumed it was a zoom lens. She smiled. ‘‘That’s right. Sexy was one of my dearest friends. How could I forget about you taking her for a ride?’’

‘‘I also saved her life,’’ I added.

‘‘Yes, I suppose that’s important, too.’’ She looked at me. ‘‘So, Mr. Johnson what do you want for saving my baby?’’

‘‘Nothing. It’s part of the job.’’

Madrid looked at her wrist communicator. ‘‘Oh, I get it. You want to have sex with me.’’ She pushed a button on her sleeve. ‘‘I’m free from 2:15 until 2:45.’’

‘‘Ah . . .’’

‘‘That’s not what he meant, bitch,’’ Electra said.

Cameras started snapping, recorders started rolling.

Madrid glared at Electra then backed down. ‘‘Dr. Gevada,’’ she said. Madrid shrunk back.

I looked at Electra while pointing at Madrid. ‘‘You two know each other?’’

Electra eyed Madrid carefully. ‘‘A few years ago, I helped her make something smaller and a couple things big—’’

‘‘No need to go into boring details,’’ Madrid said waving her arms.

She walked up and put her arms around Electra and I. Flashes started popping.

‘‘E here and I are old friends,’’ Madrid said. She turned to me. ‘‘I just want to thank you Zach for saving my baby. You are truly one of the last noble men.’’

A meek little assistant ran up to Madrid. ‘‘Ms. Ramada, you are due for your fitting in five minutes. You know how huffy Ronaldo gets if you’re late.’’

Madrid exhaled softly. ‘‘I swear that man is a bigger diva then I am.’’

With those words Madrid and her posse strutted off. Electra and I kissed.

‘‘You operated on her?’’ I asked.

Electra smiled. ‘‘It funded two wards on my clinic.’’

That’s my girl, always seeing the big picture. Electra and I kissed again. She looked at her watch. (Being my girlfriend she even wore an old-fashioned analog watch.) ‘‘Speaking of the clinic, I’m late.’’

‘‘See you before you head to the Moon?’’ I asked.

‘‘Of course,’’ she said with a wink.

She headed off to the hospital and I set off to my office.

Chapter 4

As I neared my office on the bay, I noticed a throng of people assembled just outside my door. Examining them, I noticed they were mostly teenage girls.

‘‘They can’t be waiting for me,’’ I said, pulling my car into its parking spot.

Instantly spotting me, the girls stormed the car, banging on it, and screaming things like:

‘‘He’s here! He’s old, but dreamy for an old guy!’’

‘‘I want a piece of his shirt.’’

‘‘I want a piece of his pants!’’

‘‘I want a piece of his hair!’’

‘‘I want a piece of his ass!’’

HARV appeared in my dash. ‘‘Your saving of Madrid’s dog, Baby, has been PIHI-Podcast all over the world. The major news networks are calling it a true act of courage.’’

While the girls continued to pound on my car, I sat there thinking. If this was how they showed admiration, I’d hate to see how this mob reacted when it was angry.

‘‘You do have a gun,’’ HARV suggested.

‘‘I can’t go shooting a mob of teenage girls,’’ I said.

‘‘I do have a heavy stun mode!’’ GUS said, chipper as always.

‘‘Nah, not the good guy thing to do. I can see the lawsuits already.’’

‘‘Well, you can’t just stay in your car,’’ HARV said.

For the moment, I didn’t see why not. In my life I’ve faced high-paid assassins, killer ninjas, mutants of all shapes and sizes, giant elves, a mad gorilla, battle bots, attack dogs, tons of guard bots, angry androids, and a bevy of superhuman females. DOS, today alone I’ve wrestled with killer plants, been targeted by targets, and dodged oncoming traffic to save a dog. Yet I never felt as helpless as I did at this moment.

I needed help and I needed it quick. The knocking on the car and the chanting was rising to a fever pitch. Then it stopped. I gazed through the window at the girls, their eyes were glassed over.

‘‘Carol,’’ I said to myself.

My assistant Carol was in the office and had taken charge. The girls surrounding my car had dropped to all fours. They started baaing. I saw Carol coming out of the office door, smiling. Carol was a younger, just as beautiful version of her aunt Electra, except with even more of a temper. Carol was also a class I level 6 psionic, or psi for short, making her one of the most powerful minds on the planet. I won’t go into great detail about the psi rating system (since it was thought up by bureaucrats, it’s overly complicated). Suffice to say, class I level 6 is way good. Carol could do things with her brain that average joes and janes only dreamed of. She may not have been a god among men, but she was almost as close as you could get—almost.