glared at Sylvia on screen. I grimaced. Man.
“She didn’t know what she wanted! Why do you think anything will be any different. Oh, why am I talking to you at all?”
She sniffed. “Your daughter looks cute. If I’d known you’d wanted one… Never mind! I hate you!”
She looked into the camera, her expression empty.
“Come home. This isn’t the way to do anything. We’ll talk about it. Come home. Now.”
The message ended. I was shivering and wanted to die. I dug around in my pants pocket, dug out a few five dollar coins and the metaprogrammer. I gulped it down dry.
“You took the pill?” Helen said.
I nodded.
“You’ll feel better in about five minutes.” She licked her lips, and kissed me, her hands stroking the front of my jeans, tugging down the zipper. Just as the warmth started to rise, I caught a glimpse of Faith out of the corner of my eye in the rear-view mirror, her tongue fully extended.
She had a remarkably long tongue, for a child. I pushed Helen’s hand away. Not in front of the kid—
The Kia hit a bump, and the rear windshield pinged. I craned my neck to see the tiny hole whistling there, at the center of a glistening spiderweb. There was a matching hole in the front windshield, higher, and to the left.
Bullet holes. Someone shooting. A small popping sound over the hiss of the highway, like champagne being opened in the next hotel room.
“Oh shit.” Helen thumped the dash, extending the steering column. “Off-program! Emergency override!”
A blue sedan with darkened windows was gaining on us, a dozen car lengths back. There came a sound like a soda can being speared by a sharpened tire iron. Another one. Helen turned the wheel hard right, thudding me into her shoulder as Faith started screaming. The car fishtailed into the far right lane, decelerating.
“Your flock wants its money back!” I shouted.
“The gun! Under your seat!”
Helen hit the accelerator, throwing me back as a second bullet hole blossomed on the passenger side of the windshield where my head had been a second before. I rooted through the garbage. My hand closed on something metallic and sticky and I withdrew a polished slab of chrome with a crosscut latex handle slathered with what I guessed was pink yogurt. I’d fired a gun, once, in the woods behind my grandfather’s cabin – I’d lifted it from his dresser drawer without asking. I’d put my thumb in the exact wrong place. The bolt coming back had broken it instantly.
Traffic purred around us serenely, still on program, a grid of passenger cars and truck-trains, most with opaqued windows. People were napping or watching video inside. We were tooling through the Jersey free-zone, a ten mile strip of land too polluted to be of use to anyone, a ring around the port complex at Galt.
Helen dodged through the grid. The dash lit up, blinking red and yellow. The car’s brain was full of overrides – more BlackNet stuff, or she wouldn’t be able to drive at all on the pike. I fumbled for the gun’s safety, flicked it back and forth a few times fast. I then had no idea which position was which.
“They’ll need an account number and my password to get their money back. They’re trying to scare us,” Helen shouted.
“It’s working!” I shouted. “They may need you, but they don’t need me. Or Faith.”
Helen was making her own lane out of the gravel shoulder, passing car after car. A gray-haired woman in a tiny smart car gave us the finger. We thumped over a cast-off tire tread and fishtailed. I bit my tongue, tasting blood, as another bullet took out the window on Helen’s side of the car.
We all screamed.
My hand was tingling. I stared at the gun drizzling smoke from its short barrel. I’d shot the steering wheel, the bullet ripping through the airbag, triggering a secondary explosion. My heart was doing strange, painful things. I’d almost blown Helen’s brains out. Blood trickled from both her nostrils as she wrestled with the
“She didn’t know what she wanted! Why do you think anything will be any different. Oh, why am I talking to you at all?”
She sniffed. “Your daughter looks cute. If I’d known you’d wanted one… Never mind! I hate you!”
She looked into the camera, her expression empty.
“Come home. This isn’t the way to do anything. We’ll talk about it. Come home. Now.”
The message ended. I was shivering and wanted to die. I dug around in my pants pocket, dug out a few five dollar coins and the metaprogrammer. I gulped it down dry.
“You took the pill?” Helen said.
I nodded.
“You’ll feel better in about five minutes.” She licked her lips, and kissed me, her hands stroking the front of my jeans, tugging down the zipper. Just as the warmth started to rise, I caught a glimpse of Faith out of the corner of my eye in the rear-view mirror, her tongue fully extended.
She had a remarkably long tongue, for a child. I pushed Helen’s hand away. Not in front of the kid—
The Kia hit a bump, and the rear windshield pinged. I craned my neck to see the tiny hole whistling there, at the center of a glistening spiderweb. There was a matching hole in the front windshield, higher, and to the left.
Bullet holes. Someone shooting. A small popping sound over the hiss of the highway, like champagne being opened in the next hotel room.
“Oh shit.” Helen thumped the dash, extending the steering column. “Off-program! Emergency override!”
A blue sedan with darkened windows was gaining on us, a dozen car lengths back. There came a sound like a soda can being speared by a sharpened tire iron. Another one. Helen turned the wheel hard right, thudding me into her shoulder as Faith started screaming. The car fishtailed into the far right lane, decelerating.
“Your flock wants its money back!” I shouted.
“The gun! Under your seat!”
Helen hit the accelerator, throwing me back as a second bullet hole blossomed on the passenger side of the windshield where my head had been a second before. I rooted through the garbage. My hand closed on something metallic and sticky and I withdrew a polished slab of chrome with a crosscut latex handle slathered with what I guessed was pink yogurt. I’d fired a gun, once, in the woods behind my grandfather’s cabin – I’d lifted it from his dresser drawer without asking. I’d put my thumb in the exact wrong place. The bolt coming back had broken it instantly.
Traffic purred around us serenely, still on program, a grid of passenger cars and truck-trains, most with opaqued windows. People were napping or watching video inside. We were tooling through the Jersey free-zone, a ten mile strip of land too polluted to be of use to anyone, a ring around the port complex at Galt.
Helen dodged through the grid. The dash lit up, blinking red and yellow. The car’s brain was full of overrides – more BlackNet stuff, or she wouldn’t be able to drive at all on the pike. I fumbled for the gun’s safety, flicked it back and forth a few times fast. I then had no idea which position was which.
“They’ll need an account number and my password to get their money back. They’re trying to scare us,” Helen shouted.
“It’s working!” I shouted. “They may need you, but they don’t need me. Or Faith.”
Helen was making her own lane out of the gravel shoulder, passing car after car. A gray-haired woman in a tiny smart car gave us the finger. We thumped over a cast-off tire tread and fishtailed. I bit my tongue, tasting blood, as another bullet took out the window on Helen’s side of the car.
We all screamed.
My hand was tingling. I stared at the gun drizzling smoke from its short barrel. I’d shot the steering wheel, the bullet ripping through the airbag, triggering a secondary explosion. My heart was doing strange, painful things. I’d almost blown Helen’s brains out. Blood trickled from both her nostrils as she wrestled with the
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