Read Online Lie of the Land by Michael F. Russell - Free Book Online
Authors: Michael F. Russell
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in the cities to contend with to go chasing after him, though Sentinel would doubtless keep a locus on him, just in case. In any event, outside the urban emergency zones CivCon were supposed to leave everything to the police, stretched and under-resourced though they were. As he sped towards Luss and Loch Lomond, Carl kept reminding himself of that. Older laws were now in operation.
Speeding past the Luss turn-off, trees drooped their lush branches over the road, and he had to swerve every so often to avoid them. Every few minutes there was a grey patch, like mould, on a far hillside where the conifers had been harvested for wood-chip fuel. He drove, loving the feel of the car, unbelieving. There were only a few other vehicles on the road, and the occasional truck from one of the few haulage firms still in existence. A bus came towards him: folk going to Glasgow to see friends and relatives, after waiting weeks for a three-day entry permit.
The car in front of Carl turned off the main road. He was on his own now, nothing in front or behind, taking the tight curves by Loch Lomond like a rally driver, dodging the potholes. On and up towards Tyndrum he went, cloud-shadows passing across hills that reared on either side; gates and fences, old cars by the side of the road; long grass and signs for closed hotels. Then the hills relaxed, settling down for a spell, stretching out, and the sky broadened. On a straight he made sure he was above forty, then followed Eddieâs instructions.
After restarting the engine, he caught the whiff of burning plastic as the circuit in the engine burned out. Maybe some blip of light on a screen back in Glasgow or Edinburgh or London had gone out. Maybe someone in Command and Control had looked away as it happened, and was now scratching his or her head at the amazing vanishing car. Maybe they were alerting the rural police right now.
âFuck them,â Carl shouted over his music. Second-guessing what the authorities had in mind for him was a pointless, stress-inducing exercise. The people who would make life unpleasant were there, watching and waiting. If they were going to pull him in for a Category 1 offence, keep him in a black site for as long as they pleased, then thatâs what they were going to do. No point in worrying about it.
Easier said than done.
At Tyndrum there was an automated biofuel station. The sign was missing a few letters. Most of the other buildings that looked like they might once have housed a business were boarded up and in the same condition. He sped past.
After another half an hour he pulled over into a lay-by. The last time heâd been to Glen Coe, many years before, the weather had been foul and the cloud low. But now the sky was higher and, miles ahead, the towering land was dark under cloud, spears of sun being doused as the steel sky rolled in over Rannoch Moor. The place was a gateway to somewhere else, the jaws of the earth waiting to swallow you whole. He sat for a few minutes, watching the change of light and shade, each movement of cloud casting a shifting intensity over hill and moor.
âEngage autodriver,â he said. With autodriver on, the safety parameters governing the smart screen were switched off, and the windscreen lit up with object-tags and insets, a brief history of Glen Coe, its geology, and a tag for the one hotel. Still trading, but there was no information on a menu. He switched settings andthe smart screen flipped into weather mode, displaying cloud types, atmospheric pressure, humidity and the chances of the rain continuing. There was a 64 per cent likelihood that a shower would fall within the next hour.
He started the car and drove on. Within the chasm of Glen Coe itself, just twelve minutes later, the rain hit, like a hose being turned against the windscreen. It lashed down, turning the road into a river, potholes invisible, drowned. Water hammering and scorching and furious, wipers barely able to clear the
Speeding past the Luss turn-off, trees drooped their lush branches over the road, and he had to swerve every so often to avoid them. Every few minutes there was a grey patch, like mould, on a far hillside where the conifers had been harvested for wood-chip fuel. He drove, loving the feel of the car, unbelieving. There were only a few other vehicles on the road, and the occasional truck from one of the few haulage firms still in existence. A bus came towards him: folk going to Glasgow to see friends and relatives, after waiting weeks for a three-day entry permit.
The car in front of Carl turned off the main road. He was on his own now, nothing in front or behind, taking the tight curves by Loch Lomond like a rally driver, dodging the potholes. On and up towards Tyndrum he went, cloud-shadows passing across hills that reared on either side; gates and fences, old cars by the side of the road; long grass and signs for closed hotels. Then the hills relaxed, settling down for a spell, stretching out, and the sky broadened. On a straight he made sure he was above forty, then followed Eddieâs instructions.
After restarting the engine, he caught the whiff of burning plastic as the circuit in the engine burned out. Maybe some blip of light on a screen back in Glasgow or Edinburgh or London had gone out. Maybe someone in Command and Control had looked away as it happened, and was now scratching his or her head at the amazing vanishing car. Maybe they were alerting the rural police right now.
âFuck them,â Carl shouted over his music. Second-guessing what the authorities had in mind for him was a pointless, stress-inducing exercise. The people who would make life unpleasant were there, watching and waiting. If they were going to pull him in for a Category 1 offence, keep him in a black site for as long as they pleased, then thatâs what they were going to do. No point in worrying about it.
Easier said than done.
At Tyndrum there was an automated biofuel station. The sign was missing a few letters. Most of the other buildings that looked like they might once have housed a business were boarded up and in the same condition. He sped past.
After another half an hour he pulled over into a lay-by. The last time heâd been to Glen Coe, many years before, the weather had been foul and the cloud low. But now the sky was higher and, miles ahead, the towering land was dark under cloud, spears of sun being doused as the steel sky rolled in over Rannoch Moor. The place was a gateway to somewhere else, the jaws of the earth waiting to swallow you whole. He sat for a few minutes, watching the change of light and shade, each movement of cloud casting a shifting intensity over hill and moor.
âEngage autodriver,â he said. With autodriver on, the safety parameters governing the smart screen were switched off, and the windscreen lit up with object-tags and insets, a brief history of Glen Coe, its geology, and a tag for the one hotel. Still trading, but there was no information on a menu. He switched settings andthe smart screen flipped into weather mode, displaying cloud types, atmospheric pressure, humidity and the chances of the rain continuing. There was a 64 per cent likelihood that a shower would fall within the next hour.
He started the car and drove on. Within the chasm of Glen Coe itself, just twelve minutes later, the rain hit, like a hose being turned against the windscreen. It lashed down, turning the road into a river, potholes invisible, drowned. Water hammering and scorching and furious, wipers barely able to clear the
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