of morning. He breathed a deep sigh. He wondered how he went about surrendering. Surely the men behind him would see that he was trapped and helpless inside his percy? They would not fire at him now. Bagshaw had hinted at all sorts of horrors if he were to be captured, but those lay in the future. Cedric would much rather wait for them than be instantly fried by a fusion torch—or be jellied by falling seventeen stories out that window.
Then his percy tipped slowly and deliberately forward, and toppled over the sill.
He spent a little over three seconds falling to the street—he had System calculate it for him, much later. He thought that he was very young to die, but then he decided that he had aged many years in those three seconds. He never knew whether it was luck or Bagshaw’s skill that had him flat on his back as he reached the ground, in the position where his fragile protoplasm could best take the stress, pressing back into restraining padding.
Bagshaw caught him.
IMPACT!
He was alive. The gray sky was still above him, there was rain on his viewplate, and he could hear his heart.
“Okay, Sprout?”
Cedric repeated the obscenity he had used earlier that evening and augmented it with every other one he could think of. Not very many, really. Not enough. A real man would know more bad words.
Bagshaw set him upright in the percy and flexed his arms as though they hurt. He bent over to view his feet. “Lookit that!” he said. “Cracked the sidewalk.”
“I’d like to break it with your head.” Cedric, tasting salt again, decided that he had bitten his tongue.
“Angel should be along shortly. Let’s go meet him.”
“And I’ll have you know,” Cedric said bitterly, “that I’m not virgo intacta .”
Bagshaw drew in breath with a hiss. “Hot damn!” he said. “Tell me about it sometime.”
Angel turned out to be a rackety Sikorsky of incredible antiquity. It set down right in a public square to pick up Cedric and Bagshaw, then took off again as calm as milk, woof…woof…woof into the dawn sky. It was only after they had cleared the tops of the nearby towers that someone opened fire. None of the occupants seemed very worried by that.
The interior was dark and empty and stank of oil. The pilot and his buddy jabbered into mikes and crouched over controls, with vague red lights flickering over their faces as though they were demons from the pit. Cedric’s percy had been laid flat across the floor like a coffin, and Bagshaw helped him out of it. He was soaked, with his clothes clammy on his skin, but it was only sweat—his pants were no wetter than his poncho. He sat on a bench and leaned back against an icy window and tried not to shake. He felt sick.
Something went by at high speed, and the helicopter rocked in its wake. The pilot made a joke, but Cedric thought that the other two did not find it funny. Then other fast things roared by, and those were apparently goodies, and everyone relaxed.
He was still clutching his little bag of coins. It was all he had left. It held sanity. It held his childhood. It held all his memories—of Christmas parties with Victor playing Santa Claus, of camping trips and rafting and hikes, and himself lasering. He had recorded most of the coins himself, with his own camera, but he had traded with the others, too. There were lots of his favorite shows and dramas in there also, but the commercial stuff was not really important. It was the personal stuff, the junk that no one else would care about—that was what mattered. The images might be out of focus, or the world tilted, or everyone unrecognizable under masks and goggles in the outdoor shots. So what? That was life. Now he had been pitched without warning into a madness of death and terror. Sanity and happiness and love had disappeared from the world, and all he had to hang on to—all he had to remember them by—was that little bag of coins.
Then he realized that he was grieving for Meadowdale, and
Then his percy tipped slowly and deliberately forward, and toppled over the sill.
He spent a little over three seconds falling to the street—he had System calculate it for him, much later. He thought that he was very young to die, but then he decided that he had aged many years in those three seconds. He never knew whether it was luck or Bagshaw’s skill that had him flat on his back as he reached the ground, in the position where his fragile protoplasm could best take the stress, pressing back into restraining padding.
Bagshaw caught him.
IMPACT!
He was alive. The gray sky was still above him, there was rain on his viewplate, and he could hear his heart.
“Okay, Sprout?”
Cedric repeated the obscenity he had used earlier that evening and augmented it with every other one he could think of. Not very many, really. Not enough. A real man would know more bad words.
Bagshaw set him upright in the percy and flexed his arms as though they hurt. He bent over to view his feet. “Lookit that!” he said. “Cracked the sidewalk.”
“I’d like to break it with your head.” Cedric, tasting salt again, decided that he had bitten his tongue.
“Angel should be along shortly. Let’s go meet him.”
“And I’ll have you know,” Cedric said bitterly, “that I’m not virgo intacta .”
Bagshaw drew in breath with a hiss. “Hot damn!” he said. “Tell me about it sometime.”
Angel turned out to be a rackety Sikorsky of incredible antiquity. It set down right in a public square to pick up Cedric and Bagshaw, then took off again as calm as milk, woof…woof…woof into the dawn sky. It was only after they had cleared the tops of the nearby towers that someone opened fire. None of the occupants seemed very worried by that.
The interior was dark and empty and stank of oil. The pilot and his buddy jabbered into mikes and crouched over controls, with vague red lights flickering over their faces as though they were demons from the pit. Cedric’s percy had been laid flat across the floor like a coffin, and Bagshaw helped him out of it. He was soaked, with his clothes clammy on his skin, but it was only sweat—his pants were no wetter than his poncho. He sat on a bench and leaned back against an icy window and tried not to shake. He felt sick.
Something went by at high speed, and the helicopter rocked in its wake. The pilot made a joke, but Cedric thought that the other two did not find it funny. Then other fast things roared by, and those were apparently goodies, and everyone relaxed.
He was still clutching his little bag of coins. It was all he had left. It held sanity. It held his childhood. It held all his memories—of Christmas parties with Victor playing Santa Claus, of camping trips and rafting and hikes, and himself lasering. He had recorded most of the coins himself, with his own camera, but he had traded with the others, too. There were lots of his favorite shows and dramas in there also, but the commercial stuff was not really important. It was the personal stuff, the junk that no one else would care about—that was what mattered. The images might be out of focus, or the world tilted, or everyone unrecognizable under masks and goggles in the outdoor shots. So what? That was life. Now he had been pitched without warning into a madness of death and terror. Sanity and happiness and love had disappeared from the world, and all he had to hang on to—all he had to remember them by—was that little bag of coins.
Then he realized that he was grieving for Meadowdale, and
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