Read Online The Sheriff of Yrnameer by Michael Rubens - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Rubens
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Nora.
“It’s a square!” said Philip.
“It’s wrong!” said Nora.
“It doesn’t fit!” repeated Cole, except the patbot was ignoring them and still trying to cover a round hole with a square object whose diagonal width didn’t quite equal the diameter of the circle, and Cole and Nora and Philip began waving their hands and shouting various permutations of “wrong!” and “piece!” and “not fit!” and “no no
no
!” with increasing volume and panic until Cole shouted, “You’re going to make the cockpit
explode
!” and Philip said,
“Eeeeeeeeuuurrrp
!”
Cole began to sweat.
He attacked the control board, switching switches, dialing dials, and butting buttons as fast as he could. Some of the buttons apparently hadn’t gotten the message that he’d turned off the ergonomicauto-adjuster, and he had to chase them around the control board. “Stop it! Stay still!” he shouted at one of the air-lock controls, which was dodging back and forth, evading his stabbing finger.
“Officer! Officer!” Nora said. “I have your badge number! EJ-439! You’d better believe I’m going to file a report!”
“No, don’t tell him that!” said Cole.
Without pausing in its task, the patbot jabbed another arm into the cockpit, depositing a thick sheaf of Payper in Nora’s hands. “Greetings, shareholder,” began the stack of Payper. “This is Form 29-32a, the official document for shareholders and citizens who wish to lodge a complaint regarding the patrol system, consistent with civil codes A9A-1427 and—”
Nora hurled the Payper away. The stack exploded into its component sheets, filling the cockpit with 127 pieces of Payper, all issuing instructions at once.
“… After completing the description on page forty-two (maximum five hundred words) please …” “… this page serves as a reference for the other forms you may need …” “… please have this page notarized to indicate you’ve had the previous page notarized. …”
They swarmed around Cole, blocking his view. He batted and swatted them away, thinking fleetingly that this was an absolutely perfect metaphor for his life, and then he cracked his hand painfully on Teg’s very solid helmet that had been hiding somewhere in the chattering cloud. No, he thought,
now
it’s the perfect metaphor.
The patbot had positioned the square patch directly in the middle of the circle, no doubt with micromillimeter accuracy. Cole caught a whiff of the characteristic fresh citrus scent as the chemicals mixed and the catalyst welder flared, the edge of the circular hole glowing as the patbot traced its circumference with the device. Cole hoped he’d survive long enough to get the horrible tumors caused by that scent, one of the most powerful carcinogens in existence.
How much time until the patbot disconnected? Twenty seconds? Maybe, if they were lucky. Reroute the power, the flight controls, eject the Zum Card with the course calcs—probably fifteen seconds now—what else? What else? Life-support systems! Teg’s helmet had rebounded off a wall somewhere and was back floating in front of his face. He shoved it away.
“We’ve got to get out of the cockpit and seal it off,” he said to Nora and Philip without taking his eyes off the control panel. “When he disconnects, the vacuum’s going to make the cockpit—”
From behind him he heard the heavy slam of the bulkhead door, and the
whir
as it sealed itself shut. Clearly Nora and Philip were way ahead of him in terms of getting out of the cockpit and sealing it shut, before the vacuum made it—
“Implode,” Cole finished.
It was evening, the sky shading from cloudless blue to radiant pink to a dark, rich purple.
The eight remaining Bad Men had finally reached the edge of the rocky plains, the forest ahead of them. They were not the sort to appreciate the splendor of the sunset, especially in the mood they were in now: hungry, tired, and thirsty.
Without the compass it took them an
“It’s a square!” said Philip.
“It’s wrong!” said Nora.
“It doesn’t fit!” repeated Cole, except the patbot was ignoring them and still trying to cover a round hole with a square object whose diagonal width didn’t quite equal the diameter of the circle, and Cole and Nora and Philip began waving their hands and shouting various permutations of “wrong!” and “piece!” and “not fit!” and “no no
no
!” with increasing volume and panic until Cole shouted, “You’re going to make the cockpit
explode
!” and Philip said,
“Eeeeeeeeuuurrrp
!”
Cole began to sweat.
He attacked the control board, switching switches, dialing dials, and butting buttons as fast as he could. Some of the buttons apparently hadn’t gotten the message that he’d turned off the ergonomicauto-adjuster, and he had to chase them around the control board. “Stop it! Stay still!” he shouted at one of the air-lock controls, which was dodging back and forth, evading his stabbing finger.
“Officer! Officer!” Nora said. “I have your badge number! EJ-439! You’d better believe I’m going to file a report!”
“No, don’t tell him that!” said Cole.
Without pausing in its task, the patbot jabbed another arm into the cockpit, depositing a thick sheaf of Payper in Nora’s hands. “Greetings, shareholder,” began the stack of Payper. “This is Form 29-32a, the official document for shareholders and citizens who wish to lodge a complaint regarding the patrol system, consistent with civil codes A9A-1427 and—”
Nora hurled the Payper away. The stack exploded into its component sheets, filling the cockpit with 127 pieces of Payper, all issuing instructions at once.
“… After completing the description on page forty-two (maximum five hundred words) please …” “… this page serves as a reference for the other forms you may need …” “… please have this page notarized to indicate you’ve had the previous page notarized. …”
They swarmed around Cole, blocking his view. He batted and swatted them away, thinking fleetingly that this was an absolutely perfect metaphor for his life, and then he cracked his hand painfully on Teg’s very solid helmet that had been hiding somewhere in the chattering cloud. No, he thought,
now
it’s the perfect metaphor.
The patbot had positioned the square patch directly in the middle of the circle, no doubt with micromillimeter accuracy. Cole caught a whiff of the characteristic fresh citrus scent as the chemicals mixed and the catalyst welder flared, the edge of the circular hole glowing as the patbot traced its circumference with the device. Cole hoped he’d survive long enough to get the horrible tumors caused by that scent, one of the most powerful carcinogens in existence.
How much time until the patbot disconnected? Twenty seconds? Maybe, if they were lucky. Reroute the power, the flight controls, eject the Zum Card with the course calcs—probably fifteen seconds now—what else? What else? Life-support systems! Teg’s helmet had rebounded off a wall somewhere and was back floating in front of his face. He shoved it away.
“We’ve got to get out of the cockpit and seal it off,” he said to Nora and Philip without taking his eyes off the control panel. “When he disconnects, the vacuum’s going to make the cockpit—”
From behind him he heard the heavy slam of the bulkhead door, and the
whir
as it sealed itself shut. Clearly Nora and Philip were way ahead of him in terms of getting out of the cockpit and sealing it shut, before the vacuum made it—
“Implode,” Cole finished.
It was evening, the sky shading from cloudless blue to radiant pink to a dark, rich purple.
The eight remaining Bad Men had finally reached the edge of the rocky plains, the forest ahead of them. They were not the sort to appreciate the splendor of the sunset, especially in the mood they were in now: hungry, tired, and thirsty.
Without the compass it took them an
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