Timecaster

SIXTEEN

Teague and I were childhood buds. Grew up in the same neighborhood. Went to the same schools. Both majored in peace studies and law enforcement down in Carbondale. We applied for the CPD on the same day, and both joined the Timecaster Division on the same day. I loved him like a brother, and would have died for him, knowing he felt the exact same way about me.

Then Vicki came along.

Teague was the one who found her.

“She’s the most incredible woman I’ve ever met, Talon. She makes other women seem like they’re from a different species. You have to book her months in advance, but you really need to try her out. Trust me, man.”

I trusted him. And I booked the time, expecting the most incredible sexual experience of my life.

I didn’t expect to fall in love.

I really didn’t expect her to return that feeling.

And it completely blindsided me when Teague showed me the engagement ring he’d bought for her, because he was in love with her as well.

I was no idiot. I wouldn’t trade a woman for a brother. Not even the greatest woman in the world.

I kept my mouth shut. Teague proposed, and was politely turned down. I swore I’d stop seeing her, out of respect for our friendship.

But I didn’t. I kept seeing her. And I bought an engagement ring of my own, one that Vicki accepted.

Teague went ballistic. Our fight was so brutal that if we both weren’t peace officers, we would have spent at least a decade each in jail. My left arm, right knee, and six ribs all have carbon nanotube weaves thanks to Teague, and his jaw, right arm, and skull suffered similar damage.

When I healed, I married Vicki, and lost my best friend.

I knew he hated me. But I didn’t think the hate ran so deep in him he’d frame me for murder. Or that it ran so deep in me that I’d be clenching the steering wheel and barreling at him at sixty miles per hour.

Since he was matching or surpassing my speed, there was no time for second thoughts. No time for dwelling on actions or consequences or repercussions. I was going to run the fucker off the road or die trying.

I expected no less from him, which was why it really threw me when he hit the brakes.

In the millisecond before impact I swerved, my tail end clipping his front bumper, enough energy, speed, and momentum to send both of our cars rolling end over end like dice.

The airfoam package Vicki insisted I install-because it was far superior to air bags-deployed as advertised, filling the interior of the Vette with a protein foam matrix as I flipped, turned, and eventually came to a stop on my hood.

The foam was clear, permeable enough to breathe in, but strong enough to keep me pinned in my seat without a bit of damage. I was dizzy, but unharmed.

“Solvent,” I said.

The solvent sprayed out of the dashboard jets, instantly dissolving the foam. Gravity kicked in, and I felt the weight of my body as I hung upside down from my seat belt.

“Seat belt.”

It released me, dropping me onto my shoulder.

“Door.”

The twisted door blew off, the recessed explosives ejecting it into the street. I crawled out of the tight opening, kissing the greentop.

I may have been fine, but my car…

Oh, shit. My beautiful car.

It looked like an angry god had crushed it in his fist. I shook away the motes floating around in my vision and locked onto Teague’s Porsche. The same god had smote him as well. But Teague hadn’t opted for the expensive airfoam package, and an old-fashioned air bag pressed him into his seat. I hobbled over, knowing I needed to get out of there, but not willing to leave my former friend if he needed help. An odd feeling, since moments before I’d been ready to kill him.

I unclipped my folding knife from my utility belt and jabbed the air bag, pulling it away from him. His nose looked like a mashed tomato, and his arm hung at a funny angle. I felt for a pulse in his neck.

Strong. For some reason I was relieved by this.

Then his hand shot up, pointing his Taser at me.

I ducked the shot and sprinted away, toward the intersection, blending from near-deserted Wabash onto megabusy Monroe. The people were packed so densely it was tough to walk through them. I managed to push into the street, and then stepped in front of a kindly looking old man on a biofuel scooter.

“Sorry,” I said, plucking him off.

He stared at me, angry and confused.

“Are you fuct? I’ll just call a timecaster.”

“Don’t bother,” I said, taking his helmet. “I already know I did it.”

I twisted the gas handle and melded into traffic. While I knew I was being tracked, I wouldn’t be easy to spot in a stream of several million bikes. I kept executing quick turns, changing directions, backtracking, making it hard for the peace officer bikes-if they knew who to look for-to catch me.

When I finally buzzed past the front of my house I wasn’t surprised to see twenty cops standing guard around the property.

It wasn’t good for my health to try to talk to Vicki right now. But it might be the only way to save my marriage.

I kept my head down, whipping around the corner and ditching the biofuel bike in front of my neighbor’s house. I hung the helmet on the handlebars, the engine still on. Then I swallowed my pride and rang his videobell.

Chomsky’s face appeared on the monitor. He was bald with a big nose and looked pissed, but that was his perpetual look. We’d been neighbors for more than ten years, and friendly for the first few, until his vines grew across to my rooftop and I harvested them for biofuel tax, figuring they were on my property. He took offense and raised a big stink with the local alderman, resulting in a big fine for me.

Chomsky was a dick. But he was also my only shot at seeing Vicki.

“What the hell do you want, Talon?”

Good. Apparently he hadn’t seen the news yet.

“I had an accident and can’t get in my house. I need to get on your roof to jump over.”

“You look like shit.”

The remnants of the airfoam had become a slimy mucus, which gave my coat of stinky biomass garbage a glossy sheen.

“Please, Chomsky. I know we don’t get along. But this is an emergency.”

“A month of foliage.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’ll let you on my roof, but you’ll owe me a month of foliage for biofuel tax.”

I glanced at the corner. Two peace officers were coming my way.

“Sure, Chomsky. A month.”

“Really? You sure agreed to that quickly. Let’s make it two months.”

“Two months? You’re such a dick.”

“That’s the offer. Take it or leave it.”

The cop duo had picked up their pace. One was holding his earlobe.

“Deal,” I said.

“And apologize for calling me a dick.”

I ground my molars. “I’m sorry, Chomsky. You aren’t a dick.”

“That’s right. Who’s the dick?”

The cops were almost on me.

“I am, Chomsky. I’m the dick. Now, please open the door.”

“Wipe your feet before you come up.”

He buzzed me in. I didn’t bother wiping my feet. I pushed past him in the hallway, running up his stairs as fast as I could, bursting out onto his green roof. I hurried to the edge and looked down.

Cops were everywhere, many of them focused on their DTs, tracking my chip.

“Talon, you ass-master! You trailed shit all through my house! And it stinks!”

I judged the gap between my roof and his. It was only six feet, but the height made it seem a lot farther away. Did I have the strength to make the leap? I was exhausted, beaten up, covered with twenty pounds of gunk.

“The stink is making me puke! You owe me a carpet cleaning as well, mister!”

“Shut up, Chomsky! You’re such a dick!”

“I’m calling the alderman!”

Dick.

Chomsky stomped off. I looked at the gap again, sure I wouldn’t be able to make it across. I wondered if my dick neighbor had a pair of frog legs. A kermit could make the jump, easy.

“Talon?”

I glanced over at my roof. Vicki was there. Vicki, the love of my life. My wife. My everything. And suddenly I had the strength of ten men. I took five running steps, then launched myself into the air, sailing toward her, soaring like a bird on the wings of love.

Halfway there I knew I’d be about a foot short.