Alan Dean Foster

  "They're right behind us. Lose them."

  "I can't! There's too much traffic!" his assistant yelled.

  "We can fix that." Harcourt was as composed as ever, though there was tension in his face. Leaning forward, the entrepreneur began flipping switches on the dash until he hit the fight one. The siren wailed and the roof lights came to life. Harcourt leaned back and smiled contentedly as the traffic in front of them compliantly moved to the curbs, making Kipling's task much easier.

  "You see?" he explained to his assistant. "All organized societies are the same. It is simply a matter of knowing which buttons to push."

  "How did they find us?" Kipling spoke without taking his attention from the road and the rearview mirror.

  "I do not know. When this is over I will find out, and that particular lesion in our enterprise will be excised."

  Kipling looked over at his boss in astonishment. "You still believe we can go on with this?"

  "Certainly!" Harcourt was feeling much better. They'd gained another quarter block on the pursuing vehicle. "We have the drug and the fon-nula.

  We will find new means of

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  distribution and a new base of operations. We can still work through one of the other human tribes where dealings of the type we intend are common.

  With the kind of money our initial sales will generate we will have enough power to do anything we want."

  "But what about them?" Kipling indicated the rearview, where the slugmobile clung relentlessly. "What if we go to jail?"

  "First they must catch us. If we can lose these two I can get out of the country for a while. I have escape routes planned for just such an eventuality. You will come with me. Everything else I can leave behind.

  Much of it will run itself in my absence, and human communications are good. I will be able to keep in touch and supervise.

  "As for the legal aspects of our present small predicament, I have contacts in the community I can work through. I have studied some human law. Unless the humans can bring me to trial for specific crimes within a certain time, and present evidence, the case will be dropped. I have good human lawyers and excellent character references. Without the ss'jabroka to prove their claims and without witnesses to other incidents, their legal process will forget us. I can have the particular interfering officers retired or transferred somewhere where they will not trouble us further."

  Kipling's thoughts were churning. Sometimes it was hard to keep up with his boss. Harcourt was always two steps ahead of everyone else, human as well as Newcomer.

  "What about the murder charges, like that damn cop said?"

  "Once we are in a place of safety I can make certain no one with any knowledge harmful to us is capable of informing on us. Don't worry about that. Such things are surprisingly simple to take care of. Silence one potential talker and it serves as a sufficient object lesson to any others.

  "And remember that the formula is always safely with us because I carry it here." He tapped his forehead. "That is the key to everything. As long as the formula exists, its owner has power." His gaze rose to the rearview. "But we need time to reorganize. We must not be taken by these 185

  stupid police. They know too much, can make too many connections if we are taken into their custody. Once safely away I will see they are taken care of. "

  "Won't eliminating them make their superiors suspicious?"

  "Suspicions count for naught in a human court. You must be able to prove things. I will arrange it so that nothing can be proved." He smiled contentedly at his assistant. Yes, he was feeling much better now.

  "Everything is going to work out in spite of this little setback.'

  His confidence was contagious. Kipling found himself beginning to smile as he worked with the wheel. His boss was going to see to it that the two cops who'd caused all the trouble were eliminated. If everything worked out well, perhaps Harcourt would allow him to be a part of that.

  Francisco focused on the oncoming traffic, patiently pointing out potential trouble spots to Sykes, letting his partner do the driving while scouting ahead for him as he'd been taught to do at Academy. No matter how close they came to another car or truck, the Newcomer's voice never changed.

  Cool, Sykes thought, then corrected himself. No, not cool. Relentless.

  "Slow traffic coming up on the right," Francisco announced evenly. "You're clear at the left rear. Careful, red light ahead, but you can make it."

  Sykes shot through the intersection, toying with the changing light and the squalling horns of oncoming drivers. "Big rig at three o'clock." The sergeant made sure to avoid the eighteen-wheeler.

  With his partner's help, Sykes diced his way through the cross-traffic without so much as scraping a single civilian paint job. It was easy to keep track of their quarry since they'd been thoughtful enough to turn on their siren and lights. The reason for doing so was clear, just as it was clear that Harcourt didn't realize running the siren would have done the job just as well without making himself half so visible. Sykes wasn't about to pick up the radio and inform the Newcomer of his mistake.

  Kipling was having an easier time of it now that he believed they were running to something and not merely away from the pursuing cops. In the rearview he saw to his

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  delight that the same traffic which had swung over to let the wailing police cruiser pass was edging back out into the street and making pursuit increasingly difficult. They were going to make it with ease, lose their pursuit and then abandon the police vehicle before others could join in the chase. After that Harcourt would see that they slipped safely out of the country. Harcourt was smarter than the humans. Harcourt was unstoppable.

  Kipling knew that swearing allegiance to the entrepreneur was the smartest move he'd ever made.

  Sykes clung grimly to the wheel, using his hom frequently to clear a path through the converging, obstructing traffic ahead. Francisco continued to serve as copilot.

  "Yellow light ahead turning red, oncoming traffic both directions." Sykes ignored the instructions this time and floored the accelerator. The police cruiser was getting too far ahead.

  Francisco abruptly lost his cool. "Red light, red light!"

  Sykes swung around the merging traffic and cut through the intersection to continue the chase. Oncoming cars let loose with their homs, scattering in all directions as the detective sliced across lanes and barriers. The slugmobile bashed across concrete dividers and kept going. Sykes patted the wheel. She was as tough as she was ugly.

  The wild ride finally brought them parallel to the cruiser, but in the wrong lane. Sykes kept one hand on the wheel and drew the Casull with the other, bringing it up and around to ping through the passenger-side window.

  Francisco tried to shove himself into the back seat as Sykes fought to balance the huge pistol a few inches from the Newcomer's nose.

  Kipling happened to glance to his left. His eyes widened at the sight of the huge bore bobbing in his direction.

  That's when Francisco reacted to something he saw beyond the barrel of the gun. "Green light, Matthew." Sykes was fighting to steady the heavy weapon and didn't respond. "Green light!"

  Finally Sykes glanced ahead, in time to see a row of 187

  waiting cars leaving the intersection in front of them. None of which would have mattered if they hadn't been in the wrong lane.

  "Shit!" Sykes locked up the brakes and fought the wheel, slewing the slugmobile sideways in front of the braking oncoming traffic. Kipling veered around one slow truck ambling through the intersection and accelerated westward.

  There was no time to check maps. The side street directly ahead was the only course left open that didn't involve retreat. Sykes floored the gas and rocketed into the double alley. Garbage cans went flying, banging like ball bearings in a pinball machine off walls and pavement. Sacks of heavy-gauge plastic tore under the slugmobile's impact and showered the windshield with debris. Sykes cursed, turned the wipers on High, and kept
going.

  The slugmobile emerged into the next main street and wheeled to the west.

  At the first avenue, Sykes ripped back out into traffic.

  "Anything?" he asked hopefully.

  Francisco stared hard, straight ahead. "Nothing, Matt."

  "Goddamnit! They must've turned up Washington." He started searching for a place to turn right.

  "No, wait! There they are, two blocks ahead of us in front of that bus."

  "Nice try, you bastards." Sykes leaned back in his seat. Moments later he was able to pull in close behind the fleeing police unit.

  It immediately ascended an overpass. Two cars pulled in right behind it, cutting Sykes off. Pounding on the wheel in frustration, the detective sped along beneath the overpass until he saw the next onramp approaching.

  Francisco saw it too. "Matthew, please don't do anything foolish. I have a wife and young child."

  "Yeah. Cute, too." Sykes floored the pedal, sent the slugmobile racing up the onramp. Francisco shut his eyes as well as his mouth.

  The car went flying over the edge, just missing the curve that led onto the freeway, and slammed back to the pave-188

  ment only a few yards behind the police cruiser's bumper. Sykes apologized absently to his partner, who had been bounced off the slugmobile's roof, and concentrated on hanging tough.

  The police unit hung a sharp right, cutting through a parking lot with the slugmobile in close pursuit. Following Harcourt's directions, Kipling turned right into the Second Street tunnel, clipping a sedan in passing.

  The driver of the oncoming car hit his brakes and sent his vehicle into a wild skid. Traffic piled up behind him.

  Sykes screeched to a halt behind the congestion and leaned out his window, trying to make himself heard over the babble of angry horns and drivers.

  "Forget it, move it! Move your goddamn cars!"

  No one was paying any attention to him. Dazed drivers were climbing out of their vehicles, checking themselves for cuts and bruises, inspecting their cars while trying to decide which of their equally bewildered fellow drivers to exchange insurance numbers with. A swearing Sykes slid back behind the wheel and sent the slugmobile forward until he made contact with the rear bumper of the first car in front of him. The slugmobile's engine raced and the temperature gauge rose alarmingly as Sykes began to push the stalled coupe out of the way.

  A young man saw what was going on, abandoned the woman he'd been arguing with, and rushed toward the slugmobile, waving both arms madly.

  "Hey, man, that's real chrome! What the hell you think you're doing?"

  "Sorry." Sykes spared him the briefest possible smile. "Police business."

  He rolled up his window and continued to push, ignoring the gesticulating driver who paced the slugmobile, pounding on the glass as he strove to get Sykes's attention.

  He made room before the slugmobile's radiator blew, scraped paint and chrome as he accelerated up the tunnel.

  Kipling took the police cruiser up the first freeway onramp. Harcourt had been gazing out the back window. Now he settled back into his seat.

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  "There now. That wasn't so difficult." He worked the dash controls that switched off the siren and lights. "No need for these any longer."

  "I was beginning to worry," Kipling confessed.

  "No need to. You do the driving and I will do the worrying for both of us. " Harcourt reached into the back seat, picked up the suitcase, and put it on his lap. He indicated the speedometer. "They really had no chance of catching us. Even though this is an official vehicle, there is no need to draw attention to us. Reduce your velocity to the speed limit." Kipling nodded and promptly slowed down to sixty.

  Sykes was picking his way through the freeway traffic like Andretti at Indianapolis, weaving around cars and pickups until his partner sat up straight and let out a shout.

  "There! Straight ahead of us, in the slow lane!"

  "Don't worry," Sykes told him. "I got 'em."

  He eased off the accelerator. Francisco eycd him quizzically but said nothing, which was just as well because his partner wasn't in the mood to explain. The van on their fight made an excellent blind. It was traveling slightly faster than the cruiser. Sykes watched the van, the traffic ahead and behind, the freeway itself. Calculating.

  Offramp coming up soon. He'd have to time it just right because he knew Harcourt wouldn't give him a second chance. Sykes had begun to respect the Newcomer as much as he'd come to hate him.

  Now! The slugmobile fell behind the van, changing lanes quickly. Sykes found himself parallel to the police unit. Kipling drove unconcernedly, convinced they'd lost their pursuers miles back in the Second Street tunnel. By the time he glanced to his left the slugmobile was turning hard right to slam into the cruiser's flank. Kipling struggled to correct, only to discover the maneuver had forced him onto the offramp immediately ahead.

  Door to door, the two vehicles went squealing and slewing to the right.

  Kipling thumped the pedal and broke out in front with Sykes clinging determinedly to his back bumper. Both cars roared off the ramp and up onto the Vincent Thomas Bridge that crossed Long Beach Harbor.

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  Traffic was blessedly light. At eighty miles an hour Sykes had no time for sightsecing, but Francisco couldn't keep himself from gazing out the window and down at the inky bay they were traversing. Not all his thoughts were on their quarry. Humans built sturdy bridges, but they had been known to collapse. Then there was the matter of side barriers, which looked high and sturdy, but at the speed they were going ...

  He was immensely relieved when both cars thundered off the far end of the bridge and skidded out onto Henry Ford Boulevard.

  The two-lane straightaway ran parallel to the sea. Sykes pushed the slugmobile to its limits as he pulled out one more time alongside the police unit. His car still hadn't recovered from bulldozing a path through the pileup back in the tunnel and the temp gauge continued to flirt with the red zone. Sykes knew he could hang on for as long as it was going to take. He wasn't as confident about his vehicle. The engine sounded lousy, but at ninety miles per he kept slamming into the side of the fleeing police cruiser.

  Kipling finally got the idea, realized he could push as well as take. He raked over the front of the slugmobile, turning its nose slightly. Metal screamed. Sykes found himself speeding along the dangerous dirt shoulder and was forced to drop back. Rolling himself wouldn't catch their quarry.

  Kipling grinned into the rearview mirror as he pulled far out in front, turned back to the road barely in time to see the barrier ahead coming up fast in the cruiser's headlights. Harcourt was bellowing at him as he slammed on the brakes.

  A chain-link fence marked the end of the road. Kipling had halted maybe a couple of yards in front of the barrier. On the other side of the fence, pavement led to ocean and an abandoned drawbridge. Except for the bridge, all was dark water. He found himself sweating. If he hadn't turned in time, hadn't stopped before crashing through ...

  "Turn it around, turn us around!" Harcourt was yelling at 191

  him. Startled, he spun the wheel and headed back the way they'd come.

  To find the slugmobile heading straight for them. At the last possible instant, ignorant as he was of Newcomer attitudes toward suicide, Sykes yanked the wheel over and sent the car sliding sideways. The passenger side rammed into the police unit, the nose of the black-and-white smashing into the rear door of the slugmobile. Locked in a twisted metallic embrace, both cars did a pair of screeching pirouettes before coming to a stop. Fire erupted beneath the hood of the cruiser.

  Though he'd braced himself for the impact, Sykes was still stunned.

  Disoriented but aware, the first thing he saw when he looked up was the unconscious Francisco. The Newcomer was bleeding from a gash across his forehead. Sykes leaned over. The head wound was messy but not serious.

  There was more blood than damage.

  Then he noticed the blaze flaring merrily beneath
the hood of the other vehicle. Its front end was locked into the slugmobile's rear seat and trunk. Near the gas tank.

  Sykes wrestled with his seat harness until he freed himself, then stumbled outside and around the front of the car. Dragging the door on the passenger side open, he grabbed two handfuls of Francisco and hauled him out of the ruined vehicle.

  As he was struggling with his partner's bulk he saw Harcourt squeezing himself through the police cruiser's broken windshield. Bruised, bleeding, and no longer confident, the Newcomer entrepreneur reached back inside to extract the priceless suitcase. He jumped to the pavement and started running.

  Sykes forced himself to keep dragging Francisco until he was certain he'd removed his partner to a safe distance. Then he drew the Casull and put his legs in gear as he headed off in pursuit of Harcourt. With each stride he could feel himself loosening up, felt the pain of the collision fading from his muscles.

  How fast could a Newcomer run? They were big but not particularly quick, but how did they hold up over the long

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  haul? Maybe he should have paid more attention to the Newcomer section of the sports pages.

  He reminded himself that this race wouldn't go to the swiftest. Don't sprint, he told himself. Keep it steady, keep it even, and he'd have Harcourt under the gun in a few minutes.

  The Newcomer wasn't far ahead. Harcourt was older than Kipling and he looked tired. Once he stumbled and Sykes found himself grinning. They were big, but they had their own weaknesses.

  Harcourt reached the chain-link fence at the end of the road, heaved the suitcase over the top, and started climbing. The drawbridge loomed ahead.

  He wasn't climbing too well, either. The crash had obviously affected him.

  Sykes lumbered past the burning police cruiser. A glance in its direction showed Kipling still behind the wheel, his head slumped forward on the dented plastic. The detective was ten yards beyond when both gas tanks went, one after the other. Hoods, door panels, engine parts, and glass went flying in every direction. So did Kipling.