something?”
“Will I live to enjoy it?” he whispered, aware that he was digging into the seat with all ten fingers.
“Wouldn’t be much of an honor if you didn’t, would it? Honestly, I find this preoccupation with death on your part most unhealthy in a Starfighter, my boy. I fail to comprehend your attitude. You’re much too young to be thinking about dying.”
“I agree,” said Alex readily, “so why don’t you slow down a little, okay? Please?”
Centauri shook his head, concentrating on his driving. “Can’t do that. Not now. Wouldn’t do.” The car continued to accelerate. Now the mountain landscape outside was little more than a blur, dark shapes blending into one another, individual details incomprehensible with speed, the world outside green and brown streaks on black, as swirled together as the colors in a Georgia O’Keeffe painting.
“The amusing part of this is that it’s all a mistake.” Centauri spoke casually, with apparent disregard for such possibilities as rocks in the road or washouts. “ ’Cause that particular Starfighter game was supposed to be delivered to Las Vegas, not a fleaspeck trailer park in the middle of tumbleweeds and tarantulas.
“So it must be destiny, fate. Luck even, that brought us together. And as the poets say, the rest is history!”
Alex found time to wonder at the old man’s words despite the terror engulfing him. “That particular game? What’s special about that particular game?”
“Relays. Grid perception. Depth simulacra. Had to have some primitive, ordinary-type arcade Starfighter games made and spread around or some repair and distribution people might’ve gotten curious. Not your usual integrated circuitry inside that box, oh no!” He chuckled. “Almost would’ve been worth it to see the expression on some repairman’s mug if he’d gotten inside that game, or one of its relatives. He’d think it was some kind o’ elaborate gag. No gag, though. Oh no, no gag.” He glanced back at his petrified passenger. “Integral patterned inertia harness secured?”
“Huh?”
“Seat belt on?”
“Oh.” Alex examined the peculiarly padded straps that emerged from either side of the high-backed seat, pulled them across his chest and fought for a moment with the strange fastening system. The harness seemed to caress him, adjusting itself to the contours of his body like a cluster of flat tentacles. Initially a disquieting sensation, but the touch was so light it grew soothing. Besides which he was much too scared to pay close attention to anything the straps might be doing. He could barely bring himself to keep his eyes open.
They passed a tall white tower that blew apart from the force of their passing. Fragments covered the road in their wake. A stop sign, or something advertising a store or gas station farther up the road. Now it was splinters. Nor was it the first unfortunate object to feel the effects of the car’s passing. Their track was strewn with uprooted bushes, weeds, small trees and one badly addled raccoon, left staggering in the darkness.
The highway patrolman ought to have been listening to official calls. Instead, he lay back in his seat, the police band on very low, the portable on the seat nearby very loud and alive with AC/DC belting out “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap.” Not a lullaby, but still it was all the officer could do to stay awake, despite the Australians’ urgent remonstrations.
He was alone in the squad car, no one to talk to and certainly nothing in the way of traffic on the mountain road to keep him awake. Something went beep and he let his eyes slide idly to the radar gun mounted on the dash.
Then something like a horizontal tornado exploded past in a wash of white metal. The squad car rocked in the afterblast, dumping the radio on the floor and reducing the FM wail to a muffled squeal. The squad car slewed around on its rear tires and ratcheted to a halt on the gravel lining the shoulder.
As
“Will I live to enjoy it?” he whispered, aware that he was digging into the seat with all ten fingers.
“Wouldn’t be much of an honor if you didn’t, would it? Honestly, I find this preoccupation with death on your part most unhealthy in a Starfighter, my boy. I fail to comprehend your attitude. You’re much too young to be thinking about dying.”
“I agree,” said Alex readily, “so why don’t you slow down a little, okay? Please?”
Centauri shook his head, concentrating on his driving. “Can’t do that. Not now. Wouldn’t do.” The car continued to accelerate. Now the mountain landscape outside was little more than a blur, dark shapes blending into one another, individual details incomprehensible with speed, the world outside green and brown streaks on black, as swirled together as the colors in a Georgia O’Keeffe painting.
“The amusing part of this is that it’s all a mistake.” Centauri spoke casually, with apparent disregard for such possibilities as rocks in the road or washouts. “ ’Cause that particular Starfighter game was supposed to be delivered to Las Vegas, not a fleaspeck trailer park in the middle of tumbleweeds and tarantulas.
“So it must be destiny, fate. Luck even, that brought us together. And as the poets say, the rest is history!”
Alex found time to wonder at the old man’s words despite the terror engulfing him. “That particular game? What’s special about that particular game?”
“Relays. Grid perception. Depth simulacra. Had to have some primitive, ordinary-type arcade Starfighter games made and spread around or some repair and distribution people might’ve gotten curious. Not your usual integrated circuitry inside that box, oh no!” He chuckled. “Almost would’ve been worth it to see the expression on some repairman’s mug if he’d gotten inside that game, or one of its relatives. He’d think it was some kind o’ elaborate gag. No gag, though. Oh no, no gag.” He glanced back at his petrified passenger. “Integral patterned inertia harness secured?”
“Huh?”
“Seat belt on?”
“Oh.” Alex examined the peculiarly padded straps that emerged from either side of the high-backed seat, pulled them across his chest and fought for a moment with the strange fastening system. The harness seemed to caress him, adjusting itself to the contours of his body like a cluster of flat tentacles. Initially a disquieting sensation, but the touch was so light it grew soothing. Besides which he was much too scared to pay close attention to anything the straps might be doing. He could barely bring himself to keep his eyes open.
They passed a tall white tower that blew apart from the force of their passing. Fragments covered the road in their wake. A stop sign, or something advertising a store or gas station farther up the road. Now it was splinters. Nor was it the first unfortunate object to feel the effects of the car’s passing. Their track was strewn with uprooted bushes, weeds, small trees and one badly addled raccoon, left staggering in the darkness.
The highway patrolman ought to have been listening to official calls. Instead, he lay back in his seat, the police band on very low, the portable on the seat nearby very loud and alive with AC/DC belting out “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap.” Not a lullaby, but still it was all the officer could do to stay awake, despite the Australians’ urgent remonstrations.
He was alone in the squad car, no one to talk to and certainly nothing in the way of traffic on the mountain road to keep him awake. Something went beep and he let his eyes slide idly to the radar gun mounted on the dash.
Then something like a horizontal tornado exploded past in a wash of white metal. The squad car rocked in the afterblast, dumping the radio on the floor and reducing the FM wail to a muffled squeal. The squad car slewed around on its rear tires and ratcheted to a halt on the gravel lining the shoulder.
As
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