No. Not so much collapsed as melted.
The glideway turned to water. Someone jerked me back, onto solid ground. Several of us spilled onto the deck. Two or three people were scrambling to get clear. The walkway, the piece where we’d been, had literally vanished. Alex was in the river. Along with a young woman.
The guy who’d pulled me back asked if I was okay but didn’t wait for an answer. Two more people were hanging on, calling for help. A teenage girl was yelling into her link. Alex and the woman were being carried downstream.
The teen was saying, “Yes, yes, we’re at Tardy’s. Please hurry—”
Alex could swim reasonably well, and my first reaction was that unless he was hurt, he’d be okay. But that thought was immediately overwhelmed by the roar of Chambourg Falls.
I needed the skimmer.
The glideways weren’t moving, of course, but the way to the riverbank was intact. I took off. Meanwhile, people on shore saw what had happened and began running onto the viaduct to help. The result was that I had to plow through heavy traffic. As I finally got clear, I spotted a familiar woman in a light jacket climbing into one of the skimmers. I needed a moment before I placed her: It was the woman I’d seen on the train to Carnaiva. The Mortician.
Alex and the woman in the river were moving steadily downstream. There was just time enough to get to them. But I suddenly realized I didn’t remember where I’d left the skimmer. It was close to the viaduct. But where? Most of the parking places were taken, and I couldn’t see it.
I ran frantically from one vehicle to another. Where was the damned thing?
I wasted three or four minutes looking. And I hate to admit this, but I was in tears when a guy who’d just parked in the automobile section asked if he could help so I said yeah, I’ve got an emergency, and I’ve lost my skimmer; it’s a green Vamoso, brand-new. He went one way, and I went another. Moments later, I heard his voice. “Over here. It’s over here.” And, “Can I help? Are you okay?” He was short and stocky. Not much more than a kid.
“Do you have a rope in your car? A cable of some kind?”
“No. Sorry.”
“Thanks,” I said, and scrambled into the Vamoso. I started the engine before I was even in the seat and pulled the door shut as I lifted off. We’d had the thing less than a month, and I knew it hadn’t acquired the junk that people always keep in the storage compartment. Like a line.
How the hell was I going to get him out of the water? All I had was the treads.
I swung downstream, calling for help, looking for another skimmer. The police responded by asking me what was my problem? Then, “We’re sending someone now.” But they weren’t there yet, and there was no time left.
The Melony at that point was about a half-kilometer wide, narrowing down as it neared the falls.
I stayed just above the river and spotted the woman. But not Alex. Where the hell was Alex?
Then we were into the rapids. Ahead I could see the observation platforms on both sides from which people came and gawked at the falls. And then I saw Alex. The two were almost abreast, but not close to each other. As I watched, the current drove the woman hard into a rock. Still, she managed to stay afloat.
She saw me coming and tried to wave. She used her left arm, and every time she did it she sank out of sight, only to fight her way back to the surface. Her right arm appeared to be useless.
Finally, an emergency vehicle appeared. But it was too far away to help.
Alex was trying to get to shore, but he was making no progress.
I raced in their direction. The AI warned me I was getting too close to the river. My heart pounded.
I couldn’t save both. There was no way I could manage that. Might not be able to save either.
Make the call.
It had to be Alex. The woman waved at me with her good arm as I passed overhead. I cut to port, positioned myself directly over him, and came down almost on top of him. It was a dangerous maneuver, but I had nothing else. I needed him to grab hold of one of the treads. It was all I could do.
A police voice broke in: “Vamoso, are you crazy? Get out of there.”
I counted to five, thinking how either he was gone, or he was hanging on. Then I started up. We’d picked up some mass, so he was there. I could try the same method with the woman. There was just time, but if Alex was clinging to the treads, I’d almost certainly knock him loose.
But I knew what he’d have wanted.
The current had carried her past me. I came in behind her. The falls was so loud I could barely make out the police voices. “Be careful, Vamoso.”
The water ahead was filled with rocks. I came down above her, got as low as I could. Then the river was gone and I was looking down into that vast chasm. Mist swirled up.
I drifted over a grassy bank and got as low as I could until the extra pressure on the antigravs vanished, signaling he’d let go. Then I pulled up until I could see him. He was stretched out on the shore. On the river, an emergency vehicle was circling the edge of the falls. I landed a few meters from him.
He looked exhausted. “Thanks,” he said.
“I tried to get both of you.”
“I know.” He pulled himself into a sitting position. A police vehicle was coming down near us. “I’m sorry. There wasn’t enough time. I don’t think she could have held on anyhow. It looked as if she’d broken an arm.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
The thing about murder is, it’s so personal. War’s not good either. But in combat, at least, you only get killed because you’ve gotten in the way. Soldiers from opposite sides have even been known to get together after hostilities cease and toast each other. But chances are good that you’ll never raise a glass to someone who’s tried to take you out, you, by name, date of birth, and eye color.
—Racine Vales, Memoirs
“It was a fluxer,” Fenn said. We were in his office.
“A what?” I asked.
“Universal solvent. It was placed on one of the support beams. Held in place by a magnet.”
“What do you carry a universal solvent in?” I asked.
“It gets mixed as it gets sprayed, Chase.”
“I know who’s doing it,” I said.
Both men looked at me in surprise. “Who’s that?” asked Fenn.
“She’s tall, pale, thin. Looks like a mortician. I saw her on the train to Carnaiva, and saw her again the last time I ate at Tardy’s. She was there this morning.”
“You can identify her?”
“Absolutely.”
“All right. Why don’t you look through our files, and we’ll see if we can figure out who she is.”
He turned on a display.
“Before we start,” I said, “I have a question.”
“Sure.”
“The woman who died out there today. Who was she?”
“Her name was Mira Espy. She was twenty.”
Mira hadn’t lived long enough to accomplish much. She looked good, and she enjoyed parties. She was in school, and had a part-time job as a medical receptionist. Judging from the turnout at the memorial service, she had a lot of friends.
The Mortician was Petra Salyeva. She’d been denied a physics doctorate after threatening the life of a young man who hadn’t paid sufficient attention to her. Doctors had diagnosed her with Kalper’s Disease, which severely limits the ability to experience empathy. Authorities were contemplating a mind wipe, but she disappeared while they debated. She was a killer for hire. Current whereabouts unknown. Though not anymore.