The Missing Link
by Grey Rollins
Illustration by Alan M. Clark
Throughout history, human societies have been restrained by the rate at which information could travel. The size of empires was determined by how fast news of a rebellion in the provinces could reach the capitol. Merchants receiving word of overseas markets via sailing ships could only guess at what happened in the interim.
Beginning with the discovery that intelligible signals could be sent by electromagnetic waves, global communications became effectively instantaneous. The information age had begun.
Whereas many situations require immediate response, the ability to receive news in time to react appropriately made a huge difference in how humans regarded their world. Events that had previously been over before the news reached interested parties could now be reported essentially in real time.
There were still, unfortunately, limitations on what could be accomplished. As long as all that was required was the exchange of information, response could be immediate and effective. But some things, such as a doctor responding to a medical emergency, require physical presence. Those who could not afford to have an agent on the spot to respond to their instructions were still essentially impotent. Power remained concentrated in the hands of those who could afford a representative.
The introduction of the Holmes Door changed that. The ability to walk through a Door and instantaneously be in another place ushered in an entirely new class of response. Although the apparatus was too bulky and expensive for individuals to own their own Doors, it was only a matter of time before larger, more institutional users began to show an interest…
The night air was thick with humidity, almost velvety to the touch. A slow-moving line of thunderstorms had passed through late in the afternoon, but had not brought any relief from the oppressive heat.
Pat Connelly was late getting home. Insects flared briefly in her headlights before smashing against the windshield as she hissed down the road, trying to make up time.
Up ahead was an older model Ford, the pair of taillights that she had been following for the last twenty minutes. They had pulled onto I-26 just outside of Charleston, probably after taking a hit at a brightly lit fast-charge station at the top of the ramp. Fords were notorious for getting poor mileage as their batteries got older.
Of course, with the depression gathering momentum and a war on, it wasn’t likely that the owner of the Ford could easily get new batteries. They would just have to make do with what they had for a while longer. Pat could afford to feel smug, she had bought a brand new Canberra just two days before the President had slapped an embargo on imported Australian goods. If its reputation was any indication, she could expect to get years of use out of the car before it required any maintenance.
Suddenly, the car ahead slewed violently to the left. At first, Pat thought that they had swerved to avoid an animal in the road, but the car began to throw showers of sparks. Long strings of dancing orange pinpoints spiraled across the concrete. The car spun nose-for-tail, backing down the road. It began a slow arc, heading for the median.
Pat was already riding her brakes, frantically trying to keep from overrunning the Ford as it slowed. When it hit the rougher pavement at the edge of the road, it shuddered and turned more sharply. It literally plowed the grass in the median, leaving dark furrows where it had passed.
As it came to rest, Pat pulled in behind it, leaving her headlights on so she would be able to see. She started to get out, then froze in confusion. Something was wrong. She could see the interior of the car—all of it, not just a narrow band through the windshield. The front of the car was gone. So were the driver’s legs. Bright arterial blood spurted from the stumps.
Panic hit, simultaneous with a wave of nausea. She wrenched open her door and leaned out, retching. Precious seconds passed before she could master her stomach.
Without looking back at the driver of the Ford, she began pawing for something, anything, that would serve as a tourniquet. A scarf… but she would need another, as both legs were missing. Frantically, she dug through her pocketbook, then realized that the pocketbook’s strap was as good as anything else she might find. She dumped the contents on the seat, placed her foot against the pocketbook, and jerked the strap with her hands, ripping it loose.
It took all the courage she could muster to turn and face the Ford again. The driver, still strapped into the seat, was staring slack-jawed at his thighs. Swallowing hard in a burning throat, she slapped at the distress button on the dash with her palm, automatically broadcasting a radio signal requesting assistance.
Biting her lip, she then did the hardest thing she had ever done in her life.
As the crow flies, Sergeant Owen Rivers was not far away when the MID—Motorist in Distress—alarm on the dash of his highway patrol cruiser went off, but, as the old saw goes, you can’t get there from here. He had to turn his car around, retrace the last twelve kilometers he had driven, travel two kilometers east to a junction with a secondary road that intersected with the Interstate, then speed westwards towards the spot marked on his heads-up display.
By the time he arrived at the wreck, nearly fifteen minutes had elapsed. Before getting out of the car, he sized up the condition of the Ford and its driver and radioed in for an ambulance.
Seconds later, he was feeling for a pulse in the driver of the Ford. If there was one, it was too faint for him to feel.
There had to be at least one other person—the driver of the Canberra. Presumably the one who had tied the makeshift tourniquets. He pulled his flashlight from his belt and looked into the interior of the Canberra. No one.
Frowning, he turned and fanned the grassy median with the beam. It did not take long. She was on her side, just a few meters from where he stood.
Rivers crouched by her side. “Ma’am?”
Blearily, she looked at him, trying to focus behind the beam, on his face. “I tried,” she said, her voice trembling.
“I know ma’am. I understand. Are you hurt?”
This was not a trivial question. She was covered with blood, and, as yet, he did not know whether it had been a single or two car accident.
She shook her head. “Not me. Him,” she said, pointing back to the Ford.
She could be in shock and not feel any pain. “Don’t try to move, ma’am. There’s an ambulance coming.”
Her head shook slowly. “I’m all right. I just… I’m sorry, it was just too much for me… I threw up. I’m OK… promise.”
“Are you absolutely certain?”
She nodded.
“Can you stand?”
“I… yes.”
“Let’s get you to my car, then.”
Twenty minutes later, Rivers had a wrecker, an ambulance, another Highway Patrol cruiser, and Pat Connelly’s version of what had happened. He also had his own observations and a few quick measurements of the scars left on the pavement by the Ford as it skidded to its final resting spot, although he was not certain what they would prove. They would not be easily compared to skid marks from rubber tires.
The Ford had experienced a major structural failure, resulting in the front detaching from the body of the car. Without the front tires and the steering mechanism, the driver had, understandably, lost control of the car. The leading edge, dragging on the road, had represented a braking force, and the car had spun around backwards. The driver, who had sustained grave injuries when the car separated, had died of blood loss in spite of first aid given by Pat Connelly. Everything fit together.