Duncan Long - Anti-Grav Unlimited

“Code, 3… Uh… 4… 6,” I gasped with a dry mouth. I pushed the turn signal up—the direction I wanted to go. It started blinking crazily since the anti-grav units weren’t engaged yet.

The front of the van was now pointing down as I arched through the darkness. The headlights revealed the ground that raced up to smash me. All I could hear was the purring of the engine and the sound of the wind whistling outside the van as it plunged downward.

Suddenly, the turn signal stopped blinking; the anti-grav units were in operation. I was thrown against the seat harness and felt my eyes trying to bug out of their sockets as the earth continued to rush toward the front of the van. This ignoble situation resulted because I’d programmed the computer to avoid a crash at all costs—my greatest worry in flying—and it was now busy doing its job. At the moment I had to reflect as to whether crashing might have been a better option. As I pondered this weighty situation, the seat harness cut into my skin and my eyes continued to head for the ground in the rapid deceleration. Along with this active demonstration of inertia, a rain of small candies sprinkled onto the inside of the windshield, followed by a hail of small freeze-dried food containers as a plastic grocery sack behind me gave way. I steeled myself, preparing for some of the larger gear stored in the van to come loose and come smashing into me from the rear. A vision of my skull with a large screwdriver poking out of the back of it formed in my brain.

Fortunately, that didn’t happen.

Instead the van righted itself and hurtled upward; my eyes blacked out as the blood left my brain and headed for all points south. I struggled to lift my hand, placing the turn signal into its middle, hover position and the van slowed, my vision coming back as we decelerated.

I was in one piece ! I sat there a moment, remembered to breathe, and listened to my hair turn gray.

As my anger replaced my fear, I was tempted to try out my rifle marksmanship on the Night Creeps I could hear hooting behind me.

It would just be a wasted effort , I decided. There were plenty more to take their places and I had neither the time nor ammunition to spare in venting my anger. Stones were starting to ding off the van, too. I pushed the accelerator down and flew to the other side of the overpass, hovered over the road a moment, and did a 360-degree turn to be sure the area was clear of Night Creeps on the side of the Great Divide I was on; then I set the vehicle down.

The howls of rage on the other side of the chasm continued. I wiped off my shaking, sweaty palms, and spoke with a quavery voice, “Anti-grav off.”

“What?” the computer replied.

I cleared my throat, “Anti-grav off.”

The signal started flashing a left turn (rather than its downward travel sign) and the van settled down with its full weight on the road. I floored the accelerator to put as much distance as I could between me and the monsters on the other side of the divide behind me, wondering how many people they’d catch before sunrise.

Fear is a great stimulant; it took several hours before I became sleepy again. At dawn, I turned off the roadway, floated the van over a stretch of burnt grass, and headed down a small gully toward a grove of Cottonwoods that glistened in the morning light. There I put the van into a hover at the top of one of the giant trees where I could be hidden and out of reach to anyone on foot. As the van was gently rocked by a low-moaning breeze, I reclined the driver’s chair and almost instantly fell asleep.

Several hours later, I awoke to the noise of traffic on the interstate. The sun shone through the cottonwood leaves, creating patterns of gold and green; the heavy leaves sounding as if drops of rain rattled through them as the wind clapped them against one another.

After opening the door and relieving myself, I brought the van back down and tried to decide-

-as I ate some Munchies—how to get back to the road without being seen. There was no easy way to do that. I carefully drove over the rough terrain and waited at the gully edge until no traffic was within sight, then flew across the chasm and nearly scraped the far rim in my haste to get across. Settling the van down, I drove on over the sand, up the grade, and pulled onto the interstate as a road train went thundering by. I followed it into New Denver to meet Nikki.

When I’d finished my story, Nikki just said, “Anti-grav rods? Phil, are you feeling all right?”

“Yes… No!”

We both laughed.

“Well,” Nikki said, “crazy or not, it looks like you’re my best bet, even though you seem to be a real lightning rod for trouble.”

“What? No. You need to get as far away from me as you can. I’m trouble and—”

“I was already leaving. I’m packed. No doubt whoever’s after you will figure you’ve told me your story—which you have, you dummy.”

“Sorry.”

“So, now I’m a marked woman. And you’re my fastest ticket out of here. I’ve nothing to lose at this point by going with you.”

“But—” I argued with all the intellect I could muster.

“Let me get dressed.” She got up.

“But—” I expounded.

“No ‘buts.’ You’re the only chance I’ve got. And quit looking at me like that. This towel is anchored on very securely.”

I blushed. It was hard not to stare at a body like Nikki’s. I knew better than to try to talk her out of coming with me. She had a mind of her own. And, quite frankly, I was glad to have a partner in my lunacy. I just regretted the danger that I’d managed to get Nikki sucked into.

In a few moments, Nikki returned fully dressed in a tight in all the right places, green jump suit, “Come here.”

She handed me a men’s shirt and unlatched the shirt I had on, “Take off your shirt and see if this fits. It’s one of Craig’s. He has dozens squirreled away here.”

It fit.

“OK,” Nikki said, “We’ll pack up a bag for you. Bet you haven’t any other clothes judging from your outfit.”

“That bad?”

She nodded. “One more thing. Come in here.” She led me into the dressing room. “Since your van’s been changed and you were careful coming here, I have a feeling you got spotted by your sorry face. Maybe they’ve stationed an agent at each area where they thought you might show up.

Whatever happened, you need a change of face.”

“What?” Then I saw what she had in mind. “Oh, come on, Nikki—”

Before I could do anything she had the instaface kit slapped on me. “Any preference?” she asked.

“Just make me look handsome,” I muttered through the machine.

She snickered. “Don’t ask the impossible.” I felt the synthaskin growing into my face. It felt foreign for a moment then became a part of me. “Now open your eyes,” she said.

“Nikki—”

Too late, I didn’t blink in time and felt the lens pop onto the surface of my eyes.

“What color of hair?”

“Green.”

“OK—”

“No, wait—”

She just laughed. Fortunately it only became blond. She removed the machine from my face.

“Now not even your own mother would recognize you.”

I studied my face in the mirrored wall, “My own mother wouldn’t want to recognize me.”

Nikki changed her own face as well. In reality neither of us looked a lot different. Just different. And plain. Both of us were blond which caused—I hoped—a person’s eye to notice our hair rather than our plain faces. Nikki had done a good job. And it would stay that way for at least a couple of weeks until our bodies rejected the synthaskin and it sloughed off our faces.