James Hogan - Entoverse

As the minibus moved closer to the barrier, they could see, below them, the wreckage of an entire span of what had presumably been a bridge, with the remains of at least two vehicles crushed beneath it. But that was not the only damage. In falling, the bridge had swung sideways and demolished two of the supporting pillars of the main throughway, causing a section of the innermost lane to tear away. It hung, buckled and twisted, projecting out into space like the deck of a ship that had broken in two. At the far end of the sagging section, which extended for perhaps two hundred feet, a truck had slewed across and stopped, grounded, on the edge with its front actually hanging over the drop. A smaller vehicle had run into it. Behind that, perched precariously on the edge of the rent where the lane had come away from the main roadway, fifteen feet or more above, was another, familiar-looking vehicle with its absurd, bulbous, pink conning tower amidships, and vivid green stripes.

“It’s the titmobile that was back at the spaceport,” Koberg muttered, staring ahead, his eyes moving rapidly to take in the scene.

“Oh, my God! Those kids!” Sandy gasped.

“What kids?” Koberg shot at her. Lebansky snapped something to the driver. The bus stopped.

“Ours-from Earth,” Sandy stammered. “They were on the Vishnu. A bunch of schoolkids from Florida.”

“They’re staying in the city somewhere,” Hunt said.

Something gave way, and the hanging section of road dropped another two feet. The truck that was balanced on the edge lurched visibly. Screams went up from among the crowd gathered outside. Two figures scrambled out of the truck’s cab and began making their way back up, moving awkwardly and off-balance on the sloping surface. Another tumbled out of the car that had tail-ended the truck. Somebody else inside the car seemed to be hurt. There was a screeching of sirens from behind as a vehicle with flashing lights came nosing along the shoulder. It stopped behind the minibus and disgorged men in yellow tunics and white caps, presumably police.

Koberg climbed out and engaged them. They were excited and waving their arms wildly. Koberg seemed to be trying to calm them down. In the front of the minibus, Lebansky was operating a panel alongside the driver and talking to a face that had appeared on a screen.

The road sagged some more, and the truck tipped and went over. The whole structure beneath the minibus shuddered, and the shouts from outside almost drowned out the sound of the crash. The pink bus was trying to back up; but its balls weren’t getting enough grip on the buckled, tilted surfaces, and it was slithering uncontrollably from side to side as if in a snowdrift.

“That idiot’s panicking!” Hunt yelled. “He’ll bring the whole bloody thing down! Stop him! Get those kids out of there! Get them out!”

Koberg dismissed the police with an impatient wave and ran down to take charge. Up front, the face that Lebansky was talking to was also an American from the sound of it. “How else does it look?” Hunt heard him saying.

“There’s purple freaks all over,” Lebansky replied. “Anything could happen. The police are here, but it seems we’ve got some flakes. Mitch has gone down to stop the jerk in the bus, but he’s gonna need help.”

“Stay there with him,” the face on the screen said. “Heshak and Mu can bring the UNSA people back here. Check in with me again when it’s under control.”

“Roger.” Lebansky flipped off the unit and exchanged a few words with the two Jevlenese, who nodded. He came back along the bus and climbed out the door that Koberg had left open. Two of the yellow-uniformed police outside immediately began jabbing at him and flailing their arms. Lebansky showed a badge and shouted them down, then pointed at the minibus that the UNSA group were in and the other vehicles blocking its way back onto the throughway. The policemen faltered, then nodded and rushed away to begin clearing a way through. The other police, meanwhile, were running back and forth among the already excited crowd and seemed to be doing more harm than good. Above it all, in the background, came Koberg’s voice, roaring at the driver of the pink bus.

Lebansky stuck his head back in the door. “That’s all it needed. One of the cars underneath all that junk down there had their deputy police chief in it. Look, it’s all gonna get crazy here. These two guys will take you on to PAC. We’ll see you when we get there.” Without waiting for a reply he slammed the door and gave the side a thump to send the driver on his way. Ahead, one of the policemen waved them forward.

“I think it’s stopped,” Sandy said, peering back through the rear window. “Yes, it is. Some of the kids are coming out now.”

“That’s a relief, anyway,” Danchekker said, having sat tight-lipped throughout.

“The tour guide never said anything about this,” Duncan muttered. It was a reflexive attempt at bravado. He was visibly pale.

Around them, the structures and buildings of Shiban closed together and merged into a single, monolithic composition of levels and precincts penetrated by avenues and transportation ways, as the highway became a vast tunnel sweeping into the city proper.

There was nothing to be done, Hunt told himself. Accidents happen. Whatever would happen to the school party lay in other hands. He could do nothing but wait to find out the news when they got where they were going. He concentrated on absorbing the scenes outside and tried to put it out of his mind for the time being. The silence from the others in the bus told him that they were struggling with the same feelings.

But it soon became apparent that they hadn’t left all their difficulties behind them just yet. As they passed an enclosed square of window facades crisscrossed by walkways on several levels, they saw a commotion ahead, involving a crowd of purple-clad people spilling out onto the roadway and causing vehicles to halt. One of the Jevlenese escorts voiced a command to the vehicle’s monitor panel, and the bus veered away down a slipramp to take a different route.

“What now?” Hunt murmured apprehensively.

“You don’t think it could all be for us?” Duncan said.

But farther along the lower route the crowds became thicker, jostling, shouting slogans, and blocking the throughway, heedless of the blaring horns and curses from the occupants of stranded vehicles. Again the minibus was forced to detour, this time into a side street flanked by shops and doorways. But after several more zigzag turns through the labyrinth that the part of the city they were now in was turning into, they found themselves back in the rally. This time there was no getting through. The intersection at which they had halted was jammed with marchers, some carrying banners, the rest linking arms to form a solid phalanx of chanting ranks. A flood tide of humanity closed around, while other vehicles that had been following blocked any way out behind.

Duncan stood up and peered anxiously through a side window. “There’s another bunch coming up the street, green ones this time,” he muttered.

“Best to stay put inside the vehicle,” Danchekker pronounced, clutching his briefcase determinedly on his knee.

“I’m not so sure,” Duncan said. “It looks to me as if we could have trouble breaking out.”

The Jevlenese evidently agreed. One of them jabbed a finger several times in the direction the bus had been heading. “PAC, that way. Not far,” he said. “Go feet now best. This bad news.”

Hunt nodded. “Let’s go.” Danchekker hesitated for a second longer, then concurred.

They clambered out into the throng. Whatever the shouting was about was a mystery, since it was all in Jevlenese. One of the escorts led the way, pushing and elbowing to force a passage through, and the other brought up the rear. But despite the group’s attempt to keep together, the ebbs and flows of the tide around them drew them apart. Danchekker and Sandy managed to stay close to the leader; but a gap developed between them and Hunt, and then another between Hunt and where Duncan was with the other Jevlenese, both of whom were being carried away sideways.