Terry Brooks - The Gypsy Morph

He had reached the far edge of the community when Trim veered off the road and landed on the roof of a garage set back in a tangle of collapsed fencing and rusted–out vehicles. Logan left the road and walked over to where the bird roosted. By now he was beginning to understand better Trim’s method of communication and knew what was expected of him. Even so, he was cautious. He hadn’t missed seeing the clutch of lantern eyes peering out at him from inside one of the buildings he had passed earlier.

Behind the garage, hidden from the road, was a metal–sided shed with locks closing off a heavily reinforced door. The metal was rusted and weather–stained by now, but still solidly in place. Trim left the garage roof and settled atop the shed. Logan stood looking up at him for a moment, and then walked over and tested the locks. There was no give at all. He looked up again at the bird, who looked down at him. He sighed heavily. Then he brought up the staff and burned the locks away.

The door to the shed swung open.

Inside sat a bulky, four–wheeled vehicle of considerable size. It was covered with a fitted tarp, but he could make out what it was through rips and holes in the worn fabric draped over it. An AV of some sort, similar to the Lightning but much bigger. He walked over, pulled off the cloth, and stepped back in surprise.

He was looking at a Ventra 5000, a huge, muscular machine that was in near–mint condition. There were a few dings and scratches on the paint, and there was dust and bits of debris coating the finish, but aside from that it was untouched. He smiled despite himself. He had seen only one of these machines in his entire life, and that one hadn’t been working. Ventras were famous, attack vehicles that surpassed even the Lightning in firepower and strength. The Lightning was quick and mobile, but the Ventra could take a direct hit from a shoulder rocket and keep going. In his days with Michael, stories of Ventras were legion. But all of them supposedly were destroyed during the militia wars, appropriated by the governments and sacrificed in battles that no one won. He had never thought to see another in his lifetime.

He walked over to the driver’s door and pulled the release. The door opened with a soft hiss of pistons relaxing, and lights came on in the interior. The solar cells that powered the beast weren’t dead, which meant that the Ventra might still run. He couldn’t believe his good fortune. With a machine like this, his journey would take only a fraction of the time of walking. Not to mention the protection he would enjoy on his way.

He glanced back outside and found Trim sitting on an old barrel, staring at him with his saucer eyes. Guess luck wasn’t a part of the equation, he thought. But how in the world did an owl know that a Ventra 5000 was inside this shed? Maybe Trim was something more than he appeared. Maybe the Lady, in sending the owl, had known what Logan needed better than he did.

He found the hood release and pulled it, lifted the hood, and peered inside. Eight huge cells rested in their cradles, their power indicators pulsing with a soft green light. All charged and ready to go. He walked to the rear of the vehicle, found the storage compartments for the additional cells, opened the lids, and discovered that these cells were not only fully charged but attached to charging terminals, as well. He stared for a moment, and then climbed up to peer at the Ventra’s broad roof. Solar collectors were built into the armor in narrow strips.

He climbed down again, shaking his head in amazement. Of all the things in the world he expected to find, a Ventra was among the last.

“Nice work, Trim,” he called out to the owl, who ignored him.

He climbed into the driver’s seat, feeling the air–infused cushioning wrap solidly about him. He found the belting mechanism, triggered it, and was locked in place. He looked down at the dash. No key. Just a numbered pad. You had to know the code. He thought about it a moment, and then felt under the gear locks. Sure enough, the code was engraved on the underside of the column. That was the way the owners did it with these machines, Michael had told him. If they were amateurs.

He traced the numbers with his fingers, reading them. Another trick Michael had taught him. It was sometimes better to start a vehicle in the dark, avoid using a light that would alert an enemy. He repeated the numbers to himself and then punched them in.

The Ventra’s engine came to life, a soft velvety purr that barely registered inside the cab. Logan smiled some more. He glanced at the rear seating–room enough for seven or eight–and then farther back at the storage and weapons compartments. There were two, long and wide enough for Parkhan Sprays and Tyson Flechettes. Equipped, he would wager.

He glanced down at the weapons panel and its array of blinking green lights. Rockets, sprays, lasers …

He stopped, catching sight of something new and unexpected. The black lettering leapt out at him from the panel. Carbon Seekers. He hadn’t ever seen those, only heard about them. They weren’t installed on anything that wasn’t government–issue, in the days when there were still governments. But he knew how they worked. They targeted carbon–based life–forms–everything human, for starters–dispatched a dissolver, and the target simply ceased to exist. Very dangerous. Very effective. The thought that he had possession of not one, but two, gave him pause.

Who was the owner of this vehicle, and what had happened to him? Was this his escape transport when things got too bad, a transport he hadn’t had time to reach?

An instant later he heard Trim screech, and he looked up in time to see the owl lift off and disappear skyward. Something had disturbed the bird. Logan climbed from the Ventra without turning off the engine and hurried through the shed doors.

Outside, a huge Lizard was lumbering toward him, moaning and growling and raising its massive arms threateningly. The Lizard was covered in thick, jagged scales and was wearing the ragged remains of what had once been some sort of military uniform, now reduced to tatters.

The Lizard saw him and pointed as if seeking to freeze him in place. It stopped and began gesturing; then it pointed at the shed and shook its head as if to admonish Logan, waving its arms some more. For a moment, Logan thought it was simply crazed from its transformation.

Then all of a sudden he realized what was happening. The Lizard was trying to drive him away from the shed and its contents.

He had found the Ventra’s owner.

Which explained everything. The owner had been keeping his precious AV hidden away, waiting for who–knew–what. Whatever he was waiting for didn’t happen soon enough, and the owner exposed himself to radiation and began to change into a Lizard. He couldn’t stop the change, but he couldn’t make himself give up the vehicle, either.

Now he was too huge and too clumsy to operate the Ventra, which was why it was still locked away in the shed. All the owner could do was look at it.

“I’m sorry,” he told the Lizard. “I’m going to have to take it. I need it to help others who are in trouble.”

The Lizard tried to say something, but the words came out as gibberish that Logan couldn’t decipher. Apparently the mutation had affected its ability to speak. But there was no mistaking its intent. The Lizard did not want him to take the Ventra.

“I can’t let you keep it,” Logan answered. “I wish I could, but you don’t need it and there are others who do.”

The Lizard made a threatening movement, but Logan brought the black staff up at once. “Don’t do that,” he advised quickly. “I know how strong you are, but the staff makes me much stronger. You can’t stop this from happening. Even if you try, you can’t.”