Architects of Emortality - Brian Stableford [86]
They had just taken yet another bend. This time, the pursuing vehicle failed to make the turn—in fact, it seemed to keep going straight ahead: straight over the edge and into empty air.
For almost a second it seemed to hang there, like some absurd toon character in a synthemovie, who would not start to feel the effects of gravity until he became conscious of being unsupported.
Then, with a peculiar gracefulness, the jeep began to fall.
It tumbled over and over as it fell, and when it finally hit the rocky slope two hundred meters below, it exploded like a bomb, sending shards in all directions.
The sloth driving the hire car had applied the brakes the instant that the threat of a damaging collision was removed from the viewport, but it had done so judiciously so as to minimize the risk of skidding.
“Hal,” said Charlotte tremulously, “I think you just got another data trail to follow.” It was, she felt, a very feeble attempt at humor. By now—assuming that this absurdly tilted patch of crumpled wasteland lay within their jurisdiction—the California Highway Patrol’s best silvers would have identified the rogue vehicle, and they would already be tracking down its owner and programmer.
Charlotte shut her eyes and breathed deeply, while the pain in her head ebbed slowly away.
When she opened her eyes again, Oscar Wilde had converted his side window into a mirror, and he was inspecting his own head very carefully. There was a noticeable bluish bump just above the right eyebrow. She could not find it in her heart to regret the temporary damage done to his outrageous good looks, although he obviously felt differently about it.
“What do you make of that?” she asked him.
“I can only hope that it was simply another vignette in the unfolding psychodrama,” he said grimly. “Perhaps Rappaccini feared that the journey might be a trifle boring, and laid on a measured dose of excitement.” She stared at him for a few seconds. “You mean,” she said slowly, “that the person who hired this car also hired that one—as a practical joke?” Oscar shrugged his shoulders, turning back again to his pained inspection of the damage done to his temple.
“He might be right,” said Hal, over the phone link. “The information’s coming through now. The jeep was hired at the same time as the car, although the fee came from an account I hadn’t yet connected to Rappaccini. The local police have no reason to think that anyone was aboard, although they’ll send a crew out to check the debris. It wasn’t carrying a gun—that rattling sound you heard was produced by your own car’s AI.” Charlotte was speechless.
“Are you all okay?” Hal inquired solicitously.
“Physically, we’re fine,” Michael Lowenthal replied. Given that he had not bruised his own head, his entitlement to speak on behalf of his companions seemed a trifle dubious to Charlotte.
“That’s good,” said Hal, his voice reverting instantly to its normal businesslike tone. “I’ve just got some more data in from Bologna, if you want to look at any of it.” “Bologna?” said Charlotte.
“It’s where Kwiatek was killed,” Lowenthal informed her.
“We’ve got another picture of the woman,” Hal said. “We’re fairly certain that she flew to New York on an intercontinental flight from Rome. Do you want to see the tape?” “Not really,” said Charlotte, who was still profoundly shaken by the fake attack—although she was quick enough to add: “Not yet, I mean. Where was she before Bologna?” “Darkest Africa, we think—visiting Magnus Teidemann. His death is still to be confirmed, but we’re not optimistic. Are you sure you don’t want the Kwiatek data?” “Was there a calling card with Kwiatek’s body?” Oscar Wilde put in, shutting his own eyes as if to blank out the image of the bruise.
“I’ll check the tapes,” Hal said. “Give me a couple of minutes.” “There’s no hurry,