Nerve Center

If he left Theta now, would he ever get back? If he got out of the plane, could he return?

Madrone took a deep breath, then closed his eyes and jumped.

He tumbled from a great height, passing through a thunderstorm. Time jerked sideways into a different dimension, as if each second split in half—one part fast, one part slow.

The thud when he landed shook every bone. When he opened his eyes, he was sitting in the ANTARES control seat, out of Theta, unco

Carefully but quickly, Kevin removed the control helmet and the skullcap. The cabin lights stung his eyes. He rose, pushing past the control panels to the door. He unlocked it and pushed it open, at the same time retrieving an emergency access ladder kept in a small panel at the side of the door. The ladder was no more than a roll of chain links and metal bars; it swung wildly as he descended, further distorting his sense of balance.

He tumbled as he reached the ground, arms and legs unfurling in the warm, moist air. He lay on his back a moment, his senses as limp as his body.

I’ve escaped, he thought. I’ll never go back. I’m free of ANTARES; I’m free of the bastards trying to poison me, of Bastian and Geraldo, of Smith and Jeff. I’m free.

Why had they taken his daughter and sent his wife away? To turn him into a computer?

“Qué le pasa?” said a trembling voice above him. “What’s wrong with you?”

He looked up and saw a mechanic. His mind seemed to snap back into Theta. He jumped up.

“Nada,” said Madrone. “Nothing’s wrong with me. I need to be refueled.”

The man stared at him. He had come from fueling the nearby plane and smelled like kerosene.

“What is this?” asked the mechanic in Spanish. He swept his hands, referring to the plane.

“I will pay you well to refuel me,” said Madrone. “Petro, petróleo aviación démelo,“ he stuttered, struggling but failing to get the words into presentable Spanish. He tried again, his brain reaching for the right room—the right part of ANTARES and the control computer, as if they were still attached, as if they had to be there somewhere. But even as he tried to find the words, he knew he couldn’t; he kept talking as he rushed toward the man, bowling him over.

Taken by surprise, the mechanic fell easily. They rolled on the ground, thrashing. Madrone felt everything as if it were being presented by the Flighthawk video feed. Then the Mexican managed to strike him on the side of the head where the ANTARES chip had been implanted.

The pain shocked him. The blood in his arms and legs drained away; his heart stopped.

Lightning flashed. He closed his eyes.

When he opened them, the mechanic lay limp on the ground, neck twisted.

The mechanic’s assistant stood a few feet away, terror on his face. Madrone took a step and the man bolted.

Kevin ran to the fuel truck. The hose lay below the old McDo

Pain mixed with anger and grief. The bastards had made him into a monster, made him kill his own daughter, kill his friends. Everyone had turned him against him.

Hawkmother’s fuel-access panel had been updated for the automated attendant system being tested at Dreamland; it whooshed open with a touch of the access button and a light blinked next to the receptacle access port, a guide for the robotic nozzle assembly. Madrone had no trouble inserting the fuel truck’s old-style hose, but couldn’t figure out how to get the fuel flowing. He punched the truck buttons madly, felt his head begin to ache.

He felt himself in Hawk One, circling above the ocean.

Madrone slammed the panel at the rear of the fuel truck, desperate. The hose jumped.

Sirens in the distance.

The jaguar raced for him, lightning flashing from its eyes.

Run. Run!

He had to do this. For Christina.

For himself.

For the dark woman, calling to him.

The fuel flowed freely, monitored and helped by the Boeing’s automated circuits, which could compensate for changes in the pump pressure and automatically controlled the flow.

The flashing lights of a police vehicle approached from the other end of the field. Kevin left the hose as it pumped, and ran to the Mexican he had killed on the tarmac. He searched the man’s jumpsuit pockets for a weapon.

Nothing but a butane lighter and cigarettes.

Lighter in hand, he ran back to the truck and the hose. The police were in a pickup truck, now a few hundred yards away. He would pull the hose from the plane and set the truck on fire.

Wouldn’t the Boeing burn as well?

Hawkmother wouldn’t permit him to simply remove the nozzle. He pulled and twisted, but it wouldn’t relent. He stared at the square buttons next to the receptacle assembly. Two were lit; pushing them had no effect.

He tried another, then a fourth. Nothing. He punched a large rocker switch, heard a whoosh. The hose fell into his arms.

The pickup slammed to a stop about thirty yards from fuel truck. The police jumped out, ducking behind the opposite side of the truck. A voice called over a loudspeaker in Spanish and then English for him to stop and step away from the plane.

The automated fueling system on the Boeing had stopped the fuel flow with a bubble of compressed air, then closed and safed its fuel system. Had Hawkrnother been interfaced with the Dreamland system it was designed for, the automated control on the other end would have felt the puff, reversed flow momentarily, and then shut off the pump and retrieved the hose, assuring that there would be no spill.

Here, the pump momentarily hiccuped, confused by the backflow pressure. Rather than shutting down, it sucked and then spat harder against the vacuum—after a brief moment of pumping nothing, jet fuel poured out everywhere. The hose slapped up and down against the pavement.

One of the policemen fired at him. Kevin grabbed the hose. As he began to run out from under the plane, he slipped and fell headlong on the tarmac. Jet fuel washed over him as the lightning broke above; he rolled in the rain, splashing through the gas and fumbling for the lighter. He needed a wick—he tore at his sleeve for the cloth, but the ANTARES jumpsuit didn’t give way.

He had a handkerchief in his pocket.

More shots. The dull, metallic click of an automatic weapon.

The pavement chipped near him. Time had split again; his brain fuzzed as if he were in the middle of an LSD-induced hallucination.

Madrone wadded the handkerchief, pushed it away, took the lighter, and clicked it. Flames burst everywhere.

Breathe, he told himself. Warmth enveloped him and he saw the dark woman a few feet away in the rain forest, beckoning as fire leapt up his shoulder.

Roll and breathe.

Agony.

The jaguar roared from the fire. Madrone took a long breath and pushed his hands down. The fuel truck turned into an outline of flickering red.

The chain ladder slapped against his hands. He pulled himself upward. The plane seemed unscathed, safe.

Kevin slammed the door shut, then jammed the helmet on his head. He was there, in the cockpit, surrounded by flames. He could see the dark woman and the jungle beyond.

The engines wound up.

More vehicles came, an entire armada. He began to back away, saw them all in the video.

Madrone looked to the right and he was in the Flighthawks. The U/MFs flashed upward from the ocean, streaking toward Hawkmother.

Back in the Boeing. Moving.

He would fly right through the trucks if he had to. One was an armored car.