“Reading anything interesting?” one cop asked sarcastically. Peter sensed something bad was about to happen, but he didn’t know what. It was as if he’d wandered into the scene of a trideo show, for which no one had given him the script.
When he didn’t answer, the two guards lost their sense of humor at the same instant, as if disappointed that Peter didn’t know how to play along. “Enough yakkety,” said the first. “Put the portable down and get your hands up.”
“Why?” Peter said, knowing he was making things worse, but so dazed by events that he couldn’t stop himself.
The first cop raised the hand holding the small box and an arc of sea blue lightning slammed into Peter.
For one horrible moment he was blinded.
When the moment ended, he was sprawled on the ground, the muscles of his neck seeming to squeeze up against one another. His right arm was shivering, as if very cold, and his face rested against the ground. He saw the comfortable glow of the screen a short distance away.
“No more trouble, right?” the second cop said.
The pain receded and Peter raised his head. “Why are you doing this?”
The cops were laughing again, and one of them picked up his bag and began to rifle through the optical chips inside. “Must’ve rolled a student,” the cop said matter-of-factly.
“Hey, keep down,” said the second cop to Peter. Silhouetted against the dark sky in their stiff, armored uniforms, the cops looked almost mythically large from Peter’s prone angle of vision. Instead of two bullies, they might have been living embodiments of the protectors of the innocent that Peter had always imagined policemen to be.
“I didn’t steal the… It’s mine. The portable and the chips are mine.”
The cops laughed again. “You know, any trog just a bit brighter than you would at least have been smart enough to say that someone paid you to pick them up from a store.”
“Hey, here’s an ID,” the other one said, “Peter Clarris. Poor son of a bitch.”
“That’s me. I’m Peter Clarris.”
“Sure you are.”
“I am.”
No sooner did he speak than brilliant blue static filled his vision. A warm buzz shot through his muscles, and suddenly he was flat on his back. Peter gulped in air, unable to stop.
“Shut up,” one of the cops said. “Just shut up,”
The fit of hyperventilation passed, and it occurred to Peter that the weapons these cops were using on him could surely kill a pure human. Did the weapons have different settings, or was he just lucky? Or did they have special ones just for trolls?
As his breathing calmed, he made out the two men muttering to one another.
“Should we take him in?”
“Ah, frag it. How about he tries to escape?”
“Sounds like a hum to me.”
Peter realized the cops intended to kill him. He could make a run for it, but he didn’t trust his still-stiff muscles to move fast enough to escape. “My DNA scan will show you—” he began, careful not to move a muscle, not to be a threat.
“Looks like he’s making a break for it.”
Peter didn’t know what to do. All the rules had fallen away, and he was standing only on thin air. “I’m not really a troll…” he said weakly.
The next moment, his muscles felt ripped by countless sharp pins. Peter rolled wildly to escape the pain, but it followed him everywhere. It started and stopped over and over again. Soon he lost all sense of time, and it seemed that he had lived his whole life under this blade of agony.
Then just as suddenly the pain vanished.
He couldn’t move, but he knew he was lying on his back, his fingers curled tightly. A loud hum filled his ears so that he could hear nothing else. He waited, paralyzed, for the next attack to come. But it did not.
Daring only to move his eyes, he let them search around for the cops.
First his eyes found the tree he had been leaning against, still lit softly by the portable’s screen. He also saw dark holes in the bark that hadn’t been there before. It looked as if the bark had been chewed off.
Then he saw the cops. Their hands were in the air, both of them turning their heads slightly, but seeming fearful of turning fully around to look behind them.
From somewhere Peter heard shouts. At first he couldn’t make out the words. But as the buzz in his ears finally cleared, he heard a voice say, “—so just take the bag and let’s call it square.” He recognized the voice, but could not place it.
“Sure, sure,” said one cop.
“Now move it. Take the bag and the portable and get. Quick!” This was followed by a loud burst of gunshots and a spray of bullets that slammed into the tree.
“We’re gone!” shouted the other cop, stooping over to grab the portable and Peter’s bag. Then the two were off and running.
For the third time that night Peter’s breathing returned to a normal pace.
A warm shadow ran to him, then a face hovered over him. It twitched wildly, then settled down into a grin.
Fast Eddy.
“Hey, Prof, howzitgoin’?”
Peter had expected somebody…better. Angry frustration bit into him. “You just gave away everything I own.” He struggled to get up, but found his muscles still beyond his control.
Eddy pulled back, hurt. “I just saved your life. What’s with you, chummer?”
“Why didn’t you just shoot them?” Peter settled onto his back, unhappily resigned to his helplessness.
“You don’t shoot cops, you don’t shoot cops. It’s part of the deal.”
“Deal?”
“Yeah,” Eddy snapped, obviously annoyed. “The deal. And if you knew about the deals, or had just-just-just the tiniest bit of thinking, you’d know that if you’re a troll, you don’t wander around with a portable computer and expect the cops to leave you alone.”
“But it’s mine.”
Eddy dropped to his knees and brought his face to within centimeters of Peter’s. “You are a blood clot! You know that? You are a blood clot. A little thing that gets caught up in the system and brings the whole thing to a crashing halt. Let me tell you what happens to a blood clot. All the blood gets stuck and jams up behind it, until there’s enough pressure to just shove the clot out of the vein. And then it’s dead!”
Peter knew Eddy was wrong, but couldn’t remember the specifics, so he just kept his mouth shut.
“Now I put my-my-my neck out on the line for you. I’m not expecting lifelong gratitude, but I’m not expecting face!”
“Sorry,” Peter said softly.
“If you’re so hot, why didn’t you just take them on? Spirits, you’re a troll! Why didn’t you just nail them?”
Embarrassment made him speak awkwardly. “I…don’t know how to fight.”
“What?”
“I don’t—”
“I heard-I heard-I heard you. A baby! You’re just a little baby dropped out of the sky into the sprawl.”
Peter resented the image, but he knew it was absolutely accurate. “I’m sorry!” he shouted.
“Come on, let’s get out of here.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“I saw what was going on. I remembered you. I’m hoping it will endear-endear-endear me to you. I do wanna work with you. Let’s go, they might come back. And bring friends.”
Finding he could move a bit, Peter rolled over onto to his hands and knees. Then a dizziness gripped him, and he had to pause to get his balance.
“You all right?”
“No.”
“Dumb question. Question. Sorry.”
Peter stood up, slowly. It seemed an hour passed as he did so, and then, suddenly, he was on his feet.
Eddy shoved a small gun, a small machine gun, its barrel still hot, into his leather jacket. “Let’s go.”
The whole scene was no more than a shadowy blur as Peter let Eddy lead him along the asphalt path away from the lakefront and back into the streets of Chicago.