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Shell Game 2:
The Fall

Ed's shields snapped on, cutting the wind noise by about half. His mouth snapped shut—screaming wasn't going to keep him from becoming a pancake. It was time to think, time to figure out just how in the hell he was going to live through this.

It was dark—how the fuck was it dark!—and the building next to him was not the hospital—where the hell is the goddamned hospital!—he'd been in moments ago. He tried to slow himself down with his teke, tried to grab the air the way he grabbed other things but that didn't work out so well. A tiny bit of slow-down, that's it. Snapping on his shields had also helped, acting like he was on a surfboard or something.

He took the time to focus on what was below: Rooftop, plastic dome things, trees, cars on the street—don't fucking think about the street—no flagpoles or awnings or anything…

He looked back at the dome things, spreading his arms as wide as he could, trying to slow down more. He had one shot at living. One.

Copper-colored energy shimmered into existence and plunged down, wrapping itself around the dome directly below him. At the same time, he pulled his legs together and tried to lean/fall in the direction of the trees. If he could wrench the dome free, maybe he could use it like a sled on the trees. Use it to break some of his fall.

He was terrified.…

The plastic dome ripped away from some of its mooring, spraying a handful of bolts. It had flipped up along one edge like a contact lens trying to invert, but the other half of the circle was still held fast. Ed maintained his mental grip on the thing, despite the ground rushing at him like God's own sledgehammer. Even with his forcefield making a smooth wing of his body, he wasn't moving far enough away from the building. The ground was rushing at him too fast, and he was still over cement and glass.

He knew he wasn't far enough yet, but if the dome didn't come up, it wouldn't matter. He had a plan—a plan, ha!—for moving away from the building, but first he had to have that goddamn dome! There wasn't time for another plan, not anymore. This had to work or he was street pizza. His heart was slamming so hard against his ribs he was sure he'd crack a rib.

"C'mon you motherfucker! MOVE!" he screamed, yanking upward with as much mental force as he could.

The dome popped from its moorings and launched through the air toward him. It would be under him in another two seconds, and then…

…and then he realized that he'd fucked up part of this thing and prayed to God he'd have time to correct it. He needed to be pointing the other way, toward the building. Then if he could just get fucking close enough he could focus his leaping ability on the side of the building and push off, toward the trees. Then he'd bring the disk up to meet him. That was it. That was the plan. That was all he had.

He twisted his body toward the building, and it was like being thrown off a wave. He'd been riding that smooth air like a wing, but as soon as he broke the wing the wind slammed into his body and tossed him like a rag doll. He tumbled end over end, suddenly trapped inside a spinning kaleidoscope of dark glass and starry sky, and the glass was too close, too fucking close!

He mentally clawed at the air like he'd done a few moments ago, and though he kept tumbling he'd stopped some of his spin—and almost wished he hadn't. He saw the flash of white above him (below him? next to him?) and realized he'd lost sight of the plastic dome, and the thing had slipped from his mental grasp. Worse, he could see now that most of the building's dark glass was below him. He was one second from crashing into the atrium, and the lights from inside made it look like one of those Christmas ornaments you could shake to make it snow. Inside were miniature people, and multicolored umbrellas, and a bright azure disk of a swimming pool or pond.

No time left, this had to work. He really wished he'd paid more fucking attention

He yanked the dome towards him as quickly as he could, flipping it so that it would catch him like milk poured into a bowl. The plastic slammed into him, hurting like hell, but that was laughable at this point: his entire definition of the word "hurt" had been upgraded as of eight seconds ago.

The impact of the dome shoved him a few yards to the right, so that he was above the edge of the pool. He started to tumble out of the shell, and mentally forced the bowl to stay under him. He tried to get to his feet, and got one leg under him.

Wait for it…

And then the glass ceiling of the atrium became his entire horizon.

The plastic belly hammered into the ceiling, and shards of glass erupted all around him. Ed pushed off with his teke, surrounding himself in a column of copper light.

A jolt passed through his body as he thrust up against the weight of all that velocity. The dome burst through the ceiling and shattered. Ed plunged through the hole milliseconds later, plastic and glass shrapnel bouncing off his forcefield. The water rushed toward him.

And he could see the bottom. He could see fucking coins at the bottom. The thing was no swimming pool, it was a fucking fish pond, maybe four feet deep. Hovering in it were goldfish the size of poodles.

Jesus Christ. He threw everything he had at the pond, trying to push everything—the water, the cement, the entire planet—away from him.

The world exploded in blue water and copper light.

Angels.

Heaven?

Huh?

He turned away from the Angel and looked to his left where a goldfish the size of a poodle floated serenely in the hazy air inches away from his face, it's fins moving back and forth, mouth opening and closing rhythmically. Were there goldfish in Heaven? He couldn't remember Gram talking about them, or reading about them in the Bible. He was about to open his mouth to say something to the fish when he was yanked upward through the haze and into the light. Maybe he was going to meet God?

"Are you all right? My God, are you all right?" The Angel asked him in a deep, masculine voice. There was something odd about his voice that Ed couldn't figure out at the moment. There were other Angels, maybe ten or fifteen all crowded around him, all wearing the same look of concern mixed with curiosity. "You're bleeding, son. Is something broken?" the Angel continued. Why weren't the Angels wearing robes?

"You aren't supposed to bleed in Heaven, Gram says so," Ed replied. His voice was a strangled whisper. He coughed, and his entire chest ached with it. He was lying on the floor, his feet dangling in the water of a pool.

A pool.

"Give him some air!"

"Someone call a doctor!"

"Who is this guy?"

Not Heaven. Not Heaven at all. He was lying on the drenched floor of the atrium, the jagged edges of the hole he'd made in the ceiling circled a slice of glimmering starlit night. Oh God, he hurt.

"I'm sorry, son, I can't understand you," the Angel (a large older man in a drenched business suit and red tie) said. The accent was rough and guttural, and his lips didn't quite synch with his words, like a badly dubbed movie. Maybe he'd dropped into the middle of an Arnold Schwarzenegger flick.

Ed laughed, or tried to. It sounded more like coughing, but it felt good all the same. "I beat you, you motherfucker," he gasped. He tried to push himself up, but the room swam. He didn't care. Everything worked—his arms and legs and eyes. He looked up through the hole and laughed some more. "I fucking beat you!"

"Hey now, calm down," the guy who'd pulled him out of the pool said.

Ed knew he'd remember this guy's face forever. He looked up and smiled at him. "Thank you," he said. He sucked in more air and lay there, squelching, happy to be fucking alive.

"Uh, sure," the man replied. "You're welcome." Ed suddenly realized what was wrong with his voice. "You're welcome" was the first thing he'd said in English. Everything else was… German? His talent had kicked in, automatically translating.

The man looked up at the circle of people that had gathered. "Anybody here speak English? I think he's got a concussion or something."

"I bet he does," a young woman said. She wore a black skirt and ivory blouse. Everybody here was dressed like they were in an IBM commercial.

She shoved her black plastic glasses back onto the top of her head and moved in a little closer. She was beautiful. "YOU JUST STAY RIGHT THERE!" she said slowly and with way too much volume. At least it was in English. "WE HAVE CALLED A DOCTOR, OKAY?" She held up a hand with three fingers extended. "HOW MANY FINGERS DO YOU SEE?"

Ed laughed. "Three." His copper eyes met her brown. "You're fucking beautiful." He smiled up at her.

The woman pursed her lips—but she wasn't altogether disapproving. "He's all right," she said in that other language. "There's nothing wrong with his eye sight anyway." She leaned over him. "Can you sit up?"

Ed managed to raise into a sitting position with the man's help. The world swam in and out of focus very briefly, then locked into place. He was drenched, he was bloody, but he didn't know from what yet. His right leg hurt like a mother. He remembered the glass and was afraid to look. And he wasn't wearing his own clothes—he was in some kind of black business suit. What the fuck?

"Oh man…" he moaned. "Where am I?" his Texas drawl sounded funny in this place.

"The…what's the word… atrium," the young woman said. "Did you fall off the patio? Or… out of a window?"

"No. Someone pushed me," Ed replied quietly. He looked down at himself, trying to see where the blood was coming from, then tried moving his leg. Goldfish and carp were scattered all over the damn place.

And what the hell was going on with this suit? Where in the fuck was Florida?

"Where am I?" he managed to ask again, just before another voice intruded.

"Out of the way! Out of the way," a voice yelled.

A figure pushed through the crowd of gawkers. She was a small, trim woman dressed in a limo-driver's uniform: dark double breasted jacket half unbottoned to reveal a crimson blouse, dark pants, black driver's cap over close-cropped hair the color of her blouse.

She rushed forward and pushed the young English-speaking woman aside. "Sir! Are you hurt?" The language wasn't German or Bulgarian or whatever the hell everyone else was speaking— she sounded like Maggie Thorin. French then.

Ed blinked. Sir? "Who the hell are you?"

The woman's face froze for a fraction of a second. Then she blinked and said slowly in English, "Sir, do you know what time it is?"

Ed stared at her, water dripping off the tip of his nose.

"No," he said. "But I just got thrown out a window. I'm allowed. Who the hell are you?"

She paused for a moment, then came to a decision. "I'm Liserel, your driver. We have to get you out of here—the people who tried to kill you will be coming down to finish the job." She extended her arms to him. "Can you walk?"

"I don't have a goddamned driver," Ed muttered, grabbing her arm and trying to stand. His right ankle felt like it was on fire.

The beautiful girl who'd helped him grabbed Liserel's forearm. "You cannot move him! He needs hospital care!"

"Not now," Liserel said.

The beautiful girl suddenly yelped and lost her balance. She sat down on the ground, her hands at her eyes. "My eyes!" She said in that guttural language.

Liserel, arms still extended, paid no attention to the woman. "Let's go, sir."

"Jesus Christ," he replied, testing his balance. "I'm gonna trust you to the door, cause maybe you don't want to kill me in front of all these witnesses," he kept his eyes on the ground, remembering what had happened to the helpful girl. Had this Liselle, or whatever her name was blinded that chick?

"But I'm gonna need a goddamned good reason to go any further than that with you, babe." The crowd was a wash of emotions, from shock to concern to amusement. But there was nothing come from this chauffeur woman. Her mind, like Theo August and a few others he'd met over the years, was battened down.

"I'll be able to explain everything when we're safe," Liserel said. She put his arm around her shoulder, smoothly taking his weight despite her small size. The dozen or so bystanders moved out of the way.

Together they started moving toward the bank of doors twenty yards away, Ed using a kind of shuffle-step to keep the pressure off his right foot. The atrium wasn't a lobby for a hotel—they seemed to be in an office building. The pond with the tables and umbrellas was the only frivolous part of the building. The floor turned from red brick to glossy marble, and the walls were decorated in slabs of aluminum, which must have looked very chic in the early 90's. There was an information desk in the center of the room, with groupings of formal couches and chairs beyond that. To the right was a bank of elevators, and above them was a logo: a square with a diagonal line through the middle. Liserel studied the indicators above the elevators, and picked up the pace. Several of the elevators were coming down.

Ed didn't even know what floor he'd been pushed out of. (Though had he been pushed? There was no way in hell he would have jumped.) He glanced up, and through the glass roof was the tower he'd fallen from, as well as a near-twin of black glass just behind it.

Once again he wondered where the fuck Florida had gone.

There were two security guards at the front desk, both of them white. One of them was on the phone, and the other was barking into a handheld radio. Another security guard was running toward them from the direction of the elevators.

Liserel said under her breath, "Keep moving. The car is right outside the doors."

"I'll tell you when we get outside ain't exactly an answer," he muttered as he hobbled alongside her, but he kept moving. If the woman at his side meant to do him dirty, fine. Better it be away from the yuppies that surrounded them. He never again wanted to be in the position where someone got hurt because of him. There would never be another "Pender situation" if he could help it. Ever.

He was very worried about the fact that his "rescuer" was a fucking blip. Meant she had shields, was a robot, or had a mind tighter than a nun's pussy.

Sorry, Gram! he added mentally, as a flush crept up his neck.

Ed and the driver were perhaps ten yards from the front doors when the security guard caught up to them.

"Halt!" the guard said, sounding so much like a Nazi in a World War II film that Ed decided that these people must be speaking German.

Liserel didn't halt. Without pausing in their rush for the door, she reached into an inside pocket—for a gun? Ed thought—and withdrew a business card. She flipped it toward the guard, and it bounced off his chest. "Contact us for damages," she said. "And if you want to keep your job, keep the media out of this."

The guard stooped to pick up the card, and Ed and Liserel moved past him, lurching like a couple in a three-legged race. Each step sent a jolt of pain up his leg.

They reached the double doors, and someone shouted from behind them. Liserel glanced back and said, "Shit whore." At least that was the translation his head provided. Ed looked over his shoulder.

A quartet of very large men had exited one of the elevators and were running toward them. Three of the men were in dark business suits, but one of them looked like a maintenance man. He wore coveralls and carried something that looked like a leaf blower. His right arm held a metal tube that was connected by cables to a bulky device strapped to his back.

Ed tried to read them, but got nothing back. The area for almost ten feet around the men was a pscychic dead zone that hissed in his head like static. Had he stumbled into the Land of the Mind Blind? What in hell was going on?

"Shit-whore, huh?" Ed said in a low voice. "That don't sound so good. This the part where you tell me real fast something that might be useful? Like, 'blast the guy with the leaf-blower?' Or do we keep running?"

"Run!" she said in English. She planted a hand between his shoulder blades and shoved him toward the door. He hit the crossbar with his arm and the door banged open.

"YOU fucking run after getting tossed out a goddamned building!" Ed shot back, his arm smarting. The elation at being alive was quickly vanishing, anger and fear rising up to fill its place. His ankle throbbed.

What was he doing, trusting this woman? He couldn't read her, and she'd shown up way too damn fast. His eyes swept the outside area, looking for the car. He didn't know what he expected: a limo maybe? A cab? Something that might help to make sense of this bullshit situation?

The glass of the atrium jutted out ten feet to form an awning. Beyond that was a cement plaza that spread out from the doors in a V. The plaza was well lit from this end by the spill of light from the atrium, and demarked at the far end by a sparse line of trees lit by spotlights. Beyond the trees was a road. A few cars moved past, headlights raking the edges of the trees.

"It's parked on the road, up and to the right!" Liserel barked. Ed didn't see a car past the trees, but maybe its lights were off.

He hop-limped out of the building and to the right, looking for "the car." His clothes felt plastered on, and the night air was making it a bit chilly. Liserel grabbed him around the shoulders again, pulling him faster. Through a break in the trees he saw a gleam of streetlights on polished black metal, and finally saw what she was aiming for: it was a car all right, and a big expensive-looking one. Made sense. Since the car existed, she wouldn't be driving a Gremlin.

Ed glanced behind him. The fab four were almost to the doors, the leaf blower man a bit behind the other three.

"Fine, fuckers…" Ed muttered. His eyes swept the plaza. "You want a piece, come get it." Copper blades shimmered into existence, then flashed through the night. Sparks flew from the metal base of a small sign that stood near the curb as the blades bit deep, then vanished. Ed had no idea what the sign said, but it would suit his purposes nicely.

As the sign began to fall, the sliced edges glowing candy-red in the dark, it was caught by a field of coppery energy. Ed's eyes moved back to the doors and the sign shot forward like a javelin.

There was a sound of crumpling aluminum as the sign twisted itself around the handles of the doors directly in front of the fab four.

For Ed, the men inside the atrium were well lit as if onstage, but that was making it hard for them to see anything beyond the glass's reflection. The two men who'd reached the door first saw the makeshift missile only when it was a dozen feet from the door. They dove to the side, and the other two abruptly skid to a stop, confused.

The sign abruptly stopped its flight. There was a sound of crumpling aluminum as the sign twisted itself around the handles of the doors directly in front of the fab four.

"Very nice, sir," Liserel said. "But please hurry."

She yanked him by the jacket, spinning him toward the car. Her other hand held something small and black that she was aiming toward the vehicle. The rear lights flashed. "Get in the back," she said. "And try to stay down."

"Alright goddammit, I'm hurrying," Ed snapped.

They reached the car. He expected her to run around the car to the driver's side, but when she yanked open the front door he saw that the right side of the car was the driver's side. Ed pulled open his own door and looked back at the building.

One of the suits and the leaf-blower man had already gotten outside through another set of doors, and they were charging across the plaza. The suit had a pistol in his right hand, carried low. Behind them, the two others had gotten to their feet, and one of them seemed to be talking into his hand.

Shit!

Copper energy swirled, and a trash can jerked from it's concrete container and flew towards the men running towards them. Ed didn't wait to see if it connected. He threw himself into the backseat and slammed the door shut with his mind.

Liserel gunned the engine and peeled out. Ed, stretched out on the seat, was pressed into the backrest. He started to sit up, and then heard a series of sharp cracks. The back windshield spider-webbed but didn't shatter.

"Hold on," Liserel said. The car swung into a tight right turn. Ed slid down the smooth leather seat. He threw up a hand to stop from whacking his head against the arm rest. Streetlights zipped past the windows, and they were plunging into the dark.

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