The Most Dangerous Dame

We found out where the bus was right about when the heavy hunk of junk slammed directly on top of us. The rooftop buckled without much protest, crushing the windows in a glittering display of hovering glass. Benny shrieked like a baby with a ruined diaper as we slid to dashboard level to avoid being becoming human pancakes. The stomach-clenching sensation of sudden descent told me we were on a one-way trip to the land of sudden stops and dramatic explosions. The cityscape blurred as we plummeted toward the concrete jungle below.

Warning. Life-threatening impact imminent. Please assume crash positions. Chance of survival: four hundred eighty seven million to—

I managed to squirm around so I could yell at the smiling hologram. “Damn the odds! Divert all remaining energy to the rear thrusters.”

Diverting.

“What are you doin’?” Benny’s eyes were golf balls of fear in his head. “We’re falling even faster now!”

I introduced his meaty jaw to my right cross, knocking him out cold. As he slumped peacefully against the headrest, I tried to judge the time we had until impact. I figured about a second and a half. Most people couldn’t do much in that amount of time.

I’m not most people.

“Fire rear thrusters now!”

The thrusters pulsed, pushing us from the weight of the airbus and firing us down the mostly lifeless street. The airbus slammed down behind us, splintering the asphalt and shuddering the nearby buildings from the wake of impact. Dust and rubble erupted in a cloud that could be seen for miles. The Tesla motor was guaranteed not to explode like the gasoline vehicles before the Cataclysm, but the collision sure didn’t do the neighborhood any favors. One of the buildings leaned drunkenly before imploding in a rumble of concrete and glass, burying the majority of the airbus in the wreckage.

Our floater skipped like a stone across water before skidding down the street in a shower of sparks. I gritted my teeth and hung on as Armor Foam impact gel jetted from the vents and enveloped us, leaving only our faces uncovered as it solidified into a rubbery shell. The floater finally slammed into a wall, further crumpling the vintage casing. Smoke wafted from the ruined undercarriage, filling the air with the stench of scorched metal.

The computerized dame’s voice was muffled through the foam. Successful emergency landing completed. Have a nice day.

“This is why I hate flying.” I spoke to no one in particular as I tried to brush the sticky Armor Foam from my rags. The stuff was great for protecting the body from harmful impact, but it didn’t do your clothes any favors. Not that it mattered, since it was still raining.

The Transit responder mandroid turned from surveying the wreckage. “Shucks, mister. You should count yourself one lucky duck to be alive right now. I’d say the chances of surviving an accident like this are around four hundred eighty-seven million to—”

“Yeah, I heard.” I glowered at the automaton. “What I wanna know is who was driving that heap, and whether they’re still breathing or not.”

Transit usually deploys synoids as responders to handle accidents in the Uppers. But the clunky, dome-headed mandroid was deployed because we crashed in the Flats, a district a bit more resistant to law and order. Mandroids are a lot cheaper to replace than their more advanced cousins. The one that showed up for our incident couldn’t rightly be called a mandroid at all. It looked like a water heater come to life and equipped with a bowling ball head, flashing eyes, a rusty mustache along with an equally corroded bowler hat. Its yee-haw accent was evidence its creator had a sense of humor.

“Driving? Nobody was driving. Ain’t a body to be found in this wreckage, mister. This was a tragic accident, lemme tell ya. Something in the transponder box must have shorted its circuits. Can’t rightly tell until I get it back at the depot.”

“Waitaminute.” I glared up at the bucket of bolts. “You trying to tell me an airbus somehow lost control, ran directly into our ride, and then just so happened to fall on top of us?”

“Sounds a right bit unlikely when you say it like that.” It tilted its hat back and scratched its rusted dome with a wiry finger before shrugging. “But hey, TINH, right?”

“Yeah. This is New Haven.” I could tell I wasn’t gonna get anything from the scrap heap. It was programmed to avoid liability, not provide any solid answers.