From pyramid!decwrl!ucbvax!tut.cis.ohio-state.edu!osu-cis!att!ihwpt!ihlpa!fish Thu Feb 23 07:55:24 PST 1989 [Synopsis: On the run from the forces of the collapsing Corporatist government, Spike is captured in Detroit while trying to make his way to Canada and safety. Recovering from the tranquilizer dart that rendered him helpless, Spike discovers that his captor is none other than Ames Morgan, Secretary of Transportation, and perhaps the most powerful man in the Corporatist government. Morgan reveals his diabolical plan: to destroy the cities of Detroit and Windsor with a suitcase-sized H-bomb, killing the delegates to the all-important Planning Conference of the Enterprise Party, whose sweeping victory in the November, 1998 elections spelled doom for the Corporatists. Furthermore, Spike has been set up to take the blame. In the year 1998, one man fights the tyranny of the automobile. Now he faces a much greater evil...] --- Morgan's laughter died down and my struggles abated -- partly because I'd managed to partially free my right leg, and partly because I needed a cool head to size up the situation. I was alive only because of Morgan's maniacal ego. He'd conquered Spike Bike, and couldn't resist confronting me, just to gloat. I studied the device on the desk before me. One of the displays on the suitcase Bomb was changing. It read: 3:58:21... 3:58:20... 3:58:19... I had to keep Morgan talking, to find out what he had planned, and to divert his attention from my quiet struggles with the leg restraints. He evidently hadn't realized the strength in a cyclist's legs. As I exerted steady, concerted pressure, the strands of tape tore slightly on the squared corners of the chair legs. Eventually, they would break and my legs, if not my arms, would be free. "You'll never get away with it. Even Iacocca wouldn't approve of nuking an American city." "Actually, he doesn't know anything about it. He's mainly a figurehead, anyway. Past the age of retirement, you know. In any case, four hours from now -- make that three hours and fifty-six minutes -- your friends down there will be radioactive vapor, and the people will have to look to the only government they have -- us -- to see them through the ensuing international crisis. And you, my friend, will go down in history as the most infamous terrorist of all time." "The bomb goes off in four hours?" "10:00 PM sharp. Senator Crisp should just be finishing his speech to the convention around then. I'll be long gone by then, driving west toward Chicago. Couldn't take a chance on the airlines. You, on the other hand, will be right here, snoozing away on another dose of aneprazine -- that's the stuff we shot you with downstairs. You'll have the whole building to yourself. We gave the cleaning staff the night off -- not much point in mopping the restrooms in the middle of ground zero, is there? "Well, Spike, it's been nice meeting you in person, but I have pressing matters to attend to. It seems there's no way to disarm this thing once the countdown has started -- which it has -- and Detroit is fast becoming a crummy place to be." He extracted a hypo from a briefcase on the desk. My legs were not quite free. I had to stall him a few moments more, fan his ego. "One more thing. How did you find me?" "The computers did it. Took us a long time. Seems you always traveled under assumed names, paying with cash for your airline tickets. But you used your family's business shipments to transport your weapons and bicycles by rail and truck to the areas you hit. It was just a routine audit of our shipping records, anything to get a lead. When we found out that Spiro Bikopoulis, former bicycle racer, was shipping merchandise to areas that were shortly thereafter visited by Spike Bike, we had a pretty good idea who you were. "That business you pulled back in Illinois confirmed it. Incidentally, that was a half-million dollar chopper you blew up. Fortunately for us, the pilot radioed your situation just before you smoked him, so we had the train diverted here. Quite a stroke of luck for us; we got some nice pictures. The security cameras caught your entrance downstairs and got a nice close-up of your face before we tranked you. It was not strictly necessary, but it will add credibility to the story of the world's first nuclear terrorist. In a few days, the tape will be on every TV screen in America, along with the stuff we got in New Mexico." "You got a ringer for me." "Remarkable likeness, at least from a distance. Good with weapons, too, an ex-Marine, like yourself. Down on his luck, poor chap. He was more than happy to work with us after we got him off death row in California. He took to a mountain bike like a natural. Did a great job for us in New Mexico. We need more men like him. Pity you don't work for us, Spike. Well, Spike, I could go on for hours, but I really should be going. Have a nice nap." He prepared the hypo and crossed from behind the desk. My legs were free. I would have just one chance. As he drew close to administer the shot, I rocked back on the chair and kicked up violently with both legs, catching Morgan in the rib cage. The thrust hurled him through the air several feet, until his back crashed through the expansive, mural window. They say that from 103 floors up, you're dead before you hit the ground. I always thought it was a myth, but I didn't hear him screaming the whole way down, just 50 floors or so. Maybe there's something to it after all. My hands were still bound. I lay on the heavily carpeted floor, alone with the Bomb. 3:42:01... 3:42:00... 3:41:59... * TO BE CONTINUED * -- __ / \ Bob Fishell \__/ att!ihlpa!fish