The Jumper
This is it, Evalla Taryu thought, mentally readying herself for battle even as she brought her motorbike to a stop near the multiplex house.
She sized up the place with a glance: dingy dark plasteen walls marred by discolorations, lichens, and the odd piece of graffiti. A faint whiff of vape smoke wafted from it, a mint-inflected scent Evalla had always found trashy. It was much in keeping with the neighborhood, from what she had seen of it—a place for suspicious glances and locked doors, even on a sunny afternoon like this one.
“If you’re like the average jumper,” she said to herself, “this is where you’ll be: at your last known residence… home of an accommodating known associate and sometime-girlfriend.”
Still on her bike, she took out her scanscope and monitored the results on her wrist-mounted comm screen.
The scope confirmed two living, adult-sized humans—or very high-level synthians, though she knew that was virtually impossible—in the residence. Thermal imaging showed a silhouette that appeared to be the right height and proportions for an adult man, an assessment her comm concurred with.
Evalla had already reviewed the rental lease: it listed a woman as the sole tenant.
Got you, she thought.
Evalla glanced at the image on her comm screen, refreshing her memory of the jumper’s face. The image showed a heavily tanned man with a square jaw and narrowed eyes, his face set in a snarl as if he intended to bite the photographer.
She reviewed the photos of his forearms, noted the tattoo of a half-nude female angel superimposed over the letter elvu on his left forearm.
The jumper’s name was Telten Vannok, and he had open warrants on several worlds: larceny, assault, brandishing, resisting arrest, fleeing police… it was nothing she hadn’t encountered a dozen times before.
But as far as she was concerned, the tattoo on his forearm was the real sign of trouble.
He’s not going to come peacefully, she thought.
From long practice, Evalla dismounted by stepping on one of the long, metallic black bars affixed by a frame to either side of her bike.
Better than tripping over my own mass-multipliers, she thought wryly.
She had dressed for battle: gray-black tactical vest over a short-sleeved tunic, leggings and combat boots. She wore a helmet strong enough to stop most energy blasts, and she had bound up her dark hair in a cabled braid. After satisfying herself that her helmet and her tactical vest were secure, she opened a compartment behind the bike’s saddle and drew out her weapon.
From long habit, Evalla checked the pistol’s safety—still on—before holstering it.
“All right, Telten,” she said under her breath, “let’s hope you’re ready to come peacefully.”
She wasn’t betting on it, but it was always nice to be optimistic.
Evalla went to the door and pushed the doorbell button.
The door slid open, and a young woman stared at her with mistrusting dark eyes. Her face was soft enough that Evalla knew men would find her a beauty, but her expression hinted at hard lines.
“Yes?” the woman said, her accent thick and lilting. She was shorter than Evalla by about half a head, and Evalla guessed her age as mid- to late-twenties in Commonality Standard years, perhaps a couple of years younger than Evalla herself.
Evalla didn’t mind the mistrust in the woman’s eyes. She knew she was on the tall side of average height for a woman, and she imagined how she must have appeared: a woman in her late twenties with large, deep-brown eyes and thick eyelashes—for some reason everyone always commented on them—and a face with high cheekbones, her complexion a warm ivory, lightly kissed by the sun.
But from long experience, she had found many women were intimidated less by her looks and more by her toned muscles and her confident soldier’s bearing. For that matter, Evalla drew plenty of admiring looks from men, but she found it almost depressingly easy to keep most of them at bay.
Most civilian men don’t want a woman who can put them on the floor in about two seconds, she thought.
“Hello,” Evalla said, first in Standard Amuryan and then in Lahonese. She tried to keep her smile as friendly as possible. “You must be Myla Oluho. My name is Evalla Taryu, and I’m here to speak with your associate Telten Vannok. Is he home?”
In Evalla’s experience, opening with courtesy was sometimes enough to de-escalate situations and encourage cooperation. It was also, of course, good manners.
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you, miss? Are you with the police?”
Since Myla continued to speak in Standard Amuryan, Evalla decided to continue in that language.
“I’m not with the police,” she said, “but I am required by law to disclose that this is an important legal matter. I can discuss this further with Telten. Is he here at present?”
Myla’s eyes widened. “He not here. You need to go now.”
Evalla had to suppress a groan. She knew the pattern: her jumper was about to make a mad dash for freedom, aided by his paramour.
“Ma’am,” Evalla said in Lahonese, a language she had always found to have a more refined sense of courtesy, “it would be much better for Telten if he were to speak with me. Word on the street is that you’re his star-side huxara.”
Myla’s eyes widened, but Evalla could tell she understood the word.
“How you know that word?”
Evalla gave a wry grimace. “Telten and I share a home-world. Can you please tell me where he is?”
“You go!” Myla barked, pointing down the drive. “Telten, he not here!”
Evalla did her best to suppress her rising sense of annoyance. She plastered her best, most winsome smile on her face. “Will you please take my pixel and tell him to call me?”
Myla slammed the door in her face.
“Well,” Evalla said, “there’s that.”
She walked back to her motorbike and thought for a moment.
There were two different ways she could play this.
On the one hand, because Telten had failed to appear in court, and because a duly-authorized fugitive recovery specialist—that’d be me—had confirmed a plausible life-sign, she was legally free and clear to kick down the door and arrest him.
She frowned. What if the man is someone else, literally anyone other than Telten? I’d be kicking down an innocent woman’s door—well, a somewhat innocent woman’s door—and ruining her day for nothing.
Evalla had no doubt Myla was involved with Telten and thus with the criminal gang he was a part of. On the other hand, she might not be a party to Telten’s current fugitive status.
I’m fairly certain he’s in there, Evalla thought, but am I certain enough to break down the door? I might have to shoot someone.
No, she decided, even if she was 99% sure that the man inside the house was Telten, she wasn’t going to storm the place. It wasn’t worth the risk of her being wrong, and whatever happened, whoever was in there, she was determined to avoid shooting anyone if at all possible.
That left the other way to handle the case.
Evalla reached into her motorbike’s compartment and took out a slim plasteen case. She opened it and selected one of the bee-mimic drones.
They really do look like bees, she thought, activating the drone and taking a moment to ensure it could still fly and transmit a video feed to her comm.
Mentally, she reviewed the appropriate law: she could have the drone approach the premises from her current location, since she had a clear line of sight.
And because she had probable cause, she could have it perform covert surveillance of the property, provided it did not cross the property line.
It was the work of a moment to program a flight path for the drone that would keep it within the property lines. She set an alarm: the drone was to alert her any time any person or vehicle crossed the property line.
This done, she activated her motorbike and drove back the way she had come.
Evalla had planned to round the block, but she had only turned the corner when the drone’s alarm chimed.
She glanced at the comm on her left wrist, and saw a car flying down the road. Even without the drone’s instant replay showing the car leaving Myla’s driveway, the car’s windows were large enough for Evalla to clearly see Myla in the driver’s seat and Telten in the passenger’s seat.
Okay, then, she thought. Let’s do this.
A thrill ran down her spine, and she tapped the screen on the bike’s dash. Loud music blared from her speakers: thunderous guitars, driving bass, and powerful drums, interplayed with melodic keyboards.
Evalla pulled on the accelerator, built into the right hand-grip, and the bike’s powerful engine sent it screaming forward.
There were few other cars on the road, and Evalla thrilled as she closed the distance with the fleeing vehicle. Myla’s car was a sleek chrome “road-cutter,” so called because of its powerful engine and low-slung, aerodynamic profile.
Evalla knew road-cutters had become popular as racing vehicles, and as she watched Myla’s car become a silver-hued blur she could see why.
But that’s why I drive a Tuvati Interceptor Special, she thought, adrenaline coursing through her veins as she pulled the accelerator, turning it toward her.
The Tuvati’s fusion engine gave a deep purr as the bike streaked forward, and Evalla felt the paired double wheels kissing the road.
Myla turned without warning, her road-cutter swerving and barely evading a larger “thunder car” that would have flattened the road-cutter.
Evalla twisted the accelerator forward, slowing the bike, then tapped the rear brake lever with her right foot. The Tuvati’s tires gave only a slight screech of protest as she turned, and then she pulled the accelerator and sent the bike roaring forward again.
In moments, Evalla was drawing level with the car. She tapped a control on her bike’s dash, and the music blaring from her speakers was replaced by a pre-recorded message:
“TELTEN VANNOK,” the mechanical voice said, “PULL OVER AND SURRENDER. YOU ARE A FUGITIVE FROM JUSTICE.”
Evalla saw Myla duck a split second before she saw the metallic glint in Telten’s hand.
Her combat reflexes screamed at her to draw and fire, but Evalla pulled the accelerator instead. Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed the bright bolt of energy as it seared through the air behind her.
I’m not going to risk killing Myla, she thought.
It was time for the Interceptor Special to earn its keep.
Evalla pulled the accelerator as far as it would go, and the bike growled as it leapt forward. In the blink of an eye, she was three, four, five, car-lengths ahead of the road-cutter.
Taking a deep breath, Evalla twisted the accelerator away from her, slowing the bike. She hit the rear brake lever with her right foot even as she reached forward on the right hand-grip and grasped the front brake.
