Kaleidocide by Dave Swavely Page B

car, moving slowly down a snowy street, surrounded by deserted skyscrapers. Their yellow vehicle was the only one within view, though a few blocks back they had passed a “real” taxi that had broken down and been abandoned on the street earlier in the day. It looked almost the same as the car they were driving, but it wasn’t heavily armored like theirs, which was one from the fleets of “night taxis” that Gotham Security had purchased when the curfew went up. It had been a mutually beneficial arrangement—the cab companies had no more use for such heavy secure cars, now that they would not be driving at night anymore. And the armor on them was already so formidable that very little modification was necessary for their new work. Gotham also chose to keep the color, and to give their agents matching body armor, because the yellow was easily recognizable and distinguishable from the criminals, who were usually draped in blacks and grays to blend in with the night.
    Korcz was a big Russian man, with a bald head and a pock-marked face. He appeared even bigger than he was next to his partner, who was a wiry little man no more than five foot six. Stephenson didn’t look like a “Dark Knight,” or any other type of cop, but was qualified based on his inner constitution. Unless he was lying about it, he had a doctoral degree in mathematics, but was so much of an adventurer at heart that he had become bored with teaching at a college. Korcz, on the other hand, didn’t even speak English that well—his childhood in Eurasia had left him undereducated in the arts and sciences, but toughened by the third-world streets. He was more familiar with the art of pugilism and the science of ballistics, therefore, and he caught a break a few years back in San Francisco when a brother’s friend took him on as a peacer with BASS. After he made some irreparable mistakes in that notoriously demanding organization, the brother’s friend helped him to get this job on the other coast. After almost three years here, he had already faced death too many times to count, and every night he was more afraid of dying than he would ever show.
    This dream thing with Stephenson didn’t help, either.
    â€œI tell you, it’s odd,” the little man was saying. “I’m a scientist, sort of, and you’re a skeptic. But we both have to admit it’s possible.”
    Korcz continued driving, not saying anything.
    â€œRight?” Stephenson asked again. “They’ve worked this stuff out. It’s not religious crap. They admit it’s experimental, and all that, which makes me inclined to believe it more.” He paused to see if his partner was ready to say anything yet, then went on. “And this one isn’t just in their ‘possible precog’ range—it’s off the charts, I’m telling you. I called the company today, I think they’ll want to know about this one. I mean, if they got a lot like this during testing, or since it was released, they would have it in the manual. But the numbers aren’t even in the manual!”
    â€œDrimscepp?” Korcz finally said. It was his way of saying “Dreamscape.”
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œYou called Drimscepp, danyet?”
    â€œYes. I did.”
    â€œThey did not answer?”
    â€œNo, of course not,” Stephenson said. “I left a message. Hopefully I’ll get something more than the usual construct reciting a standard response.” He tapped his antique-style glasses to check the time. “But I think I will, for this one.”
    â€œMaybe it is broken,” Korcz said.
    â€œThat’s the third time you’ve said that since we started talking about this,” Stephenson said, shaking his head. Then he shifted his small body to get a better look at Korcz. “Are you scared about this?”
    â€œAre you ?” Korcz answered.
    â€œNo, of course not. Do I look