But I didn’t know if Randall definitely intended to do this. Once I committed, I’d lose the lead.
This was the problem with aging. I knew the odds and didn’t like them. At fifteen, they’d been a challenge. At twenty-eight, they were chains.
That shimmer was definitely closer, definitely not airflow, and this was a good time. I hit the button and nothing happened.
Of course he would have a damping field set up. I couldn’t trigger it from here. Or hell, it could be a security protocol in the hall.
All I could do was try to slip in and wrestle with a ghost.
Silver was very good. She realized I was moving, deduced why, and keyed something manually into her pad.
The air turned hazy with powder, and there was most definitely an outline there. Definite to me. Everyone else looked up at the vents. Every one of Rothman’s security detail. They were unreactive for over a second and I took marks off.
The shift turned into an outline swishing through the dust. He was slowed because he had to carefully maneuver around gawking people who couldn’t see him.
The security detail reacted at last, closing in on the minister and shuffling quickly offstage, as masks came out. This clearly hadn’t been in Randall’s plan, and he hesitated. By then I was near the stage.
The press were in a mob to get photos of the spewing dust and the choreographed movement. I bounced on a chair, onto a cop’s shoulder and then to the stage. Lacking time for pleasantries, I jumped again and tried to hit Randall with a flying kick.
Tried to. By then, he was paying attention and dodged. As I passed by, he struck me in the calf, a blow that paralyzed the muscle but not the nerves. Jagged jolts of pain ripped through it. Between that and the swirling white dust, I was at a huge disadvantage.
The security detail turned to me, still not seeing him, and the press shouted and pointed because their cameras could see the distortion. There was obvious hesitation and trepidation about the crazy man fighting the ghost, but momentarily, the guards figured out what was going on. Half rushed the minister out. The other half came at me and Randall. Having no idea who was on the dance card, I was sure they meant to take us both.
But in the meantime, I was busy trying to stay alive and get the upper hand.
I had him right where he wanted me. If he couldn’t take this target, he could take me instead. That would be an object lesson right back the other way—the best Naumann had had failed. Why don’t you just leave me alone?
I was the better martial artist. He was near invisible. I’d trained for a lot of contingencies, but not that.
Then a blade came out of a rip in the open air, right in front of me.
I figured where the arm was, caught it and the mimetic material protested in spectral waves along his forearm. He tried to wiggle the blade toward my wrist, but I had the elbow, heaved, jabbed, and his own hand and knife cut the suit and caught something underneath. He grunted, and now there were two small apertures in clear air. I felt heat rush from them, and could smell the body inside. It was him.
He managed to kick me off, literally, with a heavy boot to the ribs. I never saw it, nor felt the wind up. Good kick, the bastard. I curled up with lances of pain reaching from my side to my balls and my head, my kidneys, and cramping down my thigh. He did the smart thing and ran.
I collapsed around my ribs, wheezing in agony. That hadn’t worked. I’d saved Rothman’s life, but that was less important than stopping Randall.
The guards then swarmed me.
Of course, they had no idea what had happened, other than I’d tangled up with someone in a chameleon. They were wisely not going to assume I was a good Samaritan, or that it was anything other than the two of us brawling. Their principal was safe and surrounded, I was down, the other fleeing and being pursued.
Silver did the right thing and stayed far away from me.
I made no move to resist when they stretched me and cuffed me, but I did utter some strange noises as my ribs grated. I was saved by a paramedic.
“Uncuff him, you bloody idiots. His ribs are broken.”
They uncuffed me, but kept muzzles pointed at my face. They seemed reasonably well-trained, so I relaxed and did nothing to disturb them. The medic started working.
“Sir, where were you hit?”
“Kicked, toe, roundhouse, between fifth and sixth ribs, left line. I can feel them grinding.”
“I need to put you on a backboard,” he said.
“I understand,” I agreed. There were three other medics now, and cameras all over the place despite the security barriers. Some were remote flyers, others just raised at high angles. I threw my right arm over my face, which was fine until they wanted to strap it down. I couldn’t really protest without giving away that I had an identity to hide, which most certainly wouldn’t fit with heroic intentions. I settled for eyes closed and slack jaw to look as little like the regular me as possible. The cervical support and forehead strap helped cover parts of my face.