Alien Diplomacy

possible. And by humanly, I really mean alienly, at the best hyperspeed either one of us can manage.”
    The headlight confirmed to our eyes what our ears had already picked up. The Metro was running again.



CHAPTER 38
    N OT ONLY WAS THE TRAIN HEADING RIGHT FOR US, but it was going a lot faster than I figured it should be if it planned to stop for passengers. Then again, I had a feeling the only passengers planned were me and White, and if we became train hood ornaments, that was undoubtedly in the bad guys’ playbook under the “happy outcomes to troublesome problems” header.
    “Back or forward?” White asked.
    “Rock or hard place, you mean.” We were still up in the air and it was too far to jump off the tracks and have a hope of landing safely. We also had no time to make the decision. “Jumper” by Third Eye Blind came on my iPod and, along with it, an idea. Worked for me. I did what I’d been doing for the past couple of years. I went for the crazy.
    I took off, dragging White with me, heading right for the train. The jump was going to require split second timing as well as a sincere hope that White was up for it. “Do you trust me?” I shouted as we raced toward the train racing right back at us.
    “Yes.”
    “Then jump as high as you can right now!”
    We jumped. Our momentum allowed us some lift, but clearly Michael wasn’t the only A-C who could jump, because White was the reason we actually landed on the top of the train instead of into its windshield.
    “Don’t stop!” he shouted, as we continued to run along the top of the train. He didn’t have to tell me why—the station had a roof, and we’d be slammed into it if we didn’t keep on running in the opposite direction.
    “Just like Paris,” I called as we sailed over the gaps between cars.
    “Let’s hope not.”
    We reached the end of the train fast. Neither one of us hesitated. We jumped off. White pulled me into his arms midair and managed a good wrap and cover. We landed, on his shoulder, I was pretty sure, and rolled.
    Once we rolled to a stop I staggered to my feet. “You okay?”
    White nodded. “Somewhat.”
    I reached down and helped him up. “You look a little worse for wear.”
    “You’re not a party yourself, Missus Martini.”
    “Let’s get out of here.”
    “I agree.” White cleared his throat. “Are you, ah, able to manage the hyperspeed?”
    “I think so.” I took a closer look. “Richard, you’re bleeding.”
    “I am. I’ll heal faster than you would have.”
    “You’re holding yourself funny, too.”
    “I believe my shoulder is dislocated, and I imagine I’ll need a stitch or two. Now isn’t the time to dwell on my injuries, which are relatively minor, albeit unpleasant. I’ll be fine, however, I used quite a bit of energy on that jump.”
    “Gotcha. If you can, please God, steer, I’ve got the hyperjuice. At least for a few miles.”
    “I believe a few is all we’ll need.”
    We took off again. I was tired, too, so I was going at the slow version of hyperspeed, which always sounded like an oxymoron but really existed. We were still going fast, but someone with sharp eyes could have spotted us as blurry images.
    White’s steering ensured I didn’t run us off the tracks. After a short while we were even with the ground, and we got off the tracks. Just in time, as another train barreled past, right after its homicidal brother.
    I had no idea where we were, but White seemed to, so we ran along the street, passing cars as if they were standing still. If it wasn’t for the fact that I knew he was hurt, I would have possibly enjoyed this. As it was, I wanted to get home, and by home I really meant either my parents’ house in Arizona or the Dulce Science Center in New Mexico. Sadly, neither was an option.
    We crossed the river. “Oh, look. The Potomac. Let’s not go swimming.”
    “No argument from me, Missus Martini.”
    We were decently far away from the airport when I felt us slowing down. I was a sprinter, and while I’d spent time on distance, both when I ran track and since joining up with Centaurion Division, I only had so much gas in the tank on the best days. This was absolutely not one of the best days.
    We were at a walk in a matter of moments. “I’m sorry, I can’t run anymore.”
    White nodded. “I’m fine with a rest.”
    I spotted a big parking lot nearby as Go West’s “The King of Wishful Thinking” came on my iPod. We walked through it, slowly, stopping