Timecaster by Joe Kimball Read Free Book Online Page A

That’s all.”
    “No. It’s love. I asked him.”
    “You had no right to do that!”
    “You say sex is harmless, but this tool would jump off a building for you. Is that harmless?”
    “Where is Neil? You didn’t do anything stupid, did you?”
    “Can you give me a little credit, maybe?”
    “I’m calling him.”
    “Vicki . . .”
    She hung up.
    “That went well,” I said to my car. I stared out into the urban jungle, green buildings scraping the sky, thousands of anonymous biofuel scooters flooding the roads. My city. Vibrant, alive, and beautiful in its way.
    The thought of living here without Vicki was unbearable.
    The thought of living anywhere without Vicki was unbearable.
    I climbed in the Vette and plotted a route to Sata’s house. One crisis at a time.
    Michio Sata lived in the northwest suburbs, in the city of Schaumburg. The twelve-lane highway was predictably stop-and-go, bikes clogging everything. Even the frog-leg lane was full, the kermits going slightly slower than the rest of traffic, probably because they enjoyed stopping every so often and bouncing around like idiots.
    I glanced longingly at the cargo train alongside the road—used to move goods since trucks were outlawed—and not for the first time wished I was a bag of grain, which undoubtedly traveled faster than I did. Or maybe a hobo. Dangerous business, hopping onto trains, but at least those who survived reached their destinations on time.
    To kill some time I linked my DT to the car stereo and listened to some blues, but every damn song seemed to be about cheating women and jealous men. So I asked it to filter the content for infidelity, and listened to eight straight songs about drinking, which made me want to turn around and grab that rum from Aunt Zelda’s cabinet. After that I switched to laser radio and drummed my steering wheel to mc chris, Ice Cube, and Pink, but I tired of oldies pretty quick and went back to blues.
    I managed to make it to Sata’s neighborhood within an hour. Unlike Chicago, where ivy-draped buildings dominated the scenery, Schaumburg’s architecture was placed far enough apart to turn it into a giant bamboo maze. Six-foot stalks sprouted from every bit of free land space, making it look like many of the shops and houses were sinking in a swamp, only their roofs visible from the street.
    My GPS led me to Sata’s driveway, a green clover road being squeezed on either side by overgrown hemp. The size of his lawn was commensurate with his wealth. Sata’s patent rights in timecasting tech had made him a rich man. I parked next to a fountain—two concrete mermaids spitting water on each other—then grabbed my TEV and rang his videobell.
    Sata’s face appeared on the monitor. His long gray hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, and I saw he was wearing a keikogi . He nodded when he saw me.
    “Talon. I was hoping you’d come by. Enter.”
    At his voice command, the door unlocked. I walked into his home and slipped off my shoes, setting them in a cubbyhole of the getabako he kept in the foyer. Then I made my way to the gym.
    Unlike Aunt Zelda, whose small apartment was light on greenery and heavy on contraband, Sata’s wealth was apparent only by the size of his home and land. Every wall had ivy growing on it, and the tile floors were bracketed by dirt patches growing sunflowers. The high ceilings were inlaid with magnifying windows and solar lights, so no matter the time of day his home was always bright. Every few meters was a Doric pedestal supporting a bonsai tree. According to Sata, some of them were more than a hundred years old.
    The house smelled of plant life, of greenery and humid oxygen and lavender that grew from hanging pots. The odor changed when I opened the doors to the training room. The gym smelled like sweat and determination.
    Sata was barefoot in the center of the faux-wooden floor, wearing a blue keikogi —the traditional long-sleeved shirt—and black hakama —the baggy