Appeals Court | Page 4

as he realises that in fact he and Bonnie meet about 130 percent of those criteria between them.
"That's easy, y'all just gotta have a little faith," says the airhead on the traffic control desk.
Huw grits his teeth and looks through the doorway at Bonnie, whose ears appear to be smoking. He puts ahand over the mike: "does this thing carries missiles?" he calls to her.
"FUCKING fucking arse shit bollocks --" Bonnie hammers on a control panel off to one side. It bleeps plaintively, the ancient chime of servers rebooting: "-- 'ing COUNTERMEASURES suite!"
"Hasta la vista, sinners," drawls the missile launch computer in a thick gubernatorial Austro-Californian accent. Two pinpricks of light blossom on the verdant horizon of the gasoline mangroves, then a third that rapidly expands into a fireball as the antique pre-Cloud hypersonic missile bus explodes on launch. The surviving Patriots stab towards them and there's a musical chime from the countermeasures control panel. Huw feels a moment of gut-slackening terror. "You've got mail!" the countermeasures system announces in the syrupy tones of a kindergarten teacher. "AOL welcomes you to the United States of America. You have new voice mail, which will follow automatically after this message from our sponsors: click the pink furry button to access our extensive range of introductory offers, the pink fuzzy button to access our customer accounts database, the pink lozenge to see how AOL can help *you* --"
Bonnie thumps something on the panel, muscles like whipcord standing out on her arm as she glares at the oncoming missiles. Huw backs away. *She might actually be a communicant*, he realises in absolute horror. *She might actually be an AOL screen name -- she's mad enough ...* These days, tales of what AOL did with their users during the Singularity are commonly used to scare naughty children in Wales.
"Acknowledged," says the possessed countermeasures suite, in the hag-ridden tones of a computer that has surrendered to the dark side. For a moment nothing seems to happen, then one of the onrushing pinpricks of light veers towards the other. Paths cross then diverge in a haze of debris. "You've got mail," it sighs.
"Don't read it!" Huw screams, but he's too late -- Bonnie has punched the console again, and messages begin scrolling across it. In the middle distance, Charleston airports' cracked and vitrified runways are coming into view. Missile batteries off to one side cycle their launcher-erectors impotently, magazines long since fired dry at the robot-piloted godless commie-fag euroweasel aid flights.
"We gotta bail out before we land, otherwise we'd have to go through customs," she says brightly. "That would be bad -- South Carolina never ended prohibition."
"What?" Huw shakes his head again. "Prohibition of what? What are you talking about?" His hands are shaking, he realises. "I need a drink."
"Prohibition of grass DIPSHIT," Bonnie says. She pauses for a moment, prodding at her eyes with a mister, but they are so swollen that she can't get its applicator into contact with bare mucous membrane. She roots around some more, then whacks some kind of transdermal plaster on her arm. "Sorry, gotta ARSE FUCK come down now. Your stash, darling? It's illegal here. If the customs crows catch you with it, they'll stick you on the chain gang and you'll be chibbed and FUCK RAPED BABY-EATING MURDERED by psychotic redneck klansmen for the next two hundred years. It's bad for the skin, I hear." She stands up and heads towards a battered cabinet at the rear of the bridge, which she opens to reveal a couple of grubby-looking parachutes that appear to have been carefully hand-packed by stoned marmosets. "We'll be passing over the hot tub in about three minutes. You coming?"
The parachute harness she hands him is incredibly smelly -- evidently its last owner didn't believe in soap -- but its flight control system assures Huw that it's in perfect working order and please to extinguish all cigarettes and switch off all electronics for the duration of flight. Tight-lipped, Huw fastens it around his waist and shoulders then follows Bonnie to the back of the bridge and down a rickety ladder to the bottom of the gas bag. There's an open hatch, and when he looks through it he sees verdant green folliage whipping past at nearly a hundred kilometres per hour, hundreds of metres below. "Clip the red hook to the blue static line eye," says the harness. "Clip the --"
"I get the picture," Huw mutters. Bonnie is already hooked up, and turns to check his rig, then gives him a huge shit-eating grin and steps backwards into the airship's slipstream. "Aagh!" Huw flinches and stumbles, then follows her willy-nilly. Seconds later the chute unfolds its wings above him and his ears are filled with the sputtering snarl of a two-stroke motor as it switches to