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I climb out of the subway station that's handiest for home. Managed to avoid any real problems by sticking to Bright Light districts. Step aside to avoid a patrol of Velociraptors. An old veteran, saurian form of brushed steel, must have been rough to get a non human frame back when they only had hydraulics for your limbs and copper wires for your brain. I wonder how he's managed to survive. Two teens on powered bikes follow him, basic green striped uniform, GI equipment, must be just out of training. I turn a corner and my building is in sight. An old building, dating back to the 'previous administration', barely tall enough to count as a skyscraper even back then, it has been rebuilt and reinforced using nanotech, which means it looks like somebody took a giant fishnet stocking and stretched it over the building. My neighborhood is a less than fashionable little community of hard working people, blue collars, artists, hackers, mercenaries, office wage slaves. In short a nice little 'town' inside the megapolis, like hundreds of others in this city of 3 billion souls. Set the media system to some music videos and check my messages. Java called 5 times, to remind me that I'd promised to be there early to get a few practice laps in before the race. Contemplate sending him an "I'm sorry, something's come up" just to torture him, but refrain. That done I try to relax and vegetate in front of the screen, but my computer keeps looming ever larger. I finally give up on procrastinating any longer. I fetch the slice of pie from the fridge, open up my deck and settle down to try and map out my immediate future. I choose the holo display and set up a large expanse of virtual paper floating before me. Across the top little boxes holding the specifics of what jobs I have to choose from. To a side, how much money I have, beneath that a column of what upgrades I need and want, along with their prices, floating up and down along the list a little red triangular marker showing how far up the list I can currently afford. Four spaces for listing the jobs in order of (a)pay, (b)pucker factor, (c)doability, (d)fun. No one job floats up to the top of all the lists. I stare at the lists, I go to the kitchen to see what's for dinner, I stare at the lists some more. I tell the computer to spread out the lists and add lists that try to take into account every combination of two parameters, ab, ac, ad, bc, bd, cd. Still no one job looks like a clear winner. I look at the holo, I pace around my apartment, I look at the holo from the back side, I go take a shower. I tell the computer to squeeze everything up into the top half of the 'screen', add a timeline showing when my current job end, the starts and durations of all the jobs. Redo the lists taking into account all the possible combinations of the parameters and taking into account any scheduling conflicts. I stare at the whole mess some more. I go and nuke an early dinner. I sit down to eat, tell the comp to save the whole morass for later, maybe something new will turn up before I absolutely have to decide. I really ought to stop agonizing about business decisions like this. I grab my trusty pair of 'blades', and head north to the gray zone in the heart of the Velociraptors territory. Zone Eleven, the oldest and most stable gray zone in all the Sprawl, it still holds the name it had in the city's military maps during the Troubles. Home of one of the Cult of Speed's main Temples. At the zone's core lies the Temple of the Piston, around it the greatest agglomeration of roadways, raceways and tracks ever. A profusion of overpasses, cloverleaves, ovals, elevateds, ramps, labyrinths and obstacle courses have turned Zone Eleven into an impenetrable fortress and the prime location for any motorized race, competition, duel, and hunt in the Sprawl. Early nightfall at street level as the buildings block the low angled sun. The buildings get older and nearer to collapse the closer I get to the boundary. A flying wedge of 'Werewolves' on ancient Harleys roar past. Allowed through the V's territory only because they too are Speed Cultists, and the inter-gang treaty set up by the Cult still holds, for now. The once movable barriers, long frozen into place and turned into steel reinforced concrete lace by decades of stray fire from within the most stable of the Sprawl's gray zones are the long familiar sight that greets me as I enter Zone Eleven. The streets are in better repair than anywhere else in the city, twice as many light posts than normal fend off the night, where buildings once stood, empty lots and piles of masonry are the floor of an urban forest, squared islands of stubborn trees, gnarled and twisted by the harsh conditions, exotic mutants created by gene-lab artists, the brightly lit forests are topped by an artificial canopy of drunkenly twisted tracks, held aloft by brick arcs holding a nightmare mimicry of ancient Rome's aqueducts, built of recycled bricks, masonry and steel, the carcass of fallen buildings are now serpentine paths for runners, cyclists and skaters that thread their way throughout the otherwise motorized landscape, offering a somewhat illusory safety from which to witness the many races, duels and parades of the night. Past the strip of chlorophyll along the boundary, old lifeless buildings, the walls of an urban maze, their bulks partially filled with dirt to catch stray artillery, but mostly filled with the shells of decades of vehicular warfare. The walls are alive with bold yellow and black; checkerboards, diagonals, jagged lightning bolts. Sigills marking out the field of battle. Hearing the rumble of engines approaching I head for the nearest 'walkway', some of these gasoline addicts tend to get a bit trigger-happy. Head west, roller blades whizzing on the smooth pavement. Rumble of engines in the distance, moving in a slow predatory dance. A car turns onto the street I'm on, half a block back, my deck whispers in my ear, fuel cell powered commuter, no weapons lock, IFF beacon: Hunt group 23/lightweight class/traditional rules. A weekend warrior playing automotive paintball. The light blue three-wheeler zips past me. There. Where the road meets an ancient avenue, The angular graffiti of the hunting ground mutates into concentric circles, serpentine lines and hypnotic spirals, even the North-South blacktop is covered in a profusion of dots, lazy wiggles and tight Celtic knots of bright yellow. I turn onto the yellow psychotic road that provides a safe passage straight to the Temple. I settle into a slow smooth rhythm and throw in the skates' power boosts, after all it's damn near another 5 city blocks left to go, no need to get burned out so early in the night. Ahead the roar of race cars, the swirls veer right to avoid one of the road race courses. A low rise of dirt ahead is the outside of a turn, the half demolished brownstone screams of the lack of a safety barrier. Ahead in the center of the curve is one of the columns holding the elevated bike paths, a long lazy ramp curled around it offering a way up out of traffic. If you survive jaywalking through an overbooked Grand Prix. I set my deck to monitor the broadcast of this race, creep up to the racetrack. A group of racers erupt out of a tunnel, take the corner hard, turbulent air buffets me, a countdown to the next sizable gap between groups starts, 10, 9, 8, the cars disappear through the arc of a hollowed out tenement, 7, 6, 5, that last few stragglers whip past, 4, 3, a lone car well behind the pack, 2, 1, 0. The promptings of a civilian nerve job for weekend athletes sprint me across to the dead grass inside the turn just as the next group of cars blow out of the tunnel. Stomp over to the column, power up the ramp, up a steep path away from the Temple, intersection, downhill from here the rest of the way. The Temple of the Piston; a gothic cathedral consecrated to the original chrome esthetic. Part cathedral, part museum, part car factory. Saintly statues of inventors, stylists and engineers look down upon their legacy. Reliefs show the evolution of all manner of piston powered conveyance, air, land, and sea. Marble, precious metals, enameled steel and chrome serve as highlights and decorations. Glorious windows of safety glass in a riot of colors. Majestic cupolas, high bell towers, tail fin shaped flying buttresses. No one person is responsible for designing it, rather it grew over time under the hands of countless volunteers. The Temple of the Piston had started from the humblest of beginnings and had become one of the architectural marvels of our times. The Cult of Speed, started as a small club of aficionados with a joke name had grown to be one of the most powerful civic organizations of the Sprawl. And, perhaps, a religion after all. Past the massive double doors of the main entrance there is a reverential hush. All the more shocking after the din going on outside, as hundreds of cars and trucks took part in all manner of friendly competitions. A few dozens of people in little clumps of two or three wander around looking at the venerable cars in their glass boxes. In a corner, a larger group is standing around some large boxy piece of furniture covered in lights and candles, their flickering lights escaping between the press of bodies. A pair of feet are sticking out from beneath? The crowd moves back, a young man in robe-like garments gets up from the floor. He stands in silent contemplation for a moment, his hand straying to his shaved head. Then he gives it a kick, and old fashioned Rock and Roll thunders from the ancient jukebox. Ah, that's more like it. Cut across the Temple, head for the mechanic's tents out behind the small oval tracks that surround the Temple. In the distance I spy one of the Record's Official talking with a large cyborg and a familiar striped mercenary. I start to angle through the crowds towards them when somebody grabs my arm. Spin, break the grip. A beautiful young woman. "Hey Driver!, What took you so long?" Sparkling green eyes, long auburn hair, White leather jacket over black turtleneck, and what at first glance looks like painted on tight black leather jeans, new cyberlegs in gloss sports car black. "Nica!, I see you finally got yourself some new legs. Fast?" "Duh, Let's hurry and get you over to Java, he's about ready to put a price on your head." "Ah hell, go tell Java he's turned into a worried old grandma. He knows it's going to work, he's had me practicing on the damn thing every free hour I've gotten this past month." "No can do, he promised me a year's free service on my legs if I went and fetched you." "Heh, so he did put a price on my head? Look, do you mind if I go say hello to somebody first? Its Biz." "All right, on the way over. And I'm not letting you out of my sight." Finally the wiry old man, tired of being accosted, waves off the two warriors arguing over his head. Looks like whatever decision he made will stand. The borg gives a curt nod and stalks off. Shere Kahn with more respect bows before taking his leave. I catch his attention and wave him over to the little roving bar that had wandered over while I waited. "Hail and well met by the din of engines, proud warrior!" Kahn cocks an eyebrow at me. Am I serious or just pulling his tail. He decides to go along with the 'traditional' greeting Cultists use when screwing with pedestrians' heads. "Hail and well met by the light of headlights, agile driver!" A pair of young neophyte Medusas (an all girl cybergang) start to giggle drunkenly, they sobered up as soon as Shere Kahn turned the full focus of his attention on them. Nothing like a 400 lb tiger-morph mercenary taking a keen interest in you for sobering up in a hurry. "Well you're in a mood. What are you doing here at Temple? I didn't know you were a member." The moto-bar's robot barkeep faces Shere Kahn, the screen it wears for a face lights up with a question mark. "White Russian." (stifled giggles from the Medusas) "I'm not in the cult, my loyalties must lie with my Gen. That's why I'm here." He takes a sip of the SynthMilk and Vodka while I make "go on" motions with my free hand. "Some wise ass artificer back home gets into an argument with another family's engineer and the next thing I know there is going to be a race between both Gens and I'm responsible for the security of a gaggle of mechanics, tens of millions AU's worth of equipment, and a suicidal jet jockey." "Suicidal?" "He keeps trying to sneak off to the city without me or one of my people for security." "Ah, definitely suicidal. Look I never had the chance to thank you properly for the street cred you sent my way. I owe you, of course." "Of course. But you earned it, I liked you're style, and not many people can out drive a robot, specially M-70s. Those things are meant for urban warfare and high speed interceptions. You did 'know' they had M-70s, no? It was more than just a guess." I think fast about answering, I didn't expect any long conversations. He's measuring me up for something. Seeing if he can trust me with something further? "Well, yes. I'd asked around and bought some extra intel of what 'chasers' to expect. My source came up with a shipping manifesto from A.R.E.S. for half a dozen M-70s for precisely that location." "Damn! That's far more details than my sources gave me, all I had was a maybe on M class bots. Expensive? Maybe I should look up this source." "Not half as expensive as I'd expected, I think he's got something against GenetoMax. Or maybe against A.R.E.S.?" "Hell, everybody on the street has got something against bloody A.R.E.S. those bastards tried to run us all out of business. No must be GenetoMax. So how do I get in touch with this guy?" "On the Matrix, of course, try the Gray Cathedral, or maybe ToonTown, ask for The Bug." "Thanks. Hmm. I have some biz I'd like to talk to you about, but it looks like your date is getting impatient." Shere Kahn nods towards Nica, and flashes her a big friendly smile, if any smile that includes 3 inch long canines can ever be considered friendly. "Heh, I'm slated to drive some steam powered contraption in one of tonight's grudge races." I look at my watch, four hours to the first race at midnight. "I promised I'd get there early enough for a practice lap or two before the race. Fifth race, oval track 3. We could talk biz afterwards?" "Fifth race?, oh what the hell I'm due for a night off anyway. I'll look for you in the "Gargoyle Club" after your race." The temporary garages for the multitude of mechanics and racing teams is a tent city suburb squeezed in between two of the main race tracks, an oval and a road course. A strictly regimented riot of color, all manner of temporary and semi-permanent structure aligned along a grid of streets. Inside a large tent, sitting on a crate, a thick set man, hunched posture, thick jawed, beetled brow, broad flat nose, coarse haired, powerfully muscled hairy arms, old coveralls, and the ever present giant mug of coffee in hand. Behind a hastily set up curtain, a rhythmic mechanical huffing, tap tap tap of poppet valves, a powerful steam engine idling. "About time you showed up. We really need to get in some practice laps before the race you know." "Sheesh, Java. What's the big deal? Did you go and re-engineer the whole thing since I drove it two days ago?" "I was tempted. No, but we did some tweaking of the valve timing, and the suspension. I've reserved us a space on the test track in halve an hour, so suit up." "Hmph, well I'm glad to see you too." The seating for Oval Track 3 was filled to capacity. After all this is one of the courses reserved for serious competitions, attempts on records, grudge races between those racers or artificers who have already become well known for their skill. The first race had been eight historically accurate replicas of the ancient Ford model-T's. Race two was a couple of gangs in proxy combat over some disputed territory. Three and four had been attempts on the speed records for mass transit buses and wheel-less multi-legged vehicles, respectively. Shere Kahn had used his family's influence to snag one of the private viewing boxes. And had managed to entertain himself with a little help from the room's bar and the Medusa girls he'd talk into accompanying him. Beth had overindulged early on, trying to keep up with him and was snoring gently, her cranial cybertentacles waving gently like a kelp forest in the tide. N'stazia (a corrupt Sprawl name if ever he'd heard one) less than thrilled of the interruption of the festivities for the fifth race, was lying on the bed stretching in a most unladylike manner. Her slick frame and the neurostim implants in her hands pressed heavily on his willpower as he tried to pay attention to the race. Over the room's sound system came the announcement of the race, the announcer went into the details of who were racing and the rules concerning the cars, to Kahn it was so much unnecessary blather, but he guessed that most of the people in the stands would have found the details sketchy at best. Onto the track rolled three very distinct vehicles, a long cigar shape with tall tires mounted like outriggers, a fat teardrop with fins like a cartoon bomb, and what looked like a boat on wheels. All the cars where spewing copious amounts of smoke and steam. Green flag, and the cars shot forward, taking him a bit by surprise, he'd been expecting huge lumbering monsters that would wheeze and puff at barely a jog. On the monitor next to the box's picture window close-up shots of the cars, pilots name superimposed on them. Driver was in the big black bomb, and seemed to be doing well but it was still early in the race. On the monitor, a shot through the view screen of one of the cars showed its driver busy holding the steering wheel with one hand and turning knobs and pulling levers with the other. Strange. Shere Kahn asked the room's mini-brain about what kind of computers and displays the cars had. Answer: none, all controls and displays must be of a purely mechanical nature. The cars were neck to neck and doing short work of their third lap and the race and the pilots' skills had taken a whole new meaning to Kahn. He prepaid for a copy of the race's video feed, and all data on the rules and the cars' designs, only now did he recognize masters at their art, nowadays those people who claimed to be great drivers only had to sit there and give a few orders to the car's computer, what these people where doing in this complicated machines required as much control and skill as the best fighter in any arena. Fourth lap, the "boat" was lagging behind, it wasn't releasing any steam, and the smoke was a constant stream instead of the steady puffs it had started with, it rolled unto the shoulder of the track, slowing down, its pilot jumped out and kept running. It rolled to a stop and sat there, its metal sides glowing menacingly. Last lap, they pass the wreckage of the boat, giving it a wide berth. They jostle for position till the very end, photo finish, Driver crosses the finish line a handful of inches ahead of his emaining competition. Almost two hours after the race, after the impromptu celebration at the winner's circle, a quick shower alone that had turned into a rather longer one with Nica, a change of clothes and some food and drink, Driver finally managed to stagger out of the elevator and into The Gargoyle Club, high in one of the Temple's taller spires, where the infestation of gargoyles reached peak density. I finally make it to the Gargoyles. The place is packed with late revelers, jet jockeys and sky boys up in the balcony seats always got to be above everybody else to feel secure, oversized steel booths holds a pack of cyborg hot rod, combat frames strip, engines and power systems boosted, rebuilt for speed, they'll dress up for work, armor and weapons, but on the weekend they run and party. Nica gives me a peck on the cheek and says she'll wait at the bar, but I better not take too long. Scan the place, there, in a booth by the picture windows, Kahn and the two Medusas from earlier tonight, eye contact, he gets up and heads for one of the more private booths in the back. We order drinks and privacy. A bug-barrier slides into place, a little cylindrical robot with a tray brings us our drinks. I take a pull from my beer. Kahn just sits there a moment, the tumbler of vodka is reduced to a thimbleful in his large clawed hands. "Congratulations on the race." "Thanks, but Java gets some of the credit, it's a damn good car he built." "Hmm, I see you've got plans for what's left of the night so I'll cut to the chase, I'm looking for drivers that can handle large armored vehicles, off-road, at speed. Interested? "Sounds like combat, who's the target and what's the pucker factor?" Kahn slides a voucher card worth 5K AU across the table. "Confidentiality." "Damn, for 5K I wont even tell myself." Driver's hand hovers over the card a moment before picking it up. Accepting four times the going rate for confidentiality is almost saying yes. "Accepted, you have my silence. What's the offer?" "Our borders are due for another expansion, there's a gang of road pirates that have been hitting on our transports and on Nomads outside of our territory. If we expand, they'll move out, right into MegaCorp territory or worse Tribal Lands. This would put us at odds with our immediate neighbors, which would have economic repercussions not to mention the security concerns. Our Artificers have come up with a new fast tank, but not enough of our people seem to have the knack of getting the most out off them. You'd rush into their camp, drop off a load of soldiers, and move out to provide support fire and block any avenues of escape. You wont be expected to do any hand to hand or even get out of the vehicle, we'll provide weapons and power armor just in case. Mercenaries' Guild garrison pay for two weeks training with our troops to work out the timing, level three combat pay plus specialist bonus, scale performance bonus in land credits or points, your choice, of the new territory's output for the next ten years, and you get to keep the armor, it's got to be custom fitted anyway, which comes out as 700k AU plus the bonus and armor, makes it 1.5M AU." "Damn, one and a half million just to drive a tank? Sounds like you're taking on a whole army. Who's the target? And what's your involvement?" "The Devourers. All of them, it's high time somebody got rid of them. I'll be leading an assault team. So yes, it is going to be a big hairy job, and No, I'm not setting you up." The Devourers, childhood memories flood back, our Nomad tribe's convoy, images of large black battle cars, blood red maws painted on, manning the machine gun on my father's pickup, our trucks trying to form a circle, the screams. And now the opportunity to be involved in their extinction! "OK count me in. When's all this supposed to happen?" "In a month, there'll be auditions, those that pass the Sim get the full disclosure and a free trip to one of the Gen's compounds. We'll send you a message a few days ahead. Now to wrap up before our dates turn into pumpkins, meet me next Thursday at this address at 8 PM, bring a shopping cart and a vehicle you're willing to drive in to a Shadow Zone, this data chip will explain everything." Kahn slid the little block of plastic and was up and halfway to the Medusas before I could say anything. Nica seeing our meeting was over headed straight for the elevator, which meant it was well past time to go. 1.5 million acquisition units! What have I gotten myself into? But it would more than cover the upgrades I'd been planning for myself. On the way down I kept feeling the data chip in my pocket, what could this be about? But Nica convinced me that this little mystery could at least wait for tomorrow. copyright 1997 Charleson Mambo
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