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Dr. Nick says: Hi Everybody!=20
(This fic is in no way associated with the Major League Baseball =
Association and cannot be reproduced without the express written consent =
of the author. That's it, I'm out.) Enjoy!
-- Attached file included as plaintext by Listar --
-- File: 5.txt
5
WELCOME
"Wait! He doesn't need it!"
"I can see that."
WELCOME
"Just leave it off. They use those
things on cadavers for God's sake."
Confused activity.
"Wake up, Screw. You look
pathetic." Deep south-side inflected
voice. But not indifferent at all.
"No, you idiot! Don't give him
that! That'll have him out again."
"Dreaming?" Feminine high notes.
"That's up to him. Nine times out
of ten though, it's the thing for a bad
day. Really bad ones like he's just
had. It reminds me of a similar case of
my experience, where I was escorting
two elegant ladies of the North Plaza,
recently arrested (falsely of course)
for parole violations, to my humble
home in an attempt to lighten the mood.
In fact I had finally gotten-"
"Where is this going, Zig?"
"This was the dream. Anyway-"
I didn't feel like trying to see,
but I could hear Zig and Diago
overhead. I felt characteristically
unsure of where I was, as the last
thing I remember was standing frozen in
the drooling face of the largest
spiderbat I had ever seen. But it's
possible *that* was a dream.
"He moved! Now can we hit him up?"
"No! Get the ice."
I opened my eyes and saw that I
was laying on a couch in the roadhouse
by the practice track. Which one, you
ask? The black toilet bowl. The past
events of my race were waiting to be
dwelled upon. I remembered crashing,
seeing the Gun disintegrated, and even
killing Jarred. I felt a little shocked
about this. I didn't take pleasure in
it, but necessary evils were low on my
list of things to purge from my
repertoire. This philosophy was
somewhat justified, in that my
government agreed with me; though they
tended to target political activists
while I went after assholes. Whatever.
"What time is it?" I asked.
The small room was getting hot.
Diago was standing behind me looking
blank, and Derring was leaning over me
checking my pulse. I saw Zig in the
next room pouring a drink. There was
someone else in the chair opposite me,
but from my position I could only see
they had straight brown hair.
"Its 12:15, and you've been out
for maybe four hours."
"And it's beyond me why you aren't
dead." Considering he lost two cars and
a driver tonight, for Diago this was
calm.
Zig came back and gave me a
tumbler of dark liquid. He motioned to
me, so I took a drink. Tasted like
lighter fluid.
"'Hysteria-51.' Drink; it'll keep
the room from spinning."
Derring muttered under his breath.
I sat up, and put the glass down.
Across from me sat Alethea, and she was
well dressed. I looked and she smiled
back. I was about to say something when
Zig interrupted me.
"So what the hell happened up
there?"
Diago spoke up and said "Yeah, to
my cars?"
I took another drink and gave
Alethea a nod. She got up,
walked over and sat down next to me on
the couch. I asked if they wanted the
short version or the long. Zig said he
wanted to hear it all since he hadn't
seen any of it happen. So I finished
off the hysteria in a gulp and began
talking. It did not take too much time,
as it mostly consisted of racing
jargon, and some fight details. Common
courtesy. What did take longer was when
I tried to explain why Jarred and I
tried to kill each other in the first
place.
It was a hard justification, and
something I didn't feel like repeating.
Even I didn't fully recognize it
after the fact, though none of what had
happened seemed surprising to me now.
Two people sit behind the paint,
extending themselves into their
machines and concentrate on victory
with every thing they can. Just like
they are taught and told to do. Just
like past experience makes them feel
they need to do. There isn't anything
anomalous about it.
The real problem is not that the
rivalry sometimes boils down to raw
hate, causing the competitors to try to
beat each other at more than the game
at hand. Competitiveness is an
expression of our desire for self
esteem. As it transforms, eventually it
simply expresses itself a memory of
security that we can fall back upon.
The problem is that the feeling of hate
itself is too much a conglomeration of
other feelings, both similar to
competitiveness and widely different. A
surge in any one of these feelings can
do almost seismic damage to the balance
of passion we feel. It is too often too
complex a reaction to be predicted.
We've all had it happen before.
Does that mean Jarred was a
murderer, either deep down or on the
surface? Or if, in fact, he did not
understand it himself, is he even to
blame? I was the wrong man to ask. I
never felt excessively malevolent
toward him at any point. Mostly it had
been frustration and fear. What I did
know was that the neurons in his little
head had fired in all the wrong ways
and I was at the center of it. To
continue being Merle Jarred meant he
would try to destroy what he perceived
as a personal threat. In the same way,
I had to do the whole unconscious-
reaction thing, taking his life and
trying not to watch.
It was what we did.
And I'm not sticking up for any of
it. The unbearable weight of being-
anyone.
We discussed it for maybe two
hours, but I stuck to the lie that
Jarred must have hit his head on
something and had just lost it. They
were willing to swallow that fully.
During that time I learned that Zig had
heard from his sources that my racing
permit had been signed and figured that
I would have gone straight to the
track. He came over, and saw Diago and
Derring pulling me from the wreckage.
Alethea had been around and came for
the ride.
What was more interesting was how
I managed to survive the impact. Diago
had seen the whole encounter take place
through his radar binoculars. He had
figured that there was some serious bad
blood going on, but not to this extent.
When he saw Jarred and I slugging it
out on top of the car, he and Derring
drove onto the track and went after us
in the pacer. After I skidded off of
the upper circle, Diago saw the Super-
Sabre explode in the air before hitting
the ground. They drove down, and found
me lying on my face in the dirt with
the pieces of the car spread around me
in an unadorned blast pattern. Somehow
I was at the center of it and had
managed to keep breathing. They did not
have any ideas as to how it happened.
The important thing was that I was
alive and therefore not an insurance
liability. Jarred's constituents were
on their own. The cars on the other
hand were a different matter.
Zig mentioned something about the
'mexican suicide chair' I didn't hear.
My stomach had to be patched up
and they had given me a lot of pain
killers. I felt the bandages under my
shirt and winced. It had all been as
real as it had appeared at the time.
Diago announced that it was late
and he wanted to go home to try to
figure out what to tell the board about
the incident in the morning. Derring
said he would share a cab with him
(they both gave me an ugly look as he
said this) and left. Zig, Alethea and I
sat around for another hour or so
talking. I tried to explain what had
really happened up there in much
simpler terms but I could tell they
thought I was holding something back.
And I was of course. Something
pushed me back up onto the hood of that
car. Twice. I was too tired to try to
rationalize it now.
Finally Zig said he had to go into
Capital Plaza to close a deal before he
went back to his place. Alethea had
almost fallen asleep on my shoulder
again for the second night in a row.
Zig said he would have to wake her to
take her home, but I said I would do
it.
He laughed, and said "Don't get
into any more trouble tonight, ok? I'm
out of here."
"See you tomorrow."
"Maybe."
He left, and I sat wondering about
that.
Across the room, a screen
flickered on, revealing the face of
Police Commissioner Arkoff standing at
a crowded podium in front of the
Mandate crest. Lions against lions; the
center image that adorned the red
Mandate flag. It was probably a news
bulletin though the sound must have
been turned all the way down because I
heard no words. And the interviewer
must have been speaking as well,
because the tall man's lips were not
moving.
He stood at attention looking
directly into the camera. And by
extension, me. I felt uncomfortable
with this.
I blinked and had the thought,
'Arkoff is superior to me.'
Not hate or disgust, just
'superior.' And it was not a thought I
deduced or really had anything to do
with once I felt it, but it had
suddenly appeared like the stigma of a
budding flower. What was that thought?
'Arkoff is above me, more present
than me.'
The most familiar thought I think
I was capable of. It was a tiny knot in
my stomach that only had one purpose.
It was a single instant of oxygen
deprivation to one part of my brain or
another. I didn't care. I just wished I
knew why it had happened so suddenly
and plainly at the sight of another
man's stare. It seemed like I could
come up with no reasons to think him
better than me personally (despite the
position and influence) and yet I did,
and just as sincerely as I could anyone
else. It wasn't supposed to happen like
that. I had bowed under his stare.
Arkoff kept standing and not
talking.
Then Alethea stirred and raised
her head. "I'm sorry," she said, and
pushed the hair out of her eyes.
"That's alright, I wasn't going
anywhere."
"When did everyone else leave?"
"A while ago. I guess they thought
I was good enough to get back on my
own."
"They left you?"
"Yeah, the bastards."
"That wasn't nice," she replied
with an amused shake of her head. There
was a thin pink line on her cheek from
the seam in my shirt. I touched it with
a finger, making her inhale shortly.
Her hand moved away from my arm as she
sat back and looked away. The light
from an overhead florescent ring filled
a shadow and then I saw that the line
had been there before, just difficult
to notice through her hair. It ran from
her left ear down under her chin, so
thin and light it was barely visible.
"Birthmark?"
"Not quite."
"Scar?"
"I got it trying to declare my
youth. It was so shallow that I
expected it to be gone within a few
months. You don't think it's ugly do
you?"
"Of course not."
"Thank you."
"Where did you get it?" I asked.
"An officer."
"A cop?"
"A security cop."
"You don't like to talk about your
self, do you?"
"Just stop, okay?"
Again, a calm look covering the
hint of disinterested attention. Again,
I wasn't sure why. She said, "I was
taking the University's summer prep
classes at the request of my parents,
and there was a trip to some museum
last July. I think it was a history
museum, filled with broken machines
from a few hundred years ago. Not in
very good condition either, even though
they weren't much different than the
ones we use now. The entire basement
was sealed off as a 'private exhibit.'
Only suits with government personnel
badges were allowed to see inside.
"My friend Karen and I were
looking at a Technicization age
agricultural exhibit which explained to
us how organic food was made a long
time ago. It wasn't that interesting;
you've heard it all before. And then a
door opened behind a tall statue in the
same room, and a man left it open as he
walked out. You can guess what
happened. Down two flights of stairs
and we were in the sub basement, hiding
in the shadows of tarp covered exhibits
that hadn't been revealed publicly yet.
It was an enormous room that took up
the entire width of the building.
"Nothing was working except a
sliding sidewalk strip that took us
around to see it all, unmoving and
cold. Many of the pieces were long
broken. After a ride that lasted at
least twenty minutes we found the
biggest machine they had down there. It
looked like a train engine with metal
arms."
"What was it called?" I asked
quickly.
"I don't know. Cosmonaut? Maybe?"
"Aeronaut?"
"I think I had heard the name a
few nights before on some late show, I
don't really remember. But unlike every
other tower of junk in the place, there
were two security cops sitting under it
in folding chairs, asleep. In the
middle of the afternoon. But what can
you expect from laborers?"
"Nothing," I said. "They don't
know any better. But it's strange that
you saw that in the basement of a
museum. The Aeronaut was getting some
decent press there for a little while
after they found it outside the city;
enough that you wouldn't think they
would just hide it away. Do you know
what it is?"
Alethea shrugged and turned back
to me. "Something old and important."
Her eyes met mine in a way that
suggested she was looking for a
reaction. I didn't know why and
dismissed the thought.
"Apparently."
"Since they were sleeping, Karen
walked past them and stuck her head in
this small oval door. She said she
could see inside of it but there wasn't
enough light in the room to tell
exactly what it was. I was worried
about being caught and I kept saying to
her that the guards were bound to hear
us any second. I guess she was right."
"You got away?"
"No, but it was something else
that woke them. An alarm. Turned out
later that someone else had broken into
an even more private basement level at
around the same time. Some exhibit
called 'The Well.' The security cops
jumped up when the air horns went off
and I guess I looked like a threat. An
old sergeant with white hair swung at
me with his flashlight and missed for
the most part." She almost blushed as
she said this. Not wanting to let her
think the scar was a issue with me, I
changed the subject.
"Did you get arrested?" I asked,
thinking she would bite.
"No, but they called the school
and Karen and I were punished. It's one
of the things that lead to me running
away."
"I understand."
"I mean, it's not as if I was
afraid of the confrontation. I can
handle just about anything."
"I believe you."
"You don't think less of me?" I
couldn't help but notice her lower lip,
reflexively demure.
"Absolutely not." I smiled.
"Good. I wasn't trying to hurt
anyone. There wasn't any cause for
violence."
"There wasn't. You shouldn't feel
bad about that. It doesn't say anything
about you."
"Really?"
I nodded, and couldn't decide
whether she was more reluctant to let
me think she was a criminal or just
scarred. "Yes. And believe me, it
didn't make you any less beautiful."
We both grinned. It was fair.
"Thank you."
"And did they ever catch the real
criminal?"
"I don't know."
"What about the 'Well?' What is
that?"
"I don't know," she replied again.
"It never made the news. Strange, huh?"
"Possibly. I would have tried to
find out."
"Maybe, but I didn't think of it.
I had more pressing things on my mind."
Alethea bit her lip and laid her
head back down on my shoulder. We both
tried to decide if it was an
uncomfortable moment. Self-
consciousness had rudely interrupted.
Maybe it was time to call it a night.
"You want to share a cab with me?"
She thought about that. "You can't
go home like this," she said. "Your
wounds might open up again."
"I'll be fine."
"No you won't."
"Believe me, I will. I've lived through
much worse than this. I'll fix myself
up when I get there. I have a house
lady."
"But what if you pass out again?
You can't stay there alone."
"Then what do you suggest?" I
asked.
She sat up fully, and put her face
near mine. Then she kissed me. Her lips
were sweet, gentle, and restless. My
heart beginning to beat much faster, I
wanted to melt in her arms. It was
perfect. I felt didn't deserve it.
Finally she stood up and said
"I'll sleep at your place tonight to
keep an eye on you. Medically speaking.
That is unless you're not allowed to
have girls over after midnight."
I laughed, standing up next to
her. But pain stabbed through my
abdomen, and I doubled over
immediately.
Alethea cried out in surprise.
"Shit! Are you alright? Sit down.
You're not riding your cyc home in this
condition. I'll call another cab." She
went into the adjoining room, while I
sat back down. When she returned, I
stood up again, and this time the pain
was not so bad. We walked slowly out to
the street where the car was waiting.
Alethea and I kissed again on the
ride back. Longer this time. When we
were finally dropped of, we went up to
my apartment and I laid down on the
bed. The pain had receded to a dull
throb, but I was still in no condition
to do anything but sleep. She said she
would be in the living room on the
couch and turned out the lights in the
room. I was out like a candle before I
knew it.
I woke up to light shining in my
face. The screen on the wall said it
was 1:30 PM, and I still felt sleepy. I
touched my stomach gingerly and it did
not respond. I felt warm skin around my
waist and glanced at the space next to
me. It was Alethea, under the blanket,
and still asleep. I guess she had
gotten lonely.
I got out of bed without waking
her, went in my kitchen and turned on
the coffee machine. Before filling the
pot though, I let the water run out of
the faucet for a count of ten. Last
year there had been an accident with
some of the major plumbing lines to the
city and unsuspecting civilians had
died drinking toxic water. The problem
had been fixed long ago, but I, like
many others remained untrusting. It was
referred to only as 'the crisis.' But
the clear liquid came cold and
odorless, and I put in enough for two.
There was not much in my fridge
for breakfast, but that would change
soon. After I started winning and
placing in the races, I would have
money to spare and I could move out of
my state-owned apartment. I had to keep
explaining that to myself in my head. I
found some hamburger buns and toasted
them.
The paper was waiting for me in my
mailbox and the headline read "Police
chase in uptown mall and subway tunnel
kills three, wounds many; Mandate
outraged" The good old government press
was right up to date as usual. Only two
days post facto. There was of course
nothing about the incident at the
practice track last night. The camera
crews would not even be there until
this evening, and the story would come
out tomorrow if we were lucky. I mainly
wanted to know if there was going to be
a police investigation. If there is one
thing the police took seriously, it was
investigating the personal lives of
celebrities and racers. Not that
killing someone was personal business,
but whenever there were incidents
involving the race, the detectives went
into overdrive. Which made me wonder
why they allowed the brutal sport of
racing at all, but as I said before, I
was not going to argue.
I sat there reading the paper as
Alethea slept in the other room. Funny
how that had turned out. I had met her
all of two times, and now we were
sleeping together. That was the extent
of what we did, but still. She said she
was a runaway and I could easily say I
believed it. She had certainly latched
onto me. But she was very good looking,
and it had been a while since I had
been with a girl. The fact that she was
fifteen years younger than I was had
not come up, as I judged people on how
mature they acted. And it was legal.
In a half hour or so she woke up,
and I made her a fresh pot of coffee.
We ate together, and then I told her I
had to take her back to Zig's place. I
had to meet with Diago and see if I
could still contract him. It was
arguable that I owed him the money for
at least one of the cars that were
destroyed last night, even though it
was Jarred who had tried to kill me.
And I certainly had not meant to ride
the Super-Saber over the edge of the
practice track and destroy it. I also
needed another car to work in, and I
could not afford one at this time. This
meant short term leases, and market
cars were never superior machines. I
had to use my latent driving skill to
win in spite of this, so I could pay
the price and buy a car of my own.
I took Alethea to Zig's apartment
where we found him conversing with a
pair of Hispanic clients. They insisted
I talk with them for a minute before
heading out, and I agreed. Gang
activity in the area seemed to be
growing lately but I didn't learn
anything specific. Nothing about Taurs
carving their names in peoples bike
seats. I wasn't worried. After I
finally stepped out the front door, I
was feeling confident on the long ride
over to the east side. Even Diago took
the weekends off, so I made for his
house.
Never let it be said that you
couldn't make good money as a racing
engineer.
Diago owned at least four cars,
and had a two story house on the upper
west side of the city. He probably
could have afforded an even better
location, but he wanted to be close to
his garage. When I got there, I went
inside and found him sitting in front
of the screen. The room was furnished
with overstuffed couches and chrome
rimmed light cells.
"Screw! Where you been? Sit down."
"Drinks?"
"In the freezer."
I took a bottle, and Diago said to
me, "I've been watching the Race-Cam�
tapes from the Board that recorded your
little affray last night. You late-hit
a pylon by yourself."
"I don't know why," I remarked. "I
saw it and tried to turn away, but the
tires weren't turning in sync with the
wheel. I think there may have been
trouble with the steering column or
wheel alignment."
"Impossible. I checked out the
electronic specs early yesterday
morning and she was in top condition.
Like always."
"Well something was wrong! I'm a
professional! Half-shits like Jarred
never get on top of me like that. And
as for the pylon, I was doing
everything right on my end. It had to
be the car."
"Christ, Screw!" exclaimed Diago.
"It's been ten years for you! And
riding around on your cyc at double the
speed limit doesn't count as racing
practice. If you aren't in racing shape
then you need more track time. It's a
bitch, I know."
I grunted. Diago sipped beer and
moved around in the leather chair that
he had stained black. The whole house
had a masculine feel; modern enough to
be almost opulent, though lacking a
feminine touch that would complete the
scene. It was becoming a trend. Diago
put his bottle down on the glass coffee
table and motioned toward the back
door.
"By the way your cyc is around the
side, parked under the rear car port. I
had my assistant pick it up this
morning, as I had a feeling you
wouldn't drive it home last night."
"Since when do you have an
assistant?"
"Since Merle Jarred put it in my
contract that I needed one. I only use
him occasionally to pick up parts from
the store, but he's not such a bad
little guy. Though I'll probably let
him go now that the contract is over."
I looked at him. "So you're going
to let me hire you, right?"
"You got a car?" I shook my head.
"A sponsor?" I shook it again. "Any
money? No? Then how can you hire me?"
"I was hoping you would let me
drive for free until I could win enough
money to pay you back. You know I'm
good for it. I've never been a bad
investment before."
"I know you haven't. But that
doesn't mean I can pay my bills with
trust. You have to place in at least
half of your next eight races, and that
means getting a sponsor as well. The
god damned board has been playing with
their little rules again and that's the
law now. I fought them on that all the
way; but what else is new. In your case
maybe it's a good idea. I'll let you
drive the Raging Bull until you can get
a car yourself."
"What about the cars that we
wrecked last night? Do you need money
for them too?"
"No," he said. "Jarred's insurance
will pay for that. Which brings me to
the other fact that there are likely to
be a million people breathing down your
neck about Jarred's death. And
considering your joy ride last Friday,
you have a lot to lose if they catch
you."
"I make it a point never to play
the odds." I paused. "How did you know
that was me?"
"I saw the news report this
morning. Ditching cops through an open
air mall? Playing chicken with a train?
It had your name all over it. Plus I
don't know of anyone else who wears a
crash helmet on his cyc."
I laughed and sipped my beer.
(Imported.) We started watching the
tapes again. When we got to the part
where Jarred crashed into me, Diago
spoke up.
"You were right about his bumper
locking under your grill, you can see
right... here, where it happened." He
played the shot for me.
"Now getting out of the car was an
original move, but it kept you alive so
I won't argue. What I want to know
about is this..." He fast forwarded to
the part where I flew out of the back
of Jarred's cab and was hanging on by
the spoiler. I knew what he was getting
at. I had hoped the camera angle
wouldn't have caught it, but in a
second the screen showed me clearly
falling off the back of the car,
bouncing around in mid air, and
careening forward to land on Jarred.
"And if that doesn't spark your
memory... what about this?" He replayed
the part where Jarred kicked me
completely off of the back end of the
car and I literally flew back at him.
He stopped the tape and looked at me.
"Uh..."
"Well?"
"What exactly are you asking me?"
"Don't play stupid!"
"I'm not!"
"So what the hell happened out
there? I didn't see any strings hooking
you to Jarred's car. How did you fall
off the spoiler and still land back on
the hood?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know?!"
"I don't. I was concentrating more
on staying alive then on how I was
doing it."
"What a load of crap." Diago
frowned.
"It's the best answer I can give
at this moment. When I find out for
myself I'll let you in."
"Yeah, right."
Diago turned off the tapes, and
switched it to this Sunday's Gold Cup
race which had just started. That was
about as much pressure as he would
normally give me, so I relaxed. Other
people would take more convincing.
I finally left his place at around
8:30. As I said goodbye he reminded me
that I had to go to the Racing Board
headquarters tomorrow to formally
register. We had decided that we would
see how my first race went before
making a big deal about my comeback.
Couldn't forget the show business.
I found my cyc behind the garage
and walked it to the street. It was
going to be a cool night, ideal for
gettin high-budge with Alethea in the
Plaza. I rode back to my place taking
it slow. It would probably be a good
idea to repaint my cyc sometime soon
before some cop put two and two
together. It would have to wait, as I
had decided to take Alethea out for
some real food tonight.
When I got in, I called Zig and he
answered. He told me she had already
taken a cab to a mall to buy some
clothes with money he had given her.
Alethea would be back by 10:00. This
was perfect, so I told him to have her
wait for me, and that I would be over
to pick her up at 10:30. He said she
would probably go for that, and that
she had been asking him all sorts of
personal questions about me. That's
when he switched to the bold face lies,
as I knew he would. I thanked him, hung
up, and went to take a shower and get
ready.
I have to say I was little anxious
about walking around in public when I
was already having problems with the
law and with people trying to kill me.
But I had not heard from my two friends
yet, and I hoped that maybe they had
decided to go harass someone else. And
then there was the third wild card who
helped me out on the track, who could
use force waves too. I would definitely
run into him later.
At 10:15 I got on my bike and
headed over to Zig's casa. Alethea
opened the door. She looked gorgeous.
She was wearing tight shorts and a
white long sleeved shirt. When I had
seen her before she had been wearing
old clothes which did not fit, but now
the change was considerable. I kissed
her and asked if she was ready to go.
She said she was, but that Zig had said
he wanted to talk to me briefly before
we left. I walked into his bedroom,
where he was rummaging through the
closet.
"Mr. Cane! What up?"
"Hey, Screw. Listen, we ought to
chat for a minute. I won't hold you
here, but I am going to have to say my
piece before you two leave. Shut the
door." I walked over and did so.
"I know you're usually not a cheap
opportunist," he continued, "but I feel
obligated to say this. Alethea is not
real stable in the head and it would be
easy to take advantage of her. I find
out that you're doing this, and you and
I are going to have words. Feel me?"
"Zig, its not like that. I'm not
just trying to get laid. I really like
her and I want to take her out and have
some fun. I promise it won't come to
blows."
"I'm serious, damn it. I don't
want to hear anything when you get
back. And you know exactly what I
mean."
"Since when are you so
protective?"
"Since last Friday. Which brings
me to my other point." He reached into
his closet, and felt his hand around
the bottom corner. He pulled up the
carpet where there was a little metal
ring set into the floor. It lifted up
to reveal a small compartment about the
size of a stereo. Inside was fifty
thousand dollars worth of steel the
Director of the BATF would love to get
his hands on. Zig's stash. He pulled
out a large pistol and handed it to me.
"Beretta 13mm Special Forces
handgun. She'll pop fifteen caps per
mag, each round an armor piercing
gyrojet with jacketed tips. The bullet
was lovingly nicknamed the "Lead
Zeppelin." Should be more than enough
to stop whatever comes falling out of
the sky after your ass."
"Isn't it a little big?"
"Fuck those little recoilless
shits. This is a man's weapon, believe
me. Take it. It's your payment for
keeping an eye on Alethea, and maybe a
hand off of her for now. Anybody asks
where you got that thing, tell em you
found it in a dumpster way north of here."
I took the dull stainless steel
gun, and Zig handed me a few extra
magazines. It was heavy, and I bet it
could punch holes in body armor like a
rocket through Reynolds Wrap.
"Thanks," I said. I placed it in
the shoulder holster in my new racing
jacket. Since I wouldn't be driving the
Gun anymore, I needed a new jacket with
new colors. Diago had hooked me up with
one he had ordered for his spare car,
but had never worn. It fit perfectly
and I had to wonder who he originally
bought it for. I had installed a my
holster when I had gotten home earlier
that evening. Now packing heat, I was
more than ready for a night in Capitol
Plaza.
Alethea and I got on my cyc and
took off. I drove slower than usual, at
around 120 on the highway. The parkway
was fairly free of traffic on a Sunday
night. We got into Capital Plaza in
less than thirty minutes, and found a
small Italian restaurant that wasn't
overly formal. Alethea and I had been
generally at ease with each other since
the moment we met. We talked about
racing, the city in general, our
friends and ourselves. We didn't really
know much about each other before this,
and some time to sit, talk, and eat
platters of things based solely on the
tomato was well deserved.
We left the restaurant after a
while and walked down Broadway. The
sidewalks were full of people, and the
streets were lined with shops which
pervaded the north capital. We ended up
at the top level of Abrahms War
Memorial, where we watched cargo ships
travel lazily up and down the Aqueduct.
I saw the wispy forms of spiderbats
gliding in long arcs in the distance.
Alethea was talking about how she
used to sneak onto the ferry when she
was younger, and I was standing behind
her with my arms around her waist
thinking about the strange things I had
learned of in the past few days. It is
amazing how much your world gets turned
upside down when you find out there may
be more to you life than what you see
on a screen. Hard to tell if the
thought was good or bad. I wondered if
anyone I knew was in on it too. The
fact that Jarred had not seemed
surprised at my defiance of gravity was
the worst part. It meant that nothing
was over yet.
I wanted to start racing again,
move into a house on the north side,
and at some point actually do something
I could be proud of in my old age.
Possibly even something for the city. I
was no philanthropist, but the state of
affairs in this city was souring, and I
wanted a better deal for everyone. I
wanted to help out my friends and maybe
even get to know a girl a little
better. I hugged Alethea to me tight
and smelled her hair. Her sentence
trailed off and she turned around
slowly, looking up. I backed her up
against the railing and kissed her
warmly. She molded to my posture. I
continued the embrace even though it
slightly disturbed my wounds.
I took her home at around 1:30 AM,
and dropped her off at Zig's place. I
was a little concerned that if I took
her back to my apartment I wouldn't be
able to stay on my side of the bed. She
didn't take it the wrong way. We walked
quietly to Zig's door which she opened
with a black keycard. As she crept into
Zig's place, I kissed her goodbye, and
turned back down the hall. But a second
later the door opened again and she ran
over to me.
"I just remembered I wanted to ask
you something before you left."
"Go ahead," I said.
"Why do they call you Screw? It
can't be your real name."
Hmm. I looked down at her and
realized that she had the potential to
become what I could not. She was smart
and did not have a past that she would
never be willing to escape. She could
get a real job making honest money. She
could be somebody. Alethea did not have
to live in the south side slums like
the rest of us. And I was damned if I
was going to let her throw away her
future because of me or anyone else.
"You're right. But I'm Screw now
for a reason. An important one."
"Too important to explain?"
"For now." I led her back inside,
and then headed for the stairs. Blurred
images were stirred up in my head.
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