[FFML] They Walk In Light

Konichiwhazzap!

(my apologies to anyone who coined that before me)

Hello, I'm a long time lurker and first time poster, though I have written many fics before for websites. This could most easily be called a Dark City/Akira fic, but really only in genre. It was an attempt at merging Zelazny with Jeff Noon and give a contemplative, analytical twist to the darker side of music and drug media, i.e. Fight Club, Alita, even Ravenous. Yes it is an orig, but if you dont read them by rule, I hope you give this one a shot. It doesnt get too preachy (though you might skip the precluding editorial) but has plenty of substance. Action/drama/comedy/horror, I need to open a blockbuster somewhere. C&C will of course be reciprocated. That's it, the whole commercial. Sex, Violence, and Copyright Infringement warnings to come much later, if at all. We're all adults here, right? Enjoy! ;)

They Walk In Light

A Carnal Acquiescence of Racing and the Id

Part 1 Rapture

December, 1100 A.D.

"Our blood? Our fault? I've been far too sympathetic."

-Maynard James Keenan

The Independent Press, Friday

I'll never understand why people insist on believing that they are the exceptions to every rule. Through observation one could claim that the certain forms of art or music an individual identifies himself with are directly related to that person's intelligence and music experience (as appears to be the case.) But every person confronted with this will claim that they must be unnaturally diverse and aesthetic in that their taste covers a much broader range of artists in both mediums. We all believe this. It is as if the idea that we love a certain style ties us to the people who create it, or the others that embrace it. It is an inherent property of earthbound man. The height of our insecurity lies in the fear that others will learn of our imperfection and slight us, because we will appear not to have any other actual worth. We don't want to fall under character types, or general rules for fear that others will make inferences and assumptions and eventually come to conclusions about us that we don't want to be true. We always fear the worst and believe the best when it comes to whom we are deep down. Because we really don't know. How does one distinguish between the parts of himself that are his nature and the things he believes he created; aspects and directions of his personality that his will chose to take? Very difficult, as the results cannot really be proven and are almost indistinguishable from similarly formed incorrect ones. This is significant because many of our assumptions about others are subconsciously based on the assumptions about ourselves. Therefore the degree to which our idea of the internal workings of our minds is correct becomes an important factor. And could it be any other way? Is it just as possible that we could have evolved to have much different desires basic to us as humans? The need for being assured of one's self worth is probably the most prevalent force in our decisions. We want the company of others so that they will make us feel good about ourselves, and add more evidence to our belief that we are more valuable than mere bits of carbon. The desire for self-preservation, and desire to be justified in our belief that we are capable of this, has probably been the main driving force behind our species as we pass merrily up the food chain. Until now. As our environment has changed from a survival of the fittest situation to one where even the weakest can live to adulthood, we are no longer evolving in the same direction, and our basic human instincts are changing. We are becoming less predatory because those who would have been weeded out a thousand years ago are having the chance to breed. The species is changing because our environment is. But what if new variables enter the equation, too suddenly for evolution to handle? The introduction of another rational species would do just this. Survival of the fittest would again come to play, as each species would compete for the things we currently take for granted. Humans would have to learn to truly choose the direction in their lives, and disregard their mere instincts. We would have to strip ourselves of our preconceived identities, and fit not only our behavior but our emotions to what the crises warranted, just so we could live. Our minds as well as our bodies would be forced to change to fit our surroundings; in essence, forging our own evolution. This may not even be possible at all for us at this time in history, but eventually it will be a necessity. We must rise above our nature, our animal side, and bend our humanity to our will.

As I sat there trying to put it back together, the sentence elegantly flipped and twisted away from English; the cheap ink they had used had come streaming down the page after only a few minutes in a light rain. Blackish drops pecked my shoes. So much for the solution to our print problems following our government's last-second resuscitation of the press. I was uninterested, no one influential read editorials anyway. I rolled up the local rag and threw it in the bin two hallways further. News was better delivered by television screen.

I had to use an express elevator (I hate elevators) to find the thirteenth basement floor and my appointment. Though I was unquestionably late, I had actually considered taking thirteen flights of stairs to avoid the unreliable fifty year old crates they had in all of Neo-Goethic Downtown. The architecture was intended to seamlessly combine form with function, but the form was still unambiguously Vogue. It just meant that ugly, semi-stone gargoyles had been erected all over the city's exterior in an attempt to cover design flaws and structural damage. When the Mandate decided it had assumed enough power to take control of all building construction, it hadn't required any outside contractors. The work was left to sanctioned laborers and other wards of the state who were in no way paid. Jutting skyscrapers at seventy-five degree angles, domes and hollow spheres, difficult to picture. Regardless, the elevator it was, tarnished brass walls and the nearly tangible stink of body odor. At the bottom I was glad to be off of it.

When the doors creaked open I stepped out into the gray, stale hallway, and took a right. I had been this way many times over the last four years. The agreement had been a signed release form pending my probation officer's statement of my personal stability. He simply refused. So I had made the appointments every month for four years to plead my case. And though I would never admit it, my case was pretty weak.

I wanted back in, just like every ex-driver and civilians who have never strapped on a carbon helmet. I watched the races on screen whenever they were broadcast. I rode my cyc past the red line wherever I went. I wanted back in so bad that I'd wake up in the middle of the night thinking it was the morning of the Gold Cup; I'd put on my gear, grab my helmet, and stride confidently out of my apartment, only to be thrown back into reality when all I saw was the door across the hall, cracked as usual, with that rhythmic bass flowing from within. I didn't do this a lot, but enough that the woman down the hall had noticed me a few times just standing there, looking at my palms, and had found the courtesy not to say anything. Remembering the helmet brought me back to the heat, the dust, the smell of oil, and the screeching of pure nitrous engines. It was the loudest noise I had ever heard and during a race there is nothing else. The crowd opens their mouths mutely, in a pantomime of a cheer I'll never hear. They are wallpaper. There is me, the car, and the Turbine. The pontifical glory waiting for me. I wanted nothing else and I had made it very clear.

There were no pretty girls waiting behind a desk outside the probate's office. Just a steel door and a button. I pushed it, and waited. The screen above me flickered on, showing the face and shoulders of middle-aged male hologram.

WELCOME.

The door unlatched as I waved and swung inward.

"Screw.you're early. I wasn't expecting you until sometime after the end of the world."

I didn't smile.

"Come in," he continued, "come in. Watch your head."

I've never had a real problem with deskmen; they do their job, I do mine. But this one was a special case. He didn't do his job, and he wouldn't let me get back to the one I was trained for. He was a very tall, thin, bald bastard who had less behind his eyeballs than his autographed photo of Tom Willis. I'd swear he hadn't risen from that chair since moving into this office.

He motioned to a seat in front of his desk but I stood. To my left and his right, a poster sized profile of Sarah Wheeler was superimposed onto a background of young military officers. The caption read 'Serve the Public.'

"You got my papers?" I asked. He nodded. "Well?"

"Well what?" he said.

"Well what do you say? I know you liked what you saw, not a trace of red. I've stayed off the Federal wick. You wouldn't be able to sit still if you had found something wrong."

"I can't say it wasn't a surprise. But going a month is something a citizen has to do every month."

"It's been ten years, the last four of which I've been above ground, and crime free. My psych-eval is in my file; Derring says there's nothing wrong with me. And-"

"Derring is an ex-jock too."

"So he understands my problem. As a racer, if he says I'm fit, then I am!" I leaned over the desk. "You're not even keeping me out for tangible reasons anymore. What happened on the Turbine is history; I paid for it dearly. In a year and a half I'll be able to reapply without going through you, and believe me, they'll want me back. Let me get in now and I can build up my rep again. I have the third strike hanging over my head this time, so you know I won't try anything stupid. I've been coming here for four years! What are you waiting for?"

His voice lowered. "I'm waiting for you to show that you are a man again, and not some thoughtless, self involved jockey who thinks he can get away with any damn thing he wants! You're right! It's me who's been sinking your chances with the board! And I'm doing the right thing, too-"

"You're just making an example out of me! You don't care about my case!"

"We both know there is more to this than just your case. You are an example, Screw. A good one. You think I don't answer to anyone? Your case became a political matter a decade ago, and I'm under a lot of pressure to keep you down. Mandate pressure. I don't have anything against you personally, but I want out of this cell some day too, and it ain't gonna be by lighting fires."

"How patriotic."

"That's what they tell me."

"Did you put in a special mention to the board about how concerned you are about the man inside the helmet? About your dignity as a part of the sport?"

He formed a tight smile. "I do it every time. But I haven't returned your report to the board yet. I'm going to finish it up tonight and you should get the reply sent to you within two days. Wonder what they'll say, huh?"

I didn't answer.

"That's how it works, friend."

I collapsed into the aluminum chair with disgust. He was unmistakably like the rest of them; stunted. The strings of control that filter down from the Mandate extended to every employee of the state. I didn't doubt that he felt pressure, but it didn't mean he was blameless for keeping me out of racing. I'd find a envelope with my logo on it dropped in my box one evening this week; We regret to inform you, We cannot overlook, Please apply again, etc. And I would apply again. They were not going to keep me away. Maybe someone with sway would get sick of it and have one of their grunts dig deeper into my case. Considering the 'shit-rolls-downhill' attitude they maintained, I didn't understand why it hadn't happened already.

What I did know is that I had another month of unemployment in my future, and another month of living off of food stamps and mild resentment. I still had a little saved up from my brighter days, but it was wearing thin. Sometimes I couldn't pay my water bill, and I knocked on my neighbor's door to ask if I could use her washer. She always let me. She'd even ask if I had eaten well in a while and if I wanted her to cook something. It was very pleasantly out of the ordinary. Her husband had been a car jock like me, but in the motorcycle circuit and had died shortly after I was sent underground. Maybe in whatever small part of her that eternally remained a little girl, she had a thing for me. But hopefully it was something else.

The Probate finished signing my papers and passed them across the desk. His pig nose held absurd round glasses in rubber frames. As I grabbed a pen to leave my signature in four places across the bottom sheet, he shot me a short look of surprise.

"What?" I said.

"Ah, nothing. Just sign it." There was a ball of lint on his uniform black nylon sport coat which he brushed off quickly. "You need to come back to reality, Screw. Get a hobby or something. I don't recommend stamps."

"I've sort of been planning a vacation for a while now."

"A Vacation? From what? You need more to do with your time, not less. Catch a race-from the stands. Or go see the Parade tomorrow if you've got nothing better to do."

"The Parade? Why would I-?"

"Because you're gonna have a heart attack before you ever see tarmac at this rate."

"Would that take some of the pressure off?" I spit back.

"Not if I have to process the body," he replied calmly.

I stood. Session over.

He yelled something after me which sounded a little like an apology, but I missed it after the door slammed. The stairs took me all the way up to the street this time; thirteen flights never hurt anybody. I figured that even if I had to wait eighteen months to be completely relieved of my probationary work status, I still had better start getting back into shape. Self destructive behavior needs a strict diet of self improvement to feed off of and that had always been my way. Though I had never attended the College, I seemed to agree with their regimen. So why did I tend to hate grads for all they were worth? Much more is taught within those walls than is valiant.

Outside again, I made for my cyc, and was glad to see it hadn't been vandalized. Not much of that went on in a government building garage during the day, but a nice set of wheels like mine always seemed to attract attention from the misguided youth. Leather seat, bright red titanium exterior, and twin exhaust pipes. I was glad that money had never gotten so tight that I would have had to sell her. I probably would have rather not eaten for a week. I inserted a key, let out the handle clutch, and gunned the motor. In the four years I had been out, riding my cyc had been the closest I had come to driving a real car and I was grateful. I shot out of the small space and started spiraling down the concrete ramps.

Back on the street I took a left on Turner Avenue toward the capital. I had one more errand before it was back to my flat on the south side. Basically delivering a colored shopping bag to a P.O. box for a friend of mine who was supposed to be working a business deal all day. He had been talking about it vaguely for weeks. Then I got a call at 6:30 in the morning with him telling me in a garbled voice that the straits were all dire and that I needed to get to his place immediately. This is the kind of deal Zigwell Cane specialized in.

I was pretty sure that his real reason was that he didn't want to be caught with it. I felt like I should worry, but as far as anyone could prove, I was an upstanding citizen who paid his taxes on time. It was unlikely anything would come of this.

Or so you always think.

The parkway was filled with traffic; thousands of people apathetically trying not to be late to work. I stayed on smaller connector roads as long as I could heading in, but finally had to get on the intra-city turnpike just so I could maintain my speed. I also knew that if worse came to worse I could zip down the median, ducked low over my cyc to escape attention. But it was still early in the morning. There was thin orange smog in the air as usual, and just to be safe I kept my helmet strapped tight. It was my crash helmet, and had an old air filter built into the mask. Its infrared visor didn't work well anymore, but I could still see alright at night. It had a big dent in the back, where the Baron had shot me too many years ago. The helmet stopped the bullet from pegging me, but I had suffered a major concussion. At the time I left the dent in to remind me what a fucked up city I lived in, though I doubt if it had any effect on my driving.

Speeding along at a little above a hundred, I figured I would be coming up on Capital Plaza in fifteen minutes. I wasn't in that much of a hurry as it was still early in the morning. It was a shame that all I would probably do today when I got back was watch the screen or drink myself into a fog. But that's the life of the unemployed, unless Zig came back early and wanted to go downtown. By default things usually got engaging and sub-legal. It was becoming my standard Friday night M.O.

Traffic was tightening up and I considered getting off and taking the residentials when I heard honking from behind. I turned and saw that two cars had run against each other, and the drivers were yelling at each other out their windows. A guy in a yellow Charger had swiped an older couple in a long luxury car. The man was yelling out his window and looked like he was trying to calm them down, but also wasn't opening his door. The cars around me started moving again as I lifted my foot up and rode maybe a hundred yards before having to stop again. That paint median was looking more appealing but I wanted to use it only as a last resort. The car in front of me was a six-wheeler, which meant that it conformed to more lenient emissions laws. This Pontiac was no exception. A street legal model of the cars I used to drive, the cloud coming out of its pipes was making it impossible to see ahead and was seeping through my air filter. I turned my head around, half to get my face out of the smoke, and half to see what was going on.

Without clouds, the sun glared off every windshield within sight and left trailing dots in my vision. But through it I could see both cars were still in the road, and seemed to have denied the accident. The yellow Charger was much closer now having already moved forward in line. I saw now that there were three people in the car. The man driving was in a black leather overcoat; he was bald and had a scraggly beard. The guy next to him was older, and had a hood on so that I could not see his face. It was a woman in the back, but I could only tell by the long hair. It could possibly have been a man, but when I saw her turn her head to look out the rear window, I caught definitely feminine movement. She swished her hair a little and squinted as she looked out the window. It was attractive. The driver of the car was saying something to the guy next to him who was sitting fairly still. I would have looked more, but the cars started moving again, and I had to go.

Very slowly, the procession picked up speed and we were back at a legal 95. I passed the scene of an accident where the cars involved had been pulled off the road, obviously the cause of the gridlock. It was now 8:45, and I was getting a little bit annoyed. If I had taken the median twenty minutes ago I could have dropped off the bag already. I gunned my engine and started passing cars. I savored the small rush with a smile, which was probably what caused me to glance in my side mirrors just to make sure cops weren't uncomfortably close. And damned if I didn't see the bright yellow Charger two cars back. Someone had the same idea I did. The driver was looking in my direction so I looked forward again and gave the cyc a little more gas.

I shot up to 140, and had to weave more quickly through the civilian cars. I rounded a turn at 145 and roared down a hill. A few horns and an old man gave me the finger, but I didn't care. The speed was getting to me, and I was hunched forward with the wind hard in my face. My cyc could maybe go over two hundred if I red lined her, but I don't think I could cruise that fast with cars around me. A buck forty-five was dangerous as it was. I didn't hear any sirens so I was probably ok, but I checked my mirrors once again to be on the safe side.

And of course coming up from behind a van was the Charger. There was now no doubt, I was being tailed, and by someone who was serious. I took her up to 150 and looked for an exit. I saw one up ahead, and was turning off when I heard the first siren. I was going far to fast to stop at the toll machine, and the siren went off there too. The Charger started closing the gap. Ordinarily, or at least lately, I would have just pulled over and let the cops handle the situation. After all it was him who was following me. But there was Zig's package in my lap, and who knows what was in it. I could not risk getting searched.

I fled down the exit ramp and was immediately on a four lane street heading west toward Capitol Plaza. There was more traffic now and I had to slow it down. But the Charger was still only a few car lengths behind me. I saw in my mirror that the driver was hunched up in his seat starring at me with his mouth hanging open in a whine. The man next to him didn't look like he had moved. Behind us, four police cruisers brought up the rear and were gaining on me too. I tried to cut turns as close as I could so I would be harder to follow. The Charger could beat me on a straightaway, but in traffic my cyc was far more maneuverable. People were pulling off the road in front of me at the sounds of the wailing sirens, and cars were getting rarer. The Charger accelerated and almost clipped my back tire. It looked like it was time for a scenery change.

I cut a tight right and headed straight for an open-air shopping center. There was a crowd of pedestrians which I could avoid, but the cars behind me couldn't at high speeds. This at least would get the cops off my tail, if not the trio in the closest car behind me. I rode onto the sidewalk and sped down concentrating on not hitting anyone. I may have accidentally skidded over some adolescent girl's foot, but the wheel was light, and she would live. There wasn't enough time to concentrate on my mirror, but I gathered by the sound of occasional shrieks that the Charger was not being so courteous.

Police sirens were getting weaker meaning they were driving around the crowed area to catch us as we came out the far side. The path ahead of me had been cleared just enough so that I could see rail barriers locking into place at the end of the strip.

Then I saw what I had been partially looking for, the pedestrian entrance to a subway tunnel. It was a few flights of stairs down into the ground, and I was sure I couldn't be followed. I didn't even think their car would fit.

I slowed, and barked at a fat Hispanic to get out of the way. His hands brushed my face as he flung them upward, caught off balance.

My shocks took the steps easily, and as I turned to go down the next flight, I saw that the car had stopped in front of the stairwell lip and was backing up. As I stared, twin metal rails rose out of the concrete and rose above their hood. A red stream of letters on a panel screen persisted that the subway system in this six-block mall was now legally off limits. I glanced back down and through the conventional polycarbonate door frame. At the bottom many warmly dressed people were standing around, waiting for their trains in a dimly lit underground subway platform.

Somehow they didn't look like they had recognized me, which had started to become confusing. It wasn't like they hadn't heard my engine noise echoing. Holding the brakes as I rolled down the last eight steps, I smiled a little vaguely and looked for an exit further down the boarding area. There were too many columns in the way.

Tilting my head back to see the huge digital screen clock that spanned almost twenty five feet of the high ceiling, I was informed that it was a quarter to ten in the A.M. This chase was taking far too much time; half an hour was more than enough to have a SWAT team waiting for me up stairs if the police thought it was called for. But that thought had to be put off as long as possible. I had spotted a wide ramp that lead up, and was walking my cyc toward it trying not to attract any attention. An old woman with a small child gave me a disparaging look, and I angrily ignored them. As far as they knew I wasn't breaking any laws.

About half way across the eroding tile floor, an explosion sounded out behind me. I whirled around and squinted as I saw the yellow Charger falling through the air in my direction. It had rammed its way through the upper and lower concrete walls that enclosed the stairwell. I could see an arc of day light through the six foot hole it made.

An older woman screamed one high pitched note. I agreed. It was ridiculous.

The car landed on the boarding platform without most of its exterior. The roof was completely missing and the two hundred thousand dollar body was torn unrecognizably.

I waited and watched as the driver brought his head up after the people who were nearest backed far enough away. The car's engine turned with a screech that echoed harshly. It struggled to life and lurched forward.

If I had had any time, I would have panicked. "It's on fire!" someone called out, doing so.

I jumped back onto my cyc's curved leather seat and started the engine. Just as the gear caught, the dense crowd around me started running as a mob in the same direction. The Charger swerved to hit my rear wheel which threw me ahead and I sideswiped an unpainted cinderblock wall. It caused me to spin unnaturally even as the cyc accelerated past civilians, most of which were cramming against each other to give us room.

My one clear ramp beckoned to me. And then a pair of men moved to one side and revealed more rails rising up to block me off. I held my breath. No more room. There were only a hundred yards until the opposite concrete wall.

Its strange when I finally allow myself to reflect.

I go to see my parole officer like I do every month, but this time he says he's taking his time with my report. Yet he's so blatantly out to be rid of me, he brags about it. Then a two man, one woman hit squad catches up to me in traffic. And while we were stopped one of them could easily have shot me in the back. But they didn't. In fact they only came into the open when I started speeding. It was possible they were actually only trying to follow me, and they didn't care that I knew about it.

What was it all about? I seriously didn't have any large cash stashed away. The only local contact I knew was Zig and a few of his customers, but they were hardly the type to have these problems.

Zig would have skipped town if anything like this was coming down on his head.

You know, he probably would have also gotten me to.

Before I could finish the thought, I ran out of space in three seconds. In a fit of indecision I veered off the edge of the platform and landed between the rails. No trains were coming, and I figured I was probably on the right side. Without fail the Charger followed me down across the electrified track. As I looked back at it, I saw the back door open, and the dark haired woman jump out at the last second. She landed at the feet off a couple who had been too shocked to move out of the way. Guess she had the right idea. I wouldn't want to be in my situation either.

My ears had started ringing for some reason, and my hands were shaking with tension. We went into the pitch-black tunnel going at least a hundred. I turned on my infrared visor, and after a second the view grew artificially brighter. The car behind me obviously tried to flick on its high beams but they were both broken. We went around a wide turn and the Charger banged into the side of the tunnel. They didn't have crash helmets like mine.

The grade started to ascend slowly and I saw what I had been hoping for; light at the end of the tunnel. But after a second the promise of daylight started to look like two lights. Headlights, and approaching fast. The tunnel spanned only one lane and now I had a train coming from the front and a blind bull at my back. I could see that the train had not actually entered the tunnel yet. My only hope was to beat it to the entrance. I hit the gas and redlined the four-cylinder engine to 165, knowing it was going to be damn close.

The Charger hit its brakes. I guess it was going to try and outrun the train in reverse, as there was certainly no room to turn around. I had my handgrips all the way forward but was no longer going any faster. It was the train or me. As the moment of impact approached, I could see the engineer through the windshield franticly pulling on a large lever, probably the brake. Finally the train slowed down just a little and I passed out of the opening and to the side with only feet to spare. It shot past and the rush of air it carried hit me like a punch. I quickly pulled to a stop and listened. A few seconds of screeching metal followed by a loud explosion as the train engine met the Charger.

I sat still. There were faint sirens in the distance, though that was normal. Black smoke poured out of the tunnel and made my eyes water. Other than that, the rest of the tracks lay between two dark skyscrapers and no one was around.

Riding down the patch of gravel between the rails and the electrified fence, I flicked off the infrared. When the fence ended and I was able to rejoin traffic, I made for the suburbs just outside of downtown. These areas were usually devoid of early rush hour commuters. Adams City Park was just ahead which meant the subway tunnel must have taken me farther than I thought. With no red and blue lights in sight I pulled off the road at my next chance.