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Hey! Chap three, ready for action. Thanks to those to sent C&C, private =
responces have been sent. This is really a prelude to chap.4; let me =
know what you think...


"The cost of my desire- sleep now in the fire."





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3
<blip>

YOU'VE GOT NEWS!

"Good morning. I'm Tom Wilkinson for the 
independent press, freq 720. I hope 
you all saved your party hats and crimson 
sashes from last year, because despite the cold 
weather and a recent rash of questionable 
spiderbat sightings, the Veterans Day Parade 
will take place as scheduled today at noon. We 
go live to Sarah Wheeler in Capitol Plaza. 
Sarah?"

"Hi, Tom. Its cloudy and in the lower 60's 
today, perfect weather to be outside. 
Yes, all thirty-two miles of North Broadway 
have been sectioned off as of six o'clock this 
morning beginning here in front of City Hall. 
Leading twenty-three marching bands, 
forty-eight floats, and of course the city's 
Miss Universe Pageant finalists, will be three 
Rolls Royce Silver Ghost limousines. This year 
the honor guard will carry the Director of  
Internal Operations, the Director of 
Transportation, and the Director of Criminal 
Justice, Vice-Mandatory to the Doge himself. As 
you can see, the street is already flooded 
with--"

I hit the off button and the three foot screen 
above my head blinked out. Despite, 
or maybe because of my slight headache I was 
just not in the mood to hear Sarah's overly 
soothing voice. Besides, there was already 
enough idle thought scurrying through my 
head the moment I awoke.

Freud contested that sex was the most 
persistent thought on the man's mind. In that 
part of our life we resembled dogs, constantly 
seeking and appealing for it. It was not so 
obsessive that other pleasures in life were 
completely outshined. But it stood prominent as 
the sharpest point of extramural recreation we 
considered worthy to work for.

This is interesting from a biological 
perspective. It can either be the desire for 
offspring, emotional attachment, or pleasure. I 
wonder what my id would say. The Schachter-
Singer theory of emotion claims we look to our 
bodies reaction before deciding how to feel 
about things. Hence the popular connection 
between excitement and happiness. Apparently, 
sex just produces the most intense stimulation 
for our senses.  Not at all unhealthy. We 
merely reflect our biochemical nature. Like 
Freud said.

How unhealthy it would be if something less 
beautiful took sex's place.

I was in a room, on a couch, sitting down, and 
watching the ceiling.

You couldn't say there was anything wrong with 
the ceiling; instead it was the floor that had 
disappeared and I was merely trying not to 
notice. Inhaling very slowly confirmed my 
suspicion that I was sweating. Frozen in one 
awkward reclining position, I was tied down 
like a gulliver with string. Not loosening my 
grip on the folds of worn leather, curiosity 
overwhelmed fear for a single instant and I 
glanced down quickly.

Yes, of course it was there. Maybe ten feet 
below, maybe a hundred, it was too dim to tell. 
But I could make out the tiny swirls of red and 
amber which adorned the wide, flat funnel. In 
the center was a speck of starlight, spinning 
very fast like they have a tendency to do. It 
was the star that I was afraid of, and the 
ever-widening cavity hidden behind it. I had a 
good idea of what the shifting brilliance could 
do and I trusted my instincts on this one.

The glare kept you from holding your eyes on it 
for long, and reflex pulled my stare quickly 
away. But in the back of my mind I knew it was 
patiently waiting and that eventually I was 
going to force myself to stare down into the 
floor and meet the whole mess head on. I don't 
know why or when I decided that, but I had, and 
resented it. 

The walls were slowly moving away, making the 
ceiling wider. My couch was dissolving, 
dropping me from its feather stuffed palm. 

What would I do? My white knuckled limbs 
wouldn't hold me in place for much longer, but 
I couldn't just let myself fall. It smelt of 
fear.
The whole effect was making life seem but a...

A finger poked me in the cheek and I looked up 
to see Zig sitting on the edge of the coffee 
table, which was piled with clear glass 
bottles. 

Nearest to me was a shot glass full of egg 
yolk, most likely the result of some dare. It 
had hardened in alcohol. Zig had an envelope in 
one hand and looked like he had just shaved. I 
sat up straight, slowly.

"Screw. Wake up for me."

Well that answered my first question. Looking 
around the apartment, I saw that everyone else 
had left. Even the girl who had slept with her 
head on my shoulder. I had forgotten to get her 
number, if she had one. The details were hazy.

"You gotta take off now, I have some phone 
calls to make and a few of my lower profile 
clients are supposed to be stopping by."

I nodded and said, "Yeah, I should. Thanks for 
letting me crash last night."

"No problem. You alright to ride?"

"Think so. Maybe a little tired out but nothing 
that'll inconvenience me."

"Can't knock the hours of unemployment."

"You got a cigarette for the poverty-stricken?"

"Yeah, there's a pack on the end table."

I reached for it, took one, and lit it from 
dying purple candle. When I turned back to Zig, 
he was looking at me funny. "What?" I said.

"Ah...nothing." He lit one for himself. "You 
heading back to your place?" he 
asked. 

I thought for a moment. "You know, I had been 
thinking I might run by the Plaza and see the 
Parade. Just for the hell of it."

Zig shrugged his shoulders. "Whatever you say. 
Wear a hat so you don't get eaten. And drop a 
line when you get back." Sometimes I got the 
impression he didn't like to be seen in public 
ever, if in any way possible. Thus I hadn't 
asked if he wanted to come.

I nodded again and stood up to leave. My jacket 
was on the floor near the door and I picked my 
crash helmet too. It was getting colder every 
day as the Sun arced across the sky further and 
further to the south. In a week or so it would 
storm and maybe once more, later in the month. 
I was fine with the cold, but that also meant 
it was spiderbat season.

I handed Zig the bag he had given me last night 
and told him he could keep it. Wasn't really my 
approach. Then it was down the stairs and 
around back to where my red cyc was parked. I 
walked out into the lot, past a trio of kids 
kicking a ball across the cracked pavement, and 
found my machine among several others. 
Considering the crime rate in this part of the 
city I wasn't that surprised.

Someone, probably another young kid, had carved 
the word 'Taurus' in graffiti lettering into my 
black leather seat. I swore and looked to my 
right. Yes, the bastard had gotten all of the 
other cyc's in the lot too. This was going to 
cost at least a few hundred dollars to fix. All 
because some gang-boy's little brother found a 
pocket knife.

I didn't have the time or money to deal with it 
now, so instead I just swung my leg over the 
seat, kicked the ignition, and peeled out into 
the street. 

The public-use screen in a shopping center I 
passed said the time was 'A QUARTER TO ONE,' 
and that the Parade had just started. I got 
onto the parkway at the next exit and took it 
north toward Capitol Plaza. The lunch rush was 
just about over and I had to trouble with 
traffic or cops. I wasn't that worried since I 
had left my nine back at Zig's for safe 
keeping.

Eventually I started to hear faint cymbal-
crashing and brass wailing from the city's 
various marching bands, which meant I was 
getting close. I took another exit to 32nd 
Street which eventually ran into Broadway, 
where I had to park and walk. There, among at 
least a third of the city's legal citizens, was 
the reason our sole legal holiday existed. 
Veteran's Day.

The sidewalks were lined with people, mostly 
families, craning their necks as plywood floats 
came up the street in their direction. I pushed 
through the crowd far enough so that I could 
see over the heads and hats. And despite my 
natural cynicism I had to admit it was quite a 
show.

Leading the way was truck pulling a float which 
was really more of a stage. On it sat rows of 
young women in sun suits, surrounding a podium 
for the winner of this year's Miss Universe 
beauty pageant. She looked decent from where I 
was standing, and when she turned and waved, 
the crowd roared its approval. Behind that were 
four more miscellaneous floats followed by the 
Abrahms High School band. They were a little 
out 
of tune but got everyone in the mood and 
singing along anyway. It was all very 
picturesque.

Fifteen minutes later I was munching on an ice 
cream cone when the noise around me lulled. I 
looked down the street and saw that the Mandate 
had entered a few of its own floats in the 
procession. Five W-Class heavy armored tanks 
were coming up the centerline at a somewhat 
slower pace than the other vehicles. They had 
been lightly decorated with crepe paper in the 
colors of the Mandate flag, but were still 
unmistakably black tempered steel 
monstrosities. The twin cannons pointed to the 
sun in a salute, and the effect was not wasted 
on those watching.

I was suddenly at a loss for a reason as to why 
I had come. Parades weren't my kind of thing at 
all and I rarely even watched them on the 
screen. In reality they were just another way 
for the government to pretend that its army was 
there for the citizen's protection and not 
subjugation. As if a tank looked any less 
threatening with red roses protruding from the 
barrels. I pitched the cone.

By the time the Parade had moved on 
significantly and the crowd had all but 
forgotten its interruption, I was on my way 
out. It was a shame that lately I couldn't 
enjoy 
the same things that I saw everyone else 
finding such interest in. I really didn't know 
exactly what had happened either. The Mandate 
in any of its incarnations seemed to produce an 
instant reaction in me lately, as if I was 
Pavlov's *other*, disobedient dog. I stood and 
tried to decide, completely objectively, if the 
reaction was an active one. Active in the sense 
that I wanted to be the one to do something 
about tanks paraded through the streets, or 
passive in that I just wished they would go 
away. A drooping 
frown signified that it was too unclear to 
call.
Five frustrated minutes of squeezing through 
the screaming mob later, I brushed the thin 
imaginary film off my clothes with vehemence. 
People.

A block away, I found my cyc, gave it gas, and 
cut out into the thick traffic diverted 
throughout the Plaza away from Broadway. A 
light changed just in time and I swerved 
through and past a queue of cars idling in 
place. The burnt rubber, exhaust fumes, and car 
horns were where I came closest to any kind of 
vicarious security. Machines were so much more 
solid and reliable than their owners. A cosmic 
injustice, I was sure. 

At least until the end of the afternoon, 
restricted traffic meant Capitol Plaza's 
outer grids would be fairly clear. I didn't 
head straight south, instead west, past the 
Park 
and toward Jackson Street. Adjustments to 
almost every building I passed testified that 
the city was steadily getting ready for the 
winter storms. At least three Steamers were 
patrolling the ten or so city blocks which made 
up the Plaza's restaurant district in 
anticipation of snow. The ranks of automated-
everything were out fulfilling their tasks. 
Who could ever feel alone.
Then, as I rounded a sharp corner where my 
raised highway descended, a wall of brake 
lights caused me to slow quickly. The cars were 
stopped more than a hundred feet before an 
intersection where the signals displayed red 
bars. Those were normally only used for short-
length road closings. Not seeing any sign of 
construction, and knowing I was miles away from 
the Parade produced a slow frown. As I came to 
a stop behind a pair of thin Mexicans in a 
convertible, I craned my neck to see whether 
there were cops 
directing traffic ahead.

"Hey!" I heard.

Their arrival muffled by the sounds of the 
augmented engine ahead of me, two officers in 
an unmarked car pulled up almost out of 
nowhere. I instantly remembered that my tags 
were probably on file somewhere after 
yesterday, but after another shout it seemed 
their attention was directed at the kid on the 
expensive Peygan cyc next to mine. 

He turned and stared at them after a second.
"What does the front of that jacket say?" the 
one in the passenger seat called out.

The kid, who looked about twenty, maybe 
eighteen without the bristle, said nothing but 
patted his breast twice. I saw the outline of a 
government logo.

"Those had better be your school colors."

"They are," he replied calmly.

Black and gray in the downtown district. It was 
possible.

I glanced back to see the car door open and the 
cop get out. This time he walked toward me and 
pointed at my own jacket. "What about you?" he 
asked.

I flipped up my visor and let him see my face. 
No one could call me an old man, but I 
definitely wouldn't pass for a gang boy. The 
cop noticed that and nodded.

"What's the delay?" I asked, hoping to change 
the subject.

"Barriers are up temporarily all along Cliff 
Street. The Director of Public 
Relations announced it on screen a little while 
ago. Almost over."

"I didn't catch it. What do they need the road 
for?"

"Take a look," he said. "Bet you've never seen 
that before."

I hadn't. Back at the intersection a vehicle 
had finally come into view. It was an enormous 
truck, taking up almost three lanes pulling a 
twelve axle flatbed. On it was a white tarp 
covering an even larger object which from where 
I stood, looked like a metal yacht. It was 
clearly a wreck being transported north to an 
empty warehouse where work on these kinds of 
things were done. But I had never seen one so 
big.

"What the hell is it.?"

"The Aeronaut. That machine they pulled out of 
the mountains nine years ago. Don't you 
remember? They used to think it could fly."

"Yeah, I think that rings a bell," I said. I 
remembered seeing a news piece on it 
from prison a long time ago.

The kid on the Peygan laughed and said "That's 
bullshit. It's an ancient tank from another 
city. We all know it, it's just that no one 
wants to admit it."

I looked at him again. "How do you know? What 
other city?"

"An ancient city. That's why the armor was so 
thin. Those rumors about metal bats were pure 
crap."

The Cop interrupted me before I could say 
anything back and demanded to know where the 
kid had heard that. I lowered my visor and 
looked straight ahead. Now I didn't want to hit 
the bars after all. Again, something was oddly 
wrong. Why was the sight of that thing making 
my stomach tighten? 

It continued to rumble by, followed by a squad 
car with its lights on. While the cop continued 
to argue at my left, I grasped my handles and 
got into the right lane. 

Rolling up the street, the red bars disappeared 
in favor of green arrows and I turned again. 
My apartment was now the only place I wanted to 
go. Topping a hundred a few seconds later, I 
noticed I was constantly glancing in my side 
mirrors. Half for cops, and the other half just 
as worried about yellow Charger's. Too much for 
one morning.

After fifteen minutes of the Turnpike, I was 
back home and feeling it. My building is an old 
one in the middle of about two dozen or so 
exactly like it. My number and address are 
unlisted. It was quiet here. Safer. I showered 
and dressed in clean clothing.

I wondered why the Aeronaut was being 
transported today after all this time. 
When something rusts out in the rocks for nine 
years, that's usually the end of the story. 
Still, it hadn't seem in as bad a condition as 
one would think. And second of all, why did 
I suddenly want to know?

I was finishing off some instant coffee when 
the broken door bell sputtered 
weakly.

I looked up and said "Who is it?"

There was another noise, and a voice said 
"Screw? It's me! Open up!"

"Derring?"

"Yeah! I got news for you!"

I put the helmet down and opened the door. Just 
great. The board had denied me early this 
month. Must have been because I finally had it 
out with my probation officer. I let Derring 
in, and he shook my hand. He rarely came by 
here, except on the occasion that I gathered a 
few of my old racing pals to watch a 
championship on the big screen. 

Derring had retired from the tarmac before I 
had even started, and it was partly on his 
advise that I had applied early. He was an 
older man with a short stocky frame, and I did 
not think it would be possible for his hairline 
to recede any further. He sat down on the 
couch, and produced from inside his jacket a 
bottle of scotch. Half past one in the 
afternoon and the thing was less than half 
full. He tossed it to me, and folded his hands 
over his slight gut.

"Take a drink, and sit down."

I did one but not the other. "Come on, I don't 
want to be let down easy. Did they just deny 
me, or are they sending me back to jail just 
for spite?"

"Neither." Derring was smiling slyly in my 
direction. "I know you've been waiting for this 
so I won't waste time. Your re-admission 
request has been approved by the board, and you 
are cleared to race as soon as your means 
allow."

I took another drink and sat down. I was really 
not prepared for this. 
"I think your probate officer must have hit his 
head on a low bridge, because last night he 
called Casey, the head of the board, and gave 
you the most glowing recommendation imaginable. 
I never heard such bullshit before. He 
mentioned racing integrity, your otherwise 
flawless record, and even his personal 
appraisal of your 
character."

"When did you hear about this?" I was getting 
suspicious.

"They called me in this morning. On a Saturday 
no less. I was asked to give a full 
psychological evaluation orally, and within a 
half hour the papers were signed by each 
board member. I don't know what actually went 
on in the back room, but they gave me copies, 
and I drove right over to bring them to you 
personally. You weren't here, so I just 
came back now. I would have left a message but 
I wanted to tell you in person. You're 
back in, Screw. You will race again."

We sat in silence. My heart was beating almost 
painfully fast and I could not find 
words. Would it really happen? Would I get my 
sponsors back after ten years? Would 
Diago still back me in the pit? And what if I 
couldn't drive like I used to anymore? It 
happened all to often that after extended 
absences, drivers lost the edge.

Finally I blurted, "You're absolutely sure?"

"Absolutely."

"Really, really sure?"

"Really, really, really sure."

I took another drink. "Well then what the hell 
are you waiting for!? Let's hit the garage! 
There's a race *tomorrow* for god's sake!"

"Tell you what," he said to me. "I'll meet you 
there. I have to stop by my place for a second, 
but it's on the way. I can make it down in 
forty minutes tops."

"Alright then. I have to charge up before I go 
anywhere. I'll see you there in forty." I 
grabbed my helmet, locked up, and headed down 
to the street to hail a cab. As Derring and I 
parted, I yelled after him, "I'm back!" He 
smiled and got in his car.

The ride to the gas station went by in a 
second. I had too much to think about to 
consider time. I had to tell Zig. Come to think 
of it, wasn't I going to go over there earlier? 
Later, I affirmed. For now I had too much to 
do. If Diago was in the garage like he usually 
was even on the weekends, I might be back on 
the track by next week. I still needed a few 
practice races before I got into the real 
grind. 

Over the period of my stay at casa del Prison, 
I had kept up on the latest advancements in the 
auto world. I was probably overestimating 
myself, but that's confidence if nothing else. 
When you become ultimately comfortable with 
what you do; when it becomes like clockwork 
guiding you relentlessly, only then can you 
vent your full potential. It takes varying 
amounts of 
practice, but I had five years of it under my 
belt. Now, ten years later, just thinking about 
it brought back the motions. I told myself I 
would win again.

For now, I had to find my contacts and make 
some sort of reappearance. There were many 
drivers in their thirties, I was not old. When 
I left, I had a large fan base, and everybody 
supported me when I was kicked out. I was the 
racer of the younger generation, and I tried to 
live out that image to the fullest. With a new 
car, some 
sponsors, and confidence I was sure I could 
return to the glory of my former self. It was 
vain, yes. It needed to be.

My new career started now. From there it took 
around a half hour to get to the garage which 
was sixty miles due east. I sped and never 
touched my brakes. Finally when I parked 
outside, I saw Derring's Carrera and knew I was 
the last to arrive. I went around back and 
stepped over the mounds of rusty car parts 
until I got to the lot where Diago kept the 
racing machines he actually worked on. I saw 
him talking with Derring in the garage, under a 
car which was raised for engine work. I shouted 
to him and jogged over. 

Diago was a big man. His darker skin and hair 
gave you the impression his blood was primarily 
South Western.  Those oil-blackened hands had 
manually bent the fiberglass shells of cars 
back into aerodynamic shapes when jacks were 
not available. He was one guy who I think could 
have given Chris a run for his money. He smiled 
broadly and shook my hand which was rare for 
him. He was usually a dichotomy of loud orders 
and quiet, grim Calvinism; the gates to his 
underlying personality were rarely opened.
Still, I would take him over any other engineer 
in the races. Having him in your pit meant 
things would run, regardless of how, and not 
always with precision, but dependably. That was 
most important to me. He received offers from 
other drivers to come work for them while he 
was under my employ, but he and my father had 
once had history. According to Diago they had 
served together, and that meant something in 
their 
line. It also meant I had a chance to get back 
in the races with him working my car. I 
returned the hand shake eagerly and smiled. 

"Screw! How have you been? I heard the news! 
They let you back in already; big 
mistake on their part, huh?"

"Those greasy old bastards never learn."

"That's what I keep telling them."

"Well just this once I'm in their debt. 
Indirectly at least. I'm told it was a last 
minute decision."

"We'll show them what you bring to the sport. 
Glad to have you back," he said.

"Yeah, it's been far too long. I'm anxious to 
start as soon as possible. Do you 
have the Gun anymore? When can I start 
practicing? And what about publicity?"

"That's not my job."

"I meant speculatively."

"I think you've got great chances. But that 
isn't the only problem. There are more 
important conditions which cannot be 
overlooked."

As he said that, I heard a rattling come from 
behind the car to my left. And out stepped 
Merle Jarred, Gold Cup driver. I had heard of 
him only on the screen, and knew his scarred 
face well. He was a hard racer. His winning 
percentage was lower because he liked to use 
his skills to play with other drivers and run 
them into the obstacles. I had also heard he 
was a jerk in real life too. I was not to be 
surprised.

"Who the hell are you?" was the greeting I got.

"Screw."

"What?"

I nodded.

"I know you," he said slowly.

"And I know who you are. You're an excellent 
driver. It's good to meet you," I said, not 
really meaning it.

"Yeah, yeah, cut the crap. What are you doing 
in my garage? Diago, throw this trasspassin' 
bastard out."

Diago just looked at him, and then said to me, 
"After they plugged you underground, I was 
hired by Merle here. He wasn't my first choice, 
but the price was right, and I had heard that 
you might not be coming back. Rules of the 
game; I'm under contract for the rest of the 
year."

Jarred walked up, and butted in. "So you're 
Screw. You got arrested and kicked out for 
murder like what, ten years ago? I'm surprised 
you're out on bail already, Screw. Well Diago 
works for me now, and-"

"Calm down. I didn't come here to take anything 
from you. I just wanted to talk to my old 
engineer."

"You couldn't handle losing so you got 
desperate."

"Would you shut up? I don't have to take 
anything from you on any grounds. You weren't 
even there."

"What has it been, a decade? You aren't a 
driver anymore."

I straightened up and looked at him while 
turning angry. Jarred's head moved back an inch 
in mild surprise. "Your contract has expired. 
Right now. I'm not speaking figuratively. What 
are you going to do about it?"

Now he could have said 'call the police' but he 
didn't. I had him pegged as the type who loses 
it when seriously challenged. I bet he would 
either try to fight me right here, or pull a 
gun. I was prepared for both. But not for what 
he actually said.

"Is that a threat? Do you think I'm afraid of 
you?"

I started to reply but he cut me off.

"Right here, right now. Me in my Super-Sabre, 
you in that machine collecting rust out back. 
Fifty laps or the last to crash. Are you 
prepared to prove you ever had a career?"

I had no choice. I had not driven a six wheeler 
in ten years, but I needed this contract, I 
needed my car back, and I needed to see Jarred 
go down. It was that simple. 

And I really don't like sharing pit crews. 

"Yes," I said.





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