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-- File: Part 2 Divination.txt

So, the holidays. Time for birds, booze, and bad tackles. 
I won money off the philly game last week from a Dallas
fan who had the nerve to show up in a D.C. bar. You
wouldnt believe how many of them there are hiding in the
shadows around here, its scary. That, and the closet
System fans who are 'pledging allegiance' right now.
Boeing sent a letter to Bin Laden a few days ago remarking that
was known to enjoy the spacious comfort of their aircraft
when flying himself from place to place. They inquired as to 
whether he would like to become more familiar with a \
few of their other fine products, such as cruise 
missles, patriots, etc. You should still be able to 
find a copy of the letter at cnnsi.com
Yes, Part two is finally here. So begins the real effort, 
gathering strands and weaving something
substantial. I maintain that this is not a story about
racing, though a real race for our boy has been long overdue.
So without further b.s.,

--They Walk In Light Part 2-Chap 1--

which can also be found at the site
http://us.geocities.com/aescension
Check it out there for the full formatting experience.











Part 2 Divination


December, 1100 A.D.


"Sail on the spirals."
 					-Maynard James Keenan


	


	1

  The title had read, "Darwinist Regression*," but had been no such 
thing. Ms. Wheeler�s editorial had failed to pique me again. Setting the 
paper down carefully, I took another sip of it, warm distilled water. (So 
as not to provide any useless, arbitrary stimulation.)

  "No, that was not your cue," I quickly said to my right foot, 
hovering over the gas pedal.



-----
<**Note: see article below**>
-----



  Thirty-fourth gate. Thirty-fourth frickin gate! Out of fifty! 
  Un-frickin-believable.

  Diago had told me I was lucky to be out of the forties at all, since 
this was my comeback race from probation. Ten years was ten years. 
Often when racers take extended vacations due to jail time or serious 
injuries, they start at the fifty gate or at least somewhere in the high 
forties. My excellent race results in the past combined with a decent 
crowd following had probably been the main factor in getting me the 
spot I had. The board wanted to know how I would do back in the heat, a 
nice lower middle spot to see if I would distinguish myself again. But I 
couldn�t say it satisfied me. I wanted the wide gate, the only 
asymmetrical gate; the one with the semicircular oil stains that reminded 
me of a great winking eye, the one whose light-box always wore a 
pungent coat of fresh royal blue enamel overlaid with gold specks like 
stars over a concussion; my gate, sitting smugly in pole position where it 
belonged.
 
  There were more than a few racers and board members alike who 
wanted to see my ass back in the mini-car circuit. The scars I had left a 
decade ago had not healed among the veterans; Lefty had been a legend 
to at least a part of the old crowd, even if the rest of us hated his guts. I 
might have been given permanent fifty gate status until I quit from 
shame, if they even let me race at all. But the idea at least was that ten 
years away from the Turbine punished me enough. All the board 
members were ex-drivers, and they knew what it was like to have to 
relinquish everything that defined who you were out here. I must have 
thought I would be welcomed back with open arms. Thirty-fourth was 
some sort of compromise between the parties unknown.

  The Jarred incident had strangely neither helped nor hindered my 
return. The board thought I may have become mentally unstable after so 
many long years underground. But the blood and action was just what 
my old fans had been waiting for, being in their thirties like myself. I 
don�t think anyone had taken my release so seriously as to boycott live 
racing, but I bet Race-Cams city wide were tuned to my freq just to see 
what I would do. The more viewers who tuned in, the more I got paid. 

  And I did my best to give my fans the race of their lives. I took 
unnecessary chances, played chicken with pylons, and often won. It 
would be difficult starting thirty-four places from the inner wall, but I 
would not tail the leaders for long. 

  I couldn�t.

  My car, The Big Bad Storm, was one of the fastest machines on 
the slick, yanking steel behind an X-30 pure nitrous engine, easily 
capable of going three-hundred eighty without kicking in any of its four 
Bryte-Lyne(tm) afterburners. I could take any number of the drivers on my 
end by punching the gas and driving straight. When I swung close 
enough inside, the obstacles would become the stronger issue and I 
would abandon my linear bearing. Weaving between bruisers, and still 
keeping the needle a hair out of the angry red. No one expected a first 
place finish; a thirty-three gate impetus would be almost unheard of. But 
a clean spot in the top ten was what I expected of myself.

  I was the best driver on the tarmac and I could feel it where it 
counted, down in that solid, unwavering place that motivation and 
inspiration frequent. Whenever I matched bumper to bumper with 
another driver, I beat him. I paid attention to the subtleties of driving. It 
was not the size and weight of the engine that made the biggest 
difference because there were no regulations concerning the things. Too 
massive an engine made a six wheeled car undrivable. When I was 
young I had seen a car jock with a two ton engine hit a pylon head on at 
five hundred miles an hour. He had left the rest of us choking down his 
exhaust until he entered the red zone, and he was simply unable to think 
that fast. At that speed you lose so much control over your car it would 
be a waste of my talent to sit behind the wheel. The Bad Storm was 
faster than the Gun, which had been my baby. But I had grown too. Jail 
time had probably dulled my senses and my driving ability was not what 
it used to be. My little adventure with Jarred had taught me that I 
couldn�t swerve like I used too. This time I would need to take things 
easier; to concentrate more. The plan would be to stay out of the pack 
altogether until the slower bruiser cars were left behind. Then I would 
make my presence felt, and the rest of them would learn what prison *had* 
taught me.

  Forty-seven other racers flanked me on either side when my 
headset buzzed, and Diago told me the countdown would begin in one 
minute. The last two gates had been filled with mini-car drivers who had 
been offered the positions after several wrecks had left the Gold Cup 
race short a couple of entries. This occasionally happened, and the mini-
car drivers jumped at the chance to show their stuff to our sponsors in 
the hopes that one might consider putting them up for the real race. It 
was a shame they never placed, but at least it was two fewer spots I had 
to worry about. 

  I took another drink of the liquid and left it in my mouth. Within 
seconds it matched my body heat and lost taste. But I still waited before 
swallowing.

  My heart was beating quickly, in excitement rather than anxiety. 
Checking my screens I knew the wait was almost over. I continued to 
hold my breath. It was too late for a cigarette.

  A rectangular holo screen appeared to my left, and my stomach 
tried to escape my chest. It had been so long.

  Red,
  Orange,
  Yellow,
  Gas.

  I shifted out of neutral and strait into second, the gear which 
would match Turbine speed, which was easily 250 mph out in this gate. 
My engine roared like a stuck elephant and I was pushed into my seat. 
The whine of the wheels shot into high-pitched obscurity. The gate 
receded up the starting spoke of the Turbine behind me, exposing the 
racks of crushing gears, and as I shifted faster, the whole spoke began to 
fill less and less of my rear view screen. The stick finally made it into 
top gear, pulling away from the crowd of losers at my end. I peaked it at 
374 before I even glanced over my shoulder, and saw nothing but 
headlights through thin smoke. I was clear of other cars for a while, and  
drove fast and straight. 

  For the first and possibly least strenuous twenty minutes I could 
see or feel nothing but the rumble of rubber on road, causing the dash to 
vibrate against a smoldering black horizon. The seat�s hydraulics kept 
me level and undisturbed, but after a minute I switched them off with the 
kick plate. I wanted to feel it. Thoughts of my apartment, my friends, 
Zig, Alethea, and Wells needed to be shaken from my concentration. I 
would have cracked my windows but they were bolted in place. Instead I 
breathed in the smell of leather, vinyl, and grease from inside the cab. A 
smile slowly spread across my face.

  I was still between a quarter and a half mile outside the darker 
ring of asphalt that signaled the outer limit of the red zone. Pylons would 
not begin surfacing for another fifteen minutes at least, when the judges 
decided that the front pack had been sufficiently defined. I pressed the 
accelerator in a slow wave, building up harder pressure each time. The 
carbon fiber plate caressed me back as the engine distributed 
parasynthetic oil throughout the cylinders as it saw fit, upping the 
speed/rev ratio every few seconds. The Turbine. It was so much better 
than any practice track, I couldn�t believe I had thought three days ago 
against Jarred had been real racing exhilaration. More like frustration. 

  This, this was really it. This was real, god damn it. My car and I were 
finding that special groove. Soon there would be no more car; nothing 
but us, pushing closer and closer to the red, my heart beating so fast I 
felt it as one hot round iron in my chest, my wheels screaming and 
testing their limits in time with mine. 

  I was leaning so far forward the wheel brushed my chin.
My ear tingled. The headset crackled again, and I heard 
Alethea�s voice come in through the static.

  "Screw! Hi!"

  "Oh...Hello!"

  "How is it down there?"

  "Great. The whole tide of losers is trailing out behind me and I�m 
moving further inside."

  "I saw! What a weight off your shoulders. You�re gonna win, I 
know it!"

  "Beg the gods. I�m glad I have you in my crew."

  "Wow. Really?"

  "Yeah, listen, I can�t talk right now so would you put Diago back 
on?"

  She sounded hurt. "Fine. Here�s the phone."

  Diago�s voice again. "Sorry about that, Screw, I�ll keep her away 
from the mike."

  "Just tell her I need to concentrate. She�ll understand." I said.

  "Will do. Say, Zig showed up after all. He�s watching from the 
big screen Race-Cam. He wanted to help down here in the pit but I gave 
him a case of beer and sent him and a few other guys up to the lounge. 
Didn�t have that luck with Alethea. She�s stubborn." He paused. "Still 
no sign of that Chris guy though."

  "Damn," I said mostly to myself.

  As I heard this, I waved my fingers in front of the Race-Cam 
camera that hovered over my right shoulder. I had not seen Chris since 
the four of us had parted at the Aqueduct train station. He had said he 
would call me later, but had not. I had him mailed a pair of tickets to 
today�s race, but apparently he had other plans. I guess I could not blame 
him for being busy.

  "What's it look like from up there?"

  "Fuel�s fine. You�re pacing twenty-seventh and its already down 
to forty-four spots. Veretti�s in the lead, I still think he may have this 
one. He was the two-to-one shot by the way."

  I laughed. "Hey, it�s your money."

  "In fifty miles or so, start cruising toward the inner lanes and 
watch out for bruisers, especially the 99 car. He will be hunting an easy 
target like yourself."

  "Easy?" I asked.

  "You know your strakes aren�t made for combat so a few side 
swipes from him are probably unavoidable. Just keep your distance and 
for god�s sake, don�t smack anything with that front bumper, moving or 
otherwise. I just installed a high compression air dam that won't work 
right if it gets deformed."

  "I hear you."

  "Good. I don�t know if you can see the stands yet, but about half 
of them have thunderbolts on their jackets. Derring came through on the 
PR for you."

  "Great! Thank him for me."

  "I did. Good luck. And my money�s on you."

  "Out."

  The crackling in my ear fizzled and the roar of the open nitrous 
burn returned. These cars did not have any sound muffling devices over 
their enormous thirty cylinder engines. That would add extra weight and 
it was far less expensive to simply handout earplugs to the drivers. This 
denied us the possibility of hearing other cars advance, but the multiple 
rear view screens set into the windshield covered most of the job.

  The hard steering wheel felt so good in my palms I wanted to 
shout out loud. I was hitting a three percent right turn angle now, and 
could see the rest of the drivers to my right weaving in and out of 
obstacles and crashing into each other. So far my car was handling 
almost perfectly. There had been a little sluggishness to the wheel right 
out of the gate, but now that the thirty and forty gate drivers were behind 
me, I was doing fine alone, now maybe a thousand yards out from the 
main body. The Turbine-relative speedometer showed me going faster 
and faster as I got closer to the inside wall. I pressed her harder. She 
responded in kind.

  In my catalogue blue and gray racing suit, I did not feel the 
thickening heat inside the car, which was registering at 112 degrees. My 
old dented crash helmet had been painted as well, and the infrared 
sighting had been fully repaired. This was useful for smoke and the 
droplets of tar which collected on my windshield. 

  After a few minutes I looked down at my odometer which said I 
had almost gone the fifty miles. I was much closer to the red dashed line 
on the track which signaled the transition from obstacle free tarmac to 
the inner ring, where all the better racers would be waiting. I increased 
my right turn angle to six degrees and after a minute crossed the red line. 
I was still far behind the front pack, but with a fast car and no bruisers to 
worry about yet, I would catch up soon. I maneuvered as far right as I 
could, and soon rode the extreme inside track. My screens did not show 
anyone in sight behind me, and a glance over my shoulder confirmed 
this. Now in a tighter turn than before, I was only able to push 350 
without fear of my tires slipping.

  I concentrated on the track ahead of me and tried to plan what I 
was going to do when I finally caught up to mister twenty-six. Diago 
buzzed me, and told me I had gone a three quarters of a lap now, but at 
this speed was not going to catch up in time. I put more pressure on the 
gas, and got up to 360, which was above the safe speed. Most obstacles 
came and went on my left, and I only had to adjust for a few. Finally, my 
top most screen flashed on, and I saw that the next car ahead of me was 
just beyond the inside wall to the right.

  In two minutes I could see him visually, and the next two cars in 
front. My steering was getting more difficult because my back tires were 
losing an inch of lateral contact every now and then. Neither of the three 
cars ahead of me were especially noted for being bruisers so I decided to 
just shimmy between them. I was going about twenty mph faster than 
they were and I eased my way inside the little triangle they had formed. 

  No one accosted me. Must be newer racers or ones with the sense 
to hold on to a good formation. I had none of that. I was out in front of 
them in another five minutes and were beyond their sight in another ten. 
Breathing came easier. But before long I was right up against another 
group.

  To my left was Derek Cassidy, in the Devil�s Dog, and when he 
saw me out of his side window, he turned inward. 

  I started to steer away from him, when suddenly the handling 
became difficult again. I was moving right, but not fast enough. Our 
sides touched, and he started pushing me toward the inner wall. I tried to 
resist by steering left now but could not intimidate him. So I just 
punched the gas again, and sped forward. Rookie drivers might spin out 
when their rear axles were pushed from behind, but the trick did not 
work on me. I turned deftly into the skid and his front bumper slid away. 
Our cars left a salute of orange sparks that must have been seen in the 
stands. But I left Cassidy behind and took the twenty-third position. He 
stared at me through my rear view screen, and he was grinning. It 
seemed obvious to him that I was certainly not in my rarest form, and if 
I couldn�t dodge him, the bruisers ahead would eat me alive. 

  As I headed toward the next car at a clean 355, my steering 
temporarily returned. I thought back to the beginning of the race where I 
had noticed a little bit of sluggishness which had promptly subsided. I 
seemed only to have problems when other cars were actively trying to 
wreck me. I was almost positive it was not the alignment, because an 
hour before my car was lowered onto the track I had made a special note 
to check the steering. I had found no problems with it. Unless Diago was 
out to get me, the problem lay elsewhere. And if he was, well, no use 
speculating.

  Like I had expected, as soon as I got into the thick of the next 
pack, I felt my car losing response time. There were five cars here, all of 
them being harassed by the big black one in front, Rod Styller�s 
�Necromancer.� The four cars behind him could not advance because 
anyone who drifted near him got rammed. I had already passed a wreck 
in front of an obstacle a few miles back and I bet it had been his work. I 
tried to get close, but I just could not get my car to respond properly. It 
bucked and swerved beneath me. He must have seen me by now, and 
was now turning out to the left, probably to clear some space to swipe 
me into the inner wall.

  I saw the move coming a full five seconds before Styller winged 
in from ten o�clock. I had prepared to decelerate suddenly and let him 
pass in front of me. But as I hit the brake, he did too, and our cars 
slammed into each other. We saw a pylon pop up about a mile down the 
track, and he started to try to push me into it. I applied more pressure to 
the brake, sending up smoke from my rotors, and soon only my front 
bumper was touching his car. The other four cars, having seen that this 
was their chance to pull ahead, started to cut around us to the outside. I 
jerked the wheel left to spin Styller out, but he just pulled left as well. I 
had already punched the gas and turned right to get away from him, 
when I heard the crash.

  The Necromancer had apparently run too far to the left, and one 
of the other drivers sliding past had thought he was the next target. It 
was Guy Jinn, number 99, and he in turn steered hard to the right, hitting 
Styller�s car in the hind quarter panel. This was the extra push needed to 
send both cars reeling and their collective twelve tires all lost traction at 
once. Spinning clockwise toward the pylon, both drivers hit the brakes in 
an attempt to ease the crash. Jinn pulled his own car out of the spin, but 
had to brake so hard he ended up in a near dead stop. Styller was not so 
lucky and struck the pylon on the drivers side of the car. I frowned as 
my screens relayed his failure in vivid thermal color. They had better not 
blame that one on me.

  I took my foot off the brake and punched it. With the handling 
still going haywire, I could only speed straight ahead and try to stop the 
car from vibrating too much. It was getting worse. My tires were now 
skidding almost constantly as the car tirelessly attempted to swerve on 
its own. The other four cars gave me a wide berth as I sped up and 
passed them, thinking I had been the one who took out Styller�s car. I 
managed to dodge obstacles only by leaning my full weight on the 
wheel, and then suddenly letting go to avoid overcompensation. I would 
be able to stay within a hundred yards of the inside wall, but if this 
continued, I would crash long before finishing the race.

  As I passed the last of them, my car lurched left, and hit Jinn�s 
car which I couldn�t believe had caught up. He was taken by surprise, 
knowing I had backed off somewhat. *Guess what*, I tried. He had 
thought I was going to avoid as much contact as possible, but my 
ramming him quickly changed his mind. Being a nasty SOB, as I tried to 
correct my path, he jerked right and hit me back. My shock-resistant 
honeycombed titanium frame rattled independently of the shell. It stung 
my arms through the crash suit. I looked at him out my window and saw 
him flip open the visor on his yellow helmet. His face was a blur, and he 
was yelling something at me I couldn�t make out. 

  I turned harder to the right, but he sideswiped me again. This 
time I saw my electronics flicker and two of the screens died completely. 
Combat like this would be inevitable for a comeback race, but I had 
hoped it would take place farther toward the lead. I was faring better 
than I had expected, though. Jinn was still yelling at me as my headset 
crackled, and I heard Diago�s voice.

  "Screw! What the hell are you doing!?"

  "It�s not my fault!"

  "Don�t ram anybody! Just pass them and make for the leaders! 
What, are you nuts?"

  "No, damn it! My steering's fucked itself again! I can�t control 
her! And now Guy Jinn is making it personal!"

  "Forget the loser. What�s wrong with the steering?"

  "The car won�t respond. Bucking, kicking, the whole deal. It�s 
rattling to pieces in here. It�s all I can do to keep my rear from sliding 
out."

  "Just speed up and leave him in the dust. I�ll start a scan on your 
wheel alignment. You know, you should have done this ahead of time."

  I yelled some obscenities in frustration. Through gritted teeth, I 
snarled "Diago, you fat fuck! I did check everything! It can�t be the car 
because it worked absolutely fine on the pre-runs. There has to be 
something else going on here. Just keep me informed! I�m gonna try to 
get out of this."

  He dropped a few words of his own. "I�ll check but I already 
know what this computer is going to tell me. You didn�t take anything 
this morning, did you?"

  "God no!"

  "Well, you�re still fighting for eighteenth position, and it looks 
like there are going to be at least two more full laps to go. The Turbine 
seems to be really moving today. Out."

  I looked over at Jinn and saw that he had cut left to go around a 
pylon which popped up. I decided it was about damn time I got my act 
together. I was Screw for fucks sake. My name alone meant this kind of 
bullshit only greased my wheels. I stomped on the gas, which was about 
the only thing that was working right, and boogied. The fishtailing got 
much worse as I saw and passed 370, and if I had to dodge any close 
obstacles, I would probably spin. I turned tighter to the right and hugged 
the inside wall as close as the fenders would allow.

  Guy Jinn�s yellow Peygan Alterra started to swing back toward 
me. He must have spent some serious cash before this race because he 
was easily keeping pace. But even in the absence of steering trouble, his 
car was losing its traction on the tarmac. In one of my rear view screens 
which had not been completely shaken out of working order, I saw that 
he had taken his racing helmet off. The white sealing paper around his 
neck was matted to his chest with sweat. He was either still screaming at 
me or had a nasty bronchial infection. I game him the finger over my 
shoulder, and pressed harder on the gas pedal which was already 
skimming the floor.

  The yellow car got closer and closer until I did not need to look 
in my screens to see him. He was paralleling me as he waited for one 
last pylon to pass. I could feel my hands aching as I gripped the 
unyielding wheel tighter than tight, and leaned to the right. This was 
getting to be a recurring situation for me.

  A buzz. "Screw, its me. The computer says your wheels are fine. 
I checked the drive train as well and found no problems. If you are sure 
something is physically wrong, then it has to be some foreign element. 
Just hang in there for a little longer. You are quickly coming up behind 
the leaders."

  "Gotcha. A few of my screens were knocked out on that last 
collision. See if you can get em back on line."

  "Will do. Oh, and Alethea says to be careful. She and Zig are 
worried."

  "Tell her I�ll do my best and that-"

  I was suddenly cut off when my four back tires skidded 
completely out of place, and my whole car spun ninety degrees 
sideways. I screamed �Shit!� and tried to straighten her out. But the 
wheel just turned freely in place; the treads no longer gripping the slick. 
Instead of sliding around me, Jinn pulled right and his front hood 
slammed into my passenger door, caving it in like a Coke can. Both of 
our cars were slowing down, and as mine bounced away, I realized I 
would soon revolve around completely backwards. Shifting immediately 
into neutral, I looked over my other shoulder at the track ahead as if 
things could get any worse.

  The red Ford in seventeenth had seen us hitting each other and 
decided to catch us both while we were vulnerable. With the Big Bad 
Storm blocking his view, Jinn sped up again to ram me, not seeing the 
crimson bruiser jam his larger and stronger brakes. 

  To my left the red car�s image grew until I could see the drivers 
visor through his side view. The helmet turned as his sharp titanium rails 
clipped my rear end, and the whole car squealed out loud. My head was 
thrown sideways, my crash helmet smashing through my window. 
Shatter-resistant glass exploded out onto the track for other unlucky 
drivers to deal with. 

  The two cars had hit me while accelerating in opposite directions 
on opposite sides of my car. Together, they spun me forcefully back 
around, so that I was facing down-track. I struggled, popped the stick 
nimbly into tenth gear, and felt the g-force assail my upset vertebrae. 
But it was too late for my friends.

  The bruiser, meeting less resistance than its driver had counted 
on, continued its rapid deceleration, only now careened left and outward 
into the red zone. Jinn was pushed right and even above the engine 
noise, I heard the shriek of metal on rock as he slammed into the 
Turbine�s Inner Wall at a hundred mile-an-hour speed differential. My 
aerial view screen showed the crowd�s reaction to the flash of sparks; 
they, standing up in their seats and echoing the noise with their own 
lungs. It was beautiful. I tapped my head set and heard nothing but 
static. I felt carefully around the back and found several shards of glass 
imbedded in my seat, working their way through my suit. I picked them 
out with one hand and held onto the steering wheel for dear life with the 
other.

  While I was speeding up, shaken, and entering the last group of 
cars, my ears started that ferocious ringing again. It was really awful and 
I slapped my helmet to try to get it to stop. The helmet was coming apart 
at the welds.

  A tense minute went by and it stopped.

  But a second later my curiosity backstabbed me and I listened for 
it again. It instantly came back louder than before. I groaned. It was such 
a familiar sound, a natural sound gone bad, though I couldn�t think of a 
time I had heard it since I was very young. A very high e note. I thought 
it was strange that I hadn�t heard it before; probably because I had never 
associated it with anything bad. Things like that only become serious to 
you once they have the power to scare you a little.

  I looked at the seat next to me, and saw that it had become 
dislodged along with the other door. It bumped up and down in the air 
hitting my right arm. There was no way to secure it to anything. 
Something glinted off the few rays of sunlight which shone in through a 
cracked window. It was on the floor, and had apparently rolled forward 
from under the seat. I grabbed it and saw that it was a bottle of very 
warm champagne. The cork was about to burst itself off. On the label 
was a note written in red pen and curly feminine hand writing:

  
  Good Luck!! I�ll be waiting for you at the winners gate!    
					-Alie


  I put the bottle in my large cup holder so I could see the name. I 
thought back. Another girl I known had done this for me once, but I had 
been too much the fool to see what it really meant at the time. Way back 
when Zig and I were growing tired of the parade of guiltless groupies. 
She had hidden herself from me at first, watching me drive, watching 
my reactions, waiting for the right time to reveal herself... 

  Or had that been someone else? It seemed more like something 
that had happened to someone I had known. What had happened to 
them? Why do I always lose touch? Why do I constantly demand these 
answers of myself? It felt like pain, but I chose to keep it in mind and 
not push it down. Maybe I needed something real like this to think 
about. Alie and that other girl, so different. I decided that the stark 
memory might help me with the moment. Other cars were getting closer.

  There were at least five News-Levys hurtling overhead now, all 
drawn to the action. More screens popped up on my windshield as they 
hovered precariously above me, giving me the aerial feeds they were 
taping. One showed the crowd straining against their harnesses to get a 
better view of the leaders, screams of excitement and exhilaration 
captured in their mouths. I was in sixteenth place, and as I ran past 
number fifteen, they betrayed another visible explosion of electricity. If 
the damage to my car didn�t get me killed, it just might get me a raise.

  The last dozen or so cars belonged to the best of the best veteran 
drivers. I recognized about half of them showing the same colors of the 
same crews they raced under ten years ago. In the lead was Veretti, who 
at one time used to be an old friend of mine. Following him were two 
cars that had only been in the circuit for a few years now; I knew them 
only from broadcasts. After them, batting cleanup, was �Flyin� Brian in 
the white Ford. I had raced him many times. He was over fifty and had 
one hell of a fast car. Strangely, in the last few years of his career he had 
simply refused to ram other drivers, even when it was necessary to win. 
He had lost more than a few races solely due to this, but had never 
decided to start playing dirty. Revitalized and scheming, I steered in his 
direction.

  The one thing out of all this that I had learned was that I only 
really lost control when I came into close quarters with other drivers 
who were openly out to get me. I figured that if I could stay right behind 
Flyin Brian as he cut up the inside lane, I would be safe from bruisers 
out to claim blue and gray paint scrapes on their railed titanium 
bumpers. I tried to go only as fast as I safely could, having also learned 
that there is some truth behind the theory of �skid-safe speed limits.� 
Most of the cars up here were just trying to avoid pylons at such high 
velocities. I saw two bruiser cars teaming up against a third car, and 
running him into an obstacle which he was unavoidably heading for. I 
think I remembered that checkered car as the winner of last week�s race. 
Trophy stealers have always been favorite targets and I did not feel any 
pity.

  Thinking about the racer as his car hit a pylon head on, I realized 
I might be able to do more than just place this time. I was already in the 
top ten, and a broadcast feed screen showed that the finishing gates on 
the next spoke of the Turbine were around fifty Spoke-relative miles 
away. I believed I just might be able to make it, even though after 
another half lap this race would have a winner. 

  After ten minutes of solely concentrating on driving straight at 
my unbeatable speed, and finally, finally, catching up with that familiar 
white car who now held third place, I recklessly stomped on the gas for 
the final stretch. My Bryte�s flared in my wake, the afterburn of nitrous 
exhaust throwing me forward like a tenacious Devil. It was thoughtless 
pure gray ecstasy. My tailpipes howled. So did I.

  Apparently Flyin Brian had the same idea and he abruptly pulled 
away. My steering was only a little worse than normal now, but the 
ringing and buzzing in my ears had returned en force. I tried to ignore it, 
as the two of us passed into the second and third positions.

  As I hunched forward in my seat, the anticipation cleaving 
through me, I ran over a rut in the track, and the hard bump brought back 
two of my rear view screens. They were dim at first, but after I pounded 
on the dash a few times, the wiring reconnected and I could see directly 
behind me again. 

  I frowned deeply.

  "Oh crap."

  Guy Jinn had returned. Miraculously. Magnificently. I choked. 
He was back behind me in his little yellow car, and his little yellow tires 
weren�t touching the ground anymore.




---------
END CHAPTER 1
---------







And for the truly masochistic- like with the first Part, this one began 
with a news editorial Screw was reading idly at the beginning of this chapter.
Its not necessary to follow the plot, but in some way was there to 
set the tone of published public opinion in the following Part.
Take with salt and aspirin as required.


The Independent Press, Sunday.
Killing is that which connects us to the animals, that to which all 
pursuit of life must return. Death itself is inevitable; he comes for us all. 
Killing is one way this is accomplished in nature. Yet like every animal 
that kills for its own reasons, we commit this act ritually, despite our 
purported �free will.� Humans are the only animals that in any way 
forbid killing, because humans are the only animals that kill for reasons 
other than necessity. It is our free will which chooses laws, and our free 
will which breaks them, our self-interested nature overwhelming. Hence 
it is made plain that humans are not at the nexus of evolution, merely 
clambering down the path. There is still a wealth of instinct that needs to 
be bled away in order for laws forbidding murder and all else to be 
unnecessary. Instinct causes us to ignore our free will imposed contracts 
and act at the expense of others. If we were perfectly restrained, many 
have supposed that we would have no desire to kill for personal gain. It 
is true that instinct does not force us to go against our better sense, but it 
is the cause behind our having such moral decisions to make. When the 
instinctual desires are removed, we will be left with nothing but the 
capacity to fully rationalize our decisions. Penalties and consequences 
firmly in mind, who wouldn�t make the right decision. But is this an 
answer? Does the extreme evolution of the mind presume the loss of 
carnal instinct? When the unlogical is removed from our considerations, 
we lose creeds, ethics, and conceptions of honor. We will see no reason 
not to kill if we are sure we can get away with it. It will appear entirely 
reasonable to consider all manner of violent measures when the ends 
will appear to bring about a greater good than that which we lost 
committing the crime. Mercy, love, compassion, and morality are all 
things that are ingrained into our consciousness; products of experience 
and not of logic. These would be lost when we pass beyond instinct. 
Survival of the species testifies that this cannot be the ultimate direction 
of evolution either. Upon further consideration it can be seen that 
another direction arises between the other two. Instinct is the part of us 
which causes us to take actions contrary to what we would later admit to 
be the strongest choice; in a way, instinct is a group of thoughts that stop 
us from not only having, but wanting to exercise our free will. It makes 
the smarter choice unnecessarily painful. Conversely, free will allows us 
to consider all courses of action logically, by not letting certain choices 
be excluded by emotional or instinctual prejudice. But when free will is 
all we have to consider, there is no reason to choose any action except 
the one which most benefits our current set of goals. In every moral or 
procedural question, the best possible choice we can come up with will 
always be made. This limits our freedom considerably, seeing as how 
only one choice is truly open to us in each decision. Free will is not the 
same thing as freedom. Both free will (the facilitator of logic) and 
instinct (unlogic) work in different ways to limit our freedom. They 
persuade us to take one choice rather than another, though of course both 
are necessary for individuality. But entirely unrestrained free will or 
uncontrolled instinct would make us robots which were infinitely 
predictable, (with the assistance of any simple cerebrograph,) and 
therefore not human. So where is the freedom, the soul, really? Malte 
spent his life contesting that  genuinely complete freedom would rob 
from us that which makes us human, the ability to choose differently 
than others would in like circumstances. Otherwise we would sit in an 
eternal state of indecision, every choice looking equally desirable to our 
perfectly free minds. A median must be attained, similar to the one we 
hold in our present state of evolution, in order for us to be human beings 
and not robots or rocks. We must stay away from totality in free will, 
instinct, and freedom. Each of these three needs to be part of our 
characters in order for us to have human personalities, but in substantial, 
useable amounts. Quoting Malte, �Do not fear the Random; His 
Southern Wind fills sails as passionately as the others.� Presuming that 
perfect humanity is essentially the final state of human evolution, it 
suddenly appears that we may be closer to the nexus than we think.





Thats it! Ja ne!
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