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Hit:  www.geocities.com/aescension






"In tonight's news, twentieth century technology:
Has the computer age, scientists, and doctors gone too far?
Einstien or Frankenstien? Dr. Scholls or Dr. Jekyl
and Mr. Hyde? Are we digging into new ground, or 
digging our own graves? The story at eleven."
            -Outkast, Aquemini, 'Synthesizer'

(Hats off to anyone who knows this album, 
 George Clinton raps like Darth Vader.)








    3

  "Earlier today, the Gold Cup stock car race, where a 
shocking outburst of blood and chaos rocked the entire city as 
Gold Cup race driver Guy Jinn opened fire on other unsuspecting 
drivers, killing one and wounding several others. The deceased 
victim was Brian Hayworth, nicknamed 'Flyin Brian,' who had 
become a veteran champion driver after entering the race thirty two 
years ago. The other two men were Carlos Veretti, a long time 
Gold Cup contender, and the returning ex-con driver known as Screw. The 
shooting caused five front running cars to be damaged beyond all 
mobility, three of which were left on the track. Sarah Wheeler is on 
location to take us through the asphalt havoc, and afterward, we 
will have new footage of the finishing gate's last moments. 
Sarah?"

  "Tom, as you can see, the situation has not changed here on 
top of the Inner Wall, where police, engineers, and laborers have 
gathered to assess the catastrophic damage caused by mechanical 
failure on all fifty of the Gold Cup finishing gates. As you know, 
Race-Cam video is still the only footage we have of the early 
stages of this afternoon's events. Shown here on the big screen 
behind me, Guy Jinn, in the yellow 99 car, starts firing when he 
was hit from the side by Hayworth in white. The four bright 
flashes to your left are from Jinn's weapon, an illegal military 
handgun. You can see over his shoulder how this last shot 
penetrates Hayworth's engine mount, and causes the subsequent 
explosion. We switch now to a different angle where as you can 
tell-"

  "For god's sake turn it off, will you?" It was late and I was 
tired of having to see my Big Bad Storm crashing into everything it 
could find, and tired of hearing Sarah Wheeler drone on about 
what a freakish anomaly the whole thing was.

  "No, wait! Look, they're gonna show the stands come 
down again." Zig did not share my sentiments. "Ha! Ha-ha!! You 
like that, piggys!?"

  Zig continued hollering at the screen and I turned around 
and looked at Alethea. 

  She was sitting quietly staring blankly at the cover of a 
magazine.

  She claimed to be still angry at me for not having Diago 
stop the whole race as soon as Jinn began swiping me. I had tried 
to explain to her that these things happened all the time in racing 
and that they usually did not end up in gun fire or loss of life. It 
came out sounding just as meaningless to her as it was in reality to 
me. 

  So maybe I did get a thrill out of it on some level. And 
undeniably, I was proud of that. Pride. It kept consuming and 
justifying everything. Even scrapes with death as close as mine had 
been; surviving had left me worse off in that category than I had 
been before. In racers, in men, the wayward course of pride never 
even levels out. It just grows like a hole in the dyke and fills more 
and more of your time. But I couldn't come out and try to say that 
like it was an answer. So in self-willed thought, I touched her face 
and its uncompromising expression. I laughed a little, waiting for 
her to notice, and soon she did the same.

  "I was so worried about you, you know."

  "I'm sorry."

  "Are you?"

  "Yes."

  "Why don't you show it? A little humanity never hurt."

  (Not true.) "I'll try harder."

  She sighed. "What are you going to do without a car?"

  "I don't know. I have to call Diago tomorrow to see if our 
insurance will cover it. He wasn't that mad about it. Even after all 
the threats."

  "Oh, Screw."

  "You know, technically, I won the race. I got to the gate 
before anyone else."

  Zig heard this peripherally and said over his shoulder, 
"They were waving the caution flag, gringo. You were supposed to 
pace the spoke."

  "I think it was Malte who said 'details are for those who 
have missed the point.'" Zig ignored me and continued to watch 
the screen.

  Outside, the moon was low in the sky, a finger wide arc on 
the horizon, its lower half obscured by the high black wall of the 
Turbine. I had no idea which one was spinning faster. Clouds and 
light pollution filled the remaining space above and about with a 
gray that was both bright and opaque. The stars were not out 
tonight, from any vantage.

  Inside, on the end table to my right, was a stack of letters 
that had come from three separate sources. One had been the 
board's insurance company, handing me a ridiculously small out of 
court settlement for the hazards I had suffered due to the 
improperly secured gate apparatus. A three figure embarrassment. 
The second had been from Diago, a bill for services rendered like 
he would commence sending every week. And the last benefactor 
was Derring, sending me the endorsement check for all the 
businesses who had had the extreme foresight to put their logos on 
my car and jacket. 

  Half a million dollars, guaranteed to be lazing cozily in my 
bank account by the end of the business day tomorrow. I kept 
sending glances across the olive green type on the front of the 
envelope and wondering why my heart wouldn't instantly flutter 
the way I had expected it to for ten long years of poverty. Maybe 
my body knew by now that checks were just slips of paper that had 
little bearing on the course of real life in the city. Maybe I didn't 
trust their checks anymore.

  Alethea tugged on my shirt, and I turned to look at her.
"I saw you fly."

  I had known it was coming. When she wanted to, Alethea 
could be so clear that there was no hiding the truth from her or 
myself. 

  I feel that there is more to purity and innocence than the 
choices one made. It is also the experiences that one has the 
fortune to not encounter that keeps the innocent from succumbing 
to internal corruption. I felt weak and dirty when I tried to lie to 
her, and I was only lying to myself when I tried to rationalize it. 
The cost of my damn dirty pride. Making it this far in the game 
had been only slightly short of an act of God of both of us, and I 
had not been the one who had really turned things around for her. 
She owed me nothing.

  "Didn't we all."

  "I don't care if the news people think you were just 
swinging around on the Diagos. I knew you were flying."

  "Luckily the cops don't."

  "So the police aren't going to arrest you?"

  I laughed out loud. "That's it? No '*What the hell are you, 
some kind of mutant?*'"

  "No," she said quietly.

  This. Again. There was nothing I could say or do that 
would raise me to her level, or make me want to lower her to mine. 
She was so nonjudgmental it made me a damn rat bastard for 
taking advantage of it. I should never have taken her to Wells' 
house or Lanz Island; the things she had witnessed there were too 
far ahead of her grasp on life. How self-involved had I been, 
really? And of course the last thing was that I absolutely could not 
promise her it would not happen again. Both then and now, I felt 
so melodramatically unsure about the future that I was arriving at 
meditative chaos; nothing is ever over with, is it? It might never 
be, not after you give in and let it start.

  Naturally, my one excuse was found in the midst of a quick 
gap in self awareness. It had seemed in some small way at the time 
that she had wanted me to do it, to take her out and across all the 
lines of reason. I only say it because the feeling had left some weak 
emotional residue. I knew there was more going on here, in these 
last two months before the end of the year, more than I would ever 
be able to remember clearly, much more than I could find a 
comfortable place for in the sequence of connected self-defining 
events leading up to this moment.  Yes, there were million 
instances where I had to and eventually did read further into what 
was happening than I had any right to do. Very few of them 
justified the means by revealing hidden truth. 

  Still, I found no evidence of subconscious desires wanting 
me to believe that she was a willing participant. So it was possible 
she really was.

  That's it. That's what must have happened.

  Because she simply said 'no.' I tried, and felt her spirit 
reach out to cautiously thank me, 'You pushed me where others 
have shrunk away;' and how in name of god could I ignore that.

  Doubting it is what had me embittered.

  Dazed, I tried to sweep these thoughts from my mind a 
second pitiful time.

  Then there was the Island--the rude receptionist from the 
Incarceration Block. Alethea had never mentioned the fact that I 
had left the fat woman tied to a chair and bleeding from the head. 
Later murdered by my companion. It could have been forgotten in 
the midst of more violent things. Probably not. She was so damn...

  Stop I said. Something just wants to get in a last punch. My 
attention drifted. I forcibly stared at her new yellow hi-tops. So 
damn--I don't know.

  Alie looked at the ground, and leaned against me on the 
small couch in Zig's wonderful palace we were calling home. A 
cat somewhere outside yowled. Zig sat on the coffee table 
watching me try to avoid pylons. He laughed. 

  It had taken me four hours to get away after I was pulled 
off the wreckage of the racing gates. The board was silent of 
course, though undoubtedly glad to hear that without a car to race, 
I would be considered absent for a while. 

  Predictably or not, depending who you ask, my fan rating 
had skyrocketed. Track violence was usually a huge seller and 
since I had killed my enemy with arguable fairness, my supporter's 
loved me more than ever. The last half hour at the Turbine was 
spent shaking hands with more sponsors who wanted me to market 
their worthless products with my car. I agreed to a few, ignored 
others. I wanted more revenue, and soon if I wanted a place of my 
own. Not that Zig wasn't hospitable, but a white couple hanging 
out in his living room every night was not conducive to the 
business atmosphere. 

  If Guy Jinn hadn't told me that he was working for 
someone else who would doubtlessly come after me again, today 
might have been a blessing in disguise.

  "So what about the cops?" Zig turned to me and said. "They 
gonna come get you or not?"

  "I don't think so. Nothing was reliably caught on tape, and 
of course no one was willing to come forward as an eye witness. 
Besides, 'flying' is not a crime. Everything I did was to get away 
from Guy Jinn."

  "Come to think of it," Alie said, "those Special Forces 
bastards never showed up to save you either."

  "Yeah, that was strange," Zig said to me. "There was 
nothing about that mentioned in the news. Guess the Mandate 
really doesn't like you."

  Alethea cocked her head. "You don't think that Jinn tried to 
kill you this morning specifically because he knew the Special 
Forces would not be here to intervene?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean that even though it is one more thing that never 
made the evening news, the Mandate knows someone broke into 
Lanz Island and started the prison riot."

  "Which is still going on, by the way," said Zig.

  "They don't know it was me."

  "But obviously Guy Jinn does. Or did. He wanted you just 
as bad as the Mandate, and it would not have been hard for him to 
have traded information for a free half hour."

  "That's ridiculous." Zig interrupted again. "There were 
street cops all over the place from pot shot one. If the two of you 
hadn't been playing superhero they would have killed you both out 
of hand."

  "Well, they didn't shoot one bullet at me, and they didn't 
shoot at Jinn either until the Levys started crowding the place," I 
said. "Maybe she's right?"

  "But still. How did Guy himself know? I thought Chris 
killed everyone who saw the prison riot."

  "He didn't kill the prisoners, though, and they most 
certainly knew all about it."

  Alethea shook her head. "But like Zig said, the prisoners 
are still holed up in the block. Lanz Island's entire Incarceration 
Block has been sealed tight until they get things back under 
control. Jinn couldn't have talked to them."

  "Unless he was one of them," said Zig.

  "But then he would still be down there." I said.

  "Maybe he knew a guard? Or was a guard?"

  "Wells was long gone by the time the guards showed up. 
And I bet every witness to the riot, federal employee or not, is still 
down there. Or being interrogated."

  He shrugged.

  We sat in silence. Thinking and not thinking, on and off. It 
was getting late, but none of us were sleepy. I stood up and walked 
into Zig's kitchen, where I found his fridge alcohol deficient, 
which was what I really wanted at the moment.

  "Hey, pour something for me too, Screw," called Alethea.

  "I can't. Zig's box is dry."

  "No it isn't!" Zig said. But when he walked over and took a 
look, he turned to me and said, "Damn. Looks like you're driving, 
cracker."

  "Don't call me cracker."





--------



  Forty minutes later and fifty miles north, where the city 
streets were newly paved and streetlights shone at night, the three 
of us were surrounded by people at our favorite bar, 'Korre's.' I 
knew most of the people there; everyone in some way affiliated 
with racing. They had all seen this morning's broadcast, and it had 
been quite an upset. Even the bartenders, Janie, Leah, and Will, 
wouldn't leave me alone. We arrived at 11:35, and was coerced 
into retelling the whole story until a little before 1:00. Of course I 
left out all the parts about super powers and everyone was 
perfectly willing to accept the swinging-around-on-cables story. 
Obviously Jinn's fans infested other bars, because after three 
rounds on the house, the only harsh words I received were that I 
should have been packing heat myself. I promised everyone that I 
would from now on. They cheered my name.

  After friends and strangers alike went back to their own 
beer and their own lives, Alethea and I sat at the very end of the 
bar, in a draping shadow, and spoke to each other. She did not 
want to hear me apologize for the things I had put her through, but 
just wanted me to say that I would stay out of trouble from now on. 
I could see she wanted to hear the words, and so I said them. There 
was no more reconciliation that could be done. The talk coasted to 
happier things, and we discussed what to do with my new found 
wealth. Needless to say, she had several suggestions.

  "A bright pink Carrera?"

  "Oh they are so cute!" she said. "And it has to have a 
convertible top, and a sun roof, and a vanity license plate that says 
something clever, yet mildly tacky."

  "You want a sun roof in a convertible?"
"Well they aren't cheap, if that's what you're asking," and 
she smiled.

  I rolled my eyes.

  The bar itself was long and straight, ending at either side 
against black stone gargoyles which towered over every patron. 
The one on the left was a gorilla-like monstrosity dubbed 'Lucy,' 
and her counterpart to the dexter was an old vampire bat we simply 
called 'Monsieur.' Between them a cloud of smoke perpetually 
blocked sight of anything more than ten feet away. Only from the 
far left could you see behind the cloud, behind the bar, all the way 
across to the other side where greasy hands periodically pierced the 
haze to reach for brightly colored bottles of dully colored drink. If 
you were lucky, the bartenders weren't smoking either and they 
might return your glance, sauntering up with a nod and a line from 
Kesey. Lucy had nothing on some of these characters. 

  Alethea curled a few strands of hair around her finger, let 
go, and re-curled them idly. She was watching me look over my 
shoulder, a nervous habit I was trying to break, and was about to 
speak when something did finally catch my eye, there, six, maybe 
seven places down the bar. A purple driving glove I knew from 
somewhere.

  Excusing myself to use the john, I left Alethea before she 
could ask and walked into the fog. The crowd of drinkers swished 
around me unseen, like strangers in the night. It was almost 
spooky, except for the din of course. The smoke parted and I 
beheld an old cohort. Of the strictly business variety.

  "Muniz!"

  He started, almost dropped his beer and whirled around to 
stare at me with a barely concealed look of displeasure. "Screw. 
Shit, you're here."

  "Didn't you hear me come in? I must have talked to 
everyone in the bar."

  "No, it seems I missed that. I have bad hearing you know. 
All that machinery running on the floor below my apartment. I'm 
suing for disability." His coarse Vietnamese mock relaxed 
somewhat and assumed that shit-eating grin I hated. He knew I did.

  "So I guess you missed the race. The news too."

  He shrugged. "If I had a screen that worked I would have-"

  "Yeah, I know. I haven't seen you in a few months and you 
never drop by Zig's anymore. Where have you been? You find 
some poor homeless wife to cook and clean for you?"

  "Well, your mother was hanging around so much I'm 
surprised she didn't tell you herself." Ha. "No, I found 
something better than the caf�. I'm spending my nights uptown 
these days."

  "Really? Where?"

  "The Waldorf. Ever been?"

  "The Waldorf was shut down last week. The bombing."

  "Yeah, that put a crimp in my style. It's the only reason I'm 
here in this dump tonight."

  "Where the hell did you come across real money?"

  He shook his head. "I don't think so."

  "Oh please. A month from now you'll be back to wiping 
tables and eating off the floor."

  "Maybe," he said. "But I wouldn't put any money on it this 
time."

  Hell, maybe the little bastard had found something good. A 
month ago I would have done a lot to get the story out of him. But 
tonight I only wanted to see him again for one thing. I set my beer 
down next to his and motioned to Leah. Muniz brought out the 
asshole in everybody.

  "So where are my tickets?"

  He raised his eyebrows. "Excuse me? Sorry, it's got to be 
the hearing thing again."

  "My tickets. To San Marco." A club cum resort on the 
north side. I had been planning the trip for the last year and Muniz 
had promised me scalps. It was the only way to get into a 
members-only place like San Marco. And believe me, I was 
willing to pay the price; I didn't even want to think about how 
much I needed to get away from everything after this past week. 
And now I had all the money I needed, too. Poignant how things 
had worked out, huh?

  "Tickets?"

  "Yeah, I still want both of them. I'm taking my girlfriend."

  His provocative mood suddenly changed, and now it was 
me watching him check over both shoulders. "Well, Screw. Of 
course you know thing is..." 

  He motioned me to lean my head closer. I did, reluctantly. 
"What? What thing?" I asked.

  "I gave the tickets to a friend. -Just to hold!"

  "Who? Get them back, already. I got plans."

  Shifting in his seat, he took a last sip of beer and said, "Hey 
get me another one of these will you?"

  I turned toward the bar and looked for Leah. She hadn't 
brought mine either. "Bartender?" I said aloud. 

  I looked at the woman to my right. She was looking at me 
and pointing to a table where I saw the bartender in question 
serving a couple. I nodded thanks and walked over. (Hell,) I thought, 
(maybe I would be in San Marco by New Years.) Sounded exciting.
I slapped my forehead.
  
  Turning around, Muniz's seat was empty and spinning in 
place. He was out of there like a shot and in the dim light and 
crowd, a dark skinned teenager needed far less than those three 
seconds to disappear. Plus, that one in particular was good at it. I 
sighed.

  I walked back to Alethea, sat down and gave the answer 
"No one" to the question of 'Who?' written across her face. "Just 
an old cell mate."

  She nodded. Luckily she had ordered another round while I 
was away and I took a sip of a dark red ale.

  "Felt like your thing," she remarked.

  Zig walked over from a group of sharply dressed men 
smoking cigars and tapped me on the shoulder. "Don't look up 
cracker, but your vehicular benefactor is here and coming this 
way."

  "I told you not to call me--who?" I looked up, and 
immediately regretted it. 

  "Screw! Always at the top of my favorite people list." He 
laughed. "Couldn't sleep? Feeling guilty perhaps?" Diago almost 
never went out this late, and especially not with his assistant 
tagging along.

  I turned my head back toward Alethea. "I thought we went 
over this. Isn't it past your bed time, old man?"

  Diago chuckled. "I'm not the one who needs to go car 
shopping tomorrow morning."

  The five of us moved to an end booth in the crowded bar, 
away from blaring screens. We drank, made conversation, and 
exhaled solemnly every time someone mentioned existence eight 
hours ago. Diago said he had been dealing with the racing board 
for hours after I left, trying to put a positive spin on the whole 
thing. The crowd loved it, ratings skyrocketed, I'm a hero (sort of) 
and the ramps and gates are getting replaced for free by the 
government. Word hadn't been given out yet on why, but as usual, 
the Mandate never liked things changing schedule, even racing. 
Diago even tried to play on their humanity by saying every 
organization has one. Let's all just grin and bear him. Me.

  "So it's basically good news," I said.

  "Nothing so unambiguous. You're getting Audited, and the 
Mandate and the board agreed to a some sort of fine that'll be 
taken out of your first paycheck. I had to argue them down to that, 
from another suspension. The hardest part was trying to explain 
three deaths in your first week back."

  "Hey, I had nothing to do with Flyin Brian."

  Diago nodded. "I know."

  "The biggest shame of them all," said Zig, who I wouldn't 
have expected to feel much for one of my competitors. 

  Every one at the table had fallen silent. The Flyer had been 
another legend who would be sorely missed. I had never been 
remarkably close to him, but he occasionally dropped by Bill's, 
and we had talked racing before. He was a veteran, and not many 
of us ever made it to that title. Diago muttered the words 'good 
man,' and I looked up to say something grave, when hands slapped 
down on the table next to me. I saw that they belonged to the old 
bearded face of a Hell's Angels type in black and purple.
"You talkin about Flyin Brian?" he asked in a gravelly 
voice.

  "...Why?"

  "You got him killed, didn't you? You're Screw."

  I shrugged. "I don't see it that way."

  "Yeah, just like you did to Lefty, you sick fuck. Well you 
look like a pussy from here. Want to go outside and do something 
about it?"

  I set my beer down, and said, "That's exactly how Lefty 
said it, too."

  "Ah...What?"

  I stood up immediately and strode through the crowd 
toward the door. He yelled something, and followed me. But I 
wheeled around suddenly after going ten feet and the man knocked 
his forehead against my chin. This startled him, and as he pushed 
himself at arms length from me, I grabbed him by the collar. I 
pressed a digit into his hairy neck, and he choked and sputtered as 
he tried to twist my arm off. I turned my head to get a better look 
at the guy's face but did not find what I was looking for. I mean 
there was a trace; but there's something of a trace everywhere you 
go. Taur. It was too loud in here to really tell, anyway. After a few 
seconds I slowly let go. He pushed back, gasping hard. I walked 
around him and sat down at my booth where three out of five of 
them were looking at me with distaste.

  "...What?" I said.

  "He was just a drunk, Screw. You didn't have to do that." It 
was Leah speaking, who had stopped by to refill the pitcher.

  "So was I, and I don't like that kind of talk about the 
deceased. Besides, he was probably about to pull a knife or 
something."

  Zig, who had been smiling, now stood and looked at the old 
biker as he left the bar. "Anybody ever seen his ugly ass around 
here?"

  "Nah, don't think so," said Leah. "Must be a hopper."

  Alethea glared at me. "You said there wasn't going to be 
anymore of that!" she said in a horse whisper.

  "I plead self defense."

  "And how about drunk in public."

  "Bah." Hell, I was right. He could have been one of them.
I took another drink and Leah left us. A second later I 
smiled and tried to laugh the thing off. Zig began to help me out, 
but my ruse was doomed from the outset. The mention of Lefty 
had brought back even older memories for three men at this table, 
and Diago at least could show it. He watched me and I stopped 
smiling, and sighing, I turned my head away. Alethea was staring 
back and forth at the two of us and saying, "What? What's going 
on?"

  "Nothing. More of the bad past." I said, drinking again. "I 
should write a novel." 

  The drinks were getting to me now, more than it usually 
did. I had had at least a dozen, sharing the rounds with everyone at 
the table. All of this, of course, contributing to the silence that now 
held us in its uncomfortable grip. Diago was still looking at me.
"What are you lookin at, old man?"

  "You didn't tell her?"

  "No."

  Diago looked across at Alethea. "You mean you don't 
know why he was sent to prison?"

  She turned back to me. "No, I don't. You never told me 
why."

  "Ah, I was saving that one for a special occasion."

  "What better time than now?" Diago continued. "Second 
place on your comeback race, another bad driver put down. For 
god's sake, Screw."

  Our party of five; Diago, his quiet assistant, Alethea, Zig, 
and myself; immersed in the archetypal setting. Dimly lit bar, 
smoke in the air, music in the background, voices over, under, and 
in-between. But I was the only one of us heard. Diago's big frame 
hunched over the table as he waited to see what sort of spin I was 
going to put on this. I imagine many of the rest of the bar's patrons 
knew the story as well, though they were currently more interested 
in my recent broadcast appearance and the big screen. There is 
really no privacy like that of being in a huge crowd. Nothing you 
say or do seems out of the ordinary when so much else is going on. 
It was as good a time as any; had Alethea and I been on better 
ground, that is.

  I pictured Lefty in my mind and noticed I was frowning 
hard.

  I sat back in my booth seat and tried to focus on anything 
other than that which lay before me. Zig abruptly quoted MacBeth 
and left the booth. The mistake I was about to make was emanating 
bright vibes that he didn't want to watch happen. I don't know why 
Diago wanted me to tell Lefty's story now, but I had to do it or else 
he would, and then Alethea would not understand. She was holding 
my right hand, and before she could ask again, I started.

  "I hadn't raced in ten years before that one with Jarred a 
week ago. The form came back to me, of course. Aside from all the 
parts where I was flying." No one except Diago's assistant batted 
an eye at this. "Yeah, ten lifeless years, six or seven of which were 
spent underground in the Mandate's medium security facility deep 
under Capital Plaza. As you might imagine, those were definitely 
the worst years of my life. Prison rumors are fairy tales. You sit 
and rot, and other people stand around watching. Food's bad. The 
water is mostly oily runoff. Big screens everywhere blasting 
government propaganda and Pavlovian nightmares. I don't know if 
it's justice, but I know I'm never going back.

  "If it had not been for Chris to back me up, I am sure I 
would have been killed within the first month just because I was 
bigger than everyone else. In prison, you always kill what you fear 
so that it doesn't scare you anymore. Some of the mates down 
there fit in right away. They were made for it. I mean, no one's 
made for it but some really showed their true colors down there. 
Something else happened to me. Being underground almost took 
my sanity but it also showed me that there was a point I would 
never pass. Insanity takes a little effort on your part too, and 
something in me was just to afraid to ever give that up. So I stayed 
miserably sane and the time passed much slower. I was not meant 
for that life.

  I exhaled. "I hope not anyway," I said. "A few months 
before I was sent in, I was turning twenty three. When a Gold Cup 
race car driver has a birthday, the rest of us let him know it. After 
having gained a name for myself as a jock, and somehow having 
the luck of Diago running my crew, I had met a lot of people. 
There were thirty or so drivers who took their families, friends, and 
crews to the practice track in Ankton, and we took the place over. 
It was crazy. We drank champagne and threw the bottles at the 
Turbine. We even drove around in our six wheelers on the public 
roads. Hell, at least half of us spent the night in jail. I managed to 
stay with a bunch of other drunks at the track that night, and we 
slept right out on the tarmac. Zig remembers.

  "There was the bill, of course, and a week later the phone 
call." I shook my head. "The girl claimed... date rape or some 
similar bullshit. There were no witnesses or anything, but she said 
she had proof. She wouldn't say what. I blew it off. I knew I hadn't 
raped anyone, I hadn't been that high. So I guessed it was just her 
word against mine. And there had been enough people around me 
at my birthday party who could attest that I was always within 
sight.  Like I said, I had no problem shrugging the whole thing off.

  "A few days later it was Sunday, and time to earn my 
paycheck. In the old Number One Gun, my favorite car. Biggest 
machine I've ever even ridden in. The Big Bad Storm is clocked 
much faster, but ten years ago the Gun was uncharacteristically 
maneuverable for a car with such a large engine. Diago had the 
wheel mounts rigged so that the turning rate decreased with 
increasing wedge angle. It-"

  Diago interrupted me. "Screw. You digress."

  "Sorry. Anyway, I was taking my favorite car 
down the inside lane of the Turbine, coming up on the three spot, 
and that crazy bitch was the furthest thing from my mind. Then 
this all black car pulls up along side of me, and I see that it's a guy 
named Lefty, a mediocre racer originally from the mini-car circuit 
I had never met. He has his window down, and he's yelling at me. 
At the time I figured he was just venting some excitement at being 
in Cup contention. I sped up. So did he.

  "It was only later that I found out from some mates 
underground that...Lefty...had been involved with the girl who 
had accused me. Obviously she had found someone who believed 
her. He started ramming me three hundred yards from the gates. 
The metal doors in the first place spot closed behind my car and 
enfolded me right after a chunk of his bumper flew through my 
rear window and hit me square in the back of the head. My crash 
helmet took the brunt of it; you've seen the dent. But as our cars 
were lifted up the spoke I lost my vision for a second and threw up. 
It hurt like hell and I knew there was a concussion. But there was 
no time to cry, because as soon as the gates opened at the top, he 
was sliding out of his car and after me again.

  "I kicked my door open and it knocked him down before he 
could get his hands around me. I leaned into the centrifugal force 
of the Turbine and tried to get away to the Inner Wall. He tackled 
me from behind and was hitting me. We wrestled for little while 
but he still had his black helmet on and I couldn't punch him in the 
head. I could barely think strait at the time, all I remember is 
looking for cops and not seeing anyone. Just like this evening. I 
thought I was going to roll off the spoke and yet no one did a thing. 
I was so out of it I wasn't able to keep the spit in my own mouth. 
That kind of shit stays with you.

  "Finally a few officers on tow lines ran toward us and I 
guess he realized it was then or never. He tried to push me over the 
fore-edge of the spoke, where the grinders are. But I fell on my 
face, completely unintentionally, and he tripped over me. He was 
clutching my arm and starting to dangle over the edge. The gears 
were spinning below him, you know, put there to chew up 
wreckage on the track. All five of the spokes have them. Anyway, 
I was trying to shake him off before his weight pulled us both over, 
when the cops pulled us both back up. Apparently they didn't 
know we were fighting, but thought we had just fell down. They 
tied a tow line around my suit, and were about to tie one on him 
when he took his helmet off." I licked my lips and looked around 
the table. Here it came. "I saw that it was my father."

  Alethea's mouth dropped half an inch open and Diago just 
sat back. I went silent and expressionless. All the questions of my 
own about the man no longer bothered me. Anything I had felt 
about him had died during the long years of my imprisonment. But 
as always, seeing the other's reactions to the story immediately 
started to anger me. 

  "What?" said Alethea, still shocked.

  I narrowed my eyes. "Well, he obviously hadn't joined the 
military like he had said. But he had tried to kill his own son. I was 
really more turned around than angry, but I got over that pretty 
quick. He sneered at me and said something like 'you hollow little 
bastard.' That's when it all got fuzzy and I started thinking about 
my mother. He had been lying to us. Holding us down. That's what 
came to my head at least. I couldn't even hear him yelling at me 
anymore.

  "I saw that his tow line had not been secured and in a 
strangely appropriate moment of clarity I kicked at him. He 
stumbled backward toward the edge of the spoke. I strained against 
my line and shook off a hit from behind by a nightstick. This had 
become more than the fulcrum point in my life before prison. It all 
made sense, you see; suddenly, right there, on its own. I could fix 
all my problems, make up for all my past transgressions if I could 
only kill this man. That would set everything right between me and 
my mother. There was no opposition to this idea in my mind. My 
own rules, the ones I found and lived by stated that I had to obey. I 
mean I really, really wanted to. All it took."

  No one even seemed to be breathing around me.

  "I just kicked again once more and he went over into the 
gears. Twirling metal bars; I didn't watch. And then for a second 
my inbred sense of morality stopped me, Panic gripped me like a 
heart attack, but before I could think about it anymore the cops 
really beat the shit out of me."

  Silence from all.

  I was telling the story fast now, maybe in some way to 
show that I didn't care whether they judged me or not. I usually 
didn't try to preempt reactions like this but here I was. I was very 
mad at them, then. This story was like ammonia to my brain. "The 
Mandate gave me Second Degree Murder with Malicious Intent, 
and I was lying in jail that night," I said.

  And still madder. 

  "You killed your own dad?" spoke Alethea, unbelieving.
Regarding her as I would a stranger, without predilection, 
the thoughts about our previous conversations and my amazement 
at her grace and beauty were pushed aside. For a minute she was 
no longer my angel. A single micron of that connection had turned 
to fear and was corrupting everything around it with the same 
results I had just spoken about earlier. Often, the mind acts as the 
prison of the soul. So here I was ten years later and nothing had 
changed.

  Fucking fantastic. I growled. "I had to."

  "...I want to leave," she said.



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