Street Freaks

by Terry Brooks

  Ash remembers Cay driving. She is actually better at it than he is. “Maybe he should ask Cay. She’d be a better choice than me. Either that or just forget the whole thing and drop out. Wait for next year.”

  T.J. smiles. “There’s no way he would agree to either, Ash. Hey, after we eat, I’ll give you a few final pointers.”

  Dinner is consumed around the dining room table. The Shoe cooks the meal himself before sitting down beside Jenny, surprising Ash once again. He’s never seen the Shoe cook, let alone eat with them. The food is delicious, a large improvement over the slapped-together meals they usually prepare for themselves, but no one says so. Everyone is busy thinking about the Sprint.

  When dinner is finished, the Shoe goes into his office and shuts the door, leaving the others to themselves. Holly tries to organize a board game and fails. Jenny suggests going over the strategy choices, but T.J. says it’s his turn to spend time with Ash so he can help him get ready for the race. No one responds to that. They all know what has happened, but no one wants to talk about it. Even Holly is unusually quiet, although she does reassure Ash that he’ll do just fine. Ash thanks her for saying so, even though he knows it is wishful thinking.

  In the end they all decide to go up on the roof and watch the construction. By now the workers are hoisting into place huge flexible viewing screens that will allow tomorrow’s audience to watch the race from any point along the track. The screens are twenty feet square, elevated and secured by wires attached to poles spaced all along the Straightaway. The ones on the Street Freaks side of the track obstruct their sight lines here and there, but not enough to prevent them from viewing most of what happens.

  Ash takes it all in, fascinated. T.J. shares a glass of whiskey with all of them, handing one to Ash with an encouraging smile.

  In the middle of things, his vidview lights up, the red dot appearing in front of his eyes. He switches on the air screen, and there is Cay.

  “Can you talk?” she asks.

  He steps away from the half wall, moving toward the back of the roof, as far away from the others as he can get. “Go ahead.”

  “I got the results back from the lab. It took longer than I expected. Seems they made multiple attempts to be sure they weren’t missing something. The DNA and blood samples reveal no evidence of an immune deficiency problem. Your tissue samples are perfectly normal. What they did find, however, is evidence of a strong suppressing agent. It’s throughout your system, suggesting long-term usage.”

  “ProLx,” he says, still not quite believing it. “What’s being suppressed?”

  “They can’t be sure without further testing. You might want to think about going to a medical facility and having that done. Maybe soon. You might still be in real danger, even if your immune system isn’t compromised.”

  He studies her calm face, and in her features he finds a measure of relief. “Thanks for letting me know. Where are you?”

  “Elsewhere.”

  “Coming to the race? Everyone’s here.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I miss you.”

  She stares at him. “You have to stop this.”

  She switches off her vidview, and his screen goes blank. He stares into space. “Too late,” he whispers.

  A short while later, they all go off to bed. Everyone drifts away one by one until Ash is left alone. He stares down at the long black ribbon of the Straightaway and thinks about what lies ahead. He tries to visualize himself driving Starfire.

  He cannot manage it.

  He goes down to his bedroom and lies awake for what feels like hours. The twisting and turning sounds that come from the bed next to him suggest T.J. is having a similar problem. Woodrow’s corner of the room is silent. The bot boy makes no sound at all. Ash listens for even the smallest whisper of movement until he falls asleep.

  When he wakes the following morning, everything has changed.

  - 20 -

  At first, Ash has no idea what has happened.

  For one thing, he is no longer in his bed. He is sitting upright in a chair. He has a pounding headache and a strange metallic taste in his mouth. When he opens his eyes, the light in front of him feels so blinding that he shuts them again immediately. Was that a vidview he was looking at? He peeks through slitted eyelids and catches a glimpse of his surroundings. He appears to be in a mostly empty room. There is a din coming from somewhere, loud and insistent. Voices, thousands of them, roaring as one. It takes him a moment to understand. It is the morning of the race, and the crowds of spectators are gathered. He should be out there, putting on his racing suit, getting ready to drive.

  But when he tries to move, he discovers he is bound hand and foot to the chair with his mouth taped over. He can turn his head, but everything else is securely fastened in place. When he forces himself to open his eyes again, taking care not to do so too quickly, he is facing not a vidview but a large window of darkened glass, looking out on what appears to be about a gazillion people clustered on walkways and bleachers one story below.

  Then he glances around and realizes the truth. He is inside Street Freaks in the upstairs viewing room, staring out one of the dark-screen windows. The sounds are coming from a com unit taped to the wall off to one side. T.J.! Where is T.J.? But he already knows.

  He wants to drive Starfire in the race.

  He wants me to watch him win it.

  He wants to show me—to show everyone, especially the Shoe—that he can do this, smashed fingers or no.

  Ash knows the whiskey he was given contained a drug, slow acting but effective. He thrashes wildly. He has to get free!

  But the chair is bolted to the floor and will not move. He struggles a long time, but nothing helps. In desperation, he begins trying to bang his feet against the chair and the floor, hoping someone will hear him. But he can’t even do that. He is so completely immobilized that he can do nothing but stare out the window.

  He can see the entire length of the Straightaway. A seething mass of humanity stretches along both sides of the raceway for as far as the eye can see. There are thousands upon thousands of people. Spectators have come from everywhere to witness the day’s event. Adults and children both press against the barriers and fill up virtually every square foot of walkway. They carry sitting pads and collapsible chairs. They have either walked from the Metro or ridden one of the substems. No antigrav transports ever come into the Red Zone. Air traffic, while cleared to pass through any part of what constitutes L.A. airspace, are not welcome here. Preventatives or Achilles Pod or much of anything else notwithstanding, a violation of this unwritten rule is not something the transports would challenge.

  Already, a handful of street machines are on the racecourse, giving their drivers a final chance to feel the surface beneath their tires. This is important, Jenny has told him. While the competition always takes place on straight-line racecourses with no turns or banks, each one has its own peculiar synthetic surface. A feel for that surface is crucial—a sense of how a machine will respond to it—vital to victory over competitors.

  Engines rev up with thunderous roars. Some spit fire and smoke from their exhausts. All sit balanced over the rear wheels. The racing machines are of different shapes and sizes, reflecting the efforts of their makers to produce power and reduce drag. A few things are similar. The rear tires are monstrous, some taller than the roofs of the machines themselves. These behemoths lift the back ends of the chassis so they are raked forward at a deep, narrow slant, the smaller front tires shouldering a lighter weight. The gleaming bodies are covered with advertisements, wild drawings, and slogans. Every color combination and look imaginable is visible along the length of the course.

  The crowds are enthusiastic and loud. Music blares out of ramped-up speakers from the pleasure houses and gambling palaces. Impromptu dancing breaks out here and there, some of it taking place on the course itself. L.A. Preventatives roam the edges, maintaining a presence while trying not to get involved, staying clear
of what are mostly expressions of excitement. There are too few of them and too many civilians to keep everyone in line. If there were surveillance cameras, it would be easier to monitor what was happening and to lower the response time of the authorities. But even for today’s event, the Red Zone refuses to allow public vidcams to be installed.

  Ash takes in everything. Despite his horror of what is about to happen, he can’t look away.

  Hundreds of small tableaux reveal themselves. Here, a family arranges blankets and a picnic on the walkway. There, an older couple sets up chairs directly in front of Street Freaks’ gates, apparently unaware that Starfire will be passing through momentarily. Farther on, dancers cavort, dressed in wild colors and trailing long ribbons. Children run with careless abandon, towing rainbows of balloons behind them.

  Everyone is laughing and shouting and having fun.

  Ash is appalled. T.J. has lost his mind.

  Then a collective gasp rises from the crowd assembled immediately below. He looks down and notices those closest to Street Freaks are turning to look at something. Starfire appears, pulling out onto the surround leading to the gates. Sunlight glints off her flawless sapphire surface, which bears the name STREET FREAKS scrolled in silver on each door panel.

  Has there ever been a more beautiful machine? The crowd doesn’t think so. The applause and shouts of approval from those closest soon spreads until it becomes an avalanche of sound. The giant viewing screens flare with fresh intensity, and there is Starfire in gleaming color, bigger than life, bright with promise.

  Starfire is coming!

  Starfire is here!

  The cries of adulation are like a tidal wave. It seems that they will never end.

  Suddenly, T.J.’s voice comes out of a com unit Ash had not noticed before now, set off to one side of the viewing screen.

  Hope you’re enjoying the show, Ash. You have a ringside seat with a great view and inside information. Sorry I had to drug and bind you, but you understand. The Sprint is my race. It belongs to me. Not to you or anyone else. No matter what the Shoe thinks. So try to understand. Don’t be angry. We can talk it over later, after I’ve won. Don’t take it personally. This is something I had to do.

  The com goes silent.

  From there, things only get more maddening. None of Ash’s friends comes to look for him, clearly thinking him sealed up in Starfire. Apparently no one notices T.J.’s absence, probably deciding he is off bemoaning the unfairness of it all. Ash continues trying to get free but makes no progress whatsoever.

  A parade follows, a lengthy pageant consisting of race contenders and their machines, musical bands, and a variety of acrobatic performers traversing the length of the Straightaway. The bands play heart-stirring anthems and familiar United Territories marches. Some move in lockstep, some dance in wild free form. Along the edges of the course, vendors hawk racing gear and souvenirs for purchase. Balloons fly everywhere.

  But it is the street machines that are the center of attention, their gleaming bodies and bold colors on full display for the enthusiastic crowds as they make their way along the course, engines roaring, exhausts spitting fire, drivers waving gloved hands within sealed cockpits. Everything else in the parade is sandwiched between as if to serve as buffers.

  Applause is long and thunderous for each machine, but at no point is it louder than when Starfire drives past. The stunning sapphire racer has caught the crowd’s imagination, and it responds in the time-honored fashion, engine revving to a monstrous howl. Starfire is the epitome of what a street racer should look like. It is the personification of dreams and imaginings. Those watching adopt her as their own; they make her their shining hope. Even before the races begin, they have anointed their champion.

  The parade lasts just over an hour, and then it is time to race.

  From the roof of Street Freaks, Holly and the others will be watching it all unfold. Ash can see most of it. What he can’t see directly, he can view on the huge vidscreens. The racers draw lots for pairing. When the matches are made, the racers queue up behind the starting line in the order of their draw, numbers one and two positioned first, and so on. Each pair of machines will compete, but the ultimate winners will be determined by times, not by who wins a pairing. Only the fastest will move on to race again. Half the field will be eliminated in the first round. The other half will race again. The fastest of this second round will race a third time, and only two will advance from there to the championship.

  There are twenty-four racers at the start. This is the maximum number allowed. Admission is determined by application submission and review. The process is under the control of a race committee consisting of government officials and Red Zone businessmen. The members of the committee consider the

  merits of each application, the history of the racers, testimonials and letters of recommendation, and perhaps soothsayers, for all anyone knows. Probably money changes hands. Probably a lot. It is the nature of the beast. The selection process is undoubtedly rigged in some fashion, but no one has ever been able to prove it. What matters is that choices made by the committee are final. There is no appeal.

  On the other hand, the choices have always been validated by the strength of the entries once they take the track, and there has never been a winner who didn’t get there by virtue of possessing superior strength, skill, and speed. When the racers are on the course going head-to-head for the victory, there is no place to hide. In full view of millions of people, you can’t cheat your way to the championship. If either one of a pair strays from the lines of an assigned lane, it is eliminated automatically. The vehicles are not permitted to engage physically in any way.

  The first two racers are rolling up to the starting line, and an announcer is calling out the names of the machines and drivers. The crowd noise is so deafening that it is virtually impossible to make out any of it. But when the introductions are complete and the racers are in place, a series of bright flashes light the raceway on either side, the top rail of the barriers glowing with a bluish light that pulses and throbs in a steady rhythm.

  They’ve turned on a force field, Ash realizes. The racers are built very low to the ground, all riding well below the top rail of the barrier. While the racing machines are not allowed to have contact with each other and are required to race in a straight line, there is always the danger of one of them going into the crowd. The force field is designed to prevent this.

  At the start line, the first pair of racers rev their engines, building power for stronger thrust, shaking with anticipation, anxious for release. The signal flag that will start the race is lifted high, a deep red that will hold the racers in check until it drops. The starter is a seasoned veteran, and he knows exactly the moment that both machines are primed and ready. The crowd is roaring in anticipation, yelling and screaming, handheld flags and banners flying. The racecourse lies empty and waiting.

  The flag drops.

  The racers explode from the line, hurtling down the mile course. The one on the right fishtails slightly, just enough to cause it to lose a marginal amount of ground on its competitor, a black-and-silver Chronos that has been chopped down and streamlined. The vehicles tear down the Straightaway, gaining speeds that are breathtaking. The race is over almost before it has begun, as the Chronos pulls ahead at the finish line to win by half a length. It all happens so fast. The machines are beasts; they exude brute force and power. Their speed over such a short distance is shocking.

  When they have pulled up beyond the finish line and driven off the track to the holding pen, two more advance to the starting line. This pairing is much odder than the last. One machine is massive, dwarfing its competitor, rendering it a water bug beside a lizard. The lizard is swept back and smooth bodied save for a rear spoiler, and its smaller front wheels ride two feet out on either side from its rounded nose. The second machine is small and low slung, so much so it appears to rest right on the surface of the racetrack. The driver, who is visible on the giant screens when the ca
mera pans in on his machine, lies almost horizontal to the track within his cockpit, feet forward and head raised just enough to allow for a clear view of what lies ahead. The position looks uncomfortable and awkward. The machine, even with its huge rear wheels, looks insignificant.

  It isn’t. Once the race begins, it streaks off the starting line and surges ahead of the bigger machine to finish more than a length ahead, the howls and clapping of the crowd chasing it well beyond the conclusion of the race and into the holding pen.

  Starfire is up next.

  An instant later, the door to the room bursts open and Holly is there. She hesitates momentarily, clearly confused. Then she rushes over, breaks Ash’s bindings with her bare hands, removes the tape from his mouth, and sets him on his feet.

  “Just when you thought things couldn’t get any weirder,” she hisses. “He’s driving Starfire, isn’t he?”

  Ash nods, tests his balance. He takes a step and totters. Holly catches him quickly. “Slowly, Ash. Take your time. There’s nothing to be done about it now.”

  “I never thought he would do something like this,” Ash mutters, shaking the numbness out of his arms. “He drugged me!”

  “The Shoe will have his head.” She reaches for his arm and loops it over her shoulders. “Come on. We’re going up with the others.”

  They depart the room and head up the stairs to the rooftop. Ash takes a deep breath of fresh air. “How did you find me?”

  She snorts. “Dumb luck. I was looking for T.J. Thought he was off sulking when he shouldn’t be. Tried everywhere before I got to you. Last resort, and what do I find? You. Still can’t believe it. Although, in a way, I can. This race is what he lives for.”

  When they reach the roof, Jenny and Woodrow are peering down at the crowd. They turn at the same time and both wear looks of astonishment.

  “Ash!” the bot boy gasps. “What are you doing here?”