Futuretrack 5 (12 page)

“She’s a goer,” said the mechanic. “She was always fast, that one. Just top her up with oil before every race and she won’t burn out on you.” “Don’t reckon much to those tires.” “No worse than anybody else’s. Good for a hundred miles, yet. ‘Course, I could let you have a new set for fifty credits. …”

“The brakes seem to pull to the left. …”

“What are you—a bloody Est or something?”

I pulled out a fistful of credits, and he changed his tune.

I spent nearly the whole day stripping her down, straightening things and welding, cadging new parts. Cost me a bomb. Meanwhile, a whole stream of kids rode away on bikes worse than mine. The mechanic kept coming across and saying
they
were doing it the right way. Racing was like swimming: plunge in headfirst. If you kept on standing on the bank dipping your toe in you’d get so nervous you’d
never
start. … I told him to get lost. Twice, trucks delivered loads of smashed-up bikes. I could’ve sworn I’d seen several of them cheerfully ridden away that morning…

Finally, my bike was as ready as she’d ever be.

“Can I practice round here?”

The mechanic spat on the brick-strewn vacant lot behind his garage.

“That’s what it’s for, if you’re
that
nervous.”

I kicked the engine into life.

I couldn’t get the hang of it. The front wheel was tiny, stuck out on the end of long forks, giving the bike a lousy, huge turning circle. The handlebars were narrow, when they should have been wide to give leverage; you really had to pull them hard over to make the front wheel turn at all. If you pulled a mite too hard, the front wheel turned sideways, locked solid. Three times I went over the handlebars, not doing more than twenty. And the bike was so high-geared it was hard to go slow; it stalled frequently. My right leg grew weary, kicking it back into life. My arms grew weary, because the handlebars were placed so high you rode like a dog begging. After two hours, my jeans were torn, my knees skinned, and my arms shaking so much I could hardly steer. I could’ve wept. Techs were supposed to be
good
with machines.

“This isn’t a bike, it’s a bloody death trap.”

“Bad workman always blames his tools. Look at that guy—he’s really getting into it.” He pointed to a little dark kid, who’d started practising ages after me. He’d got the hang of it. He rode fast, a bit like Keri. Sitting well back on the straights, to get more thrust on the back wheel. Then the sudden push forward and down at corners, to give the front wheel more grip for turning. Graceful and right. He made me feel a bumbler with his beautiful curves, getting faster and faster.

Until, turning at the far end, he hit a wall without warning.

“I’ll get the meat wagon,” said the mechanic casually, wiping his hands on his backside, reaching for the white, thumb-printed phone.

I ran all the way, thinking, please God, not another. The bike’s engine was still bellowing, threatening to tear itself loose from its mounting. The kid just lay there; I raised his visor. There wasn’t a mark on him, even a little smile of wonder on his face…

“You might have turned the engine off,” shouted the mechanic. “Bikes cost money, you know.”

“And kids don’t?”

He picked up the bike and began straightening the handlebars.

I looked back at the kid; wondering whether to put my coat over his face till the ambulance came. He couldn’t have been more than fourteen…

He opened his baby-blue eyes and smiled at me.

“Try moving your arms,” I said, then. “Try moving your legs.”

He sat up and said, “I ain’t half gotta headache.”

I loved him just for being alive. “Have you thought,” I said, “of trying any other futuretrack?”

“Wanted to be a singer, but I ‘adn’t no money to buy an amplifier.”

I dug into my pockets and held out a handful of credits. “That enough to buy an amplifier?”

His eyes grew wary; he jumped to his feet. “Hey, mister, what’s the catch? You a homo?” Then he frowned. “I know you—you’re King Sellers, Champ of the Month.”

“Yes,” I said, “I’m King Sellers. I’ve got so many credits they’re making holes in my pockets. And I’ve found you a manager, for when you’re a singer—he’s called George. And someone to live with—she’s called Vanessa.” I told him where they lived.

“What can I do for
you?”

“Tell George and Vanessa—I’ll be back someday.”

“Right,” he said. “Thanks, King. Hurry back soon.” He limped off across the scattered bricks.

“That’s interfering,” said the mechanic. “What you done—that’s
treason.
I can report you. …”

“Did you
want
him dead?” I asked. “We’re alone here, Tech.”

He saw the look on my face. Glanced round nervously. Fiddled with the big spanner that stuck out of his overalls.

“Whatcher mean—we’re alone?”

“What grade are you, Tech? One? I’m 4n—it’s your word against mine about treason. Who’s going to listen to a grade one?”

“You razzlin’ swine always cause trouble. Anyway, we ain’t alone anymore.”

A Paramil car was pulling up outside the garage. I walked across; thought he’d be making inquiries about the crash. He was leaning against his bonnet, pad and pencil at the ready. Gave me one of their little smirks.

“Stephen Sellers, alias Henry Kitson, Tech 4n?”

I nodded. He couldn’t touch me: Techs had the right to go on the razzle.

“Your father wishes to see you. You must go straight home. Here is a
legal
pass to get through the Wire. Forty-eight hours—is that sufficient?”

He enjoyed startling me. I’d nearly forgotten I had a home and father. Since I’d never expected to see either again, there wasn’t much point in remembering.

My parents lived in the Cotswold Enclave. It was one hell of a ride. Besides falling off every five kilometres, I kept being stopped by Paramils, British Police, even bossy Ests. My pass was dog-eared within the hour. Everybody found my presence deeply and profoundly insulting.

Father opened the door himself as I roared down the drive; red flags of anger in his cheeks. “Did you have to ride that bloody thing all the way here? The phone’s never stopped ringing.”

“I’m a Racer now. How else could I have come?” “By taxi—you’ve got plenty of credits.” “You seem to know an awful lot about me!” “Your mother saw you playing pinball on TV. She hasn’t slept since—they’ve hospitalised her.”

“If she can’t stand the sight of blood, why does she watch pinball?” It always disgusted me, the way Ests watched the Unnem TV. Fifty channels of their own, and they have to
slum.
Of course, nobody ever admits it…

“I suppose it’s only
my
blood that worried her?”

Father looked hurt, and I was instantly sorry. “Can I go and see her?”

“When I’ve finished with you… actually, if you show any sense, you’ll soon be spending plenty of time with her. …”

“How d’you mean?”

“Your behaviour’s upset a lot of people besides your mother.”

“We’re allowed out on the razzle!”

“With a stolen pass? Come off it, Kit. You know as well as I do that a razzle’s a few hours, a few drinks. You’ve got London Northeast by the ears… Sellers for Champ!”

That stung.

“Other kids make Champ!”

“Unnem kids, who fritter away their credits on drugs. But that’s not your way, is it? Give you a month, you’ll have ten million credits and a private army.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, don’t you, little innocent? Does the name Vanessa Thornton mean anything to you? A common tart who’s been credited with forty new lovers in four days, though only
you
have been seen going up to her apartment? Let alone the Tommy Wells business. …”

“Tommy who? …”

“The young man you seduced away from bike racing to set up as a singer.”

“You’ve been
spying
on me.”

He sighed heavily, playing with the fringe of the door curtain. “I have watched over you every day since you left the college.”

Both of us fell silent, listening to the grandfather clock in the hall that had ticked away my childhood; that ticked in a sort of peace now.

He could never be angry with me long. He led me through to his study, a hand on my elbow that I didn’t mind. “You’re falling in love with the Unnems, aren’t you, Kit? Wanting to help?”

“They’re
people!
Not mad; not monsters.
People.”

He shut the study door quickly, as if afraid somebody might hear. “Keep your voice down. D’you think you’re the first bright kid to fall in love with the Unnems? All those bright kids came to the same end—strapped down on the conveyor belt at the lobo-farm, alongside the international terrorists. Do you
want
to be the talking point at somebody’s sherry party?”

I whirled at him. “Look at what’s happening to the Unnems—they’re dying off like flies.”

He went pale. Silent fear grew between us, like icicles in the gut. Like on that unmentionable, far-off day in my childhood when they filled the Unnem in. Finally, Father said, “I had a phone call from John Higgins last night.” Higgins was our fat, useless, Est MP. “They want you back in Cambridge—
now.
They don’t know how you feel about the Unnems. Yet. They think you’re only upset about Idris.” He studied my face carefully. “Or, if you’re
too
upset about Idris, they’re prepared to let you come back and live here, with me. So that
I
can guarantee your good behaviour. …”

The room whirled about me; beloved room in the beloved graystone house that was built in Queen Elizabeth’s time. Among the winding grey-walled lanes I’d just ridden down; the rabbits scurrying on Minchinhampton Common. It was news too good to be true. Standing here, the whole last horrible year might never have happened.

But it had. Idris and Laura; George and Vanessa and

Keri. The Cotswold Enclave now felt as small as a green pocket handkerchief, its false peace bought with…

“Who
wants me back in Cambridge?”

“Don’t be bloody-minded, Kit. I worked very hard to sort this out for you.”

“Sorry, Dad. But I’m a Racer now.”

He reasoned, pleaded, raged. Once, I think, nearly wept. The house boy fetched in supper drinks, fine china on a silver tray. We let them grow cold.

Out in the hall, the grandfather clock struck midnight.

“Your Tompion’s keeping good time,” I said, remembering all the good old days.

“I’m thinking of selling it.”

That shook me: the Tompion was his favourite. People were always making him fantastic offers. He serviced it himself. He’d trained as an engineer, as much as any Est’s allowed…

Talk of the Tompion seemed to have changed his mood; or maybe the fact that it was midnight. He relaxed; seemed to be enjoying some wry private joke. “Have a drink before you go. We could both do with a spot of whisky. …”

I was a bit hurt that he’d given me up so easily. But it was a large whisky; the fumes caught my nose. As Keri would’ve said,
real
booze. Remembering what I was going back to, I had another. And another. The old, worn leather couch suddenly seemed very precious. I used to go on voyages in it when I was small…

“Must be getting back.” I stood up, but the room spun.

“Don’t ride back half tight,” said my father. “Put up your feet for an hour. You’ve got a forty-eight hour pass. …” He lifted my feet up onto the couch; brought a rug.

“Only an hour,” I said.

He was shaking my shoulder.

“Time to go.”

“Mother?”

“She’d better not know you were ever here.”

“How is she really?”

“Pretty rough, Kit.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll be going then.”

I paused in the darkness of the hall. It was too silent.

“The Tompion’s stopped… hey, it’s gone.”

“I told you I was thinking of selling it.”

“Not that quick.”

“One has to be quick, sometimes.” He still sounded amused, in a wry, hurt way.

We stepped out onto the drive. It was bitterly cold. Middle-of-the-night cold. My watch said 4 a.m. I’d slept four hours.

“My bike’s got no lights,” I said helplessly, still fuddled.

“It has now.” The bike seemed lower, squatter. He bent over and touched a switch, and brilliant twin beams leaped out, making a white skeleton of the sycamore across the paddock.

“This isn’t my bike!”

“It’s the only one you’re riding away from this house. A Jap… Mitsubishi 705. Full fairings, shaft drive, nylon wheels, low-pressure foam tires—puncture proof.”

“There’s no petrol tank.” I still felt dopey, drugged.

“She’s all electric—plug her in overnight to any domestic power point. She’ll do six hundred miles between plug-ins. Get you any radio station in the world, as you ride along.”

He sounded like the day he bought me my first bicycle.

“She must have cost you the
earth.”

“The Jap importer is very fond of Tompions. …”

“Dad—I can’t take it—where’s
my
bike?”

Ill

He led me to the dustbins, neatly concealed behind a flowering hedge. My bike lay beside them, so mangled I could hardly tell which end was which. The smell of petrol from the shattered tank rose evilly.

“I took a sledgehammer to it. Seemed the only way of stopping you riding it.”

“I spent a whole day putting it right. …”

“You could’ve spent a lifetime and it still wouldn’t have been right.” His voice was rough with rage. “No son of mine is riding a bike designed to kill him.”

“But, Dad, all the kids are riding them!”

After a long pause he said tightly, “That’s none of my business.”

“Isn’t it?
Isn’t
it? I’m in love with a girl who rides one.”

“Then I suggest you get back to London as quickly as you can and stop her.”

“All
the kids should be stopped.”

He wouldn’t say anything. I couldn’t see his face properly in the dark. I shouted.

“Designed
to kill? Who designed them? Scott-Astbury?”

“Who told you that name? Who?” He’d grabbed me by the shoulders. His hands were shaking.

“Idris. He tricked Idris. Idris said he should be killed.”