Cold Fate

The boy stood in the dark, moist interior of the lock-up. He looked at a dim shape; an ominous silhouette adorning the concrete floor. It made him shiver slightly, a tingle of excitement running down his spine. Outwardly, he was as cool and collected as the frozen air that came from him in cloudy plumes.
A red light on the wall of the musty chamber marked the switch that opened the garage door. He reached out to it and pressed a heavy button. There was a faint electric buzz but no movement. Calmly, the boy went to the door and kicked it. He kicked it again, methodically. No hint of aggression. Finally its screeching, tortured motors kicked in and the door ground open. Street light flooded in through the quiet, crystal air and the boy shivered again, his T-shirt no protection against the draft.
Within the lock-up, metallic, blue-silver faring glinted; reflections skittering across curved surfaces as the boy moved. The disturbing, almost organic shape of the bike was immaculate.
Shocks compressed as he sat down on it. He slotted in his ID card, and the gas-turbine powered up to optimum efficiency; a low-pitched hum. Warm greens and reds lit up invitingly on the display.
A greeting. Soothing mellow voice.
"Hi." he replied.

Hot coffee dripped down his face. It burnt. He did not flinch.
"Why don't you say something? Bad, good-- Anything! I just don't care any more, Paul," Long hair fell over her shoulders in thick curls. It half hid her menacingly dark expression. Paul contemplated the situation. He shrugged.
"What the fuck do you expect me to say." Pause, "Do you love him?"
"No!" Laura cried, indignantly.
"Then why?" he asked, his voice falling to a whisper.
"You and bikes, that's why. You worry me sick. You change." she pleaded, then calmed herself down. Continued softly: "I can't cope. If it happened again I--"
"What the fuck you talking about? I said I won't ride again. I said it for you."
"You didn't mean it! Think I can't tell? You'll always ride. You can't quit." Beautiful, taught skin over sharp features. She was angry. She got up with a violent lurch, sending her chromed chair skittering off across the café's florescent linoleum tiles. It hit a pink neon logo behind her, which buzzed angrily as it swung against the window. Paul finished his Pepsi, and put the can back down carefully.
"I kissed that bloke! I snogged him senseless! Right in front of you! What are you going to do about it?" Laura grabbed his can, crushed it as far as she could, then hurled it aside. It clattered into a far corner, drawing a menacing scowl from the barman.
"You don't love him, so it didn't mean anything." Paul answered. He didn't look too concerned. Laura's eyes burned as she tried to decipher his expression. Her eyes drove through Paul like spikes. He looked away for the well of emotion he could sense.
"I wanted you to stop me! You did nothing! You just let me do it. Do you really care for me? Sometimes I doubt it." Paul was shocked. But he tried not to show it.
"Laura, you know I love you. I promised--"
"I don't believe it, Paul. I don't think I can believe it now. Not after what I did." Her expression burnt. Her scalding expression shrivelled him up inside. But this time, his gaze was firm. "You'll just go back to your bikes. It can't go on like this." she said, her voice subdued, restrained. "Because I can't stand the fear." And with that, she walked out of the café.
Paul shrugged. Looked at the spot where his Pepsi had stood.

There were few cars on the wide high-street. Most avoided going through the city centre. Papery rubbish wafted its way across the road instead. It was badly lit. Most of the street lights had long-since burned out. Makeshift neon signs provided most of the lighting. Paul coasted along, the engine a mere whisper beneath him. He could hear the frost crunch beneath the bike's tyres. To his right, Lloyd's Bank had been taken over by a short term tenant who hadn't bothered to take down the faded black horse. Short leases were the only kind the council seemed able to sell, here.
Further along, a row of gleaming bikes stood haphazardly along the pavement, some half parked on the road. There were people here. Laughing. Shouting. Loud music thumped through tortured air. Sombre chords turning to angry riffs over erratic techno flippancy and a maddening beat. Empty plastic mineral water bottles laced the curb. Someone sat amongst them, swaying softly to and fro, arms clasped around his thin body. A couple of girls in tattered jeans shorts and florescent tops for under the ultra violet, danced outside the packed remains of the Tesco Metro. Within, there were no more shelves, just kids dancing. Just another way to escape the real world.
Paul stopped, slapped up his visor. Breathed deeply. The air vibrant with the invigorating smell of menthol and eucalyptus oil.
"I think we should move on." she suggested. "If you stay here longer, your brother's insurance premium is bound to rise."
"Don't you worry about that. He's away. He'll never know."
"Satellite navigation works both ways, Paul. They know we're here."
"Doesn't matter. He'll never know." came Paul's blunt response. The girls danced nearer. Danced around the bike. Smiled at him. Moved their hands across his shoulders, across the bike's plastic sides.
"This is your first warning. Do not touch this vehicle, or your details will be recorded and a complaint made."
"Hush now." Paul patted the fuel tank. One of the girls was getting close. She had her arms under his T-shirt. Welcome warmth in the cold night. Paul took off his helmet. She looked at him and they kissed vigorously.
"This is your second warning. Prosecution may result in credit-inhibition or reduced privilege." The girl moved away. Both of them went back to the curb, and began their repetitive dance moves once again.
"Buy some E's?" said a voice.
"What?" Paul turned to see the thin man who sat amongst the bottles. His face was pale, his cheeks hollow and he had a ragged, patchy beard.
"Ecstacy. Get you through the night."
Paul ignored him. Slammed on his lid, edged open the throttle and the bike rolled away smoothly. A deep hum betrayed the engine's muted power.
"Voice Recognition successful. I have recorded his details. Action will be taken by the relevant authorities."

Paul's big brother came into the kitchen and smiled down at him. A cheeky grin. Mischievous, mysterious; a twinkle in his eyes hinting at subdued excitement. Shrewdly, Paul asked him why he'd locked the garage.
"OK, you twisted my arm, Pauly, I'll show you." he said, the voice now muffled by time. He led the way to the garage. "I got something new to show you."
It had been big. It had seemed huge back when he was twelve. Frightening at first glance. Big, grey-blue, with a sparkling sheen about it. He'd never seen one like it before. Organic, voluptuous lines defined the bike's bodywork. His big brother had introduced him and the bike had talked back. Like his dad's PC would, when at night, he'd sneak down to play the hot games his own machine could not handle. But his dad's PC had sounded cold. It had been unfriendly, demanding all the passwords he could find out. The bike sounded caring; warm.
"Hello Paul." she had said, and Paul had begged his brother for a ride. "I'm sure your brother will take you for a ride soon." the bike responded, and Paul's brother had laughed and ruffled his hair.
"And one day, maybe you'll ride it yourself." He had whinced at the thought. It had seemed so remote. He shook his head at the time. He didn't want to ride it for some reason.
"I'll take you with me when I've gotten used to her." His brother promised.

Hard spikes of light flew towards the boy; seemed to miss him by mere centimetres. The grey all around melted away; mucky sludge mixing with harsh, unfriendly technicolour streaks. It flashed by looking like the sort of gunk Paul saw in the Thames every day. He throttled up, snapped down a gear and the booster powered him over 20,000 RPM. The rear radial momentarily lost traction, letting out an indignant yelp. He held as tight as he could. Seemed his brother's bike was trying to slip out from under him. Cars formed an obstacle course. The high, electrical whine drew the attention of many startled drivers as the silvery-dark, pressurized carbon-framed shape passed them like a salmon up a violent stream. Cars poured past, their fifty Kph no more than a crawl to the bike. Shivers down his spine; the pride of the self-aware; the novelty. The feeling of complete control was all-powerful. She responded instantly to his every whim.
He hugged his chest to the fuel tank, head behind the low windshield. The loving green and red glow from the HUD presenting 3-D information to him.
"Did my brother ever do this?" Paul asked, weaving amongst the cars, red information highlighting potential hazards as they whizzed towards him.
"He did it all the time, Paul." she said, her voice as calm and collected as it always had been, for as long as he could remember.
"Diagnostic check commencing. Please wait." Paul waited, silently watching the little glowing LC display. A list of parameters scrolled down. Then it stopped. The last line showed a specification highlighted in red. "Warning. Illegal parameters. This machine has been modified. Warranty invalidated. Owner does not hold full licence. Insurance void. These specs must be transmitted, and the relevant authorities notified." Then the machine's muffled voice paused. If it could have expressed emotions, it would have sounded confused. "Transmission error. Please connect this unit to the CentralNet." Paul looked at the diagnostic machine. Then down at the Net cable he had yanked out. He picked his screwdriver up again, and brought it to bare on his bike's interface circuitry. It was too clever for it's own good. He'd thought it had been old: couldn't talk; no satellite interface; just standard management linked to a hybrid engine rated at 9000 watts. Or rather 14000 watts derestricted. Something he'd rather keep to himself; it wasn't quite learner-legal. Only problem was the fucked engine management and the risk of a burnt out motor. And of course the problem of failing MOT's and being reported to "the relevant authorities" when the specs were down-loaded to some snoopy diagnostics machine.
There was nothing for it, now. Only drastic action with the configuration BIOS would get his bike to pass the MOT tomorrow. Paul loved working on his bike. It was almost an obsession. There was no way Paul was going to live with the standard 9000 watts power output. His brother hadn't, that was for sure. The excitement, the exhilaration: the thrill of speed was like a drug. Once you had a certain amount, the thought of having to live with slower means of travel seemed terrible. Speed was a relative thing. You got used to it; used to the feeling, and then it didn't seem fast any more. Then you needed a boost.
"Come on my baby, behave yourself. And keep your big mouth shut." Paul carefully drew the screwdriver across the bare circuitry. Sparks flashed. The BIOS memory was erased, the refresh channels burnt out. MOT's were a funny thing. If the engine management was faulty, you failed. If it was disabled, you passed; they weren't compulsory yet.

It was late now. 2.00am and Paul found himself in a synthetic state of awareness. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, set pumping by the increasingly reckless driving, but enhanced by a couple of grammes of methamphetamine to keep him fully alert. The mix was a strange form of intoxication. As if he'd gone so far in the opposite direction to the effects of alcohol, that he'd ended up in the same state. And it hadn't even been long enough for the stuff to take its full effect.
The reds, yellows and greens of his virtual instruments were so clear and focused they seemed more real than the cars and other hazards they highlighted. Vibrant colours to soften the monochrome harshness of the real world: dirty cars, grey concrete, bright white lights and black sky. Anything to escape the real world.
A blue-grey streak washed through the traffic on the busy road. Weaving, dodging with smooth elegance, it was an ominous, organic shape that disturbed the eye on first sight. Paul controlled the bike with the precision only possible in an artificially heightened state of alertness.

Paul red-lined his souped-up learner bike. 14000 watts of power rushing through the over-burdened little motor, its tortured squeal like a plea for mercy. His brother smiled across at him. His own machine hardly made a sound. Slowly, to highlight the fact, Paul's brother started to pull away. Paul relieved his own engine of its tension; he went up a gear. With a sigh of relief, the electric motor relaxed, and the bike gained the edge on speed.
The road was almost empty. It wasn't used much at this late hour. Wasn't one of the main through-flows. There were bends in it. They were sharper then they looked. But Paul and his brother had ridden here a thousand times. They knew it like the back of their hands. Every curve, every treacherous patch where loose grit had built up. Paul stood a chance of beating his brother here. Skill played a part as much as brute power did. And Paul had always held the edge on that.
A corner approached at speed. Paul saw his brother's front end dip as the shocks compressed heavily. He followed, his own line of approach differing only slightly from his brother's. Round the curve; perfect racing line. The throttle full-open again, his brother's front wheel leaving the ground momentarily. They raced on, his brother gaining an ever-greater lead along the straight.
Traffic. On-coming car. Vehicles parked left and right making the street narrower. Pure chance. Shear fluke. His brother slowing. Paul seized his chance. He could beat his brother. There was just enough room between the vehicle and the parked cars for a small learner bike; not for her and his brother. Down a gear. Red-lining; a tortured scream at 17,000 RPM. His bike pulled away erratically. Approaching his brother fast. Overtaking on the outside. Preparing to cut in front just before the car passed.
Then, at the last moment, his brother changing his mind. Going for the same gap. Without looking behind. Too close. No time to stop. Immaculate blue-grey faring suddenly moving up to fill Paul's gap. But he would do anything not to damage her. Anything.

The moment flashed before Paul and he had to close his eyes briefly to block out the shock. The front wheel jiggled slightly; the only outward sign of Paul's traumatic memory. But that was the price you payed. The price you payed for any addiction. And the price of blocking out the real world was often worth it.
Paul's surroundings were becoming a little surreal. Ridiculously tall buildings glinted with the sparkling translucency of wealth. Office blocks reached up to the heavens all around. Angular sandstone and marble at their base. Fortresses for the rich. Their own means of keeping the real world at bay. Keeping it out on the streets, where machines could deal with it; reporting it to the "relevant authorities" if it got out of hand, and they didn't have to see it unless it made the six o'clock news.
"Paul, I must warn you that we are driving in excess of local speed restrictions. I may have to report you, if this continues."
"You just try, my sweet," Paul whispered, a smile creeping across his face for the first time. He edged open the throttle a little further, teasing her; daring her.
"Paul, please. Don't make me do this." pleaded the machine's smooth seductive voice. She almost sounded alarmed. His hidden smile simply expanded. The road was wide, the lights were green, the HUD read all-clear. So he rode.
"You are in violation, Paul. I must report." She paused. Silence hinting at confusion. "I have accessed your files. Paul, you have owner status. I didn't realize this. In accordance with privacy directives, I have no jurisdiction over my owner. Where has your brother gone? Will he be back? Why am I yours?" Paul smiled. But it was not a happy smile. It was melancholy; laced with the bitter-sweet tang of sadness. Privacy was the privilege of the rich: a remnant of better, happier days.
"I didn't borrow you. I inherited you. You're mine now."

When Paul opened his eyes, everything was white. A white curtain around his bed, white sheets, white flowers on a table to his left. But then there was Laura. The first person he saw after the accident. He had said hello, and that sudden, unexpected look of surprise and delight had overwhelmed him. She laid her head on his chest and flung her arms around his neck. Wept for joy and relief. He tried to hug her back, and felt his arm was in a cast. Felt the dull, thudding pain every movement caused him. Paul was taken aback by her affection. He just lay there blinking.
"What happened?" he asked, the corny line pulling the corners of his mouth up into a self-conscious grin. He saw her reddened face, her hair a straggly dark mess hanging onto the white sheets, and her big, bright delighted smile.
"You've been out for a week." she told him. "A coma." Slowly, he let his head drop back onto the pillow. His face an expressionless stare at the ceiling above. "I thought you'd never come back." He could feel her warmth through the sheet as she held him. It was then that he realised how cold he was. The hospital ward was economizing on electricity. He was an NHS patient after all.
"Hold me, Laura." he whispered. Her long hair splayed across his face. He shuddered, remembering; realizing he had looked death in the face. His brother's bike blocking any escape. The crunch as his own bike was crushed against the on-coming car. The violent, rebounding impact as its outboard air-bags caught his body. They did more to protect the car than him.
As Laura's warmth filled Paul's immobilised body, he wished he could show her the affection she deserved.

The wind clawed Paul's T-shirt with the merciless violence of a ravenous beast. The freezing cold bit into his skin. His hands were numb. But his blood ran through him with fresh vitality. Green graphs, objects outside marked by red labels, and yellow statistics flashed by. He assessed the information on her displays quickly and easily, gaze fixed on the road ahead.
The high-rise blocks were becoming sparser, making way for shopping malls. These were made of glass and crystal, more like palaces, he thought. Reflective chrome, perfect towers and arch-ways. Glass domes filled with what seemed like lush, green oases under a glaze of frost. He had sometimes gone shopping in them with his mother, when he was young; when he still had his parents. Nowadays, they wouldn't even let him or his friends in. Soon he would be past the malls, and on his way to affluent suburbia, where he had once lived.
He pulled the throttle open further, felt a fresh surge of power tug at him. Paul embraced her with renewed vigour so as to escape from the wind's clutches. Hid deeper behind the small windshield.
Then he heard the sirens. But Paul was too far gone to really care. And they were driving cars. They could never catch up with him. He was in fifth gear, and there were no cars on the dark street.
"Paul, they wish us to pull over. It would be wise to do so." Her voice was soft; her tones warm. But behind the seductive sound; behind that façade of human warmth lay the cold, hard emptiness of a government-regulated program. So he ignored it. And rode faster, opening the throttle a little further, bit by bit, getting used to the higher speed all the time.

They'd found him lying on the road early one morning, four days after the accident. A forgotten shape down some back-street alley. Grey, graffiti-strewn walls either side and a drizzly sky to match. A crumpled heap under a fine layer of snow: Paul's brother. He'd not been hit by a car or anything. He'd just collapsed, walking along. They'd found high levels of rat poison in his blood. Died of a drug overdose. Cocaine cut with too much strychnine.
When Paul came out of the coma, Laura tried to break the news as gently as she could. His brother had turned into a guilt-ridden wreck after the accident. Hadden't wanted to even see his motorbike. Put her in the lock-up. They all thought they'd lost Paul. And since he was a non-paying patient, they nearly did: the doctors had been close to pulling the plug on him. Only Laura's frenzied outbursts had stopped them. She'd been with him practically night and day.
Paul's brother couldn't live with it. So he blocked out the world. Spent those last few days of his life in a drug-induced delirium. Walking the streets blindly. Slowly freezing; slowly withering away. Ending up a ragged, soiled heap amid the ash-grey snow.
But the fear had been unfounded, and now it was Paul's turn to feel the guilt; the pain.

Monochrome lawns lit up spontaneously in the bike's beam as Paul rounded another corner. The road was like a snake, trying to throw him off. It slithered this way and that, doing its best to introduce variety to a suburban sprawl where each living module looked exactly like the next. These were the homes of the wealthy: self-contained units employing cutting-edge technology to make sure the real world didn't get past the electrified door-mat. Everything piped straight to the house; gas, water, electricity, on-line entertainment, work-files, pizza and groceries.
They didn't like strangers cruising the streets. Neighbourhood watch patrols would soon be joining the police in their mad frenzy after him. Vigilantes in armoured Land-Rovers who viewed trespassers in the same way they viewed the VR-sprites on their game-consoles; ripe for the splatterfest. Needless to say, they never actually got out of their imitation leather bucket-seats. It had been during one such vigilantist sortie that Paul's parents had come to their end against a Rover's roo-bars. Driver claimed they never should have been out after the 10 o'clock curfew. Needed psychiatric treatment after hitting them. Sued for all he was worth.
Paul concentrated on the road through the windscreen; through the HUD. It would have been a deliciously depressing blur, save for the colours. Yellows and reds flickered; highlighted the hazardous secrets the dark would not otherwise have given prize so easily: a cat silhouetted briefly in florescent yellow. Treacherous gravel glowing an ominous red. Green marking the invisible outlines of the road up ahead. Numbers flickering. The rev-counter column creeping ever higher. The top becoming yellow, then orange, then glowing a deep red. It plunged back down on the final gear change.

Laura wouldn't know. Wouldn't know he'd ridden the bike. He'd promised to get rid of it. He hadn't been on it in three weeks. But it was hard to resist. His own bike totalled, his brother gone, and her standing there in that lock-up like an irresistible seductress. He longed to feel her sleek curves against his inner thighs; to hear her molasses voice again.
But Laura knew. She knew what he felt. The fire in her dark eyes told him so. When she had tried to make him jealous; when she had tried to get him back, she had known. When it hadn't seemed to work, she'd decided he could never truly be hers. But she never really knew. It had worked. He just never let it show. He'd been willing to sacrifice his bikes.
After she walked out of that café, he snapped. She was gone. Left him. So he wanted to forget her. And the only thing he knew to do was ride. He would ride to forget her, to get away from her. Get away from it all.

The bike began to shake. The tiniest bumps in the oh-so-smooth road-surface magnified by speed.
"Paul, we can't hold this velocity for long. Both our thresholds are dangerously close." she said, her voice quivering like she was feeling uneasy. "I am monitoring your heart rate. Your mental system is feeling the stress. Structural strain on my aerobeam frame is reaching critical levels. We are beginning to loose grip on the corners." He was hardly listening. Preoccupied with what he felt. Little shivers of pleasure running down his spine, his senses sharpened beyond anything natural.
"Don't worry, my beauty, no-one can stop us now." The cop vehicles were far behind. Only a single helicopter high above held them in its one bright eye. Her speedo was bordered in red. Column topping 220Kph. His T-shirt felt like it might be torn from his back at any moment. The cold bit into him with numbing ferocity. Yet his body fizzed over with ecstatic pleasure. He moved into each new corner with the grace of complete precision, knee-to-deck each time. His perfect racing-line the difference between continued pleasure and catastrophe.
And so it came to be that they knew of their end long before it happened. Her HUD gave them advance warning of the threat. But just not long enough for Paul to have done anything about it. A big red blotch lay directly over the racing-line. If he took any other approach it meant clipping the curb. If he went over the black ice, the racing-line would be lost. Either way, their fate was sealed. Heightened perception drew the moment out to what seemed an eternity. For both of them.
"Will I ever see your brother again?" she asked, the words calm innocence. Paul embraced the bike, felt her cold, hard skin against his bare arms.
"We're heading his way, yes. We're going to him as fast as we can."

Laura saw the burning house on a hundred old TVs in a shop window. Firebrigade, ambulances and police everywhere. She saw that house and knew. And for the first time in her life she seemed emotionless. For the first time she didn't cry, nor laugh, nor rage. But you had to look closer: taught skin over sharp features. Falling snowflakes melting on contact. Hair in thick curls, blowing in the breeze. Dark eyes watching, sparkling just a little too much. Pupils reflecting the screens: a golden glow; flashing blue and red lights.
If you looked closer still at those distorted little reflections: a burning suburban house; one like all the others, but with a great hole in the side. And she was sure she knew. Behind those eyes, lying all awkward somewhere on that street, she could see a boy. Helmet gone. T-shirt torn to shreds. A layer of snowflakes already resting upon him. They did not melt. White and cold. A harsh, cleansing purity. In his race to get away, Paul had finally made it back to Laura.
But it was too late, now. He'd found the ultimate escape. The only true way of thwarting the ever-encroaching real world. This was the soft, cool, welcome relief of the ultimate drug. Perhaps, the ultimate addiction.

Paul's brother up front. Paul behind, riding pillion. Grey carbon in sensuous organic curves beneath them. Green and red symbols lighting up the night ahead. An eternal road. An eternal destination.