There is only the primal binary; me and the road. I am defined by it, it is defined by me. Everything else is unimportant, the debris of other lives that I glimpse as I speed past them.
The MRHP-310 underneath me lets out a throaty roar as I throttle the engine. Most people like fuel cell engines for their motorcycles, content with the quiet hum. Not me. While it’s more expensive, a gasoline engine feels right between my legs. It is a symbol of raw power, chaotic explosions as directed energy.
The readouts streaming across my gogs tell me everything I need to know. Speed, rpms, heat profile, fuel efficiency, traffic patterns, weather reports, imperfections in the road for the next hundred kilometers. All the data that goes into keeping the wheels glued to the concrete and the engine pushing me forward.
The data doesn’t tell me how to feel though. It doesn’t tell me how the wind rushing through my hair reminds me of standing on the peak of Aconcagua, watching a storm rolling in across the mountains. It doesn’t tell me how the subtle vibrations that tremble my thighs are the same feeling I had when I stood in the surf of Nahoon Reef, waiting to paddle out on my board. It doesn’t tell me how the soft horizon glow of distant San Angeles reminds me of when my father would take me to the summit of our Rio de Janeiro arcology to watch the sun rise over the Atlantic. And the data doesn’t tell me why I do this. It just tells me what I’m doing.
My destination is near. It’s a small building, a pink stucco structure with a sign hanging out front that reads “Lola’s Authentic American Food.” It has green awnings and a dirt parking lot that is never full and never empty. The lights are on all night and the front door open all day. Twenty-four hours of hamburgers and hot dogs, pot roast and beef chili, each day, every day.
There it is. The lights are burning, a bright speck in the middle of the vast Sonoran Desert.
The engine protests as I down-throttle. It wants to run all night. I understand the feeling. I am that feeling. But, just like the engine needs gas to go, I need fuel too. There are a few cars in the lot. All safe and boring, fuel cell cruisers and sedans. Family cars. Something a person drives if they have a reason to play it safe.
My metal and composite baby looks like a predator among the gazelles. I give it a ritualistic pat on the gas tank and slip my gogs off. I clip them to my belt and run my hands through my short hair. No bugs smashed in by high velocity winds. I could wear a helmet; but that would defeat the purpose.
Speed equals freedom.
Lola’s is half-full, half-empty, the late-night crowd. I think it is always like this. Lola’s is a way station for people on the road between San Angeles on the coast and the squat pyramids of the Phoenix arcologies to the east, between Vegas to the north and the Mexicali sprawl to the south. A middle-of-nowhere place that draws people like a hot pink magnet. Lola comes out from behind the counter to greet me.
“Rita,” she says, before hugging me. She presses her warm cheek to mine and squeezes me tight with her plump arms. “You look good.”
I can sense every person in the room glancing at me, then turn back to their plates of meatloaf and chicken pot pie. They can sense when a wolf walks into the sheep den.
“Thanks.” I accept the compliment, suppressing the urge to add, “I always look good.” When does the truth become arrogance? When other people can’t measure up to it.
“Where have you been?”
I shrug. Where haven’t I been?
“I was in Europe for a while. I was setting up the network infrastructure for a new flivver plant in the Düsseldorf.”
“Europe, huh? What’s that like?”
“Good beer and better roads. Paradise for a speedgeek like me. It was hard to leave; but, you go where the world takes you, right?”
She nods. “Well, you’re back now. So, have a seat and I’ll bring you your usual. Right?”
“Sure.”
I find my favorite table is open. It’s in the far left corner. I slide onto a seat, leather pants and jacket creaking slightly. From here, I can scope out the entire restaurant. I’m not some kind of paranoid zerohead. I don’t think people are after me or that I need to have a wall to my back. I just like watching people as they eat, talk and engage in the biological and social systems that make up our lives.
There is a couple in one of the booths. A woman and a man, probably around my age, twenty-four, twenty-five. They’re sitting on the same bench, leaning into each other. She’s plucking thick cut fries off of his plate. She eats one, then feeds him the next. She does this over and over. They’re talking and smiling, even white teeth glistening in the warm yellow light. She brushes honey blonde hair from out of her eyes.
Laughter draws my attention away from the couple. A family of five is at a table in the center of the room. Two older men, obviously the parents, and three children, two girls and a boy. They are laughing at something one of the parents said. The picture of social stability, the foundation of civilization, retro and present. At least, that’s what they teach us in social structures class. It may be true; it was for me and my family. At least, until Dad died. Seeing them laughing and loving sparks a moment of hurt inside. A little hurt, one lessened after years of repeated exposure, but one that will never go away. Even if, years from now, it’s worn down to a nub, it will still be there.
Speed equals freedom.
I have the urge to just leave. To leave the young lovers, the happy family, all the rest of the road drifters who are shoveling food into their faces and get back on the highway. Get back on my baby. Feel her engine roar with chrome life and high-octane blood.
“Here you go, Rita.” Lola has my chili and beer, with a side of corn tortillas. The urge to flee fades. It doesn’t go away; it never goes away. But the smell of meat and beans overwhelms my moment of binary panic. Stay-run, love-hate, joy-hurt. It switches to stay, love, joy. To accept the moment I’m in and understand that the system doesn’t cater to me. I’m just a part of it.
Lola hesitates for a moment. Maybe she wants to talk, to hear about pre-Crash War Euro-castles ghost-like in mountain mists. I must not have an inviting look on my face, because she just smiles and says, “Hope you like it.” Then she leaves to make the rounds of her customers. Between the food and the service, I think she must be rolling in credits. People love her.
The chili is good, rich and meaty with a perfect, layered heat from the serrano peppers that Lola raises behind the restaurant. She has culinary arts in her genes. The QUEEN made the perfect decision, sending her into the Public Food Preparation and Consumption life purpose. The QUEEN always makes perfect decisions. The foundational truth of the world.
Another spoonful of chili, another swallow of beer. I’ll be back on my baby soon, back on the highway. Cold desert will give way to the arcologies and mile-towers of San Angeles, sun-bright lights blazing the last remnants of night away. Dawn on a beach, watching the waves roll in, expending the energy built up over thousands of miles. An endless cycle from one side of the Pacific to the other. As I visualize the moment, I can feel my heart quicken. I have to get out on the bike, the road, the speed thread that pulls me from one dull, static spot to another.
But that’s not the smart thing to do. That’s what an impulsive person would do. That’s not me. I am not impulsive; I am the impulse.
The young couple has moved from french fires to each other’s lips. They are locked together in a wet embrace. I shouldn’t stare, but I do. It disgusts me. I recognize the urge to reproduce, the biological imperative. But, that’s not for me. Not now. I crave the cold, hard sensuality of composite spokes and ceramic engines. The only intimacy that I want is between me and the machine, one perfect roaring union.
The girl sees me. She smiles and winks. I reflex-smile back. She says something to her boyfriend. I can only make out some of her words. “…she’s cute…back with us…” It’s enough.
I finish the beer and before she can detach herself from her hook-up, I gog Lola a 100% satisfaction rating. Feed the system that feeds you.
I get up and make my way through the room, without making eye contact with anyone. Particularly the two young rutting lovers. I don't have to see them to feel their eyes on me, boring through my leather. Wanting, needing, grasping, a messy swirl of urges and desires. I need to get back on the road and the perfect binary it represents. Point A to point B. The only decision to make: how fast to go.
“See you next time you roll through,” Lola says to my back. I should turn, make eye contact, be polite and say something.
I don’t. I hold up my fingerless gloved hand and give it a slight wave. I know what they think; that I’m too cool, too hot, a stereotype of the loner, the rebel, the renegade.
The truth is, I can’t bare to look at those people. The lovers, the family, the lone travelers, Lola, warm and friendly with her perfect smile and 100% satisfaction survey from every single person she serves. If I make eye contact at this moment, I will feel like I’ll shatter into a million pieces of barely suppressed emotions.
My baby is waiting, metal glowing in the lonely light of the restaurant. Gogs go back on. I straddle my machine. I feel better. I feel my fear and doubt and yearning melt into the hard metal.
The steel and ceramic engine hums to life. I peel out of the dirt and gravel parking lot, back onto the perfect ribbon of concrete that bisects the desert. The gogs' speed readout increases steadily. The wind is an artificial hurricane, man-machine weather blasting away my weakness.
Speed is life.
“Stand By For Incoming Alpha Priority Message,” scrolls across my gogs. I’ve never gotten an Alpha message before, something straight from the QUEEN’s neural network.
“Alpha Priority for Rita Teixeira. I have reassigned your life purpose. Your new life purpose: Rogue Assistant. Function: Help Rogue Rayn Achari destroy the QUEEN. Your coordinates and reporting location are attached. End Message.”
The location is in Oslo. The nearest international airport is in San Angeles. I gun the engine, laying my body low along the contours of the bike. As the glow of the city lights the horizon on fire, I understand that my life-before is over, left in the darkness of the desert. Whatever this new purpose is, I’m entering the unknown. And I’ll do it at full speed.