Things Beyond Midnight (17 page)

00:09
VIOLATION

It is 2 a.m. and he waits. In the cool morning stillness of a side street, under the soft screen of trees, the rider waits quietly—at ease upon the wide leather seat of his cycle, gloved fingers resting idly on the bars, goggles up, eyes palely reflecting the leaf-filtered glow of the moon.

Helmeted. Uniformed. Waiting.

In the breathing dark, the cycle metal cools: the motor is silent, a power contained.

The faint stirrings of a still-sleeping city reach him at his vigil. But he is not concerned with these; he mentally dismisses them. He is concerned only with the broad river of smooth concrete facing him through the trees, and the great winking red eye suspended, icicle-like, above it.

He waits.

And tenses at the sound upon the river—an engine sound, mosquito-dim with distance, rising to a hum. A rushing sound under the stars.

The rider’s hands contract like the claws of a bird. He rises slowly on the bucket seat, right foot poised near the starter. A coiled spring. Waiting.

Twin pencil-beams of light move toward him, toward the street on which he waits. Closer.

The hum builds in volume; the lights are very close now, flaring chalk-white along the concrete boulevard, The rider’s goggles are down and he is ready to move out, move onto the river. Another second, perhaps two...

But no. The vehicle slows, makes a full stop. A service truck with two men inside, laughing, joking. The rider listens to them, mouth set, eyes hard. The vehicle begins to move once more. The sound is eaten by the night. There is no violation.

Now... the relaxing, the easing back. The ebb tide of tension receding. Gone. The rider quiet again under the moon.

Waiting.

The red eye winking at the empty boulevard.

“How much farther, Dave?” asks the girl.

“Ten miles, maybe. Once we hit Westwood, it’s a quick run to my place. Relax. You’re nervous.”

“We should have stayed on the gridway. Used the grid. I don’t
like
these surface streets. A grid would have taken us in.”

The man smiles, looping an arm around her.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of as long as you’re careful,” he says. “I used to drive surface streets all the time when I was a boy. Lots of people did.”

The girl swallows, touches her hair nervously. “But they don’t anymore. People use the grids. I didn’t know cars still
came
equipped for manual driving.”

“They don’t. I had this set up special by a mechanic I know. He does jobs like this for road buffs. It’s still legal, driving your own car—it’s just that most people have lost the habit.”

The girl peers out the window into the silent street, shakes her head. “It’s... not natural. Look out there, Nobody! Not another car for miles. I feel as if we’re trespassing.”

The man is annoyed. “That’s damn nonsense. I have friends who do this all the time. Just relax and enjoy it. And don’t talk like an idiot.”

“I want out,” says the girl. “I’ll take a walkway back to the grid.”

“The hell you will,” flares the man. “You’re with me tonight. We’re going to my place.”

She resists, strikes at his face; the man grapples to subdue her. He does not see the blinking light. The car passes under it swiftly.

“Chrisdam!” snaps the man. “I went through that light! You made me miss the stop. I’ve broken one of the surface laws!” He says this humbly.

“What does that mean?” the girl asks. “What could happen?”

“Never mind. Nothing will happen. Never mind about what could happen.”

The girl peers out into the darkness. “I want to leave this car.”

“Just shut up,” the man says, and keeps driving.

Something in the sound tells the rider that this one will not stop, that it will continue to move along the river of stone despite the blinking eye.

He smiles in the darkness, lips stretched back, silently. Poised there on the cycle, with the hum steady and rising on the river, he feels the power within him about to be released.

The car is almost upon the light, moving swiftly; there is no hint of slackened speed.

The rider watches intently. Man and a girl inside, struggling. Fighting with one another.

The car passes under the light.

Violation.

Now!

He spurs the cycle to metal life. The motor crackles, roars, explodes the black machine into motion, and the rider is away, rolling in muted thunder along the street. Around the corner, swaying onto the long, moon-painted river of the boulevard.

The rider feels the wind in his face, feels the throb and power-pulse of the metal thing he rides, feels the smooth concrete rushing backward under his wheels.

Ahead, the firefly glow of tail-lights.

And now his cycle cries out after them, a siren moan through the still spaces of the city. A voice which rises and falls in spirals of sound. His cycle-eyes, mounted left and right, are blinking crimson, red as blood in their wake.

The car will stop. The man will see him, hear him. The eyes and the voice will reach the violator.

And he will stop.

“Bitch!” the man says. “We’ve picked up a rider at that light.”

“
You
picked him up, I didn’t,” says the girl. “It’s your problem.”

“But I’ve never been stopped on a surface street,” the man says, a desperate note in his voice. “In all these years—never once!”

The girl glares at him. “Dave, you make me sick! Look at you—shaking, sweating. You’re a damn poor excuse for a man!”

He does not react to her words. He speaks in a numbed monotone. “I can talk my way out. I know I can. He’ll listen to me. I have my rights as a citizen of the city.”

“He’s catching up fast. You’d better pull over.”

His eyes harden as he brakes the car. “I’ll do the talking. All of it. You just keep quiet. I’ll handle this.”

The rider sees that the car is slowing, braking, pulling to the curb.

He cuts the siren voice, lets it die, glides the cycle in behind the car. Cuts the engine. Sits there for a long moment on the leather seat, pulling off his gloves. Slowly.

He sees the car door slide open. A man steps out, comes toward him. The rider swings a booted leg over the cycle and steps free, advancing to meet this law-breaker, fitting the gloves carefully into his black leather belt.

They face one another, the man smaller, paunchy, balding, face flushed. The rider’s polite smile eases the man’s tenseness.

“You in a hurry, sir?”

“Me? No, I’m not in a hurry. Not at all. It was just... I didn’t see the light up there until... I was past it. The high trees and all. I swear to you. I didn’t see it. I’d never knowingly break a surface law, Officer. You have my sworn word.”

Nervous. Shaken and nervous, this man. The rider can feel the man’s guilt, a physical force. He extends a hand.

“May I see your operator’s license, please?”

The man fumbles in his coat. “I have it right here. It’s all in order, up to date and all.”

“Just let me see it, please.”

The man continues to talk.

“Been driving for years, Officer, and this is my first violation. Perfect record up to now. I’m a responsible citizen. I obey the laws. After all, I’m not a fool.”

The rider says nothing; he examines the man’s license, taps it thoughtfully against his wrist. The riders goggles are opaque. The man cannot see his eyes. He studies the face of the violator.

“The woman in the car... is she your wife?”

“No. No, sir. She’s... a friend. Just a friend.”

“Then why were you fighting? I saw the two of you fighting inside the car when it passed the light. That isn’t friendly, is it?”

The man attempts to smile. “Personal. We had a small personal disagreement. It’s all over now, believe me.”

The rider walks to the car, leans to peer in at the woman. She is pale, as nervous as the man.

“You having trouble?” the rider asks.

She hesitates, shakes her head mutely. The rider leaves her and returns to the man, who is resting a hand against the cycle.

“Don’t touch that,” says the rider coldly, and the man draws back his hand, mumbles an apology.

“I have no further use for this,” says the rider, handing back the man’s license. “You are guilty of a surface-street violation.”

The man quakes; his hands tremble. “But it was not
deliberate.
I know the law. You’re empowered to make exceptions if a violation is not deliberate. The full penalty is not invoked in such cases. You are allowed to—”

The rider cuts into the flow of words. “You forfeited your Citizen’s Right of Exception when you allowed a primary emotion—anger, in this instance—to affect your control of a surface vehicle. Thus, my duty is clear and prescribed.”

The man’s eyes widen in shock as the rider brings up a beltweapon. “You can’t possibly—”

“Under authorization of Citystate Overpopulation Statute 4452663, I am hereby executing...”

The man begins to run.

“... sentence.”

He presses the trigger. Three long, probing blue jets of star-hot flame leap from the weapon in the rider’s hand.

The man is gone.

The woman is gone.

The car is gone.

The street is empty and silent. A charred smell of distant suns lingers in the morning air.

The rider stands by his cycle, unmoving for a long moment. Then he carefully holsters the weapon, pulls on his leather gloves. He mounts the cycle and it pulses to life under his foot.

With the sky in motion above him, he is again upon the moon-flowing boulevard, gliding back towards the blinking red eye.