The Gender Game by Bella Forrest (motivational novels .TXT) 📕

remembered the fake minister putting a rucksack on his back in the moments before the escape. He had forgotten all about it...though only his head and his legs had been wet when he woke up in the field the night before. He hadn’t put the facts together. The rucksack had protected his back. He shrugged; it was tiny and felt empty.

“Your rucksack,” said the agent, “contains important travel documents. They cannot be replaced.”

“Great. Now, listen to me. I can’t put on any of these clothes until I lose these handcuffs.”

“Agreed. At the end of this bench, underneath the canvas, is a circular saw. Have you used one before?”

David flung the tarp to one side and studied the saw. It comprised a metal cutting platform and a mounted circular blade. The assembly could be moved up and a down with a lever so that the blade passed through the groove in the middle of the cutting platform. The blade looked wicked. He reached around the back and fumbled for a switch. He found it and the blade whirred into life. Odd that a shed in the middle of nowhere would have a power supply.

He put his hands on the plate and stretched them apart to put the connecting chain was under tension. Next, using his chin, he pressed the lever that lowered the saw. The lever hurt like blazes. Garrel had pressed the same spot during his interrogation on Monday.

The blade met the chain and sparks poured onto the floor. Fortunately, the blade had a large housing designed to catch the sparks, so David did not cook his face. He noted the lucky escape and reminded himself to be more careful in future. Another part of his mind – perhaps that inner part with the immunity to cold, the part that had guided him the night before – reminded him that he had been making those mental notes since he was a boy, and had yet to remember one.

He rammed the lever home and the chain came apart. He turned off the saw and began to dress. Heat returned with every layer.

“What’s the plan, computer?”

“Beyond the partition you will find a motorcycle. Listen carefully –”

David turned white. “But I can’t ride a motorcycle.”

“That is why you must listen carefully,” the computer said. Its screen changed to show a cartoon motorcycle. “Observe. It has a key ignition. The keys are in the bike. Turn the key to the second position, then press the start button. The right-hand grip is the accelerator and its lever is the front brake. The left-hand lever is the back brake. Always use both brakes simultaneously. Clear?”

David struggled with his hiking boots. The computer sounded like an air steward giving a safety briefing. “Yes.”

“Remember, the left-hand lever is not the clutch. The bike is has automatic gear transmission. The on-board processor will select its own gears based on speed, predicted future traction, orientation and so on. In the event this processor malfunctions, the bike will revert to a mechanical automatic transmission.”

He pulled on the gloves and the rucksack. “Uh-huh.”

“Your left foot will rest naturally with the metal tab under the heel and another tab over the toes. The same for your right foot. If you squeeze the bike with your heels together, like so –” the stick-figure on the computer screen squeezed its heels – “then the engine will increase its power output by one quarter for five seconds.” The stick-figure and its bike raced off the screen.

“Got it.”

He brushed aside the sack-cloth curtain and examined the bike. He had never ridden one before, but he felt a flush of excitement, because this was a toy and he was a boy. It seemed perpetually crouched, like a sprinter at the starting blocks. It had a startlingly low profile and wide, spiked tyres. It sparkled. Some features were odd: the large dashboard and a superfluous set of hydraulics connecting the chassis to the steering column. The colour scheme was chrome silver. On the tank, in the precision flourish of an artist’s signature, was the word Moiré.

“David,” said the computer. Its voice was louder. “There are two, possibly three, motorcycles approaching from the south.”

David heard his heart in his ears. Farmers had seen his downed glider. He searched near the bike and found a helmet. He threw it on his head; he’d do the chin strap later. “OK, computer. Thanks for your help.”

“Wait. Have you got everything?”

“I think so.”

“Do you have the second rucksack?”

He could hear the other bikes now. “Christ, I don’t know. Hang on, here it is.” He found the second rucksack under the bench, near the wall.

“Please take it. It is not essential, but will be useful.”

David threw it over his back. “One more thing,” said the computer, more quietly.

“What now?”

“Please press the red switch on the computer. It is an explosive device with a ten-second delay.”

David pressed it and then jumped on the bike. Outside, the other bikes had arrived. Their engine tones dropped. The riders shouted to each other. He could smell their exhausts. He turned the key, pressed the ignition switch and the bike roared underneath him. He felt the suspension rise and watched as a clear visor rose from the steering column.

David was poised to walk the bike forward when a helmeted man burst into the shed from the side door. To judge by his clothing, he was a farmer. Their eyes met, David’s widened, and the laptop exploded. The sound was loud and concussive. It showered the man with debris. He retreated from the shed in a crouch, one arm across his face.

David lowered his head, gunned the engine, and went absolutely nowhere. He looked down. The back tyre was spinning itself into a blur. It slowed, bit into the concrete floor and the bike reared like a startled horse. David came off the power and waited for the front wheel to drop. It did and he bucked forward into the door. It was flung upwards by the impact.

He burst into