Déjà Vu: A Technothriller by Hocking, Ian (red scrolls of magic .TXT) 📕

the field and contemplated his next move. The bike slithered left and right. The back wheel seemed to be greased. Its treads didn’t offer enough traction. From the corner of his eye, he saw another bike flash by. It was difficult to guess what they were doing because he couldn’t see behind him. The bike had no wing mirrors.

“I could really do with a backwards-facing camera,” he muttered.

There was a beep from the steering column and David glanced down. The transparent visor had risen further and become opaque. Its concave interior showed the view from a small camera mounted on the back of the bike. He saw three other bikes, riding in an even, wide spread. The bikes were gaining because their riders could ride.

“Shit,” he said. He aimed downhill. The bike rode easier. He looked down, unsure of what had changed. The hydraulic rods that connected the chassis to the steering column were not superfluous after all. The bike was using them to correct his steering. He felt an odd mixture of relief and indignation. “Have it your way. But where am I going?”

There was a hedge approaching. Impossible to judge its height, but it would certainly hurt at – he checked the speedometer

– thirty miles per hour.

Another bleep and the visor showed a contour map of the area. A red dot flashed in the centre, which David took to be his own bike. A blue arrow trailed to the southwest. At the bottom of a map, a revolving logo read Easy RiderTM SatNav. The blue line pointed left so he pulled a wobbly left-hander and rode parallel with the hedge. The ground became muddier.

A biker slid into view on his right, between himself and the hedge. The profile of this man’s machine was much higher than his own. His helmet was opened-faced but he wore goggles and a bandana, covering his nose, which bore the blue and white Scottish flag. The man flapped his arm at him. Pull over.

On David’s left, another bike came alongside. It also bore a scruffy rider. It was the man who had retreated from the shed when the laptop exploded. David watched him with envy. He seemed to ride the bike with his fingers and toes. The bike undulated and swerved yet the rider kept a perfect, comfortable line. David, by contrast, was constantly at risk of bouncing from his seat.

“Computer, rear view.”

Another bleep. The visor showed that the third bike was still behind, but not far. They had him in a pincer.

“Computer, fire rearward missile.”

There was no beep. “Worth a try.”

There was movement to his left. A boot connected with the side of the bike. David swore. He wobbled, veered sideways, but managed to stay upright. Moments later he felt his palms go slick with sweat. That had been close. Even a landing on grass held the potential for a fatal injury. His stomach and fingertips tingled. His scalp grew itchy and hot under the helmet. These blokes weren’t just farmhands. They wanted him injured, possibly dead.

David searched the area for a way out. There was low ground on the other side of the hedge. To his left the ground banked steeply upwards. That way led back to the equipment shed and the downed glider. The bike dipped into a small depression again and David almost fell from the seat. He gripped the tank tightly with his knees.

He had to get over that hedge and into the next field. There was no way he could outrun his pursuers. On the flat, maybe. Not in a field.

The bike dipped into a steep ditch and he had to brake hard. The wheels slid, locked, and he walked the bike up the other side. He turned to see that the other bikers and gone high to ride around the top of the ditch. They were waiting for him. Abruptly, he heaved the front of the bike around, surprised at its sudden, dead weight, and headed back the way he came.

He retraced his route along the hedge. He was desperate to put empty space between himself and the other bikers. The engine whined but the bike stayed close to the ground and fast. He built his straight-line speed. After a glance at the rear-view camera, he pulled heavily on the rear brake and spun the end of the bike. He sat and panted. Breath clouded. There were lines of sweat on his temples. He faced the oncoming bikes.

Time to fix his helmet strap. He had maybe four seconds.

He threw his gloves away because they made his fingers too clumsy, but the gloves hung from his wrists by strips of Velcro. He looped the chin strap through its metal link and tugged. It held.

The bikes were almost upon him.

He slapped down his visor and raked the throttle. The bike roared.

Something in his expression, or his body posture, gave pause to the incoming riders. They slowed a little. Perhaps they wondered if he had found the desperate strength of a man who had nothing to lose. They fell to the left and to the right and David shot through the middle of them – bare centimetres of clearance on either side.

He rode on now, towards that large ditch. He did not bounce around as he had done before. Now he rode with his fingers and toes. A glance at the rear-view camera confirmed that the other bikers were following. With some disappointment, he saw that they were moving as fast as he was.

The ditch approached.

Here it was.

Shit.

“Shit.”

He swerved left, hillward, then cut right, down towards the ditch at a diagonal. He spurred his heels and felt the answering ssss of valves opening by his ankles. Nitrous oxide mixed with the fuel. The engine whistled like a jet on take-off. The bike found a whole new speed and he dropped low to its tank, hugging in wonder, willing himself to stay onboard.

He rode up other side of the ditch, now pressed into the seat, and caught