NightRacer

Chapter 8

NightRacer got up with a deep pain in his joints-the pain he used to call "death sucking on his bones." Sleeping on the floor in a house with no doors or windows would do that to you.

He stretched for a few minutes, listening to his back and neck crack. When he felt that his muscles were loose, Racer tried a few of his old moves. He drew the gun like he used to do it on Earth. In those days there were live rounds everywhere-in abandoned houses, on the streets, in stores, on military bases. The Grass didn't care about the bullets, so everybody was saving them for people. Diggers always had a few boxes of rounds close to their booze, and after getting drunk in the evenings, they shot everything that would take a bullet-bottles, cans, trees, paper targets on balloons, toys, remote controlled cars, and a small army of robotic manikins programmed to smile. Racer was for some time the second-fastest shooter in Europe, and he would've happily settled for second place if the fastest guy didn't decide to throw his gun into a lake one day and walk into the Grass.

Soon the calming weight of the gun in his hand-or maybe the alcohol syringe and some painkillers in his backpack-subdued Racer's pain.

His knees felt rusty and were still a little slow at bending, and he had a little pain in his kidneys, but otherwise, his body seemed to remember the drill. He drew and imagined blasting the wall in front of him. It felt good.

Close to Greg's place, Racer switched to the hunter's step-rolling his feet from heel to toe and from outside to inside. That's how you step like a predator. That way you could always sprint, and if you step on a leaf, the sound feels like it's coming from the wrong direction, confusing those who listen for such noises.

Stroke seemed completely oblivious to his arrival. Long years on the stations had dulled his instincts. Racer appeared quietly in the door and performed a quick visual inspection of the room. Everything looked as it had in the simulation. "What are you doing here, KeyStroke?" he asked. Stroke didn't exactly jump in surprise, but he did seem a little startled.

"Racer, hey! What's up man?"

"Let me ask you again. What are you doing here, Chief? Why did you leave the base?"

"I'm here because I need you, man. Please don't get addicted to that shit. Please!"

There was actually some sincere begging in Stroke's voice, and Racer recognized that something serious was going on. KeyStroke was never sincere. He knew how to fake sincerity, but his acting was never good. Now he seemed genuinely worried.

"So, how come you started caring about people, Stroke?"

"He doesn't care about you, he 'cares' about your daughter," Greg said with a sneer.

"Shut up, chump!" Stroke said.

"Let me ask you one more time," said Racer. "Why are you here, Stroke?"

"Listen, man, you can't get addicted here. I'm begging you, Racer. If you start smiling like a retard tomorrow, or one of those drones takes you out, I'll have to grant you your last wish, and I can't do that."

"My last wish?"

"You don't remember? You know what, man, you're an old fart. You said, and I quote, 'If I don't come back, nuke the bastard.' Were you drunk?"

"I said that?"

"Of course you did! Wait. You injected yourself with alcohol and let it absorb, right? Oh, my God! I should've known that. Man, I swear, sometimes you just run around waving your gun and screaming. You don't remember your last wish, the one you pronounced in front of all those scientist and officers, the one I have on record? Were just blabbering, or what? Were you on drugs? Oh, I remember. You were. Racer, I swear, you're freaking crazier than I thought."