Chapter Seven

 

This didn't look like anywhere in the real world Philip was familiar with, and he wondered whether it represented a part of the world he'd never visited or if this stark chunk of industrial urbanity had sprung complete from the imagination of some programmer. If the latter, he could only assume the imagination in question was limited. The buildings here were functional oblong blocks - soulless and ugly, with sharp corners and edges - arranged in repetitive rows of identical windows and tight-lipped doorways, while the roads were wide and straight, dividing lines burned in asphalt.

The high-pitched wail of a guitar clawed at the night, shredding the tranquillity into harried tatters, and the world resounded to the rhythm of a hundred drums.

They stood at the very edge of the developed area, with the boxlike buildings stretching away to their left and what looked to be open ground to their right, though Philip could only see a little way into the darkness. No streetlights were in evidence. A score of fires held the night at bay, some of them in braziers, others more haphazard - bonfires built of heaped-up rubbish and foraged sticks and undergrowth - while the largest of all had clearly been a car, now set ablaze. The fires dotted the pavements and side streets, and the fringe of the gently sloping wasteland beyond. People clustered around them, drinking, talking, laughing, and some even dancing to the all-pervading beat of the drums.

In front of one of the bonfires, a little way from where the road ended, strutted a long-haired youth, wearing tight black leather trousers and a black t-shirt emblazoned with a demon's smile. The eyes of the demon motif followed Philip as he moved, clearly designed to stare straight at the observer. The youth's fluid hands wielded the guitar - a slender instrument consisting of little more than a pole of polished ebony, one side flattened to support the frets while a slight bulge was all that suggested the body. There were no apparent tuning pegs, the strings simply disappeared over the abruptly truncated neck. The kid played with all the flair and arrogance of some rock god from a bygone era. Around him in a wide and irregular circle sat his disciples: the drummers. One or two huddled on stools behind small kits boasting bass, snares, tom-toms and high-hats, but most simply sat on the ground, playing a bewildering array of instruments. At a quick glance Philip saw several bodhráns, a couple of djembe, bongos, a few pairs of tabla, a number of synth-pads and several of the smaller finger-pad sets, even the odd unadulterated wooden box. All were being played with vigour, the skins, pads and boards beaten with stick, palm, fingers and tipper to produce a pulsating roar of rhythmic thunder over which the sweet notes of the guitar skipped and danced, one moment dipping beneath the rhythm, the next bursting through it to take flight.

Mankind had produced symphonies utilising such diverse elements as birdsong, the haunting sounds of ocean-roaming leviathans, the play of cosmic motes on far-flung gossamer receptors and the wind rushing through geographical formations from a dozen different worlds. Every type of noise imaginable had been synthesised, sampled, phased and blended to be labelled music, but to Philip's ear nothing had ever sounded sweeter than this simple lone electric guitar soaring above its accompanying orchestra of percussion. The very ground itself reverberated in time, as if determined to jog the idle feet of those listening into dance.

"So," he said to Malcolm as the two stood a little removed from the revelries, "this is a street meet."

"Indeed."

In many ways the scene before him was a long way removed from the nightclub, Bubbles, yet Philip couldn't help but draw a few comparisons - the energy, the vibrancy, the sense of something going on that was beyond normal constraint, these all struck him as similar.

They walked forward, coming closer to the fires, and he noticed one thing that was markedly different from the previous evening. At Bubbles, everyone, even the redhead who had flickered constantly between male and female, had been recognisably human - spectacularly so for the most part. Here, humanity wasn't always so obvious. As they reached the first fire a woman turned towards him, and he realised that the hood he had taken to be part of her costume - an extension of the sweeping emerald cloak she wore - was actually part of her head. Her face was covered in green scales. Seeing him stare, she opened her mouth and flicked out a long, thin tongue at him. Philip shied away. The snake woman's voluptuous companion opened her mouth to reveal well developed canines and laughed. She had the head of a tabby cat.

"Don't stare," Malcolm said, "or you're liable to offend somebody."

"I wouldn't have stared in the first place if you'd warned me."

As they walked past, Philip heard the two women exchange quick-fire comments in a language he recognised but couldn't speak - Sawal, a derivative of ancient Swahili, a minority language spoken in a few regions of Home. It was a timely reminder that Virtuality was a worldwide phenomenon, accessible to people from around the globe. He might not have understood the meaning of individual words, but the laughter that punctuated their comments left him in little doubt that the two women were enjoying themselves at his expense.

The further he and Malcolm went, the more bizarre and random the appearance of those around them became. Not everyone was outlandish; there were still some who had opted to appear completely human, but they were in the minority.

Philip saw werewolves, dragon ladies, a man whose face was invisible apart from his eyes, which hovered disconcertingly above a vacant collar, an ape-man, a figure of mist, a rubber-jointed woman who showed off by bending over backwards to bring her shoulders and head between her own splayed legs before turning to lick her own navel, a fully mobile statue cut from multi-faceted diamond, an iron man, a bronze woman, a trio of lizard people, a pair of centaurs, and a variety of imaginative and exotically realised bug-eyed alien caricatures. In some ways the scene reminded him of his visit to the Death Wish, but the more he thought about it the less the comparison satisfied. There the patrons had worn outlandish faces as a disguise, whereas here he sensed that people had designed theirs as a release, as if seeking to let an element of their inner selves out to breathe.

On the whole he was surrounded by unique avatars - individuals or, at most, pairs - but here and there knots of similarly styled folk had gathered together, forming gangs or small tribes. Around the burning car, for example, cavorted a group of cloven-hoofed fauns and human-toed satyrs. On the wall of the building behind them someone had daubed 'Faunication 4 Ever!' in stark black lettering. Philip wondered if this graffiti was set to be erased once the night's revelries came to an end or whether it would remain permanently as a rallying cry, something to mark the regular meeting point for these Pan-like avatars.

His attention was caught by a man who wandered past, between him and the frolicking fauns. He was juggling six balls in an intricate pattern with consummate ease, no doubt aided by the fact he had two sets of arms, one pair immediately beneath the other. Seeing this made Philip wonder why more people didn't choose to equip their avatars with additional limbs.

The answer occurred to him almost immediately, tripping over the heels of the question. It would be too much like hard work. Avatars were animated by the fully human brain of their corporeal self, and that brain was accustomed to doing things with just one pair of arms. Throw in an additional pair and you had a whole new set of skills to be learnt in the coordination department. Of course, there were always going to be those determined to master such skills simply because the challenge was there, but for the majority life was too short. Why bother going to all that trouble when you could do things the traditional way? It struck Philip that here was an endorsement of Malcolm's philosophy of experience over download. Without a person training their mind to coordinate four arms instead of two, he doubted a simple info-dump of juggling skills would be of much use.

A little further along from the fauns, a man stood with legs apart and right arm raised, in a pose that suggested he was challenging the wall to mortal combat. He sported the head and impressive mane of a male lion and was bare-chested, his torso and arms rippling with muscles and glistening as if oiled. As Philip watched, he roared and took a mighty swipe at the brickwork, utilising the raking claws that sprouted from the ends of his human-looking fingers. The attack left deep gouges in the wall. Presumably this was an attempt to impress the two women standing to one side and looking on. The nearest, who wore only the skimpiest of chocolate brown bikinis, had the head of a leopard, her slim body mottled in an intricate pattern of dark spots over tan-yellow, while the tip of a tail swished behind her heels - the whole ensemble was surprisingly sexy. The other, though fully human in body, boasted a head of flickering flame within which the shadowy suggestion of eyes and a mouth could vaguely be discerned.

"Ah good, we've timed it perfectly," Malcolm murmured. "The first race hasn't started yet."

"Race?"

"Yes, that's what draws the crowds."

His father nodded towards a group of people gathered a little further up the road. The two of them headed over, working their way towards the front of what proved to be a sizable throng. The greatest concentration clustered around what were clearly machines, half a dozen of them. They looked to be motorbikes of some sort, though Philip couldn't get close enough for a proper view.

"Come on, all you freaks and skike-heads," a voice boomed out. "Last chance to splash those credits and watch 'em soar. The road's about to burn!"

Initially Philip thought the speaker was talking through an old-fashioned megaphone, but then he realised that it was actually part of his face, with cheeks, chin and philtrum extending forward in a solid, fused funnel. The man's voice boomed out as if bolstered by the latest in hi-tech amplification. The crowd melted away as people drew back, giving Philip his first clear view of the machines. They were like motorbikes, if a little longer and lacking wheels.

"Skycycles, or skikes," Malcolm said.

Six figures stepped forward to take station by their respective machines.

"Give it up, boys and girls, for the jocks with the rocks!" the announcer called.

Each rider was clad from head to toe in glistening, figure-hugging black, as if oil had been poured over them from above. The black was unbroken even by mouth or eyes, apart from a coloured stripe that ran vertically from the crown of the head to the coccyx - gold, silver, red, blue, green and orange. Each rider's stripe matched the colour of the bodywork showing amongst the shining chrome of his or her skike.

People started calling support for this colour and that, or yelling out the names of individual riders. 'Randy' and 'Kensal' seemed the most popular. Philip realised that the drums and guitar had fallen silent for the first time since they arrived.

"Riders, mount!" the starter cried.

The sense of anticipation rose in proportion to the noise level, as the six jet figures slipped aboard their machines, lying forward along the skike's body, knees drawn up beneath the waist and legs extending behind them, hands clutching grips a little below and in advance of the head. The stance brought to mind a person caught in the process of leaping forward from a crouch, perhaps diving into a pool.

"Power up and lift those beauties!"

Fire ignited within the broad burners at the back of each skike, accompanied by the throaty growl of engines. Headlights shone forth from the noses of the six machines, which lifted into the air - a couple wobbling slightly as their riders adjusted position - to hover above the ground at around waist height. The air smelt abruptly of burnt oil, petrol fumes and ozone.

"And... go!"

The engine growl crescendoed to a deafening roar and flames flared from the rear of the six machines as they shot away at breakneck speed, heat washing over the assembled watchers, who shrieked their approval. In no time at all the roar dwindled to a distant buzz and the skikes were mere fiery dots vanishing into the distance along the improbably straight road, like a pack of ground-hugging comets.

Philip felt vaguely disappointed. As a spectacle, this had been impressive enough but much too brief. He'd hoped for more. The experience at Bubbles the previous evening had taught him not to judge events in Virtuality too soon, but so far the street meet struck him as lively up to a point but somewhat on the tame side. He was about to say as much to Malcolm when a 3D image formed in the air above the 'starting line', complete with sound. It showed the skikes racing towards the watcher before passing beneath, the viewpoint swivelling to follow their progress, enabling Philip to catch a bird's eye view of the riders' backs and then watch them shoot into the distance once more. The brief flash of coloured stripes as they tore past below revealed the current state of play.

"As you can see, Blue's forging ahead from the start, inviting the rest to suck his fumes. Green isn't about to take that lying down and is pushing him hard. Gold is boxed in behind them - he won't like that - with Orange to his right and Red on the left. Silver's playing a canny game, lagging behind the others and staying out of trouble. Still everything to play for."

Somebody poked Philip in the side. He looked around to find a pair of striking blue eyes staring at him from beneath a ragged blonde fringe.

"Are you following me?" asked the beautiful girl he'd danced with at Bubbles the previous evening, the same girl he'd watched being sliced apart by flying saws.

"No, I..."

Before he could say anymore, she reached up towards him, hand at the back of his neck, to draw him into a lingering kiss. Her lips were slightly sticky and tasted of strawberries.

"There," she said as they separated. "I wanted to make sure we at least did that much before anything happens to wrench us apart this time. I'm Tanya, by the way."

"Philip," he mumbled, still feeling the stickiness of her lips on his.

For a moment he'd forgotten about the race entirely, until she looked past his shoulder and said, "Who are you backing? My money's on the gold, Kensal - a real maniac. He'll either win or die trying."

"First time here," Philip said quickly, not wanting to look a complete idiot due to his lack of knowledge. "Still finding my feet."

"Riiight," she nodded, as if this explained a lot. "So you haven't placed a bet?"

"No." He didn't even know you could.

She laughed. "But that's half the fun. Don't worry, Tanya's here now." She slid her arm through his. He thrilled at her touch, her closeness, and flared his nostrils in anticipation of catching a whiff of her perfume but failed. Perhaps avatars didn't do scent? No, he'd smelt the sweetness of strawberries from her lip gloss. A detail overlooked, then. "We'll make sure you get fully involved before the next race."

Philip wondered what had become of Malcolm. He looked around to see the older man standing a little way off. Malcolm gave his son a knowing grin and winked.

Tanya fidgeted beside him. "First corner," she said, her gaze fixed on the projection.

Sure enough, the pack of skikes could be seen converging on a sharp left-hand turn. The vantage point was much lower this time and seemed to be trackside at the very apex of the corner. Little had changed in positional terms, except that Gold might perhaps have edged a quarter length ahead of Red to his left. If the riders made any concession for the approaching corner by slowing down, it was too marginal for Philip to notice. One, pushing hard - he thought it was Green - almost overshot. His skike skewed across the mouth of the turning sideways, heading for what looked to be certain catastrophe. At the last second, the rider banked his machine, so that whatever kept the skikes off the ground repelled him from the wall. The machine reared spectacularly in the foreground and almost hid the moment when Gold made his move and started to justify Tanya's dramatic build up.

Perspective switched at the vital instant, taking the watching crowd from skike-in-your-face dirtside to a loftier viewpoint once more. Gold cut the corner sharply, throwing his body into a precarious left-lean to drag his skike over. Even so, how he managed so tight a turn at such speed was beyond Philip. It caused Red, who was inside, to swerve, almost hitting the wall, and then to overcompensate, taking the corner far too wide in a repeat of Green's manoeuvre. This time, however, as the rider banked his machine, he overcooked it. The side of his mount scraped along the ground in a blaze of sparks and a screech of protesting metal. The oil-clad figure was thrown free as the skike bucked and cartwheeled. He hit the ground and rolled helplessly over and over as his machine crashed back to the road and disappeared in a spectacular bloom of fire and debris.

The other five racers were long gone by then.

The coverage continued to leapfrog the pack of four skikes as they jockeyed for position - Green now lagging some distance behind the others and unable to make up the deficit - showing them tear into a right-hand turn and then another. As they exited the second, Blue held a marginal lead over Gold.

"Final turn coming up," Tanya squeaked, squeezing his arm. "This is where things usually get really exciting."

No sooner had she spoken than Gold dived for the inside line again. He leant so far away from his machine that his back nearly touched the sharp brick corner. His bold attack forced Blue wide. Perhaps distracted by what was happening immediately in front of them, the two skikes at the rear of the group - Silver and Orange - touched, producing a spray of sparks like a saw cutting through metal sheeting. While Silver fought for control, Orange lost it completely, slamming into the wall of the nearest building. Rider and skike disappeared in a billowing fireball. Silver went down an instant later, skidding along the road in a trail of sparks. Something immediately below the projection caught Philip's eye; a blossoming of light as if a distant flare had gone off. He realised this was the explosion that marked Orange's demise, that he could see it with the naked eye. The combatants had returned to the road they'd started from, albeit they were still a long way off.

The calls of support and encouragement that had provided a constant background to the race now grew louder and more persistent, as others realised the skikes were on the home straight. The murmur of the surrounding crowd swelled to become a roar. Philip wasn't looking at the projection anymore. His attention was focused on the twin pinpricks of headlights growing steadily brighter and nearer.

Tanya, her arm still linked in his, was bobbing up and down, fist raised as she cheered Gold home. Her enthusiasm was infectious, and he found himself yelling along with her.

"Stand back, Jack, here comes the pack... and they're comin' in hot!" the announcer declared, his voice struggling to be heard despite the amplification. "Gold has his nose in front but Blue's pressing him hard. Green is still in the air but well out of the reckoning; it's between these two."

"Come on, Gold!" Tanya shrieked.

"Go, Gold... go, Gold... go, Gold..." a chant started up among the crowd.

Now redundant, the projection winked out as the headlights of the two contenders grew rapidly closer, larger, and more immediate.

"Shift your feet to the side of the street, people!" the announcer warned. "They're not stopping to watch you hoppin', it's pass the line in double-quick time, so clear the way or you're done for today!"

The man's slick rhythmic patter sounded as improvised as the construction of your average starship; it had to be scripted, or at least recycled and ingrained after constant repetition.

Nonetheless, feet shuffled in response and people started moving away to either side, clearing the road. Philip and Tanya moved with them and found themselves at the front of the rearranged cordon. Tanya had let go of his arm as they made their way across and was now jumping up and down beside him, clapping her hands and vociferously cheering on her favourite.

A finishing line appeared a little way up the street - a strip of lights embedded in the road, positioned roughly beneath where the projection had been. The thunder of the skikes' engines was now clearly audible even over the crowd noise, swelling until it threatened to drown out the watchers' rowdy excitement altogether. In the final few seconds the racers loomed out of the night with frightening speed - twin rockets with throttles wide open, neither giving any quarter and both hell-bent on crossing the line first.

As the pair shot over the all-important strip of lights they finally eased off, spinning their hurtling skikes around so that they faced back the way they'd come, their powerful engines now fighting against their own momentum.

It was then that disaster struck. One of the riders, Blue, overcooked the swivel, his skike continuing to turn and spin. Completely out of control, it flew at the crowd, heading directly towards where Philip was standing. At least the rider had the sense to cut his engines, but too late to prevent what was about to happen.

A detached part of Philip's mind heard the announcer calling out, "And the winner by half a length is... Gold!" Another registered that the screen had reappeared, to show a replay of the finish. None of him seemed inclined to move. He stood rooted to the spot, watching this increasingly huge machine slew towards him. In those last few seconds everything slowed, so that the skike appeared to be moving in slow motion while the screams of those around him came as if from a long way off. The tail of the skike swept unerringly at him and he knew there was no escape.

Something struck him in the side, hitting hard, knocking the wind from his body and sending him sprawling to the floor. Not the skike, however, which cut through the air an arm's length above his face as time resumed its normal flow. Heat and air washed over him as the machine struck the wall and bounced off, skidding along the pavement and scything down half a dozen bystanders who were too slow to react. The victims vanished, their avatars kicked out of Virtuality.

No, not the skike; a compact bundle of warm flesh and muscle. "Tanya?" She lay on top of him, her face glaring into his.

"Were you ever going to move?" Her expression matched the exasperation in her tone. "Or were you intending to just stand there and let that thing finish you off?"

"I..." Philip had always considered himself to be level headed in a crisis - hadn't he stayed calm and composed when that remote drone came to kill him in his own apartment? This time, though, he'd frozen to the spot. "Sorry." Why was he apologising?

She climbed off him and they both got to their feet. Philip found himself confronted by a blonde spitfire, anger still apparent in her face and in every line of her body. "There are no second chances in here you know, not for you. You have to start taking this life seriously."

She knew. Her words sent cold horror running through him. Somehow this girl he'd only just met had worked out that he wasn't simply another avatar. No, that was impossible, while her abrupt change from bubbly blonde thrill-seeker to angered professional was merely unlikely.

"Who are you?" he asked, though he already had a pretty good idea.

At which point Malcolm appeared, to pull his son around and hug him. "Philip, I thought I'd lost you again. Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine, though only thanks to Tanya here."

He turned back but she'd gone, using the distraction of Malcolm's arrival to slip away into the milling crowd. That figured, but Philip wasn't concerned. She'd shown her hand and somehow he had a feeling he'd be seeing her again; far sooner than he might wish to.