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Biker
'The first three decades of the twenty- first century were lean times indeed for the automotive industry. Rising levels of pollution and falling supplies of petroleum reduced even the richest countries to the use of solar-powered vehicles, with a top speed of sixty kilometres per hour.
- Fernao Paolo Porsche, "My Car's Much Faster Than Your Car" (Praesidium Electronic Press, 2074) Kely was hanging out in the Forger's Retreat, the bar at the bottom end of the Great MacMillan Highway that ran from just outside Ballarat all the way up the coast to the Killing Fields Pub, just north of Brisbane. Genesis had said he'd be around to pick her up at six, and it was at three minutes before the hour that everyone in the pub heard a horrific screech of tyres that rattled the windows and set the empties ringing with sympathetic harmonics. Even the wireheads clustered around the distributor in the corner looked up briefly, before returning to their electronic ecstacy. She slid her empty glass along the white marble bar-top, pushed her way through the crowd of piss-artists that surrounded the hydranol tank and left the bar. Genesis had parked around the corner, and was taking his helmet off as Kely rushed into his embrace. He hugged her, lifted her off her feet, swung her around and she found herself facing Genesis' new bike. In the 'enthusiasm' for motor vehicles that followed the Methanol Boom of 2033, there had been many and varied designs for motorcycles of increasing power, up to monsters of 9000 horsepower. When nuclear fusion- powered vehicles entered the competition, however, old standards went out the window, and Genesis' new machine was a prime example of this atomic automania. It was larger than a medium-sized horse, balancing itself on two wheels by virtue of nanoprocessor-controlled gyros. The most immediately striking feature was the toroid of the baby Tokamak fusion reactor that sat between the rider's legs where the fuel tank used to be, resembling somewhat a third wheel... this one was the size of a tractor tyre. Pointing straight out from behind was the MAD/MHD generator that turned a short-lived stream of high-energy neutrons into electric current with almost 95 percent efficiency, the remaining five percent escaping out the back in spectacular flares of ionised flame whenever the accelerator was given a good kick. Kely was mesmerised with the black-and-gold mechanist perversity of it, the sleek automated sexuality. While downing a few MDMA-based drinks in the back bar of the Retreat, Genesis tantalised her with stories of his ride up to Ballarat on the back of The Beast, as it was named. "Still a few kinks to be ironed out," he said. "When you get up around the upper registers -say, moving past two-twenty KPH, it vibrates like a bastard. I think it's the back-regulating Ogilvies, they aren't compatible with the previous revs of the monitor routines, so when you move around that speed, it loses synch-" Kely interrupted him by pushing his helmet into his lap. "Control-C to that, you idiot. Come on, I wanna ride that thing." Many motorcycling enthusiasts who remembered the good old days, the last three decades of the twentieth century, often complained that 'those damn electrocycles were too quiet'. This had led to the development of synthesized engine-noises, synched with the magnetic gear systems and pushed through amplifiers that would have given your average Marshall stack a run for its money. Two of the four chromed tubes that flared out of the back of the electrocycle had very little to do with the operation of the engines: they were complex speakers (the other two were ionisation exhausts). Genesis took a spare helmet from the pack, shook it out and handed it to Kely as the monofilaments writhed into shape. Within seconds the helmet was as hard as a lexan eggshell. She placed it over her head, adjusting the earphones, tapping the microphone, tuning the FM intercom and aligning the heads-up display. Genesis made a final adjustment to his helmet, grasped the handlebar and leaned the bike almost sixty degrees over on its gyros. They got on, and the bike shifted back to its upright position, swaying as the gyros settled. Genesis hadn't shut down the reactor when he stopped at the Forger's Retreat, and so within seconds seventy thousand watts of power was humming through the toroidal tokamak. He pressed a function key on the keyboard, twisted the throttle, and a roar like a purring bengal tiger at ninety-five decibels rattled the Retreat's windows again. There was room for at least four people on the padded leather back of The Beast, but Kely snuggled up close behind Genesis as they swung out onto the road that joined the MacMillan Highway north, more out of a need for something to hang onto than anything else. As they passed a group of ninety-year-old pedal-cyclists wearing battered stack-hats, Genesis gave them a taste of the sound- system, scattering them like frightened sheep. One of them gave the finger just before he fell off his bike. When they reached the highway, Genesis kicked the magnetic gears up to sixty percent, and smoothly accelerated to one-eighty. At that speed, where the wind made speaking or even shouting impractical, they spoke through the FM links in the helmets. "Are you sure these things are properly tuned? I keep picking up 3RRR." "That's probably because their new transmitter spreads a bit. It'll fade once we get near the border." As they gradually settled at a touch under 200 KPH, the sun set on their left, and Genesis kicked in the xenon headlamps, which were set to aim themselves downwards whenever the oncoming radar sensed another vehicle on the nine-lane road. As it got colder, Kely snuggled up to Genesis, and tucked her hand under his crotch. As they gradually reached 215 KPH, the vibration that Genesis had mentioned made its first appearance. For a fraction of a second, as they passed a certain speed, Kely was reminded of sitting on the corner of an ancient washing machine as it reached the end of its spin cycle. The resulting orgasm had prompted her to wash everybody's clothes twice that weekend. She blew into the voice-activated microphone to get Genesis' attention. "Hey, drop down to two-fifteen, and then accelerate slowly..." He did so, and Kely noted from the heads-up display that as they moved from 218 to 223 KPH, a powerful series of vibrations induced a wonderful feeling that reached from between her thighs up to the pit of her stomach. She squeezed the seat with her legs as they topped 225 KPH, and she gasped when Genesis slowed down and accelerated again, this time taking almost two minutes to reach the speed at which the vibration faded. As he slowed again, she unzipped his pants, stuck one hand down their front and carefully shifted him back on the seat slightly so that she was pressed hard against him over the exact spot on the motorcycle seat where the vibrations were strongest. Genesis set up a small routine that would gradually accelerate, slow down and accelerate again in a loop, and executed it. As they hit 221, she grabbed him around the waist, and almost fell off as the vibrations brought her to orgasm. Genesis tightened the parameters of the program-loop so that their speed cycled between 219 and 223. She cried out loud as they went over a slightly older section of the road, tiny jolts making themselves apparent even through the fluorine-filled shock absorbers, producing an even more sensuous feeling. She grasped his erection in one hand, and slipped the other between his groin and the seat. He took his hands off the handlebars, reached back and stroked her behind as the autopilot overtook a seventy-metre-long timber transport. The driver must have caught a glimpse of what they were up to, the sound of his horn dopplering down as they left him behind. As Genesis again reduced the range of their velocity-variation, she began to slide backwards and forwards in the seat, her feet set firmly in the toe-guards, at the same time tugging on Genesis' dick and squeezing his balls. He grabbed the handlebars with one hand and twisted the throttle in ecstacy, producing a roaring bass overtone to the road-and engine-vibrations. And then, five things happened in the space of five seconds: 1. A flashing orange rectangle appeared on their heads-up displays, indicating a software failure in the motorcycle's operating system; 2. An idiot in a huge mining dump-truck, who had gone to sleep at the wheel while listening to a Jimmy Barnes CD, appeared over the next hill, driving on the wrong side of the road; 3. Their emergency radar beeped a warning; 4. Which caused the motorcycle's crashed operating system to accelerate them directly into the front of the oncoming truck at almost 255 KPH; 5. They both had time to experience a simultaneous orgasm before the truck wiped them off the road. The idiot in the dump-truck shook his head, muttered something unintelligible in his sleep and rested his head against the steering wheel as the truck continued on its way. novembre 1990/Januar 1991 |
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All work on this site is © Nikolai Kingsley unless otherwise stated. |