Buckle Up and Bunker Down

The Motor Law: presented in March of 2011; the United States government proclaimed that it would soon enact a series of regulations outlawing cars, trucks, busses, SUVs and most other typical modes of personal transportation in favor of newer vehicles presented to the public. These vehicles – known as SDVs – navigated themselves. Citizens of the United States would be forced to trade in their vehicles for these new and improved safety nets. All that was necessary to ‘drive’ the SDVs was an address or just a general destination input into a computer and the vehicles would trek on their merry way. Able to detect and navigate around other SDVs and obstacles while remaining on the road, they were designed and created to make car accident fatalities a thing of the past. No brake or gas pedals, no steering wheel – just a globe with windows and seats and an assortment of entertainment for the riders.

Those initial models were somewhat basic but surprisingly comfortable and interesting-enough for most people to give up their personal vehicles. Not everyone was as compliant, and those that weren’t continued to drive their own vehicles. Of course, they found it difficult to maneuver around the vast number of globular vehicles that possessed a much broader range of maneuverability. These "obsolete vehicles" were considered a safety hazard and the police were given the task of hunting down these lingering cars and arresting their owners before dealing with the rest. It got to the point that outside tips on the existence of these soon-to-be outdated cars were rewarded monetarily. This only outraged the ranks of people not quite willing to give up their cars…but one event silenced everything.

A rumor led to a tip that a forty-six year-old male (a newly unemployed mechanic) was harboring some sort of sports car in his home. When authorities arrived and informed him of the tip and their search warrant, he defended his home and refused to let them onto his property. An argument ensued; guns were drawn and an over-eager and excitable young officer opened fire, injuring the man who was also a father. While he was rushed to the hospital in the ambulance model of the SDV, he succumbed to his injuries and the ensuing search resulted in no car…only a twenty-six year old man with his father’s mechanical prowess and a basement door hidden beneath a patch of seemingly normal grass with a ramp on the other side…

But that was over a hundred years ago.

That killing – however accidental – silenced most who opposed the Motor Law. Those that were only further enraged were thrown in jail for any number of felonies and misdeeds until all was quiet and the country adjusted and succumbed to its new reality. As technology advanced, so did the transportation. The original SDVs were upgraded any number of times and trains were replaced by massive and rather oddly-shaped vehicles known as Turbine Freights, which carried twice the people at higher speeds and were even safer than their obsolete counterparts. Life had quieted…generally. A small number of those outlawed cars still existed…and their owners had created an underground to use and appreciate their cars. A network of people all inter-connected by a forbidden hobby with knowledge and the ability to procure assorted fuel, tires, parts, et cetera. The authorities were aware of this and, despite their best attempts to quell them, all had failed…

…so came their new plan.

Federal funding provided them with rebuilt sports cars specifically used to train officers to drive. With actual, drivable cars out of commission for over a century, the vast majority of the younger generation was without the knowledge or ability to handle them, after all. It started with a basic equivalent of a driver’s education course and escalated into higher speeds and even drifting – all long-forgotten arts. And in the state of New York, one driver was shining above the rest: a young man at the age of twenty-eight by the name of Derek Avery. He stood at a full six feet, three inches of lean and toned muscle. Short blond hair sat atop his head and green eyes shone with all the confidence he possessed…which was rather immeasurable. It should come as no surprise that women loved the bachelor that he was and he was one of the best up-and-coming officers in the area. Of course this left him with an assortment of friends as well as enemies…not that he cared. He was in it for the thrill…mostly. It also helped that he was descended from a long line of military and authoritative figures.

Little did he know that he was in for the assignment of his young life.

It was a crisp day at the end of April when the vehicle-trained officers were being put through their paces for their superiors in an enclosed training track. While many of them were struggling out of sheer lack of talent for handling the machines or the stress of the scrutiny, Derek was flying quite elegantly through the course without breaking a sweat (metaphorically) in the frame and casing of the basic stock car they were provided. With one hand on the wheel and the other on the shifter, he down-shifted into second gear and approached a tight corner. Shifting his right hand to the emergency break, he pulled just as he turned the wheel into the corner, tapping the gas immediately and releasing the break mid-corner to drift fluidly through it. He came out of the corner a little closer to the edge of the track than he had meant to, but shrugged it off and sped back onto the straight track.

It was a work in progress.

Just as he was about to make a second – hopefully cleaner – attempt, he lost power to the car and the breaks triggered, bringing him and all the other cars on the track to a slow and easy stop. He growled incoherently into the helmet. Those bastards always had to stop him when he was really getting into it…

A gravelly but amused masculine voice reached his ears over the speakers in his helmet.

“Very nice, gentlemen. Lieutenant Derek Avery, please report to Captain Harold Lamarr’s office. Thank you.”

He swore and yanked the helmet from his head, throwing it harshly onto the floor where the passenger seat should have been. He opened the door and slammed it with an equal force to the playful hoots and calls of ‘Someone’s busted!’ and ‘What’d you do this time, asshole?’ to all of which his full lips just pulled up into a smirk. His only retort was to lift his right hand into the air with nothing but his raised middle finger waving high for the world to see. More hoots and laughter followed as he dropped both hands into the pockets of his black training slacks and kicked a door open with the toe of his heavy black boot. He was dressed in the same training attire as the rest, complete with a gray t-shirt stretched rather tightly over the muscles in his chest and tucked beneath a black belt. The shirt was a size or two too small, and he suspected the young woman who had distributed the uniforms (and who he’d been shamelessly flirting with for the past few months) had purposely given him the smaller shirt.

Chuckling at the thought, he nodded a few greetings to the people he passed and threw the Captain’s door open to find not-only the older and balding uniformed man seated behind his desk, but also two other much more official-looking and younger men standing at either end. His eyebrows rose briefly before he was greeted by the familiar Captain.

“Nice job out there as usual, Derek.”

He found that he was smirking before he could stop himself. “Thank you, sir.” He would’ve said more, but they were in the presence of company.

“I assume you are curious as to the reason we called you here.”

He couldn’t help a sarcastic reply. “If it has to do with the hole in the wall of the gun range I’ll have you know I had nothing to do with it.”

Old Captain Harry chuckled rather nervously and waved a scarred hand dismissively.

“No, no! This isn’t a time for jokes now, Lieutenant. These gentlemen, here, have chosen you for the assignment.”

Despite himself, Derek’s eyes widened and his eyebrows rose up on his forehead even as one of the younger officers started talking.

“You have definitely shown the most skill, promise and confidence over the course of the training program and, should you choose to accept it, your mission will entail getting into the Underground Racing Circuit and becoming one of them. This will give you the opportunity to provide us with the intel necessary to take them down once and for all. Do you accept?”

He tried to avoid letting his irritation creep into his expression. Honestly, what legitimate, self-respecting officer actually used the words ‘your mission, should you choose to accept it’ in any way, shape or form? He felt like he was in some old movie. What the hell were they? With the secret agent…? James…James something…

James Bond!

Instead of voicing his distaste for the phrasing, he simply nodded. “I gratefully accept the challenge.”

The other unfamiliar officer smirked and headed towards the door with only “Come with me” as an explanation. Indignant at being commanded like a dog, he traipsed heavily behind the baseball-capped head of the uniformed officer, throwing mental insults at the shorter and stockier figure…until he stopped and turned at a door leading into the department’s new garage.

Brown eyes arrogantly met green.

“Your rendezvous time is twenty-two hundred hours. You have until twenty to become acquainted with your ‘new ride’. Further instructions will be given then. In the meantime…” The officer - whose name Derek had yet to learn - threw the door open and stepped aside. “…enjoy.”

With the open door, overhead lights automatically clipped on and Derek’s expression lightened considerably as his gaze landed on the jet black Nissan GTR (he estimated it at a year of either 2011 or 2012).

This was going to be more fun than he expected.

And, in another city – that of Buffalo, New York – a slender-fingered hand gracefully removed rectangular-framed glasses from a petite nose. A sigh puffed past neatly painted lips as a free hand rubbed the temples of her forehead. The sun beamed into the broad windows of the office in which the young woman sat.

“Dr. Harrison?”

Startling blue eyes looked up from the screen-top of the desk she sat behind before the glasses were perched upon the bridge of her nose yet again. She smiled lightly at the young blonde that shifted awkwardly on her sneakers.

“Yes, Clara?”

Nervous brown eyes flashed to hers before dropping to the tiled floor of the office. “Um, your two o’clock is here. Mr. and Mrs. Daniels are ready to complete the gene sequence.”

Skye sighed gently and dropped an index finger to the screen of the desk, scrolling through several digital files before landing upon the one she had been looking for. Ah, yes – James and Mary Daniels. Four months into their first pregnancy, they were already beyond paranoid and wanted to make sure their little girl was going to end up with just the right hair, eyes, nose and so on...

She looked up from the screen and offered the nurse a smile.

“Go ahead and show them to the exam room and tell them I will be with them momentarily.”

Clara nodded and closed the office door behind her. Skye remained at her desk for a moment longer, dragging her finger through the file and skimming over the basics. Geneticists had certainly evolved over the past century. With the ability of gene and chromosomal manipulation perfected, what was once used to prevent birth defects and other such genetic disorders was now being abused to give the parents the pick of their genetic material. Of course, there was still much to do and they were currently only capable of going through to a certain level of the gene pool, but none-the-less it was a ridiculous business. Skye often questioned why she had chosen the genetics branch in the first place. Surgery had been the more obvious choice considering her adept hands …but it drew too much attention to them.

At the thought, she smirked to herself and glanced down at her left hand – a fresh burn marred a good inch or so of the top of her hand...a burn she had not acquired from cooking. Absolutely not! After arriving home at 1:30 that morning in a blaze of frustration and anger, she had so foolishly attempted to check the consistency of her radiator fluid with the engine of her dear baby still blazing hot. Luckily, out of sheer habit, she had used the top of her hand to test the temperature of the cap only to be met with brief but searing pain as she recoiled.

Well, it had definitely been hot.

She chuckled at her own mindlessness and stood, brushing a strand of her slightly curly black hair behind her shoulders. A small jaw hairclip held most of it out of her face, but the ebony locks fell just past her shoulder blades and the occasional strand came forward just enough to bother her. Straightening her typical white lab coat, she further adjusted her red blouse over her black slacks and tried to clack as lightly as possibly out of the office in her black heels.

Several of the nurses she passed greeted her cheerfully and she returned each gesture politely. The office was nice and quiet. A change and pleasant break from her night life…it could get old, though. It often became a bland routine that triggered only muscle memory as opposed to her whole-hearted attention. She opened the door to the exam room and immediately pulled on a pair of gloves before greeting the typical, suburban couple. With some small talk and a quick, basic exam, she set the small pill capsule in the machine on the counter and scrolled through a screen nearby to set up the list of genes the nanobots within the capsule would be programmed to alter throughout the rest of the pregnancy. Of course, she didn't forget the base few that would prevent any chromosomal abnormalities.

Amazing technology it was.

Within an hour or so, the appointment was done – the nanobots properly programmed and the capsule ingested by the expectant mother. Skye – Dr. Harrison – gave a few suggestions and the like to ensure the health of mother and child until the next appointment and bid the couple farewell. She had several other appointments that day, and before her last, she glanced at the time projected digitally upon a wall in her office.

5:30 pm.

A mischievous, if not menacing, smirk uncharacteristic of the quiet and composed Dr. Harrison tweaked the corners of her lips upward. In two hours, she would be slipping into her own SDV programmed for home…and then ditch it in favor of a real machine…

…a work of art.

*---*

Despite his frustration at the lack of directions, an arrogant smirk played across Derek Avery’s lips. The GTR was everything he had dreamed of and more. In the past several hours he had become well-acquainted with the sleek and high-revving car and was more at-ease than ever…

…now if only he could find where the hell he was supposed to go. ‘Just drive down Eagle Road and you’ll see headlights’. That was really specific. Of course, the drive down the seemingly endless stretch of deserted pavement gave him some time to think. His briefing of the case was simply this: identify the driver of a dark-colored Ford Mustang with white rally stripes. Apparently, that was the ring-leader who always seemed to let the rest of the group get away while also eluding the authorities himself. The lieutenant was baffled as to how one person in some century-old car could possibly evade capture for the past ten years or so. And, apparently, these people would just accept him, without question, into their little racing group for whatever appalling reason. Foolishly trusting naivety was probably the case.

A bright cacophony of lights blared into life in front of him, his reflexes dropping his foot to the break and clutch to throw the car in neutral when he finally came screeching to a halt. Certain that he wasn’t going anywhere, he was finally able to distinguish different sets of lights of all shapes and sizes in an arc.

Headlights.

Apparently he had found the right place. With a smirk reclaiming his lips, he shut the car off and threw the door open, rising to stand with his hands in the air as if to surrender. One by one, headlights died off until only the nearly-full moon lit the sky, illuminating both his own silhouette as well as those of an assortment of cars and people standing near them. He finally dropped his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and slowly walked forward.

“I take it I’m in the right place?”

Another male stepped forward, a good ten years older than he but also twice as menacing. “Depends on what you’re here for, kid.”

Derek clenched his jaw and tried to ease his temper. He couldn’t start a fight and blow his cover already…

“I’m here to race, old man.”

Whispers and chuckles kicked up amongst the group of cars. Derek’s sweep of the area had shown there were at least seven cars that he could see, eight including his own. It was difficult to gauge the colors, as all were dark and the lighting wasn't exactly ideal.

“Well, you little punk – why don’t you try me on for size since you’re such a hot shot?” his new-found ‘friend’ shot, taking a defensive stance beside the Dodge Challenger (a meticulous model from the 1970s that Derek couldn’t help but marvel at momentarily. It was old!) that obviously belonged to him. As much as the young officer wanted to take the older male down a notch…he wasn’t interested in an old Challenger.

“Actually I’m here to challenge a Mustang I’ve heard about. Dark with white rally stripes?”

There was a heavy pause and then several people started to snicker, including the owner of the Challenger.

“Set your sights pretty high, don’t ya, Kid?”

He was really starting to get annoyed with that ‘kid’ business…but before he could retort, he was shocked when an amused but surprisingly feminine voice addressed him.

“A dark Mustang, huh? You sure you want to go there? I mean, we don’t race for ownership or anything…but most don’t want to humiliate themselves so early on.”

Derek found his eyes pulled to the right to land on a pair of light-colored sneakers and scrape, painfully slow, up a pair of long, toned legs clad in a pair of khaki shorts with a hem at mid-thigh. A dark-colored (he cursed the lack of lighting) t-shirt clung to and emphasized a clearly feminine figure and, even in the dimness of the area, he could see the beauty of this young woman’s face with her long, curly dark hair swept up in a casual ponytail and neatly-painted lips set in a neutral line.

And then he found her eyes.

An explosion of confidence stabbed at him through a pair of shockingly brilliant blue orbs. It startled him briefly…actually, her general presence entirely startled him. He had expected only men from this group, with whatever women were around draped over the vehicles wearing as little clothing as possible like in all those old car movies he’d seen in his tweens…but she was definitely not one of those girls.

He finally pulled himself away from the image and thoughts of her body to speak. “I think I can handle it. Go big or go home, I always say.”

She studied him for a moment and then smirked. “Well…if you insist…” She strolled towards him and he tried with all his might to keep his eyes off the sway of her hips and on the hand that extended towards him when she was within reach, instead. “I like to know the names of my opponents. My name’s Skye.”

Those two sentences smacked him in the face, and as he instinctively reached forward and shook her hand, he realized this could make his job so much easier. If she was really the driver of the Mustang, all he would have to do was work his magic – seduce her, for lack of a better term – and he would have all the information he needed. And, to top it all off, he could have some not-so-innocent fun.

He tilted his chin down slightly to meet the petite woman’s gaze more easily. She was almost a foot shorter than him…he liked that.

“Derek. So you’re the driver of the Mustang?” he mused aloud, unintentionally letting his skepticism seep into his tone. And unfortunately for him, she noticed and dropped his hand. Pride sparked through her gaze and he noticed her entire demeanor change.

“Yes, yes I am. He’s not just any Mustang either.”

His eyebrows rose condescendingly. “Oh really?”

Mistake.

One of Skye’s eyebrows tweaked and she pushed her shoulders back and defiantly met his gaze. Their audience was becoming more amused.

“Yes, really. A 2011, Shelby GT500 Super Snake that has been tweaked and perfected over the past century only at the hands of my family. Now…” she paced over to his GTR, studying it briefly before meeting his gaze again. “Stock, these things have what, five hundred and thirty horsepower?” She didn’t wait for him to answer. “And, judging from the sound of it when you pulled up, you haven’t done too much more to it…so I put you at a max of seven hundred, maybe seven hundred and fifty horsepower?” He nodded slightly. She was better than he expected, and it worried him somewhat when her smirk turned even more devious. “Mustangs like mine had three different horsepower options: six hundred and sixty, over seven hundred…and then eight hundred…” She paused for effect. “I’ll let you guess which one Keith is. And there have been…improvements over the years.”

So basically, she was telling him that he stood no chance…and in the back of his mind, he would admit that. Even if she was the worst driver in history, that amount of horsepower was a huge advantage. And he mentally swore at the bastards who had picked the GTR. Obviously they hadn’t put too much thought into it and had completely underestimated their opponents.

She waved a hand dismissively. “Of course...it’s not all about the horsepower…the driver counts for something. So I guess we’ll find out.” She smiled sweetly and winked. “Let’s get a line-up going, shall we, Derek?” Her smile didn’t fade nor change as she turned and strolled casually to the beast lying behind the cars that were clearing the road to make way for the starting-line set up. He couldn’t help but watch her open the door to the car and disappear into it.

He was so screwed.