The night is buzzing and the lights on the canal are bright as diamonds; he can't remember taking any pills but he must have, two at least if he's gapping, and there's a hole in his memory where the past several hours should be. Holes in his head, no doubt, but there's the black, compact power of his Vision Mark 1 beneath him and the night in every direction stretching in endless coils. He laughs; he is ready, more than ready, and his hands are tight on the throttle. Aida is next to him, small body sleek across a red Mark 2, and Gin (Sword AX, black), Maj (Vision Mark 1, yellow) and Lukas (Rise 100x, green), all helmeted, ready, engines revving, thrumming like struck heart strings, like half suppressed desire. He doesn't know which of them started (it might have been him), but it's started, the space under the highway falling away and the canal receding in his mirrors; Aida pulls ahead, tail light streaming, first to the road and then it's Maj and Gin and Lukas (he lets them go, savoring it, their wheels silver black blurs, bodies nearly fused to their machines), the sound carrying him as much as his bike, buzz saws ripping through the night. They lean into a curve and ascend the concrete ramp, the city revealed by degrees over the rail until all at once the highway spreads out in front of them, orange in the glare of towering lamp posts, a river of pavement with no end in sight. He accelerates to catch up with Aida; lamps steak the faceplate she tilts in his direction, and then she is hurtling forward, head down, cruising. Gin passes him and he watches the red, knife sharp trailing of their lights, turns again to the skyline, the windows whipping past, a helicopter running parallel over the roofs of the towers, its search light vividly seeking. Aida has her arms upraised, for an instant, and he imagines her brief, girlish laugh as she does this. Gin swerves to the left, edging the median. They pass a car, a heavy, lumbering block, and then another and another and another, darting between them, drifting in and out of the spaces that are always there, expanding and contacting, the road a neural net and the five of them synapses, firing. They cruise; the highway burns away and Aida takes the parade exit, the four of them following in her wake. The Avenue of Parades stretches on and up, stately granite government buildings on either side cut by black tree limbs, statues of important men running at intervals in the strip of grass between the lanes. They pass one intersection, and another, but at the third a light stops them; he pulls next to Aida and the others fall into a neat line to his right. They exchange no glances. His bike is very hot between his thighs; he knows they will be going for hours.
