Ian Hocking - Déjà Vu

David poured himself another cup. He had burned his palate and was already tired of his rescuer. Tom Sawyer…

‘TS4415. Happy?’

‘Thank you. Immediately below this computer is a heated box containing clothes. Please do not touch any of the clothing in this storage shed.’

‘Why not?’

‘It does not belong to you.’

David bolted the last of the soup and let the space blanket fall. He opened the crate, took a warm T-shirt, pushed it into his face and sighed. He found hiking boots, thermal underwear, jeans, an over-shirt, gloves, a heavy-duty sports jacket, a scarf and a woollen hat.

‘At the end of this bench you will see a lock pick for your handcuffs.’

He took the gun-shaped device. It had a tapered end that formed different shapes when the trigger was pulled. He set about freeing the cuffs. A dozen clicks later, they released. He let them fall and swung his arms experimentally.

‘What’s the plan, computer?’

‘Beyond the partition you will find a motorbike.’

‘Oh.’ David’s excitement was undercut by the thought of his Matchless G80, a custom-restored beauty that had been in his garage when his house burned.

‘Watch this, please. The bike is an advanced model.’ The computer screen changed to show a cartoon motorbike. ‘It has a key ignition. The keys are in the bike. Turn the key to the second position and press the start button. The right-hand grip is the accelerator and its lever is the front brake. The left-hand lever is the back brake. Always use both brakes simultaneously.’

David began to dress. He was careful to transfer Jennifer’s drawing to his new clothes. ‘Go on.’

‘Remember, the left-hand lever is not the clutch. The bike has an automatic gear transmission. The on-board processor will select its own gears based on speed, predicted traction, orientation and so on. In the event this processor malfunctions, the bike will revert to a mechanical automatic transmission.’

David pulled on the gloves. ‘OK.’

‘Your left foot will rest naturally with the metal tab under the heel and another tab over the toes. The same for your right foot. If you move your feet like so…’ the stick figure on the computer screen squeezed its heels, ‘…then the engine will increase its power output by one quarter for five seconds.’

The stick figure raced away.

‘Got it.’

He parted the sack-cloth divider and whistled. The bike had a low profile and wide, spiked tyres. Hydraulic pistons connected the chassis to the steering column. The colour scheme was chrome silver. On the tank, in the precision flourish of an artist’s signature, was the word Moiré .

‘Professor Proctor,’ said the computer agent. Its voice was louder. ‘There are two, possibly three, motorbikes approaching from the south.’

Found .

David scooped the helmet from the seat and threw it on his head. He’d fasten the chin strap later. ‘OK, computer, I’m gone.’

‘Wait. Take the rucksack. It contains important travel documents.’

‘Right.’ He flung it across his shoulders.

‘One more thing.’

‘What?’

‘Please press the red switch on the computer. It is an explosive device with a ten-second delay.’

David pressed it and jumped on the bike. Outside, the other bikes had arrived. Their engine tones dropped. He could smell their exhausts. He turned the key, pressed the ignition switch and the bike awoke. He felt the suspension rise, then fall.

David was poised to walk the bike forward when a helmeted man entered the shed. To judge by his clothing, he was a farm hand. Their eyes met, David’s widened, and the laptop exploded. The sound was loud and concussive. Both were struck by the debris. The man retreated from the shed in a crouch, one arm across his face.

David lowered his head, gunned the engine, and went nowhere. He looked over his shoulder. The tyre was spinning itself into a blur. He came off the power and it bit into the concrete floor. The bike reared like a startled horse. As the front wheel dropped, he swung the nose and charged through the door, knocking it open.

He burst into the field.

If his old Matchless was a broadsword, the Moiré was a rapier. From the corner of his eye, he saw another bike flash by at a right angle. It was difficult to guess what the rider was doing because he couldn’t see behind him; the bike had no wing mirrors.

‘I could really do with a backwards-facing camera,’ he muttered.

There was a beep from the bike. David glanced down. The dashboard showed the view from a small camera mounted on the back of the bike. He counted three bikes, riding in an even, wide spread. They were gaining.

He turned downhill. The handling improved. He looked down, unsure of what had changed. The hydraulic rods that connected the chassis to the steering column were correcting his steering. He felt an odd mixture of relief and indignation. ‘Have it your way. But where am I going?’

There was a hedge approaching. It was impossible to judge its height, but it would certainly hurt at—he checked the speedometer—thirty-five miles per hour.

Another bleep and the bike showed him a contour map of the area. A red dot flashed in the centre, which David took to represent his position. A blue arrow trailed to the southwest. At the bottom of the map, a revolving logo read Easy Rider(TM) SatNav. The blue line pointed left so he pulled a wobbly left-hander and rode parallel with the hedge. The ground became muddier and he was forced to slow.

A biker slid into view on his right, between him and the hedge. The profile of this man’s machine was much higher than his own. His helmet was open-faced but he wore goggles and a blue bandana, highwayman-style. The man flapped his arm. Pull over.

On David’s left, another bike appeared. It was the man who had been in the shed when the laptop exploded. David watched him with envy. He seemed to ride the bike with his fingers and toes. The bike undulated and swerved yet the rider’s body kept a perfect, comfortable line. David, by contrast, was at risk of bouncing from his seat.

‘Computer, rear view.’

Another bleep. The display showed that the third bike was still behind, but not far. They had him in a pincer.

Movement to his left. A boot connected with his bike. David swore. He wobbled and slid, but managed to stay upright. Moments later he felt his palms go slick with sweat. That had been close. His stomach and fingertips tingled.

David searched the area for a way out. There was low ground on the other side of the hedge. To his left, the ground banked steeply upwards. That way led back to the equipment shed. He had to get over that hedge and into the next field. There was no way he could outrun his pursuers. On the flat, maybe. His bike was faster.

He dipped into a steep ditch and was forced to brake heavily. He slowed. The wheels slid, locked, and he walked the bike up the other side. He turned to see that the other bikers had gone high to ride around the top of the ditch. They were waiting for him. Abruptly, he heaved the front of the bike around, surprised at its sudden, dead weight, and headed back the way he had come.

He retraced his route along the hedge. He built up his straight-line speed. After a glance at the camera, he pulled on the back brake and spun the rear of the bike. He sat and panted. His breath clouded the visor so he flicked it up. There were lines of sweat on his temples.

He removed his gloves—they dangled by strips of Velcro—and looped the chin strap through its metal link and tugged. It held. He had maybe four seconds until the oncoming bikes reached him.

He slapped down his visor and raked the throttle. Once again he was riding, gathering speed.