Any Way the Wind Blows
Chapter 3, part 1 Word Count: 818
When Shasta finally hauled the bike from the car wreck and righted it, stars were splattered across the dark blue sky, and the climbing moon shone on his crimson uniform. His tattered fishing clothes were stowed in the cargo rack and a honey capsule was tucked into his cheek. It was wonderfully sweet. He keyed in his fingerprint and mounted the bike as the engine thrummed. White lines twisted across the nav screen, marking the coast, cliff edges, and the road ahead. Wordlessly, Shasta began to drive.
A few hours into the night, it was clear that the trip was going better than the night before. As the path descended into twisting and crisscrossing ravines, Shasta began to lean into turns to help the auto-stabilizer, to accelerate and decelerate more smoothly, to anticipate the jumps and kicks of the bike when he cut corners or leapt potholes. The ravine walls were so high, three men stacked wouldn’t clear the upper rim, and the bed of damp pebbles crunched under the bike’s tires.
The moon was high when Shasta broke the silence. “Tell me about Narnia.”
“92% of my knowledge is classified beyond your current level of clearance. Eyes on the road, please.”
Shasta made a face. “My eyes are already on the road. Tell me the information I’m allowed to hear,” he prodded, swerving and thumping over ruts in the gravel.
“If you didn’t drift to your left every time you talked, I might be convinced.”
“I’m driving just fine!” Shasta protested. The bike hit a pothole head on, bouncing through with a thump.
“Eyes on the road!”
Shasta ducked his head, focusing on the road. The moon was bright, but the ravine floor remained swathed in shadows. He didn’t dare turn on the headlight while they were still near Bithersee. He swerved around a pothole, then began weaving, jiggling the handlebars so the bike zig-zagged.
“What are you doing?” the AI asked.
“Practicing,” Shasta said, squinting at the road. He nearly hit a protrusion in the canyon wall and jerked the handlebars to the side.
“Practicing what, exactly?”
“Control.” He wavered near the other ravine wall.
“I appreciate the sentiment but: stop.” Shasta grinned, wiggling the handlebars. The bike thu-thumped through another pothole. “I said stop! You’re scaring me.”
“Can AI feel fear?” he asked, genuinely curious.
The bike buzzed. “It’s hard to know. But I do know that these rocks would be a lot less comfortable to fall on if I were to turn off the auto-stabilizer right now, Mr. Ace Speeder.”
“Is that a threat?” Shasta asked, taking a sharp turn a little too fast and tilting momentarily.
The AI switched tacks. “If you have one pressing question, I’ll answer it as best as I can. Just stop doing-- that.” Shasta immediately straightened the handlebars.
“Deal. Tell me--” Start small. Easy to answer. “Tell me what the route will be like that we’re taking to the capital. Will we be crossing any mountains?” That would be mad cool. The bike’s tires sent pebbles clattering against each other.
“Unlikely.” Its voice cut off. Shasta rolled his eyes.
“I’m sure there’s something else you can tell me that’s not classified,” he said, raising his voice over the noise of the path. The screen flickered, catching his eye. A volume symbol, dropping to mute. “What are you doing that for?” Shasta demanded. “That was hardly a real answer.” Words flashed across the screen.
“Cah-- cau-- you know I can’t read that,” he said irritably, his glance flickering from the glass screen to the road ahead. A headlight really would be nice at this point. He had the most uncomfortable feeling of being watched. It would be wise to slow down. Instead, he twisted the gas, apprehension prickling his scalp as he accelerated. His surroundings smeared past, the canyon walls loomed dark on either side, the upper rims lined with the jagged silhouette of rocks. And up ahead, a dark mass--
A gunshot split the silence, nearly scaring him out of his skin. Light flashed, plastic shattered, water splashed: broken fragments of his plastic water bottle skittered across the canyon floor. He screamed. Ahead, his eyes mapped the shadows into a hulking blockage stretching most of the width of the ravine, on which the shooter stood. A crash was inevitable.
“Brake or I’ll blow out your tires next!” a shrill voice shouted. Shasta had already slammed the brakes, fear shooting electric through his veins, both of and for the shooter. The blockage approached far too fast. Brakes squealed as he swerved, zigzagging, throwing his weight against the pull of the auto-stabilizer as he desperately fought to decelerate. Another bullet shrieked past, clipping his ear. The bike’s tires lost their traction and it slipped onto its side, skidding across the ravine bed, skinning the side of Shasta’s leg and spinning him to a stop at the base of the blockage.
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