Pre-TMiL Songfic:
Red Barchetta

(The Operative (Trakal) belongs to Pioneer/AIC)
(Lyrics by RUSH (on Moving Pictures and Chronicles))
-----------------------
<My uncle has a country place that no one knows about.
He says it used to be a farm before the Motor Law.>

 The Sunday morning mist slowly dissipated from the
tips of the blades of grass as the Kazakan sunlight rose above
the horizon. In the distance, a rundown old building could be seen.
In the past forty or so Kazakan years, which were the equivalent
of about twenty Earth years, the building had slowly deteriorated.
But for the ten years prior to that, a migrant family of Thurnians
had worked there to make themselves a home.

 Things hadn't been all that bad on the Thurnian homeworld.
They simply had wanted to live closer to the Galactic Federation
Capitol.

 Inside the building, the eldest remaining member of the family
(most of the others had returned to their homeworld over the course of
years, some to be with elderly relatives who were ill, others simply out
of homesickness) put a kettle on the stove to boil and then set the table
for his breakfast.

 A smile crept over his face as he looked at the calendar. The
smile always appeared on his old leonine features on Sundays. That was
the day his nephew, a daredevil Draalthi his brother Sarnd had adopted
about fifty Kazakan years earlier, always visitted. The boy was the physical
equivalent of seventeen years old, Ratala IV being that much further from the
sun (it was, in fact, barely close enough to support life). The old man had
never married and his adopted nephew was the closest thing to a son he had
ever or would ever have.


<And on Sundays I elude the Eyes, and hop the Turbine Freight
to far outside the Wire, where my white-haired uncle waits.>

 Behind the dark lenses of the protective sunglasses (Draalthi eyes
are not meant to handle daylight), silver-gold eyes watched the approaching
air-train as it made its weekly run, carrying those who were permitted beyond
the electric border to their places of work. The border, which had long ago been
erected as a protection, was now a prison, used by paranoid government
officials to keep people from leaving.
 The Draalthi loved his uncle, however, and had absolutely no intentions
of permitting something as stupidly mundane as Government Paranoia interfere
with visitting him.
 He could've requested a Transit Pass, but that would've been against
his own personal belief that such a thing reduced a person to being nothing but
cargo.
 His father didn't exactly approve of his methods and scolded him on
several occasions (actually every Monday morning). However, he knew that the
man had actually been secretly pleased at his skill in eluding the electronic
surveillance system that patrolled the border.
 He watched the electronic sensor, studied the pattern of its scan, then
made his move as the air-train passed him.  As the last car passed, he leaped
onto the rear platform. For a dangerous moment, he thought he would fall, but
he quickly pulled himself up, ducking into the car just in time to avoid being
spotted by another sensor that had been passing overhead.

< (I) Jump to the ground as the Turbo slows to cross the Borderline.
Run like the wind, as excitement shivers up and down my spine.>

 Nearly thirty minutes later, the air-train slowed as it neared the
the electric border. The Draalthi waited until the patrol androids were
occupied with the driver who was giving them the usual list of passengers
and cargo, then quietly climbed leaped from the rear platform and ran for
the flaw he'd discovered in the electronic barrier when he'd been, in the
reckoning of his own people, nine years old.
 Even when he'd gotten across he kept running, not stopping until he
reached his uncle's place.

 The elderly Thurnian handed the Draalthi teenager a cup of tea and
offered him a bit of breakfast, knowing that he'd left home early and hadn't
eaten.

 "Were you spotted, Trakal?" The old Thurnian asked his grandson.
 "I almost was." Trakal replied as he winced in pain.
 "Trakal?" His uncle asked in concern.
 Trakal held out his hand. The palm had been cut somehow, probably
when he'd almost fallen he realized.  His uncle bandaged his hand with a
white cloth, tying it in place as Trakal explained how it had happened.
 "You should be more careful." The old Thurnian told the young Draalthi.
 Trakal nodded and then looked hopefully in the direction of the barn.
 "May I...?" he asked, hopefully.
 "Of course." The old man laughed. "It's out there waiting for you. But first, I
need you to help me with a few things..."

<Down in his barn, my uncle preserved for me an old machine,
for fifty-odd years. To keep it as new has been his dearest dream.>

 Trakal raced to his uncle's barn after the morning chores were finished.
This was what he'd been waiting all week for. He could feel his heart pounding
as he made his way to his goal, not the barn, but the hidden object which lie
waiting inside.

<I strip away the old debris that hides a shining car.
A brilliant red Barchetta from a better, vanished time.>

 Trakal slowly and carefully moved aside the bits of wood, metal and
plexiglass until he came upon the old-fashioned red car that sat hidden beneath.
He openned the vehicle's door and climbed into the seat, sighing as he leaned
back against the seatback and clasped his hands firmly around the steering
wheel.


I fire up the willing engine, responding with a roar.
Tires spitting gravel, I commit my weekly crime...>

 He sat for a moment, contemplating his next move. He wasn't trying to work
up his nerve to do it. He loved doing it. The exhiliration of the highly illegal
joyride
was, in his opinion, worth the risk involved.
 He smiled, grimly, as he thought of the laws that had long ago been
established. Combustion-engine vehicles, like his Barchetta, had been outlawed
by
overzealous environmentalists. He suspected that the people who invented and
sold
the air cars and air trains probably gave kickbacks to these environmentalists,
but
he didn't feel like dealing with the politics involved in defying them through
the system.

So he defied them every Sunday with his Barchetta.

 With a single deft motion,  he slipped the key into the ignition, and turned it
on. He pulled the car out of the barn and headed out along the dirt road.


<Wind in my hair-Shifting and drifting-Mechanical music-Adrenalin surge..>.

 Trakal cruised along the the dusty dirt roads in the old but well-kept
car, his teeth bared in an excited snarl as he throttled the stick shift and 
the
Barchetta moved even faster. His eyes gleamed with danger and his heart raced so
fast that
it was almost humming like the car's engine.

<Well-weathered leather, hot metal and oil, the scented country air.
Sunlight on chrome, the blur of the landscape, every nerve aware.>

 All of his senses were reeling now, with the pure enjoyment of the illegal
joyride.
He didn't care that his ride and his method of transportation were both highly
illegal. To
him, and to many others, it was a law that had meant well in its beginnings, but
which
ended up going overboard with its actual execution.

<Suddenly ahead of me, across the mountainside,
a gleaming alloy air-car shoots towards me, two lanes wide.
I spin around with shrieking tires, to run the deadly race,
Go screaming through the valley as another joins the chase.>

 He was so busy contemplating the stupidity and overzealousness of the Motor
Law that he almost didn't see the Auto Patrol unit. The car skidded as he spun
around. It
after he was facing the other way and for a terrifying split second Trakal
thought he had
lost control of the car and had put it into a full spin. The car did not spin
out of
control, however, and Trakal was quickly on his way back home, racing as fast as
he could.

 "Illegal Ground Car, this is Auto Patrol Unit AB49." A voice crackled from the
giant vehicle as it gave chase. "You are under arrest for violating the Motor
Law. Bring
your vehicle to a halt and step out."
 "Yeah, right." Trakal muttered, flooring the gas pedal instead and heading into
the
maze of streets that wound throughout the long-abandonned city that covered most
of the
valley.  He checked the mirror and found them following his every move. No
matter where he
turned, they tracked him.
 "Damn!" He growled to himself. "I've got to ditch these bastards somehow."

<Drive like the wind, straining the limits of machine and man.
Laughing out loud with fear and hope, I've got a desperate plan.>

He sped up even more, knowing that the Barchetta was at its limit. It couldn't
go any
faster. The wind stung his eyes and made it almost impossible for him to see. As
the
Barchetta left the city and sped back through the short but treacherous desert,
Trakal
screamed in pain as the sand struck him, ripping at him like tiny razors by
virtue of the
combined speed of his car and the storm. Soon the pain stopped and only the
pressure of
the wind in his face was left. He had cleared the desert. Ahead, he saw what
he'd been
hoping to see. Behind him, his two pursuers were closing in. He laughed loudly
as he
neared the bridge, hoping he'd reach it in time.


At the one-lane bridge I leave the giants stranded at the riverside.
Race back to the farm, to dream with my uncle at the fireside.>

Trakal raced onto the single lane bridge that crossed the river. He knew that
the air cars
would not deviate from the road. The Auto Patrol was much too zealous about
obedience of
the Motor Law to disobey it even for a moment.  He was right. The two vehicles
slammed on
their brakes and sat at the edge of the bridge looking like two outsmarted
bullies.

As for Trakal, he didn't stop until he reached his uncle's barn. Once inside, he
closed
the doors and carefully re-covered the Barchetta, making sure not to scratch the
surface.
Then he ran into the farmhouse where his uncle was waiting for him with a cup of 
something to drink.

"Went through the desert again, I see." His uncle said, as he examined the
abrasions on
Trakal's muzzle. "Well, you look okay. A few little nicks. You were lucky. Those
storms
can cut people to ribbons. Well, the main point is that you're okay. That's all
that
matters." He hugged Trakal.  "Your father called." He added, meaning Sarnd.
"He'll be here
in the morning, so you should get some sleep." "I suppose he's angry again."
Trakal sighed
as he curled up on the sofa. "Very." His uncle replied. "You should know better
than to
encourage him to get into as much trouble as he does." He mimicked Sarnd. Trakal
snickered
and smiled as he closed his eyes. His uncle fixed the blanket and plopped
himself down
onto the sofa by Trakal's head. He stroked his nephew's hair absently for a few
minutes
before he, too, finally fell asleep.
Lt. Trakal
Operative of the Galaxy Police SIU