Daemon

Friction coefficients instinctively ran through his head and muscle memory took over.
    The first blue sedan screamed past on the right rear flank with a margin so close the wind pounded into Merritt’s thigh.
    Merritt leaned right.
    Half a second later, two more sedans clipped each other just feet behind him. Hollow crashing sounds – as of rolling vehicles – boomed, then quickly faded behind him.
    The fourth one came so close it tore Merritt’s left rear turning light off. This left Merritt wavering and off balance. The motorcycle yawed from side to side for a few moments until he got it back under control. He was now highly aware that he wasn’t wearing riding gear.
    He looked up to see Loki’s pack of cars racing through the decommissioned base’s front gate. Merritt shot a glance behind him. Two cars were pursuing and closing fast. He yanked on the throttle, and raw acceleration nearly ripped him off the saddle.
    Merritt raced down a lane between hangars and keyed his radio. ‘Merritt to Secom. In pursuit of Loki. He’s headed … east … in an armored, silver late-model BMW. It’s surrounded by a pack of unmanned vehicles. More are headed your way.’
    The Major’s voice came in over the radio.
‘Agent Merritt, terminate this pursuit. Repeat: Terminate pursuit immediately.’
    Merritt emerged from between the hangars and saw Loki’s pack racing out into the city streets, smashing other traffic aside. ‘Negative. This guy’s a danger to the public.’
    ‘Repeat: Terminate this chase!’
    ‘I don’t report to you, Major! Until the bureau orders me otherwise, I’m going after this bastard. Out.’
    He accelerated out the abandoned front gates of Alameda Naval Air Station and hit the surface roads with a bounce.
    Gragg cinched the racing harness tighter around his body as the powerful BMW AutoM8 roared into the streets of Oakland.
    The unmanned steering wheel spun crazily as it went into a power slide around the corner. AutoM8s crowded Gragg’s car on either side, muscling other cars out of their way. His entourage was a pack of a dozen sedans. He saw their random, alphanumeric call-outs hovering in D-Space all around him.
    He concentrated further ahead – on the dozens more AutoM8s streaming in toward him from across the city. His strength was growing by the minute, now reaching upwards of a hundred vehicles.
    He waved his gloved hands and screeched cars across the mouths of distant intersections, sealing out cross-traffic and opening the way ahead.
    Gragg’s own pack invaded a busy intersection against the light – sparking several broadside crashes as his minions forced a path for him. Smashing glass followed screeching rubber. Wrecked cars spun out of control, and pedestrians ran for cover.
    Gragg’s BMW raced through the carnage and past a localpatrolman ticketing a landscaper’s truck. Gragg’s eyes narrowed, and he brought video from dashboard cameras of a trailing AutoM8 up onto his HUD display. In the video window Gragg could see the local cop sprinting to his squad car, speaking urgently into his hand radio.
    With a subtle motion of his hand Gragg clicked on the license plate of the police car, locking the nearest AutoM8 onto it.
    The video image disappeared in a cloud of snow on impact, and Gragg chuckled to himself, imagining the consequences.
    On the tarmac surrounding Building Twenty-Nine, two white panel vans came to a stop as a dozen more AutoM8s circled around them, on guard. The rear doors to each van opened, and metal mesh ramps dropped onto the pavement with a clang.
    A deep, guttural roar rose over the other engines, and down each ramp rolled a riderless, black racing motorcycle with dozens of brushed steel blades running along their tops and sides like cooling fins. Neither bike had handlebars, but instead had forward-mounted hydraulic assemblies of brushed steel, folded tightly. A cowling of black laminate armor enclosed the front. In place of a rider’s saddle was a circular steel dome about a foot in diameter, its surface etched with mystical symbols. Nearly every inch of the bikes was covered in runes and glyphs and razor-sharp blades. They were as much fetish objects as machines.
    The motorcycles rolled to a stop and twin hydraulic jacks slammed down onto the pavement like oversized kickstands or half-formed legs. They thrust each bike nearly a foot off the ground, where they stood revving their 1800cc engines deafeningly. Then twin robotic arms with gleaming