Runners

12:35 p.m.

Elm and Second, Elm and Third, Elm and Fourth.

Christopher Surbond's running time was improving--ordinarily it took him forty minutes to get that far.

Excuse me, maybe I should have mentioned this data point first: running here is a serious business. It is an outlawed sport. No, no, the tardy businessman will not be arrested by the authorities, nor will the fitness freak be fired upon in the course of his daily jog. It is Chris's style of running that is illegal. It's a race in the middle of the night, when people should be at home by official mandate. The race doesn't take place on the ground--there could be cameras on the sidewalk streetlamps, so the race must be run across the space of lesser-guarded building rooftops. Anyone can join the race if they know how to find it, but special super-jumping shoes and Parkour skills are recommended, else your time could be embarrassingly slow. The Racemaster could punt you out of the race for that--the slow pose a greater chance of discovery by the police. To better ensure the race's security, the Racemaster feeds and houses all the runners, only letting them out to race at night. So if you are fast, agile, bored, and possibly unemployed, this is where to come. Just don't mess up. Let's see now, Christopher's time was improving...

With a single leap, Chris's augmented shoes shot him off the building ledge--he flipped, rolled onto the next rooftop, and quickly sprang up again to continue the run. This competition was not unlike a religion for Chris; he loved the race, but also respected it. Not a year had passed since his good buddy Tobias had been caught by the police. That was one story he knew, and it wasn't uncommon after each run for a veteran runner to recall a similar tale of bygone "justice." Jump, flip, roll, and run--Chris hadn't been caught yet, nor did he plan to be. Jump, flip, roll, and run--still making good time, and the target tower could be seen in the distance. Not much farther toward his goal now. Jump--slip!

The brick was loose--Chris's trajectory went more horizontal than vertical, spinning headlong for the solid edifice in front of him! The window--he rolled into a cannonball, trying to aim--

*KEERASH!*

Straight through the safety glass. Chris bounced once on the hardwood floor before smacking into the opposite wall like a tender bowling ball. Well... as far as crashes go, that one wasn't terrible. He unfolded his cramped limbs, taking a grudging assessment of his possible developing bruises.

Who gasped?

Chris's eyes flicked up towards the noise. A woman--pajamas and bathrobe, just jumped up from her couch. Chris had just smashed into her living room, interrupting her Mezma-cube movie. She didn't look frightened though. If fear had flared up in her at any point, she had quickly smothered it with a blanket of outrage. Now Chris, afraid to get this smothering blanket up in his face, had raised both hands to the level of his aforementioned face in a gesture that hopefully signaled peaceful intentions and/or surrender. The standoff lasted an agonizing few seconds.

She opened her mouth...

The first runner, on the wings of a powerful leap, planted both feet firmly upon the target beacon. She turned to face the Racemaster, who had folded his arms and clicked the stopwatch. His head-enshrouding helmet nodded slightly. "Three seconds slower than last time, Stawlings," the voice resonated from behind the black glass, "but you are still the first one to arrive. Congratulations."

Panting, Stawlings took a seat and relaxed. She'd made it first--the prospect of defeat was only the more intimidating with this long-coated spectral judge timing his progress. The Racemaster had turned away from her now, cloak undulating in the wind as he silently watched the sprinting approach of number two.

"Second place, and your time has improved by eight seconds. Well done, Matthews."

"What have you done to my window?"

Chris had not, in fact, teleported to the race's finish line through sheer desire (damn). Trying to appease the furious fury in front of him, he answered her enraged query with technical correctness.

"Um... I've broken it?"

Right answer, but no prize. "You've broken it!" she hollered. "You know I have a gun, you bastard!"

"I--I don't mean to cause any trouble!" Chris protested. "It was an accident!" My hands are also in a good position to catch anything that gets thrown at my face, he also thought to himself.

She calmed down a little--the Mezma-cube show kept humming in the background. "Great. Accident or not, my window is broken, and now the funny sounds and funny smells--and funny people, it seems--are getting into my living room. It's your own stupid fault, so fix it."

Since the fury had not reached for her alleged gun, Chris's indignation began to rise. "Do I look like a window repairman?" he inquired incredulously. "I neither have a spare pane of glass nor enough tape to fix this! I also don't have the patience--I need to finish my race, and this unplanned detour is costing me!"

"A runner," the woman nodded knowingly. "It figures. Window-breaker and law-breaker. Well, you're not leaving until you've fixed something."

Chris raised an eyebrow. "What--"

She pointed to her corner kitchen. "That coffeepot over there isn't working. You might as well fix that."

"And then I can leave?"

"Only then. Not that I want you here."

Chris put his hands down. "Fine. What's wrong with your coffeepot?"

The problem, fortunately, wasn't with the coffee-making function itself. For some odd reason, the control screen's lower left-hand corner had completely blacked out, making the woman have to resort to experienced guesswork if she wanted her daily poison. While he disassembled the machine, Chris's bad mood slowly melted away--strangely enough, he enjoyed what he was doing. He could understand the internal workings of this device as though he had the manufacturer's directions imprinted on his brain. The screen was fully operational again in no time and with relatively little trouble.

"There!" Chris said as he snapped the last piece into place. "Your warranty is void, but at least everything works again. Also, while I was in there, I patched up the filter--it seems some stray coffee grindings had gotten into the internal wiring, and that wasn't helping anything. Now may I go?"

The woman nodded. He really had done an impressive job, not that she would admit it, but as Chris lunged for the window, she opened her mouth again.

"Wait!"

He hesitated.

"I also have a pasta maker that's driving me crazy. I know you have to finish your race, but can you fall in here again tomorrow?"

"Um...OK, I guess."

She smiled triumphantly. "Good. I'll remember to leave the window open. Oh, your name?"

"Christopher. You?"

"Elena. Nice to meet you. Now get out of here."

Chris took off. You know, she didn't look that bad when she wasn't angry.

Christopher's extra speed towards the goal might be attributed to the "rest stop" he had just gotten. Others could guess that it was the intimidating thought of the Racemaster that lent wings to his feet, but really, Chris wasn't focusing on the run that much anymore. His mind was elsewhere, in another time, fixing a pasta maker...

Jump, roll, and he'd made it to the finish point. The Racemaster clicked his watch and looked down at it. No nod.

"Hm. Last place, and approximately ten minutes slower than last time. Was there an incident, Mr. Surbond?"

Panting, Chris nodded ruefully as though he'd taken a scenic shortcut through a landfill. "I was delayed a little--slipped up on Elm."

"Did the authorities spot you?"

"No, it was quiet."

Now the Racemaster nodded. "Right. Use extra caution next time, Mr. Surbond. Nobody else was spotted, so we will use this course again tomorrow night. For now, everyone, back to the apartments. Starting time is the same, midnight tomorrow night. Rest up, train well. I would...hate to eject anybody from the race."

Chris could swear the helmet shifted in his direction when he said that.

Yes, that was the beginning of many such nights from then on. The race's course was challenging yet well concealed from the authorities, so the Racemaster continued to utilize it. Christopher Surbond was happy for the reuse of the running route--there were a lot of things to fix at Elena's apartment. He genuinely enjoyed repair work. Since he didn't want to get ejected from the race he learned how to fix things quickly and efficiently, and there were plenty of things to fix. Elena might have just started breaking things just so Chris could have an excuse to literally drop in.

What? Well obviously, Chris and Elena were falling for each other. He was dumb enough to slip on a brick, and she was dumb enough to break her coffee machine--the Powers That Be must have ruled that their chances of survival would increase if they pooled their brain cell resources. At least, that is my personal perspective of the whole affair. While the meetings were short and the partings sweet sorrow, they treasured each fleeting post-midnight minute of company. A kiss doesn't have to last long to be a wonderful thing. I would expound on this, but my internal organs are doing the hula independently from the rest of my system, and that's usually my signal to stop. While I enjoyed my dinner, I have no desire to see it in a more processed form.

But the Powers That Be have also established other laws, one of which dictates that such an affair cannot proceed without eventual discovery.

Daytime. The runners are cloistered in their apartments, either running on treadmills or practicing their ninja skills or thinking about blender repair (How does someone get seven feet of twine jammed in the blades?), but the runners aren't the concern right now--it was the office above them where things were going down.

The apartments for the race are temporary rentals, and so is the office. It wasn't intimidating on its own with the wooden-box surroundings, the rickety desk, and the small cheap projector-screens. However, when the Racemaster sat behind them all, the room could well have been a carbon-black lair with crimson carpet and holographics of the upcoming apocalypse. That was the messenger's impression, anyway. He gingerly placed a file drive on his master's desk.

"It's as you suspected, sir. We were able to track Christopher Surbond's route. For the last few days, he has been making stops in an apartment on Elm and Seventh."

The helmet remained still. "You have surveillance?"

The messenger pointed to the drive. The Racemaster pressed it, and one of his projectors brought up an image of an open window. Christopher was inside with a woman.

"Enhance," the Racemaster ordered. Even the machines obey him--the image zoomed in so they could better see the runner's activities.

The messenger squinted. "Huh. So you really can get twine stuck in a blender."

He quailed when the helmet's dark visor slit flicked over to him. "A sudden and consistent drop in his overall speed and signs of a protracted rest period--it could only be something like this. He has become distracted from the race."

"Pardon me, sir, but this case aside, it can also just be a sign of a runner's weakness."

"Who said that distraction and weakness are different?" The Racemaster looked back at the display. The messenger did likewise.

"So shall the protocol be engaged?" asked the underling.

His master was silent for a moment. Then he nodded. "Yes. I have chosen. This one cannot remain in the race."

The other man bowed slightly. "I will see to it that the preparations are made to your specifications, sir."

"Excellent."

The messenger left on his errand, but the Racemaster kept watching the surveillance footage. Chris had kissed her before returning to his run--the Racemaster's stomach churned at the sight. This definitely had to stop.

11:55 p.m.

Back on the usual starting rooftop. Chris lined up next to the other runners, readying himself for the dizzying course--and for eventual appliance repair. Ever since the visits had commenced, he had trained himself with more vigor than ever before, his goal no longer just some beacon on a building. While he had never won a race, he was certainly no slouch. He had begun to come in higher and higher on the, well, lower end of the scoreboard. No matter. His eyes were fixed on a higher prize than the fleeting glory of the run.

A whisper of stealth thrusters--the Racemaster's black transport capsule had landed. That was unusual. Normally he stayed above the runners to sound the starting signal at midnight. Why come down...unless the race's course was going to change? Dread began to rise up in Chris's throat.

Rising out of the depths of his vehicle, the Racemaster prowled around to the front of the starting line. Turning to face the contestants, he raised a hand and pointed it behind him. "The course for this night's run shall be as normal," his voice rang out over the wind. "However, I have received information that there will be police activity around Elm and Seventh streets, so an evasive route is recommended. Again, avoid the region of Elm and Seventh--the race must remain undetected. Do you all understand?"

Chris's dumb nod was lost in a sea of head-bobbing affirmatives from his fellow competitors.

"Excellent. Good fortune shield you on your journey." The Racemaster went back into his transport, as cool as if he had just made this stop to inform the runners about tomorrow's weather. Chris began to sweat. Elm and Seventh. Elena's place. Police activity. Plus she's been harboring a runner...

As the transport rose, so did Christopher's determination. There will be police activity--it hadn't happened yet. He was a runner, wasn't he? All he had to do was get there first and warn Elena. The plan was as simple as fixing a blender, but if they started too soon... and he got caught...

Somewhere, a church bell began to ring. The runners took their marks, crouching to aid their imminent acceleration. The final chime--the transport pod above flashed a green light. The runners took off, Chris faster than anyone. He had a goal, and it wasn't some tower. This goal could vanish forever.

"...I protested, told them you'd never been to my apartment, but they set up their trap anyway. They must have already known somehow. I'm sorry I couldn't warn you--I wish I could have..." Elena's voice trailed off.

Chris slumped in her direction, the handcuffs behind preventing him from pitching off the metal chair. "It was nothing you did," he tried to console her. "It was my own stupid fault. If I had only kept away...the Racemaster had even told us the police were coming to your area! I thought I could get to you first to help... but it's my fault. If I had the sense to keep on running, they might have thought you were telling the truth. Now we're both here, when it should just be me."

She looked over at him. "Well... thank you for--"

The door clicked. Chris and Elena sat up straighter, ready to face the interrogating officer. Only it wasn't an interrogating officer.

A black coat swished into the room, followed by the white uniform of a lower-rank policeman. On top of the coat, a helmet surveyed the two suspects in front of him. The Racemaster never said a word--he only pointed twice, first to Elena and then to the door. The officer was remarkably quick to respond. Taking Elena firmly by the arm, he led her out of the interrogation room. The door closed again, leaving Chris and the Racemaster alone. The latter man sat across from the captured runner.

Silence.

Chris slouched forward. "How... are you here? Have you come for me?"

The Racemaster appeared to ignore the question, instead bringing a file folder out onto the polished table. "Christopher Surbond," the voice knelled from inside the helmet. "Your running pattern has become quite... abnormal. You used to have a typical path--good average running speed, consistent heart rate, and brief rest stops if any. Now see what happens after this date; your performance got poorer. It is easy to see that this was no one-time accident. The delay became consistent, habitual." He laid the file flat, and Chris could see an upside-down surveillance image on one of the documents--him and Elena. "You became distracted from the race," the Racemaster continued. "It was I who contacted the authorities, allowing them to find and trap you last night."

Chris slumped even more--not through shame of discovery, but by agony of defeat. "So... I suppose this is how I'm being punted from the race."

"Yes, but not really."

The possibly-ex-runner looked up. "What do you mean?"

Rising up, the Racemaster moved to re-seat himself on the end on the table. "Allow me to explain.

"In order for you to understand what is about to happen, I must take you back to the origins of the race. From times long past, people have been 'discovering' a fragile philosophy: 'The journey is more important than the destination,' they say. They repeat this idea to themselves, over and over, and admittedly, it can pull them through some tough trials that would otherwise bend their backs in submission. It's a better idea than other philosophies--some desire the destination without the journey, and as a result, they are quite often disappointed. So yes, often it is the journey that is important."

He put his gloved hands together as he continued. "But then, with enough repetition, the people forget the truth behind the idea. They focus more and more on the journey, less and less on the destination. Soon the journey, the means to the end, becomes their goal, their 'destination', entirely. The true destination is of no consequence to them. It's a figment, sometimes even an obstacle to the journey. The goal can even be detrimental to the person, but they are so blinded by the journey that they forget the destination. The end is forgotten, and the means are all that count. Let me ask you, Christopher Surbond, what were you running towards every night before you met Elena?"

Chris thought. "The finishing beacon. The end-point on top of a tower."

"Was that the reason you joined the race? That beacon?"

"No... I joined it for the run. The excitement."

The Racemaster stood up again and began to pace about slowly. "You joined it for the journey. The beacon, the end, was unimportant. Don't feel ashamed or alarmed, Christopher. All men can be accused of this, I am sure. They can still be accused of this. The problem is so deep-rooted that it's nearly impossible to fix. A typical bureaucrat might argue for the immediate removal of all journeys, but that would be ridiculous. You can't fix the problem--not entirely. You can only do what you can against it."

He leaned on the table, the helmet looming over the captured man. "What I'm about to tell you, Chris, is the deepest secret of our competition. The race is not illegal."

"Er... what?"

"The race is not illegal. It's sanctioned by the police. Don't you think it's odd that for ages there have been no secret agents inside my organization, no inner attempts to break up a run as a whole? No, the law looks the other way as we scrabble across the rooftops. They want this. It is better than the alternative. So you craved excitement when you joined the race, hm? The adventure? The thrill of participating in the illegal? There are many other journeys that achieve these feelings, and they can lead to ruin, to a horrible end. With the race, you get the lawless competition you crave, and the police enjoy a drop in crime."

Chris tried to raise a hand, but really he couldn't (handcuffs). "But what about the arrests? They're talked about all the time, and even my buddy Tobias was snatched up nearly a year ago! How can this be legal if we're being punished?"

The Racemaster smiled behind the glass. "Oh, some arrests are real enough. Sometimes a runner gets bored and uses the race as a cover for another more real crime, and that gets him 'snatched up' as you put it, but some arrests are... like yours.

"You see, all men--whether they subscribe to the journey-centric philosophy or not--crave a destination. Sometimes, wonderfully, they're able to find it. You found it in your unofficial appliance repair business--and in Elena. Another runner found it whilst scrambling along an accounting firm's building ledge. The computers inside were malfunctioning, and someone let him in to fix them. He's now the firm's paid IT man. In another instance, a runner used his run to watch for and take down the crimes that he saw in the alleyways he crossed. He's somewhere in this building now, working his way up through the ranks of officers." He spun the file folder around so Chris could see it better. "We can always tell when such a goal has been found. The runner's performance decreases suddenly and consistently. He loses interest in the race. He creates a new journey, a new destination.

"And that's a second secret I'm here to tell you, one that deepens the idea of the journey. While repeating their philosophy, people forget that it has another underlying facet: that the destination is what gives the journey its importance. A man walking five hundred miles just because he can holds a lesser rank to the man who walks the same distance to get home to his loved ones. I hold the paratrooper in higher esteem than the recreational parachutist. Not everyone is blessed to find such a goal early in his life. Often it takes an accident--a changed route, an unexpected police patrol... a slippery ledge, but when the man finds the destination, if it's important to him, he'll cling to it and do anything to protect it." The Racemaster stroked the chin of his helmet. "So, Chris, to sum everything up: I'm not here to arrest you. I'm here to congratulate you. Both you and Elena will be released. You've found your goal, and now your real journey begins."

He sat down again. The men were silent for a time. "So," Chris finally spoke, "what happens now?"

The helmet shrugged to the side. "You follow your new goal, Mr. Surbond, but first, I'm afraid, you have one more job to do. I've found my own goal in life as well. It is why, like you, the former Racemaster had me arrested months ago. My desire for this new life hasn't dimmed during my employment, though, and I'm ready to begin it tomorrow." With solemnity, the former Racemaster took off his helmet and held it out to Christopher Surbond. "You've found your path, and you know how the race works. Now it's your turn to lead it. It's your turn to show the other runners the way."

So, that's how it ended. That, dear reader, is why I'm no longer the leader of the "illegal" inner-city racing ring--I gave the job to a good buddy of mine who had just found his way. My tale is over, a new day rises with its new paths and new destinations. Now it's your turn to find yours.

THE END

Bio: Benjamin Sonnek is an undergraduate science fiction writer. His short story "Cognito, Ergo Sum" is pending publication for Daily Science Fiction. He mostly writes short stories and constantly edits the books he's working on. For more information than you could possibly need, visit him online or on Facebook.

E-mail: Benjamin Sonnek

Comment on this story in the Aphelion Forum

Return to Aphelion's Index page.