The Cup: Part One
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English
Writer’s Note: Part one of The Cup was published originally in Jump Point 1.8.
Hello everyone, and welcome once again to GSN Spectrum Broadcasting’s continuing coverage of the Murray Cup Race. The MCR, or The Cup as it is more commonly known, is one of the finest sporting events in the UEE. Nearly 100 racers compete in the Classic Division’s grueling 10-stage run, which winds its way through Ellis system’s many wondrous planets and dual asteroid belts. Racers compete to determine who’s the fastest and strongest, as they struggle to maintain the integrity of their racecraft amid some of the deadliest conditions in the Empire. This year’s competition promises to be one of the toughest, as the top 25 share in a meet-and-greet with media and sponsors in GSN’s sports atrium in orbit above Green. Though many come to race, only a few are considered real contenders, and those contenders are now awaiting their chance for glory and honor.
This year’s darling is Ykonde Remisk, a Human who surprised everyone by winning both the Goss Invitational and the Cassini 500. He comes into the MCR with a real chance to be the first racer to win the Triple Crown in twelve years. Then there is Nyanāl Mo’tak Xu.oa, the finest Xi’an racer in the history of the sport. If he prevails, he will be the first to ever win three MCRs in a row.
Zogat Guul, the old Tevarin warhorse, can’t be counted out, either. This legend has won the MCR more than anyone else in its history, but fate and bad luck have prevented him from winning a major event in over five years. His second place finish at the Cassini 500, however, has brought his name back to prominence. Can he win it once more before he fades away?
And finally, newcomer Hypatia Darring has turned heads by taking the pole position away from Remisk. She has never won a major racing event in her short career, but her consistent top ten showings for the last two years indicate that her pole position is no fluke. Can this youngster handle the enormous pressure placed upon her? Only time will tell . . .
Let’s throw it back to GSN reporter Mike Crenshaw, who is making his way through the reception as we speak. Who do you have for us now, Mike?
Hypatia Darring didn’t even notice the reporter’s question as she stared across the busy reception floor. The Tevarin looked lean and elegant amid a gaggle of reporters who crowded around him. Part of her felt like joining the crowd. I should feel the need to whip his ass, to blow past him on the final stage, to force his ship into an asteroid. That would be the feelings of a great racer, a great competitor, one focused and ready to win. But no. Try as she might, she could not feel that way toward this legend who stood only a few meters away. Much to her sorrow, she hadn’t had a chance to speak with him when their paths could have crossed at Cassini. Now, she had to find the time. She fought the urge to walk across the room, push past the media hounds, invite him to dinner, and ask him to sign the worn, faded, dog-eared poster of him in his youth — standing proudly next to his silver M50 — still hanging on her hab wall.
She shook her head and blinked. “I’m sorry. Say again?”
Mike Crenshaw cleared his throat. “Do you think Admiral Darring is proud of his daughter?” Darring clenched her teeth and forced a smile. “Of course he is. Why wouldn’t he be?”
“He has stated publicly, more than once, that he believes you are wasting your talents as a racer. That you should drop all this ‘nonsense’ — his word — and pursue a more fitting career in the UEE Navy.”
“My father has never been one to restrain his opinions,” she said, taking tentative steps toward Guul. “But if you really want to know the answer to that question, you should ask him yourself.”
Another reporter fought her way in. “Alice Frannif, Terra Gazette . . . taking the pole position from Ykonde Remisk was a marvelous achievement. How did you do it?”
Her smile was genuine. “Luck.”
“Oh, come now, Hypatia,” Crenshaw said, regaining the floor. “Achieving a time one point five seconds off the record is hardly luck. How’d you do it?”
She chuckled. “Patience, dedication, focus and an acute attention to detail. That, plus the fastest damned M50 on the circuit. All things I’m sure my father would appreciate.”
The reporters laughed and hastily transcribed notes. Darring made a few more steps toward Guul.
“Ms. Darring,” another reporter interceded, “how do you intend on maintaining your ‘luck,’ as you put it, through the entire race? Ten stages, all timed, many with narrow, dangerous channels, especially through the asteroid belts. You’ll be racing neck-and-neck with some of the finest racers in history. Being a relative newcomer, how do you intend on handling the pressure, maintaining your good start, and ultimately winning the cup?”
“She’s a natural!”
All turned, including Darring, and found Mo’tak Xu.oa, the Xi’an, dressed in a bright purple jumpsuit, standing among a pool of sycophants who followed him to every event. Some of them were ex-GSN reporters, now under full employment by the Xu.oa house, captured by his fame, notoriety and wealth.
Darring controlled her scowl as the stout Xi’an stopped a few feet from her. “She’s a natural,” Mo‘tak repeated, to make sure the reporters could record his reply. He was shorter than Darring by a centimeter or two — which was still unusually tall for his race — but his cool, amber eyes scanned her face carefully His powerful jaw muscles pulled back in a tight approximation of a smile. “She’ll win it by being the best racer on the circuit.”
“Do you really believe that?” Crenshaw asked. “She’s the best?”
Mo‘tak nodded slowly, diplomatically, his eyes affixed on Darring. “I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t.” He blinked. “How are you, my dear? Rested from your trials at Cassini?”
“Rested enough,” she replied, beneath her breath. The reporters leaned in to hear. “But you should know all about that.”
Mo‘tak waved her off as if she were his lesser. “The dangers of the trade, my dear. I did what I had to do to gain advantage.”
Darring nodded. “But you didn’t win, did you? Cutting me off in a move that, technically, was illegal, only gave you third place.”
“Still, a better finish than you.” Mo‘tak chuckled. His devotees did the same. “The Cassini is not all that important to me, my dear. The MCR is the crown jewel. You’ll understand that in time . . . if you last long enough.”
“Can we get a picture of the two of you side-by-side?” a reporter piped up. The rest confirmed that desire with exaggerated nodding.
Mo‘tak turned to the crowd, preening for all to see. “Of course you may have a picture,” he said, offering his hand to Darring in goodwill. “I’m honored to be a part of this great tradition. The MCR is dear to my heart, and with such brilliant competition, like Hypatia Darring here, this year’s race will be one to remember.”
Hypatia took his hand cautiously. She wrapped her fingers around his broad palm. Forcing herself to relax, she turned toward the reporters to let them take their pictures and ask their questions.
But then Mo‘tak began to squeeze, and squeeze, and squeeze until she felt the small delicate bones in her hand giving beneath the pressure. She squeezed back against it, but that didn’t provide much relief as Mo‘tak continued to grip. Don’t cringe, she said to herself. Don’t cry. Don’t give him the satisfaction. But the pain spread up her arm, into her shoulder, through her neck. God, he’s trying to break my hand. He’s . . .
He released, and the pain subsided. She sighed and wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead with her other hand.
Crenshaw was about to ask another question, but then someone spotted Ykonde Remisk, and they all scurried in his direction.
At her side, Mo‘tak chuckled. “We are only as important to them as our last quote.” The Xi’an turned to her again.
This time he didn’t offer his hand. He winked. “.athl’ē’kol to you, my zealous competitor. Safe travel. I’ll see you down the line.”
Mo‘tak disappeared into the doting arms of his fans. As he walked away, Darring caught the eye of a lean, surly-looking fellow who maintained a watchful position behind his employer. He nodded at her. She ignored him and imagined driving a knife into Mo‘tak’s back.
“Don’t let him get to you.”
The voice was soft and amiable. Darring turned to greet it.
There he stood, towering over her. In his shadow, she felt truly small, both in stature and in status. Zogat Guul radiated a kindness and a quiet experience that steadied her rage. She offered her sore hand humbly. He took it without complaint.
“Don’t let that pompous twit get under your skin. He’s infamous for his mind games.” With a quick grin, he snapped into formal posture, as if he were greeting an officer, thrusting his chest out though it was wrapped comfortably in a black-and-gold half-coat. “My name is Zogat —”
“I know who you are,” Darring interrupted, embarrassed immediately by her rudeness. “It’s an honor to meet you. It’s a dream I’ve had since I was a kid.”
“And I have been following your career with great interest.” He took her by the arm and began to lead her toward a table filled with three large punch bowls and an assortment of seafood appetizers. They walked slowly. “You are rising steadily on the circuit. Your name is on the lips of many. Your fifth place showing at Cassini was quite impressive, especially for someone so young.”
“Thank you. It would have been even more impressive had I won, if Mo‘tak hadn’t forced me back.”
“You let him get too close,” he said, with no malice or indictment in his tone. “You had the inside lane, but you slowed down to spar with him.”
“He pissed me off!”
Guul stopped, “Such behavior may be tolerated in the smaller, roundabout races like Cassini. But not here. Here, such raw emotion will get you expelled or killed. True, there are stages along the way where the racing will be tight, where you will have to maneuver for position. But speed matters the most here . . . speed and time. Remember, Hypatia Darring, the one most important fact about the Murray Cup: Speed is life.” He tilted his head to side. “Speed is life . . . or death, if you are going in the wrong direction.”
She laughed at that, letting the seriousness of his words trickle away. “We will speak no more of these things now,” he said, resuming their course toward the food table. “We will have further opportunities to talk later, when the lamprey are not so thick and hungry.” He ignored the wave of a reporter nearby. “Every word we speak here is interpreted and reinterpreted until, in the end, they will make us lovers in the eyes of the public.”
Darring forced a wry smile. “Sorry . . . you’re not my type.”
Guul let out a hearty laugh. He shook his head. “Story of my life.” He quickened his pace toward the food. “Now come, and treat me to a glass of the greatest gift Humans have bestowed upon the galaxy.”
“What’s that?” Darring asked.
Guul smacked his lips. “Lemonade.”
* * *
Mo‘tak crushed the thin shell of the jumbo shrimp in his mouth. He did not bother shucking it as a feeble Human might do. Blast this Human food anyway! What he wouldn’t give to be back at the family complex, gorging to contentment on huge handfuls of fermented needlefish. Their gallbladders had a bile that was as sweet — no, sweeter — than anything a Human might concoct. Nothing on the table before him was actually enjoyable in his superior opinion, but he tolerated it as best he could, smiling humbly as he picked at this dish or that for the benefit of the media. Mo‘tak nodded at a Human reporter as she walked by.
Humans had their uses.
And so did the one that stood now in the center of the media frenzy. Why weren’t the reporters surrounding him, asking him questions, begging him to divulge his secrets for winning the race, just as they had asked Darring? These damned Humans and their inferiority complex! So unwilling to recognize Xi’an superiority. But Mo‘tak was the best racer that had ever climbed into a cockpit, and his perfectly modified 350r, with its purple hull and reinforced golden-striped wings would do what no other racer had ever done: win the MCR three consecutive times. Neither Remisk, nor Guul, nor Darring could claim such a feat. So, why weren’t the GSN nya•osen’p.u surrounding him?
But perhaps that was best, he reconsidered, popping another shrimp in his mouth and sipping on a warm, frothless beer. Let Ykonde Remisk have his moment in the spotlight. Let the media have their favorites. For when they fall, when they fail to live up to the hype, Mo‘tak’s victory will seem that much sweeter. Yes, let them bask . . . then let them fall. And I will see that they fall hard.
“Is everything in place?” he whispered to an underling at his side.
“Yes, sir. Your maintenance crews are dispersed through the Ellis system per your specifications and per the MCR guidelines.”
Mo‘tak scratched his neck in frustration. “That’s not what I meant.”
The underling gulped and wiggled his head. “Yes, that matter we spoke of has been taken care of as well. But I would recommend against it, sir. The risk is too great, and besides, Mo‘tak does not need to rely on such things. He is the best racer on the circuit.”
“I do not pay you to give me such advice or praise. I pay you to do what you’re told. Now go, and make sure everything is ready as I have instructed.” He put his beer down. “And I will go and remind the ‘favorite’ of his obligation to me.”
The underling nodded and ran off to do his duty. Mo‘tak sighed deeply, put on his happy face, and walked confidently toward the madness surrounding Ykonde Remisk.
* * *
She loved her Origin M50 Turbo more than life. Banged up, scratched, red and white paint slopped on to cover a hull that needed an integrity sweep, but there had been no time for any of that after Cassini. Nor had she won enough credits yet for such repairs, not with having to pay for transport ships and her pit crew. But what of it? The power plant was sound, the thrusters new and top notch. In a pinch, she doubted that any racer, anywhere, could match it. Certainly, none of the other twenty-four challengers behind her — including Guul — could beat her in a straightaway. But the MCR had few straightaways. Hull integrity mattered.
As her crew chief rattled off the final systems check in her ear, Darring pulled up the map for the first stage. It appeared with a bright blink to display row after row of rings winding their way through low orbit above Ellis III. Darring studied the rings carefully, reminding herself which ones were large, which were small, where the cameras and timer buoys were located. All racers were required to stay within the “invisible” lane running through the rings; if a racer strayed outside, he or she would lose time. This first stage was both timed and awarded extra credits to first, second and third place. Having the pole position, then, gave her an advantage. But for how long? Darring leaned over in her seat and studied the course carefully.
It was not unlike one stretch of the Goss Invitational, so she had ample experience with this kind of run. Her M50 was built for strenuous zigs and zags through tight spots. But how well would she fare later on, when the courses got more deadly, more strenuous?
From Ellis III, the racers quantumed to Ellis IV where the so-called Seahorse Shuffle took place. Then on to Ellis V and the “Noble Endeavour.” After that, it was through the first of two asteroid belts, a course called The Sorrow Sea, where hulls of previous racers floated as obstacles. Then around the gas giant, Walleye, where ships could be easily ripped apart by one foolish move. A longer stage followed, across the outer asteroid belt (formerly Ellis XI) and finally to Ellis XII. Then the race turned back toward the heart of the system to finished at Ellis VIII. She had run this race before, but never as a true contender, and thus she had taken her time, flown each stage slow and steady, like a marathon runner, to learn all the ins and outs. This time, though, the pressure was on. She held the pole position, the top spot. Everything was different now.
The MCR starter’s voice crackled over the comm link. “Racers, prepare for launch.”
Darring closed the map, affirmed the standard agreement to MCR rules and regulations in unison with the other racers, strapped herself in, and gave a small prayer. She was not religious by any stretch, but figured it wouldn’t hurt. The prayer calmed her nerves as the bay doors of the starting carrier opened to space.
She could see Ellis III through the door. It was beautiful, green, its orbit peppered with corvettes and pleasure craft of the well-to-do who had come out to view the race firsthand. There would be plenty of spectators along the way, a lot of media, and Darring had to just put them all out of her mind. She focused on Zogat Guul’s words — Speed is life — and looked back through one of her cockpit panels to try to get a glimpse of the Tevarin’s upgraded Hornet. But he was too far back. All she could see was Ykonde Remisk’s M50, with its garish gold and blue trim. She noticed that he was too close to her; by rule, there was a specified distance that racers had to maintain prior to launch: the privilege of the pole position.
She gnashed her teeth and cursed beneath her breath. Someone was already violating rules.
“Hypatia Darring . . . you may launch.”
She didn’t even wait for the spokesman to finish. Darring burst out the carrier bay door at top legal speed.
Through a narrow channel flanked by media and spectators, Darring flew the ceremonial lap. The rest of the racers followed behind, releasing one after another, but maintaining their specified positions within the line. Ahead of her, the pace craft sparkled with a flashing red light. Nervous energy spotted her brow with sweat. Her crew chief gave his final comments and instructions. She signed him off and focused on the course ahead of her.
In her ear, the MCR starter counted down — ten, nine, eight . . . Darring thrust to the left, trying to keep directly behind the pace craft. Ykonde Remisk was right on her six, the nose of his racer dangerously close. Back off! Darring mouthed silently, wanting to flip on her comm link and tune to his frequency. It wasn’t strictly against MCR rules to speak to other racers, but officials discouraged it, fearing that frequent conversation during the race could produce distractions that would lead to crashes and injuries. Besides, there was enough chatter going on between racers and their crews. Still, Darring wanted to open a channel and scream into Remisk’s ear, Get off my back!
Five . . . four . . . three . . .
Now, all the racers tightened as the pacer made the last turn to set them up toward the first rings. Darring gunned it a little herself, closing in on the pacer. She put herself now just a little to the right of it, to keep Remisk from rushing past her at the last minute. Darring’s heart raced, her hands shook on her joystick. She tried concentrating on the small object that grew and grew in her viewport: The first ring, its rotating lights swirling around its virtual frame, signaling the beginning . . .
Two . . . one . . .
The red lights on the pacer flashed green, and it fell to the left quickly, breaking formation.
Darring pressed herself into her seat, gunned her thrusters, and blew through the first ring.
* * *
The flashing lights of the rings caused her eyes to ache.
They flew by her quickly and she was concentrating on them too much, too worried about her time, her position in the line. She had fallen to third place by count of the last timing ring. It had been her fault, too, worrying so much about conserving fuel, letting some pilot with a overclocked Avenger take the inside lane. Her crew chief yelled at her for it; she ignored him. The little shit was right, of course, but he was an old academy friend of her father’s, and she was in no mood to listen to him yell at her. Besides, she could overtake an Avenger at any time.
The real focus of her recovery had to be Ykonde Remisk.
The smarmy son of a bitch had forced her against the left wall of the tunnel they were speeding through. Her wing had actually broken the virtual plane, and the voice of the MCR caller came over her comm . . . “Ten seconds added to your time.” Damn! Remisk’s press was not strictly against the rules since his ship had not touched hers, but it was certainly dirty pool and against the spirit of the competition. She had no way out of the pick-and-roll either; it was as if he and the Avenger pilot were in cahoots. That wouldn’t surprise her in the least.
She refocused and thrust her M50 forward, dipping beneath the Avenger and slipping past it on the low. It tried muscling her back, pointing its right wing down to mask her view, but Darring anticipated the move, shifted in kind, and kept her position and composure. Meanwhile, the Avenger pilot had lost his focus on the lane ahead of him, and failed to notice the ring closing fast and to the left. Darring hit her thrusters hard and shifted left, at the last minute moving out of the Avenger’s path. Darring took the turn and ring perfectly; the Avenger saw it too late, tried to adjust, and clipped the ring with its left wing. It broke the invisible plane of the tunnel and then overcompensated into a spin through the void.
Eat that!
She hoped that somewhere behind her, Guul was cheering. She could almost hear his resonant voice singing her praises. She liked the thought, but the most pressing concern now was right in front of her.
Remisk had been pushing his craft at full speed the entire course. How was that possible? she wondered. Sure, he had customized his M50 like all the rest, removing everything extraneous for extra fuel and cooling equipment, but he must be running on fumes by now after boosting like that. There was no other explanation. He would have to burn out soon, and the sooner the better.
She ignored the three other racers pressing hard at her six. She took the next ring and the next, letting the strong inertia pull and propel her craft forward. That was the best way to avoid overheating, she had learned racing around Saturn. Release thrust on the turns, and let your craft drift at top speed into the vector. Then you had enough thrust to pick up the few seconds you might have lost on drift. This racing gig was a game of milliseconds, and each one counted.
She moved up behind Remisk, taking advantage of the last straightaway before the final turns through the ultimate three rings. There was not much time left, and she had to make her move now.
She tried shifting up and over his craft. He moved to block her. She shifted down; he moved again, in perfect unison, their ships equal size. She shifted left, right, and each time Remisk moved to counter. How is he doing this?
He was a great racer. There was no doubt of that. He was strong, athletic and cool-headed. Remisk had not gotten where he was on the circuit without being smart and precise. But his moves, his instincts were almost supernatural, as if his senses were enhanced. But that was impossible.
Every racer went through a rigorous medical exam to ensure that no drugs had been introduced before the race, and further testing would be conducted along the way to ensure none had been taken after the first stage. Remisk was just that good.
Then I have to be better.
She pushed her engine to its limit, exceeding safe levels, much to the ire of her crew chief. He implored her to back off, take second or third place, don’t risk blowing your ship so soon for so little reward. Little reward, my ass!
She had taken the pole position, and she was going to let everyone know that it was not some fluke, that Hypatia Darring was here to stay. She wouldn’t give her fath– the media — grist for their mill.
She barrel rolled, letting the rotation of her M50 spiral her forward like a screw. Remisk, fearing that he would be clipped himself, shifted ever so slightly to his left, and Darring pounced. She pulled alongside him, letting her craft settle. She punched her thrusters again, feeling them wail their discontent through her arms and hands. Her stick was shaking, her heat warnings blaring. She could feel it all through her body, and there was, in all the galaxy, no feeling like it. It was something her father had forgotten. He was a good fighter pilot himself, or at least he was in his youth. But he had spent too much of his life in slow giants like destroyers, cruisers and battleships. He had forgotten what it was like to feel flesh tingle as strong g-forces threatened to rip your skin from its bones. Guul understood it. Remisk most certainly did. And even that sorry son of a bitch Mo‘tak understood the ecstatic feeling of sheer speed.
She pulled ahead. She took the next ring flawlessly, shifting against inertia and rolling through the next ring, which appeared immediately after the last. The final ring loomed large in the distance. Her crew chief, his attitude suddenly changed, barked “Go! Go!” into her ear. She smiled. She’d made the right decision. She most definitely deserved to be here racing among the greats.
Remisk pulled up above her, obviously giving her first place. She kept her course forward and strong, letting her warning systems holler. She giggled like a child, accepting praise from her chief. The flashing lights of the last ring did not make her weak or sick this time. She welcomed them happily.
Then a shadow came up over her, darkening her cockpit. It was Remisk, his M50 finding new life and overtaking her ship. In her joy, Darring had not realized that her thumb had lightened its pressure on her throttle, and she had slowed just slightly. Slowed enough for Remisk to swing his craft up and over her hull and plant itself, with its main thrusters, right in front of her cockpit. Darring tried keeping her speed and course, but Remisk kicked his boost and threw a gout of yellow fire across her cockpit windows.
Darring rolled left. It was a serious mistake. She tried regaining her position, pressed her thumb deeply into the throttle, but it was too late. Ykonde Remisk passed through the final ring in first place. The Avenger and one other racer took second and third, while Darring, her ship rolling uncontrollably through the last ring, barely finished fourth.
TO BE CONTINUED…
Hello everyone, and welcome once again to GSN Spectrum Broadcasting’s continuing coverage of the Murray Cup Race. The MCR, or The Cup as it is more commonly known, is one of the finest sporting events in the UEE. Nearly 100 racers compete in the Classic Division’s grueling 10-stage run, which winds its way through Ellis system’s many wondrous planets and dual asteroid belts. Racers compete to determine who’s the fastest and strongest, as they struggle to maintain the integrity of their racecraft amid some of the deadliest conditions in the Empire. This year’s competition promises to be one of the toughest, as the top 25 share in a meet-and-greet with media and sponsors in GSN’s sports atrium in orbit above Green. Though many come to race, only a few are considered real contenders, and those contenders are now awaiting their chance for glory and honor.
This year’s darling is Ykonde Remisk, a Human who surprised everyone by winning both the Goss Invitational and the Cassini 500. He comes into the MCR with a real chance to be the first racer to win the Triple Crown in twelve years. Then there is Nyanāl Mo’tak Xu.oa, the finest Xi’an racer in the history of the sport. If he prevails, he will be the first to ever win three MCRs in a row.
Zogat Guul, the old Tevarin warhorse, can’t be counted out, either. This legend has won the MCR more than anyone else in its history, but fate and bad luck have prevented him from winning a major event in over five years. His second place finish at the Cassini 500, however, has brought his name back to prominence. Can he win it once more before he fades away?
And finally, newcomer Hypatia Darring has turned heads by taking the pole position away from Remisk. She has never won a major racing event in her short career, but her consistent top ten showings for the last two years indicate that her pole position is no fluke. Can this youngster handle the enormous pressure placed upon her? Only time will tell . . .
Let’s throw it back to GSN reporter Mike Crenshaw, who is making his way through the reception as we speak. Who do you have for us now, Mike?
Hypatia Darring didn’t even notice the reporter’s question as she stared across the busy reception floor. The Tevarin looked lean and elegant amid a gaggle of reporters who crowded around him. Part of her felt like joining the crowd. I should feel the need to whip his ass, to blow past him on the final stage, to force his ship into an asteroid. That would be the feelings of a great racer, a great competitor, one focused and ready to win. But no. Try as she might, she could not feel that way toward this legend who stood only a few meters away. Much to her sorrow, she hadn’t had a chance to speak with him when their paths could have crossed at Cassini. Now, she had to find the time. She fought the urge to walk across the room, push past the media hounds, invite him to dinner, and ask him to sign the worn, faded, dog-eared poster of him in his youth — standing proudly next to his silver M50 — still hanging on her hab wall.
She shook her head and blinked. “I’m sorry. Say again?”
Mike Crenshaw cleared his throat. “Do you think Admiral Darring is proud of his daughter?” Darring clenched her teeth and forced a smile. “Of course he is. Why wouldn’t he be?”
“He has stated publicly, more than once, that he believes you are wasting your talents as a racer. That you should drop all this ‘nonsense’ — his word — and pursue a more fitting career in the UEE Navy.”
“My father has never been one to restrain his opinions,” she said, taking tentative steps toward Guul. “But if you really want to know the answer to that question, you should ask him yourself.”
Another reporter fought her way in. “Alice Frannif, Terra Gazette . . . taking the pole position from Ykonde Remisk was a marvelous achievement. How did you do it?”
Her smile was genuine. “Luck.”
“Oh, come now, Hypatia,” Crenshaw said, regaining the floor. “Achieving a time one point five seconds off the record is hardly luck. How’d you do it?”
She chuckled. “Patience, dedication, focus and an acute attention to detail. That, plus the fastest damned M50 on the circuit. All things I’m sure my father would appreciate.”
The reporters laughed and hastily transcribed notes. Darring made a few more steps toward Guul.
“Ms. Darring,” another reporter interceded, “how do you intend on maintaining your ‘luck,’ as you put it, through the entire race? Ten stages, all timed, many with narrow, dangerous channels, especially through the asteroid belts. You’ll be racing neck-and-neck with some of the finest racers in history. Being a relative newcomer, how do you intend on handling the pressure, maintaining your good start, and ultimately winning the cup?”
“She’s a natural!”
All turned, including Darring, and found Mo’tak Xu.oa, the Xi’an, dressed in a bright purple jumpsuit, standing among a pool of sycophants who followed him to every event. Some of them were ex-GSN reporters, now under full employment by the Xu.oa house, captured by his fame, notoriety and wealth.
Darring controlled her scowl as the stout Xi’an stopped a few feet from her. “She’s a natural,” Mo‘tak repeated, to make sure the reporters could record his reply. He was shorter than Darring by a centimeter or two — which was still unusually tall for his race — but his cool, amber eyes scanned her face carefully His powerful jaw muscles pulled back in a tight approximation of a smile. “She’ll win it by being the best racer on the circuit.”
“Do you really believe that?” Crenshaw asked. “She’s the best?”
Mo‘tak nodded slowly, diplomatically, his eyes affixed on Darring. “I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t.” He blinked. “How are you, my dear? Rested from your trials at Cassini?”
“Rested enough,” she replied, beneath her breath. The reporters leaned in to hear. “But you should know all about that.”
Mo‘tak waved her off as if she were his lesser. “The dangers of the trade, my dear. I did what I had to do to gain advantage.”
Darring nodded. “But you didn’t win, did you? Cutting me off in a move that, technically, was illegal, only gave you third place.”
“Still, a better finish than you.” Mo‘tak chuckled. His devotees did the same. “The Cassini is not all that important to me, my dear. The MCR is the crown jewel. You’ll understand that in time . . . if you last long enough.”
“Can we get a picture of the two of you side-by-side?” a reporter piped up. The rest confirmed that desire with exaggerated nodding.
Mo‘tak turned to the crowd, preening for all to see. “Of course you may have a picture,” he said, offering his hand to Darring in goodwill. “I’m honored to be a part of this great tradition. The MCR is dear to my heart, and with such brilliant competition, like Hypatia Darring here, this year’s race will be one to remember.”
Hypatia took his hand cautiously. She wrapped her fingers around his broad palm. Forcing herself to relax, she turned toward the reporters to let them take their pictures and ask their questions.
But then Mo‘tak began to squeeze, and squeeze, and squeeze until she felt the small delicate bones in her hand giving beneath the pressure. She squeezed back against it, but that didn’t provide much relief as Mo‘tak continued to grip. Don’t cringe, she said to herself. Don’t cry. Don’t give him the satisfaction. But the pain spread up her arm, into her shoulder, through her neck. God, he’s trying to break my hand. He’s . . .
He released, and the pain subsided. She sighed and wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead with her other hand.
Crenshaw was about to ask another question, but then someone spotted Ykonde Remisk, and they all scurried in his direction.
At her side, Mo‘tak chuckled. “We are only as important to them as our last quote.” The Xi’an turned to her again.
This time he didn’t offer his hand. He winked. “.athl’ē’kol to you, my zealous competitor. Safe travel. I’ll see you down the line.”
Mo‘tak disappeared into the doting arms of his fans. As he walked away, Darring caught the eye of a lean, surly-looking fellow who maintained a watchful position behind his employer. He nodded at her. She ignored him and imagined driving a knife into Mo‘tak’s back.
“Don’t let him get to you.”
The voice was soft and amiable. Darring turned to greet it.
There he stood, towering over her. In his shadow, she felt truly small, both in stature and in status. Zogat Guul radiated a kindness and a quiet experience that steadied her rage. She offered her sore hand humbly. He took it without complaint.
“Don’t let that pompous twit get under your skin. He’s infamous for his mind games.” With a quick grin, he snapped into formal posture, as if he were greeting an officer, thrusting his chest out though it was wrapped comfortably in a black-and-gold half-coat. “My name is Zogat —”
“I know who you are,” Darring interrupted, embarrassed immediately by her rudeness. “It’s an honor to meet you. It’s a dream I’ve had since I was a kid.”
“And I have been following your career with great interest.” He took her by the arm and began to lead her toward a table filled with three large punch bowls and an assortment of seafood appetizers. They walked slowly. “You are rising steadily on the circuit. Your name is on the lips of many. Your fifth place showing at Cassini was quite impressive, especially for someone so young.”
“Thank you. It would have been even more impressive had I won, if Mo‘tak hadn’t forced me back.”
“You let him get too close,” he said, with no malice or indictment in his tone. “You had the inside lane, but you slowed down to spar with him.”
“He pissed me off!”
Guul stopped, “Such behavior may be tolerated in the smaller, roundabout races like Cassini. But not here. Here, such raw emotion will get you expelled or killed. True, there are stages along the way where the racing will be tight, where you will have to maneuver for position. But speed matters the most here . . . speed and time. Remember, Hypatia Darring, the one most important fact about the Murray Cup: Speed is life.” He tilted his head to side. “Speed is life . . . or death, if you are going in the wrong direction.”
She laughed at that, letting the seriousness of his words trickle away. “We will speak no more of these things now,” he said, resuming their course toward the food table. “We will have further opportunities to talk later, when the lamprey are not so thick and hungry.” He ignored the wave of a reporter nearby. “Every word we speak here is interpreted and reinterpreted until, in the end, they will make us lovers in the eyes of the public.”
Darring forced a wry smile. “Sorry . . . you’re not my type.”
Guul let out a hearty laugh. He shook his head. “Story of my life.” He quickened his pace toward the food. “Now come, and treat me to a glass of the greatest gift Humans have bestowed upon the galaxy.”
“What’s that?” Darring asked.
Guul smacked his lips. “Lemonade.”
* * *
Mo‘tak crushed the thin shell of the jumbo shrimp in his mouth. He did not bother shucking it as a feeble Human might do. Blast this Human food anyway! What he wouldn’t give to be back at the family complex, gorging to contentment on huge handfuls of fermented needlefish. Their gallbladders had a bile that was as sweet — no, sweeter — than anything a Human might concoct. Nothing on the table before him was actually enjoyable in his superior opinion, but he tolerated it as best he could, smiling humbly as he picked at this dish or that for the benefit of the media. Mo‘tak nodded at a Human reporter as she walked by.
Humans had their uses.
And so did the one that stood now in the center of the media frenzy. Why weren’t the reporters surrounding him, asking him questions, begging him to divulge his secrets for winning the race, just as they had asked Darring? These damned Humans and their inferiority complex! So unwilling to recognize Xi’an superiority. But Mo‘tak was the best racer that had ever climbed into a cockpit, and his perfectly modified 350r, with its purple hull and reinforced golden-striped wings would do what no other racer had ever done: win the MCR three consecutive times. Neither Remisk, nor Guul, nor Darring could claim such a feat. So, why weren’t the GSN nya•osen’p.u surrounding him?
But perhaps that was best, he reconsidered, popping another shrimp in his mouth and sipping on a warm, frothless beer. Let Ykonde Remisk have his moment in the spotlight. Let the media have their favorites. For when they fall, when they fail to live up to the hype, Mo‘tak’s victory will seem that much sweeter. Yes, let them bask . . . then let them fall. And I will see that they fall hard.
“Is everything in place?” he whispered to an underling at his side.
“Yes, sir. Your maintenance crews are dispersed through the Ellis system per your specifications and per the MCR guidelines.”
Mo‘tak scratched his neck in frustration. “That’s not what I meant.”
The underling gulped and wiggled his head. “Yes, that matter we spoke of has been taken care of as well. But I would recommend against it, sir. The risk is too great, and besides, Mo‘tak does not need to rely on such things. He is the best racer on the circuit.”
“I do not pay you to give me such advice or praise. I pay you to do what you’re told. Now go, and make sure everything is ready as I have instructed.” He put his beer down. “And I will go and remind the ‘favorite’ of his obligation to me.”
The underling nodded and ran off to do his duty. Mo‘tak sighed deeply, put on his happy face, and walked confidently toward the madness surrounding Ykonde Remisk.
* * *
She loved her Origin M50 Turbo more than life. Banged up, scratched, red and white paint slopped on to cover a hull that needed an integrity sweep, but there had been no time for any of that after Cassini. Nor had she won enough credits yet for such repairs, not with having to pay for transport ships and her pit crew. But what of it? The power plant was sound, the thrusters new and top notch. In a pinch, she doubted that any racer, anywhere, could match it. Certainly, none of the other twenty-four challengers behind her — including Guul — could beat her in a straightaway. But the MCR had few straightaways. Hull integrity mattered.
As her crew chief rattled off the final systems check in her ear, Darring pulled up the map for the first stage. It appeared with a bright blink to display row after row of rings winding their way through low orbit above Ellis III. Darring studied the rings carefully, reminding herself which ones were large, which were small, where the cameras and timer buoys were located. All racers were required to stay within the “invisible” lane running through the rings; if a racer strayed outside, he or she would lose time. This first stage was both timed and awarded extra credits to first, second and third place. Having the pole position, then, gave her an advantage. But for how long? Darring leaned over in her seat and studied the course carefully.
It was not unlike one stretch of the Goss Invitational, so she had ample experience with this kind of run. Her M50 was built for strenuous zigs and zags through tight spots. But how well would she fare later on, when the courses got more deadly, more strenuous?
From Ellis III, the racers quantumed to Ellis IV where the so-called Seahorse Shuffle took place. Then on to Ellis V and the “Noble Endeavour.” After that, it was through the first of two asteroid belts, a course called The Sorrow Sea, where hulls of previous racers floated as obstacles. Then around the gas giant, Walleye, where ships could be easily ripped apart by one foolish move. A longer stage followed, across the outer asteroid belt (formerly Ellis XI) and finally to Ellis XII. Then the race turned back toward the heart of the system to finished at Ellis VIII. She had run this race before, but never as a true contender, and thus she had taken her time, flown each stage slow and steady, like a marathon runner, to learn all the ins and outs. This time, though, the pressure was on. She held the pole position, the top spot. Everything was different now.
The MCR starter’s voice crackled over the comm link. “Racers, prepare for launch.”
Darring closed the map, affirmed the standard agreement to MCR rules and regulations in unison with the other racers, strapped herself in, and gave a small prayer. She was not religious by any stretch, but figured it wouldn’t hurt. The prayer calmed her nerves as the bay doors of the starting carrier opened to space.
She could see Ellis III through the door. It was beautiful, green, its orbit peppered with corvettes and pleasure craft of the well-to-do who had come out to view the race firsthand. There would be plenty of spectators along the way, a lot of media, and Darring had to just put them all out of her mind. She focused on Zogat Guul’s words — Speed is life — and looked back through one of her cockpit panels to try to get a glimpse of the Tevarin’s upgraded Hornet. But he was too far back. All she could see was Ykonde Remisk’s M50, with its garish gold and blue trim. She noticed that he was too close to her; by rule, there was a specified distance that racers had to maintain prior to launch: the privilege of the pole position.
She gnashed her teeth and cursed beneath her breath. Someone was already violating rules.
“Hypatia Darring . . . you may launch.”
She didn’t even wait for the spokesman to finish. Darring burst out the carrier bay door at top legal speed.
Through a narrow channel flanked by media and spectators, Darring flew the ceremonial lap. The rest of the racers followed behind, releasing one after another, but maintaining their specified positions within the line. Ahead of her, the pace craft sparkled with a flashing red light. Nervous energy spotted her brow with sweat. Her crew chief gave his final comments and instructions. She signed him off and focused on the course ahead of her.
In her ear, the MCR starter counted down — ten, nine, eight . . . Darring thrust to the left, trying to keep directly behind the pace craft. Ykonde Remisk was right on her six, the nose of his racer dangerously close. Back off! Darring mouthed silently, wanting to flip on her comm link and tune to his frequency. It wasn’t strictly against MCR rules to speak to other racers, but officials discouraged it, fearing that frequent conversation during the race could produce distractions that would lead to crashes and injuries. Besides, there was enough chatter going on between racers and their crews. Still, Darring wanted to open a channel and scream into Remisk’s ear, Get off my back!
Five . . . four . . . three . . .
Now, all the racers tightened as the pacer made the last turn to set them up toward the first rings. Darring gunned it a little herself, closing in on the pacer. She put herself now just a little to the right of it, to keep Remisk from rushing past her at the last minute. Darring’s heart raced, her hands shook on her joystick. She tried concentrating on the small object that grew and grew in her viewport: The first ring, its rotating lights swirling around its virtual frame, signaling the beginning . . .
Two . . . one . . .
The red lights on the pacer flashed green, and it fell to the left quickly, breaking formation.
Darring pressed herself into her seat, gunned her thrusters, and blew through the first ring.
* * *
The flashing lights of the rings caused her eyes to ache.
They flew by her quickly and she was concentrating on them too much, too worried about her time, her position in the line. She had fallen to third place by count of the last timing ring. It had been her fault, too, worrying so much about conserving fuel, letting some pilot with a overclocked Avenger take the inside lane. Her crew chief yelled at her for it; she ignored him. The little shit was right, of course, but he was an old academy friend of her father’s, and she was in no mood to listen to him yell at her. Besides, she could overtake an Avenger at any time.
The real focus of her recovery had to be Ykonde Remisk.
The smarmy son of a bitch had forced her against the left wall of the tunnel they were speeding through. Her wing had actually broken the virtual plane, and the voice of the MCR caller came over her comm . . . “Ten seconds added to your time.” Damn! Remisk’s press was not strictly against the rules since his ship had not touched hers, but it was certainly dirty pool and against the spirit of the competition. She had no way out of the pick-and-roll either; it was as if he and the Avenger pilot were in cahoots. That wouldn’t surprise her in the least.
She refocused and thrust her M50 forward, dipping beneath the Avenger and slipping past it on the low. It tried muscling her back, pointing its right wing down to mask her view, but Darring anticipated the move, shifted in kind, and kept her position and composure. Meanwhile, the Avenger pilot had lost his focus on the lane ahead of him, and failed to notice the ring closing fast and to the left. Darring hit her thrusters hard and shifted left, at the last minute moving out of the Avenger’s path. Darring took the turn and ring perfectly; the Avenger saw it too late, tried to adjust, and clipped the ring with its left wing. It broke the invisible plane of the tunnel and then overcompensated into a spin through the void.
Eat that!
She hoped that somewhere behind her, Guul was cheering. She could almost hear his resonant voice singing her praises. She liked the thought, but the most pressing concern now was right in front of her.
Remisk had been pushing his craft at full speed the entire course. How was that possible? she wondered. Sure, he had customized his M50 like all the rest, removing everything extraneous for extra fuel and cooling equipment, but he must be running on fumes by now after boosting like that. There was no other explanation. He would have to burn out soon, and the sooner the better.
She ignored the three other racers pressing hard at her six. She took the next ring and the next, letting the strong inertia pull and propel her craft forward. That was the best way to avoid overheating, she had learned racing around Saturn. Release thrust on the turns, and let your craft drift at top speed into the vector. Then you had enough thrust to pick up the few seconds you might have lost on drift. This racing gig was a game of milliseconds, and each one counted.
She moved up behind Remisk, taking advantage of the last straightaway before the final turns through the ultimate three rings. There was not much time left, and she had to make her move now.
She tried shifting up and over his craft. He moved to block her. She shifted down; he moved again, in perfect unison, their ships equal size. She shifted left, right, and each time Remisk moved to counter. How is he doing this?
He was a great racer. There was no doubt of that. He was strong, athletic and cool-headed. Remisk had not gotten where he was on the circuit without being smart and precise. But his moves, his instincts were almost supernatural, as if his senses were enhanced. But that was impossible.
Every racer went through a rigorous medical exam to ensure that no drugs had been introduced before the race, and further testing would be conducted along the way to ensure none had been taken after the first stage. Remisk was just that good.
Then I have to be better.
She pushed her engine to its limit, exceeding safe levels, much to the ire of her crew chief. He implored her to back off, take second or third place, don’t risk blowing your ship so soon for so little reward. Little reward, my ass!
She had taken the pole position, and she was going to let everyone know that it was not some fluke, that Hypatia Darring was here to stay. She wouldn’t give her fath– the media — grist for their mill.
She barrel rolled, letting the rotation of her M50 spiral her forward like a screw. Remisk, fearing that he would be clipped himself, shifted ever so slightly to his left, and Darring pounced. She pulled alongside him, letting her craft settle. She punched her thrusters again, feeling them wail their discontent through her arms and hands. Her stick was shaking, her heat warnings blaring. She could feel it all through her body, and there was, in all the galaxy, no feeling like it. It was something her father had forgotten. He was a good fighter pilot himself, or at least he was in his youth. But he had spent too much of his life in slow giants like destroyers, cruisers and battleships. He had forgotten what it was like to feel flesh tingle as strong g-forces threatened to rip your skin from its bones. Guul understood it. Remisk most certainly did. And even that sorry son of a bitch Mo‘tak understood the ecstatic feeling of sheer speed.
She pulled ahead. She took the next ring flawlessly, shifting against inertia and rolling through the next ring, which appeared immediately after the last. The final ring loomed large in the distance. Her crew chief, his attitude suddenly changed, barked “Go! Go!” into her ear. She smiled. She’d made the right decision. She most definitely deserved to be here racing among the greats.
Remisk pulled up above her, obviously giving her first place. She kept her course forward and strong, letting her warning systems holler. She giggled like a child, accepting praise from her chief. The flashing lights of the last ring did not make her weak or sick this time. She welcomed them happily.
Then a shadow came up over her, darkening her cockpit. It was Remisk, his M50 finding new life and overtaking her ship. In her joy, Darring had not realized that her thumb had lightened its pressure on her throttle, and she had slowed just slightly. Slowed enough for Remisk to swing his craft up and over her hull and plant itself, with its main thrusters, right in front of her cockpit. Darring tried keeping her speed and course, but Remisk kicked his boost and threw a gout of yellow fire across her cockpit windows.
Darring rolled left. It was a serious mistake. She tried regaining her position, pressed her thumb deeply into the throttle, but it was too late. Ykonde Remisk passed through the final ring in first place. The Avenger and one other racer took second and third, while Darring, her ship rolling uncontrollably through the last ring, barely finished fourth.
TO BE CONTINUED…
German
Anmerkung des Autors: Teil eins des Cups wurde ursprünglich in Jump Point 1.8 veröffentlicht.
Hallo zusammen und nochmals herzlich willkommen bei der kontinuierlichen Berichterstattung von GSN Spectrum Broadcasting über das Murray Cup Race. Der MCR, oder The Cup, wie er allgemein bekannt ist, ist eines der besten Sportereignisse in der UEE. Fast 100 Rennfahrer treten am zermürbenden 10-stufigen Lauf der Classic Division an, der sich durch die vielen wundersamen Planeten und Doppel-Asteroidengürtel des Ellis-Systems schlängelt. Rennfahrer konkurrieren, um zu bestimmen, wer der Schnellste und Stärkste ist, während sie darum kämpfen, die Integrität ihres Rennfahrzeugs unter einigen der tödlichsten Bedingungen im Imperium zu erhalten. Der diesjährige Wettbewerb verspricht einer der härtesten zu werden, da die Top 25 bei einem Treffen mit Medien und Sponsoren im GSN-Sportatrium im Orbit über Green vertreten sind. Obwohl viele zum Rennen kommen, gelten nur wenige als echte Teilnehmer, und diese Teilnehmer warten nun auf ihre Chance auf Ruhm und Ehre.
Der diesjährige Liebling ist Ykonde Remisk, ein Mensch, der alle überrascht hat, indem er sowohl den Goss Invitational als auch den Cassini 500 gewonnen hat. Er kommt in die MCR mit einer echten Chance, der erste Rennfahrer zu sein, der seit zwölf Jahren die Triple Crown gewinnt. Dann gibt es Nyanāl Mo'tak Xu.oa, den besten Xi'an-Rennfahrer in der Geschichte des Sports. Wenn er siegt, wird er der erste sein, der je drei MCRs in Folge gewinnt.
Zogat Guul, das alte Schlachtross von Tevarin, kann auch nicht ausgezählt werden. Diese Legende hat die MCR mehr als jeder andere in ihrer Geschichte gewonnen, aber Schicksal und Unglück haben ihn daran gehindert, seit über fünf Jahren ein Großereignis zu gewinnen. Sein zweiter Platz bei der Cassini 500 hat seinen Namen jedoch wieder in den Vordergrund gerückt. Kann er es noch einmal gewinnen, bevor er verblasst?
Und schließlich hat die Newcomerin Hypatia Darring den Kopf verdreht, indem sie Remisk die Pole-Position weggenommen hat. Sie hat in ihrer kurzen Karriere noch nie ein großes Rennereignis gewonnen, aber ihre konstanten Top-Ten-Platzierungen der letzten zwei Jahre zeigen, dass ihre Pole-Position kein Zufall ist. Kann dieser Junge mit dem enormen Druck umgehen, der auf ihn ausgeübt wird? Nur die Zeit wird es zeigen .....
Lassen Sie uns es zurück zu GSN Reporter Mike Crenshaw werfen, der seinen Weg durch den Empfang macht, während wir sprechen. Wen hast du jetzt für uns, Mike?
Hypatia Darring bemerkte nicht einmal die Frage der Reporterin, als sie über die belebte Empfangshalle starrte. Der Tevarin sah schlank und elegant aus, inmitten einer Schar von Reportern, die sich um ihn scharten. Ein Teil von ihr hatte Lust, sich der Menge anzuschließen. Ich sollte das Bedürfnis verspüren, seinen Arsch zu schlagen, auf der letzten Stufe an ihm vorbeizuziehen, sein Schiff in einen Asteroiden zu zwingen. Das wären die Gefühle eines großen Rennfahrers, eines großen Konkurrenten, eines fokussierten und siegesbereiten Menschen. Aber nein. So sehr sie auch versuchte, sie konnte sich dieser Legende nicht so nahe fühlen, die nur wenige Meter entfernt stand. Zu ihrem Leidwesen hatte sie keine Gelegenheit gehabt, mit ihm zu sprechen, als sich ihre Wege bei Cassini hätten kreuzen können. Jetzt musste sie die Zeit finden. Sie bekämpfte den Drang, durch den Raum zu gehen, an den Medienhunden vorbeizugehen, ihn zum Abendessen einzuladen und ihn zu bitten, das abgenutzte, verblasste, hundeohrige Poster von ihm in seiner Jugend zu signieren - stolz neben seinem silbernen M50 stehend - das noch an ihrer Gewohnheitswand hängt.
Sie schüttelte den Kopf und blinzelte. "Es tut mir leid. Wiederholen Sie das?"
Mike Crenshaw räusperte sich. "Glaubst du, Admiral Darring ist stolz auf seine Tochter?" Darring presste ihre Zähne zusammen und zwang ein Lächeln. "Natürlich ist er das. Warum sollte er nicht?"
"Er hat mehr als einmal öffentlich erklärt, dass er glaubt, dass du deine Talente als Rennfahrer verschwendest. Dass du diesen ganzen "Unsinn" - sein Wort - aufgeben und eine passendere Karriere in der UEE Navy verfolgen solltest."
"Mein Vater war noch nie einer, der seine Meinungen einschränkte", sagte sie und unternahm zaghafte Schritte in Richtung Guul. "Aber wenn du wirklich die Antwort auf diese Frage wissen willst, solltest du ihn selbst fragen."
Eine andere Reporterin kämpfte sich hinein. " Alice Frannif, Terra Gazette. .... die Pole-Position von Ykonde Remisk einzunehmen, war eine wunderbare Leistung. Wie hast du das gemacht?"
Ihr Lächeln war echt. " Glück."
"Oh, komm schon, Hypatia", sagte Crenshaw und gewann den Boden zurück. "Eine Zeit einen Punkt fünf Sekunden hinter dem Rekord zu erreichen, bringt kaum Glück. Wie hast du das gemacht?"
Sie kicherte. "Geduld, Hingabe, Konzentration und eine ausgeprägte Liebe zum Detail. Das und die schnellste verdammte M50 auf der Strecke. Alles, was mein Vater sicher zu schätzen weiß."
Die Reporter lachten und transkribierten hastig Notizen. Darring machte noch ein paar Schritte in Richtung Guul.
"Frau Darring", sagte eine andere Reporterin, "wie gedenkst du, dein Glück, wie du es ausdrückst, während der gesamten Rasse zu bewahren? Zehn Stufen, alle getaktet, viele mit engen, gefährlichen Kanälen, besonders durch die Asteroidengürtel. Du wirst Kopf an Kopf mit einigen der besten Rennfahrer der Geschichte fahren. Wie willst du als relativer Newcomer mit dem Druck umgehen, deinen guten Start beibehalten und letztendlich den Cup gewinnen?"
"Sie ist ein Naturtalent!"
Alle drehten sich um, einschließlich Darring, und fanden Mo'tak Xu.oa, den Xi'an, der in einem leuchtend violetten Overall gekleidet war und inmitten eines Pools von Schmeichlern stand, die ihm zu jedem Ereignis folgten. Einige von ihnen waren ehemalige GSN-Reporter, die jetzt vom Xu.oa-Haus unter Vollbeschäftigung standen, gefangen von seinem Ruhm, seiner Bekanntheit und seinem Reichtum.
Darring kontrollierte ihren finsteren Blick, als der stämmige Xi'an ein paar Meter von ihr entfernt stoppte. "Sie ist ein Naturtalent", wiederholte Mo'tak, um sicherzustellen, dass die Reporter seine Antwort aufnehmen konnten. Er war um ein oder zwei Zentimeter kürzer als Darring - was für seine Rasse immer noch ungewöhnlich groß war - aber seine kühlen, bernsteinfarbenen Augen scannten ihr Gesicht sorgfältig ab. Seine kräftigen Kiefermuskeln zogen sich in einer engen Annäherung an ein Lächeln zurück. "Sie wird es gewinnen, indem sie die beste Rennfahrerin auf der Rennstrecke ist."
"Glaubst du das wirklich?" fragte Crenshaw. "Sie ist die Beste?"
Mo'tak nickte langsam, diplomatisch, seine Augen auf Darring gerichtet. "Ich hätte es nicht gesagt, wenn ich es nicht getan hätte." Er blinzelte. "Wie geht es dir, meine Liebe? Ausgeruht von deinen Versuchen bei Cassini?"
"Ausgeruht genug", antwortete sie, unter ihrem Atem. Die Reporter lehnten sich an, um zu hören. "Aber du solltest alles darüber wissen."
Mo'tak winkte sie ab, als wäre sie seine Kleine. "Die Gefahren des Handels, meine Liebe. Ich habe getan, was ich tun musste, um einen Vorteil zu erlangen."
Darring nickte. "Aber du hast nicht gewonnen, oder? Mich in einem Zug zu unterbrechen, der technisch gesehen illegal war, brachte dir nur den dritten Platz."
"Trotzdem, ein besseres Ende als du." Mo'tak kicherte. Seine Anhänger taten dasselbe. "Der Cassini ist mir nicht so wichtig, meine Liebe. Die MCR ist das Kronjuwel. Das wirst du mit der Zeit verstehen.... wenn du lange genug durchhältst."
"Können wir ein Bild von euch beiden Seite an Seite machen?", sagte ein Reporter. Der Rest bestätigte diesen Wunsch mit übertriebenem Nicken.
Mo'tak wandte sich an die Menge und schaute sich um, damit alle es sehen konnten. "Natürlich hast du vielleicht ein Bild", sagte er und bot Darring aus Kulanz seine Hand an. "Ich fühle mich geehrt, Teil dieser großen Tradition zu sein. Die MCR liegt mir sehr am Herzen, und mit einem so brillanten Wettbewerb wie Hypatia Darring hier, wird das diesjährige Rennen ein unvergessliches Erlebnis sein."
Hypatia nahm seine Hand vorsichtig. Sie wickelte ihre Finger um seine breite Handfläche. Sie zwang sich zur Entspannung und wandte sich den Reportern zu, damit sie ihre Fotos machen und ihre Fragen stellen konnten.
Aber dann begann Mo'tak zu drücken, und zu drücken, und zu drücken, und zu drücken, bis sie spürte, wie die kleinen zarten Knochen in ihrer Hand unter dem Druck nachgaben. Sie drückte sich wieder dagegen, aber das brachte nicht viel Erleichterung, als Mo'tak weitergriff. Nicht zusammenzucken, sagte sie zu sich selbst. Nicht weinen. Gib ihm nicht die Befriedigung. Aber der Schmerz spreizte ihren Arm, in ihre Schulter, durch ihren Hals. Gott, er versucht, mir die Hand zu brechen. Er ist.......
Er ließ los, und der Schmerz ließ nach. Sie seufzte und wischte sich mit der anderen Hand eine Schweißperle von der Stirn.
Crenshaw wollte gerade eine weitere Frage stellen, aber dann entdeckte jemand Ykonde Remisk, und sie alle rannten in seine Richtung.
An ihrer Seite kicherte Mo'tak. "Wir sind für sie nur so wichtig wie unser letztes Angebot." Der Xi'an wandte sich wieder an sie.
Diesmal hat er seine Hand nicht angeboten. Er zwinkerte. ".athl'ē'kol an dich, meinen eifrigen Konkurrenten. Sicheres Reisen. Ich sehe dich dann auf der ganzen Linie."
Mo'tak verschwand in den dummen Armen seiner Fans. Als er wegging, fiel Darring einem schlanken, mürrisch aussehenden Mann auf, der eine wachsame Position hinter seinem Arbeitgeber einnahm. Er nickte ihr zu. Sie ignorierte ihn und stellte sich vor, wie sie ein Messer in Mo'taks Rücken trieb.
"Lass dich nicht von ihm anmachen."
Die Stimme war weich und freundlich. Darring drehte sich um, um es zu begrüßen.
Da stand er und überragte sie. In seinem Schatten fühlte sie sich wirklich klein, sowohl in ihrer Statur als auch im Status. Zogat Guul strahlte eine Freundlichkeit und eine ruhige Erfahrung aus, die ihre Wut beruhigte. Sie bot ihre wunde Hand demütig an. Er nahm es ohne Beanstandung.
"Lass nicht zu, dass dir dieser aufgeblasene Trottel unter die Haut geht. Er ist berüchtigt für seine Gedankenspiele." Mit einem schnellen Grinsen schnappte er sich in eine formale Haltung, als ob er einen Offizier begrüßen würde, und stieß seine Brust heraus, obwohl sie bequem in einen schwarz-goldenen Halbmantel gehüllt war. "Mein Name ist Zogat -"
"Ich weiß, wer du bist", unterbrach Darring, sofort verlegen von ihrer Grobheit. "Es ist mir eine Ehre, Sie kennenzulernen. Es ist ein Traum, den ich seit meiner Kindheit hatte."
"Und ich habe deine Karriere mit großem Interesse verfolgt." Er nahm sie am Arm und fing an, sie zu einem Tisch zu führen, der mit drei großen Punschschalen und einer Auswahl an Meeresfrüchtevorspeisen gefüllt war. Sie gingen langsam. "Du steigst stetig auf dem Kurs. Dein Name ist auf den Lippen vieler. Dein fünfter Platz bei Cassini war ziemlich beeindruckend, besonders für jemanden, der so jung ist."
"Danke. Es wäre noch beeindruckender gewesen, wenn ich gewonnen hätte, wenn Mo'tak mich nicht zurückgedrängt hätte."
"Du hast ihn zu nahe kommen lassen", sagte er, ohne Bosheit oder Anklage in seinem Ton. "Du hattest die Innenbahn, aber du bist langsamer geworden, um mit ihm zu kämpfen."
"Er hat mich wütend gemacht!"
Guul stoppte: "Ein solches Verhalten kann in den kleineren, umliegenden Rennen wie Cassini toleriert werden. Aber nicht hier. Hier werden Sie durch solche rohen Emotionen vertrieben oder getötet. Es stimmt, es gibt Etappen auf dem Weg dorthin, wo das Rennen eng wird, wo man um die Position manövrieren muss. Aber Geschwindigkeit ist hier am wichtigsten. .... Geschwindigkeit und Zeit. Denke daran, Hypatia Darring, die wichtigste Tatsache über den Murray Cup: Geschwindigkeit ist das Leben." Er neigte seinen Kopf zur Seite. "Geschwindigkeit ist Leben... oder Tod, wenn man in die falsche Richtung geht."
Sie lachte darüber und ließ die Ernsthaftigkeit seiner Worte durchsickern. "Wir werden jetzt nicht mehr über diese Dinge sprechen", sagte er und nahm ihren Weg zum Esstisch wieder auf. "Wir werden weitere Gelegenheiten haben, später zu reden, wenn die Neunaugen nicht so dick und hungrig sind." Er ignorierte die Welle eines Reportern in der Nähe. "Jedes Wort, das wir hier sprechen, wird interpretiert und neu interpretiert, bis es uns am Ende in den Augen der Öffentlichkeit zu einem Liebhaber macht."
Darring erzwang ein schiefes Lächeln. "Sorry. ...du bist nicht mein Typ."
Guul ließ ein herzliches Lachen aus. Er schüttelte den Kopf. "Die Geschichte meines Lebens." Er beschleunigte sein Tempo in Richtung Essen. "Jetzt komm und schenke mir ein Glas mit dem größten Geschenk, das die Menschen der Galaxie gemacht haben."
"Was ist das?" fragte Darring.
Guul schlug auf die Lippen. " Limonade."
* * *
Mo'tak zerquetschte die dünne Schale der Jumbo-Garnele in seinem Mund. Er kümmerte sich nicht darum, es zu schälen, wie es ein schwacher Mensch tun könnte. Verflucht sei diese menschliche Nahrung trotzdem! Was würde er nicht geben, um im Familienkomplex zu sein und sich mit einer großen Handvoll fermentierter Nadelfische zufrieden zu geben. Ihre Gallenblasen hatten eine Galle, die so süß - nein, süßer - war wie alles, was ein Mensch aushecken konnte. Nichts auf dem Tisch vor ihm war seiner Meinung nach wirklich angenehm, aber er tolerierte es so gut er konnte, und lächelte demütig, wie er es auf diesem oder jenem Gericht zum Wohle der Medien gewählt hatte. Mo'tak nickte einer menschlichen Reporterin zu, als sie vorbeikam.
Die Menschen hatten ihren Nutzen.
Und das tat auch derjenige, der jetzt im Zentrum des Medienrausches stand. Warum waren die Reporter um ihn herum, stellten ihm Fragen, flehten ihn an, seine Geheimnisse für den Sieg im Rennen zu enthüllen, genau wie sie Darring gebeten hatten? Diese verdammten Menschen und ihr Minderwertigkeitskomplex! So unwillig, Xi'an Überlegenheit zu erkennen. Aber Mo'tak war der beste Rennfahrer, der je in ein Cockpit gestiegen war, und sein perfekt modifizierter 350r mit seinem violetten Rumpf und verstärkten, goldbesetzten Flügeln würde das tun, was kein anderer Rennfahrer je getan hatte: den MCR dreimal in Folge gewinnen. Weder Remisk, noch Guul, noch Darring konnten eine solche Leistung beanspruchen. Also, warum waren die GSN nya-osen'p.u. nicht um ihn herum?
Aber vielleicht war das das Beste, überlegte er, knallte sich eine weitere Garnele in den Mund und nippte an einem warmen, schaumfreien Bier. Lassen Sie Ykonde Remisk seinen Moment im Rampenlicht haben. Lassen Sie die Medien ihre Favoriten haben. Denn wenn sie fallen, wenn sie dem Hype nicht gerecht werden, wird Mo'taks Sieg umso süßer erscheinen. Ja, lass sie sich sonnen.... dann lass sie fallen. Und ich werde dafür sorgen, dass sie hart fallen.
"Ist alles in Ordnung?" flüsterte er einem Untergebenen an seiner Seite zu.
"Ja, Sir. Ihre Wartungsteams sind gemäß Ihren Spezifikationen und den MCR-Richtlinien über das Ellis-System verteilt."
Mo'tak kratzte sich frustriert am Hals. "Das ist nicht das, was ich meinte."
Der Untergebene schluckte und wackelte mit dem Kopf. "Ja, die Angelegenheit, von der wir sprachen, wurde ebenfalls behandelt. Aber ich würde davon abraten, Sir. Das Risiko ist zu groß, und außerdem muss sich Mo'tak nicht auf solche Dinge verlassen. Er ist der beste Rennfahrer auf der Rennstrecke."
"Ich bezahle dich nicht, mir einen solchen Rat oder ein solches Lob zu geben. Ich bezahle dich, damit du tust, was man dir sagt. Jetzt geh und stelle sicher, dass alles bereit ist, wie ich es dir befohlen habe." Er stellte sein Bier ab. "Und ich werde gehen und den "Favoriten" an seine Verpflichtung mir gegenüber erinnern."
Der Untergebene nickte und rannte weg, um seine Pflicht zu erfüllen. Mo'tak seufzte tief, legte sein glückliches Gesicht auf und ging selbstbewusst auf den Wahnsinn um Ykonde Remisk zu.
* * *
Sie liebte ihre Origin M50 Turbo mehr als das Leben. Erschüttert, zerkratzt, rote und weiße Farbe aufgetragen, um einen Rumpf zu bedecken, der einen Integritätsfeger brauchte, aber nach Cassini hatte es keine Zeit für so etwas gegeben. Auch für solche Reparaturen hatte sie noch nicht genug Kredite gewonnen, nicht zuletzt, weil sie für Transportschiffe und ihre Boxencrew bezahlen musste. Aber was ist schon dabei? Das Kraftwerk war solide, die Triebwerke neu und erstklassig. In einer Prise bezweifelte sie, dass jeder Rennfahrer, egal wo, damit mithalten konnte. Sicherlich konnte keiner der anderen 24 Herausforderer hinter ihr - einschließlich Guul - sie auf Anhieb schlagen. Aber die MCR hatte nur wenige auf Anhieb. Die Integrität des Rumpfes war entscheidend.
Als ihr Crew Chief den finalen Systemcheck im Ohr rasselte, zog Darring die Karte für die erste Stufe hoch. Es erschien mit einem hellen Blinzeln, um Reihe für Reihe von Ringen anzuzeigen, die sich durch die niedrige Umlaufbahn über Ellis III winden. Darring studierte die Ringe sorgfältig und erinnerte sich daran, welche groß, welche klein waren, wo sich die Kameras und Zeitbojen befanden. Alle Rennfahrer mussten sich innerhalb der "unsichtbaren" Fahrspur bewegen, die durch die Ringe führt; wenn ein Rennfahrer nach draußen wanderte, verlor er oder sie Zeit. Diese erste Etappe wurde sowohl zeitlich geplant als auch mit zusätzlichen Credits für den ersten, zweiten und dritten Platz versehen. Die Pole-Position gab ihr dann einen Vorteil. Aber für wie lange? Darring lehnte sich auf ihrem Platz hinüber und studierte den Kurs sorgfältig.
Es war nicht anders als ein Abschnitt des Goss Invitational, also hatte sie viel Erfahrung mit dieser Art von Lauf. Ihre M50 wurde für anstrengende Züge und Zacks durch enge Stellen gebaut. Aber wie gut würde es ihr später gehen, wenn die Kurse tödlicher und anstrengender wurden?
Von Ellis III, die Rennfahrer quantumed zu Ellis IV, wo der sogenannte Seahorse Shuffle stattfand. Dann weiter zu Ellis V. und dem "Noble Endeavour". Danach ging es durch den ersten von zwei Asteroidengürteln, einen Kurs namens The Sorrow Sea, wo Rümpfe früherer Rennfahrer als Hindernisse schwebten. Dann um den Gasriesen Walleye herum, wo die Schiffe durch einen einzigen törichten Zug leicht auseinander gerissen werden könnten. Es folgte eine längere Etappe, über den äußeren Asteroidengürtel (ehemals Ellis XI) und schließlich bis Ellis XII. Dann wandte sich das Rennen wieder dem Herzen des Systems zu und endete bei Ellis VIII. Sie war dieses Rennen schon einmal gelaufen, aber nie als echte Kandidatin, und so hatte sie sich die Zeit genommen, jede Etappe langsam und ruhig zu fliegen, wie ein Marathonläufer, um alle Ins und Outs zu lernen. Diesmal jedoch war der Druck groß. Sie hielt die Pole-Position, den ersten Platz. Jetzt war alles anders.
Die Stimme des MCR-Starters knisterte über die Kommunikationsverbindung. "Racers, bereiten Sie sich auf den Start vor."
Darring schloss die Karte, bestätigte die Standardvereinbarung zu den Regeln und Vorschriften des MCR im Einklang mit den anderen Rennfahrern, schnallte sich an und betete ein kleines Gebet. Sie war bei weitem nicht religiös, aber sie dachte, es würde nicht schaden. Das Gebet beruhigte ihre Nerven, als sich die Buchtstüren des Starters zum Weltraum öffneten.
Sie konnte Ellis III. durch die Tür sehen. Es war wunderschön, grün, seine Umlaufbahn gespickt mit Korvetten und Vergnügungsschiffen der Wohlhabenden, die gekommen waren, um das Rennen aus erster Hand zu sehen. Auf dem Weg dorthin gab es viele Zuschauer, viele Medien, und Darring musste sie einfach alle aus dem Kopf bekommen. Sie konzentrierte sich auf Zogat Guuls Worte - Speed is life - und blickte durch eines ihrer Cockpitpanels zurück, um einen Blick auf die aufgerüstete Hornet des Tevarin zu werfen. Aber er war zu weit zurück. Alles, was sie sehen konnte, war Ykonde Remisks M50 mit seinen grellen Gold- und Blautönen. Sie bemerkte, dass er ihr zu nahe stand; in der Regel gab es eine bestimmte Distanz, die die Rennfahrer vor dem Start einhalten mussten: das Privileg der Pole-Position.
Sie knirschte mit den Zähnen und fluchte unter ihrem Atem. Jemand hat bereits gegen die Regeln verstoßen.
"Hypatia Darring... du kannst es starten."
Sie wartete nicht einmal darauf, dass der Sprecher fertig war. Darring brach mit Höchstgeschwindigkeit aus der Tür des Trägerfachs.
Durch einen schmalen Kanal, der von Medien und Zuschauern flankiert wurde, flog Darring die feierliche Runde. Der Rest der Rennfahrer folgte hinterher, ließ einen nach dem anderen los, behielt aber seine vorgegebenen Positionen innerhalb der Linie. Vor ihr funkelte das Schnellboot mit einem blinkenden roten Licht. Nervöse Energie entdeckte ihre Stirn mit Schweiß. Ihr Crewchef gab seine letzten Kommentare und Anweisungen. Sie unterschrieb ihn und konzentrierte sich auf den vor ihr liegenden Kurs.
In ihrem Ohr zählte der MCR-Starter herunter - zehn, neun, acht ...... Darring stieß nach links und versuchte, direkt hinter dem Tempofahrzeug zu bleiben. Ykonde Remisk war direkt hinter ihr her, die Nase seines Rennfahrers war gefährlich nah. Geht zurück! Darring sprach leise und wollte auf ihrer Kommunikationsverbindung blättern und sich auf seine Frequenz einstellen. Es war nicht unbedingt gegen die MCR-Regeln, mit anderen Rennfahrern zu sprechen, aber die Beamten rieten davon ab, da sie befürchteten, dass häufige Gespräche während des Rennens Ablenkungen hervorrufen könnten, die zu Unfällen und Verletzungen führen würden. Außerdem gab es genug Gerede zwischen den Rennfahrern und ihren Crews. Dennoch wollte Darring einen Kanal öffnen und Remisk ins Ohr schreien: Runter von meinem Rücken!
Fünf... vier... drei... drei.... drei......
Nun zogen sich alle Rennfahrer zusammen, als der Schrittmacher die letzte Kurve machte, um sie auf die ersten Ringe einzustellen. Darring hat es selbst ein wenig erschossen und nähert sich dem Schrittmacher. Sie stellte sich nun nur noch ein wenig rechts davon, um Remisk davon abzuhalten, in letzter Minute an ihr vorbeizuhetzen. Darrings Herz raste, ihre Hände zitterten auf ihrem Joystick. Sie versuchte, sich auf das kleine Objekt zu konzentrieren, das in ihrem Ansichtsfenster wuchs und wuchs: Der erste Ring, dessen rotierende Lichter um seinen virtuellen Rahmen wirbeln und den Beginn signalisieren.....
Zwei.... eins.... eins..... zwei.... eins..... zwei..... zwei..... eins.
Die roten Lichter am Schrittmacher blinkten grün, und er fiel schnell nach links und brach die Formation.
Darring drückte sich in ihren Sitz, schoss mit ihren Triebwerken und blies durch den ersten Ring.
* * *
Die blinkenden Lichter der Ringe ließen ihre Augen schmerzen.
Sie flogen schnell an ihr vorbei und sie konzentrierte sich zu sehr auf sie, zu sehr um ihre Zeit, ihre Position in der Linie. Sie war durch die Zählung des letzten Zeitmessers auf den dritten Platz gefallen. Es war auch ihre Schuld gewesen, weil sie sich so sehr um den Treibstoffverbrauch sorgte und einen Piloten mit einem übertakteten Avenger die Innenspur nehmen ließ. Ihr Crewchef schrie sie deswegen an; sie ignorierte ihn. Der kleine Scheißer hatte natürlich Recht, aber er war ein alter Akademiefreund ihres Vaters, und sie war nicht in der Stimmung, ihm zuzuhören, wie er sie anschrie. Außerdem konnte sie jederzeit einen Avenger überholen.
Der eigentliche Schwerpunkt ihrer Genesung musste Ykonde Remisk sein.
Der schmutzige Hurensohn hatte sie gegen die linke Wand des Tunnels gedrückt, durch den sie rasten. Ihr Flügel hatte tatsächlich die virtuelle Ebene gebrochen, und die Stimme des MCR-Rufers kam über ihr Kommando...... "Zehn Sekunden zusätzlich zu deiner Zeit." Verdammt! Remisks Presse war nicht strikt regelwidrig, da sein Schiff ihres nicht berührt hatte, aber es war sicherlich ein schmutziger Pool und gegen den Geist des Wettbewerbs. Sie hatte auch keinen Ausweg aus dem Pick-and-Roll; es war, als ob er und der Avenger-Pilot unter einer Decke stecken würden. Das würde sie nicht im Geringsten überraschen.
Sie konzentrierte sich neu und stieß ihre M50 nach vorne, tauchte unter den Rächer und rutschte auf dem Boden daran vorbei. Es versuchte, ihren Rücken zu muskulös zu machen, indem es seinen rechten Flügel nach unten zeigte, um ihre Sicht zu verdecken, aber Darring nahm den Zug vorweg, bewegte sich in gleicher Weise und behielt ihre Position und Gelassenheit. Unterdessen hatte der Avenger-Pilot den Fokus auf die vor ihm liegende Spur verloren und konnte nicht bemerken, dass sich der Ring schnell und nach links schloss. Darring traf ihre Triebwerke hart und schob sich nach links, in letzter Minute verließ sie den Weg des Rächers. Darring nahm die Drehung vor und klingelte perfekt; der Rächer sah ihn zu spät, versuchte, sich anzupassen, und klippte den Ring mit seinem linken Flügel. Er durchbrach die unsichtbare Ebene des Tunnels und überkompensierte dann zu einem Spin durch den Hohlraum.
Iss das!
Sie hoffte, dass Guul irgendwo hinter ihr jubelte. Sie konnte fast seine resonante Stimme hören, die ihr Lob sang. Sie mochte den Gedanken, aber die drängendste Sorge war jetzt direkt vor ihr.
Remisk hatte sein Schiff während der gesamten Strecke mit voller Geschwindigkeit getrieben. Wie war das möglich? fragte sie sich. Sicher, er hatte seinen M50 wie alle anderen angepasst und alles entfernt, was für zusätzlichen Kraftstoff und Kühlgeräte unwichtig war, aber er muss jetzt schon mit den Dämpfen laufen, nachdem er so hochgefahren ist. Es gab keine andere Erklärung. Er müsste bald ausbrennen, und je früher, desto besser.
Sie ignorierte die drei anderen Rennfahrer, die hart auf ihre sechs drückten. Sie nahm den nächsten Ring und den nächsten, ließ die starke Trägheit ziehen und ihr Schiff vorwärts treiben. Das war der beste Weg, um Überhitzung zu vermeiden, sie hatte gelernt, um den Saturn herumzufahren. Lasse den Schub in den Kurven los und lasse dein Schiff mit Höchstgeschwindigkeit in den Vektor driften. Dann hattest du genug Schub, um die wenigen Sekunden aufzunehmen, die du beim Driften verloren haben könntest. Dieser Renngig war ein Spiel von Millisekunden, und jeder einzelne zählte.
Sie rückte hinter Remisk auf und nutzte die letzte Straße, bevor das Finale durch die letzten drei Ringe führte. Es blieb nicht mehr viel Zeit, und sie musste sich jetzt bewegen.
Sie versuchte, sich auf und über sein Schiff zu bewegen. Er bewegte sich, um sie zu blockieren. Sie schob sich nach unten; er bewegte sich wieder, in perfekter Übereinstimmung, ihre Schiffe waren gleich groß. Sie bewegte sich nach links, rechts und jedes Mal, wenn Remisk zum Schalter wechselte. Wie macht er das?
Er war ein großartiger Rennfahrer. Daran bestand kein Zweifel. Er war stark, athletisch und kühl. Remisk war nicht dort angekommen, wo er auf der Strecke war, ohne klug und präzise zu sein. Aber seine Bewegungen, seine Instinkte waren fast übernatürlich, als ob seine Sinne verbessert würden. Aber das war unmöglich.
Jeder Rennfahrer durchlief eine strenge medizinische Untersuchung, um sicherzustellen, dass vor dem Rennen keine Medikamente eingeführt wurden, und weitere Tests wurden auf dem Weg dorthin durchgeführt, um sicherzustellen, dass nach der ersten Etappe keine eingenommen wurden. Remisk war einfach so gut.
Dann muss es mir besser gehen.
Sie drückte ihren Motor bis an seine Grenzen und überschritt sichere Werte, ganz zum Leidwesen ihres Crewchefs. Er flehte sie an, sich zurückzuziehen, den zweiten oder dritten Platz einzunehmen, riskiere nicht, dein Schiff so schnell für so wenig Belohnung zu sprengen. Kleine Belohnung, von wegen!
Sie hatte die Pole Position eingenommen, und sie wollte allen mitteilen, dass es kein Zufall war, dass Hypatia Darring hier war, um zu bleiben. Sie wollte ihr nicht das Leben geben - die Medien - Mahlgut für ihre Fräse.
Sie rollte den Lauf und ließ sich durch die Drehung ihrer M50 wie eine Schraube nach vorne drehen. Remisk, aus Angst, dass er selbst geschnitten würde, bewegte sich ganz leicht nach links, und Darring stürzte sich. Sie zog an seiner Seite und ließ ihr Schiff ruhen. Sie schlug ihre Triebwerke wieder und spürte, wie sie ihre Unzufriedenheit durch ihre Arme und Hände beklagten. Ihr Stock zitterte, ihre Hitzewarnungen blitzten. Sie konnte es durch ihren ganzen Körper spüren, und es gab in der ganzen Galaxie kein Gefühl dafür. Es war etwas, das ihr Vater vergessen hatte. Er war selbst ein guter Kampfpilot, oder zumindest war er in seiner Jugend. Aber er hatte zu viel von seinem Leben in langsamen Riesen wie Zerstörern, Kreuzern und Schlachtschiffen verbracht. Er hatte vergessen, wie es war, Fleisch zu prickeln, als starke G-Kräfte drohten, deine Haut von den Knochen zu reißen. Guul verstand es. Remisk hat es sicherlich getan. Und selbst dieser traurige Hurensohn Mo'tak verstand das ekstatische Gefühl der Geschwindigkeit.
Sie fuhr voraus. Sie nahm den nächsten Ring einwandfrei, bewegte sich gegen die Trägheit und rollte durch den nächsten Ring, der unmittelbar nach dem letzten erschien. Der letzte Ring war in der Ferne groß. Ihr Crewchef, seine Einstellung änderte sich plötzlich, bellte "Los! Los! Los!" in ihr Ohr. Sie lächelte. Sie hatte die richtige Entscheidung getroffen. Sie hat es definitiv verdient, hier unter den Großen zu sein.
Remisk zog sich über sie hoch und gab ihr offensichtlich den ersten Platz. Sie hielt ihren Kurs vorwärts und stark und ließ ihre Warnsysteme schreien. Sie kicherte wie ein Kind und nahm das Lob ihres Chefs an. Die Blinklichter des letzten Rings machten sie diesmal nicht schwach oder krank. Sie begrüßte sie fröhlich.
Dann kam ein Schatten über sie und verdunkelte ihr Cockpit. Es war Remisk, seine M50, die neues Leben fand und ihr Schiff überholte. In ihrer Freude hatte Darring nicht bemerkt, dass ihr Daumen den Druck auf ihr Gaspedal verringert hatte, und sie hatte sich nur leicht verlangsamt. Verlangsamt genug, damit Remisk sein Schiff nach oben und über ihren Rumpf schwenken und sich mit seinen Haupttriebwerken direkt vor ihrem Cockpit platzieren kann. Darring versuchte, ihre Geschwindigkeit und ihren Kurs beizubehalten, aber Remisk trat seinen Schub und warf eine Gicht aus gelbem Feuer über ihre Cockpitfenster.
Darring rollte nach links. Es war ein schwerer Fehler. Sie versuchte, ihre Position wiederzufinden, drückte ihren Daumen tief in das Gaspedal, aber es war zu spät. Ykonde Remisk durchlief den letzten Ring auf Platz eins. Der Rächer und ein anderer Rennfahrer belegten die Plätze zwei und drei, während Darring, ihr Schiff, das unkontrolliert durch den letzten Ring rollte, kaum Vierter wurde.
WIRD FORTGESETZT......
Hallo zusammen und nochmals herzlich willkommen bei der kontinuierlichen Berichterstattung von GSN Spectrum Broadcasting über das Murray Cup Race. Der MCR, oder The Cup, wie er allgemein bekannt ist, ist eines der besten Sportereignisse in der UEE. Fast 100 Rennfahrer treten am zermürbenden 10-stufigen Lauf der Classic Division an, der sich durch die vielen wundersamen Planeten und Doppel-Asteroidengürtel des Ellis-Systems schlängelt. Rennfahrer konkurrieren, um zu bestimmen, wer der Schnellste und Stärkste ist, während sie darum kämpfen, die Integrität ihres Rennfahrzeugs unter einigen der tödlichsten Bedingungen im Imperium zu erhalten. Der diesjährige Wettbewerb verspricht einer der härtesten zu werden, da die Top 25 bei einem Treffen mit Medien und Sponsoren im GSN-Sportatrium im Orbit über Green vertreten sind. Obwohl viele zum Rennen kommen, gelten nur wenige als echte Teilnehmer, und diese Teilnehmer warten nun auf ihre Chance auf Ruhm und Ehre.
Der diesjährige Liebling ist Ykonde Remisk, ein Mensch, der alle überrascht hat, indem er sowohl den Goss Invitational als auch den Cassini 500 gewonnen hat. Er kommt in die MCR mit einer echten Chance, der erste Rennfahrer zu sein, der seit zwölf Jahren die Triple Crown gewinnt. Dann gibt es Nyanāl Mo'tak Xu.oa, den besten Xi'an-Rennfahrer in der Geschichte des Sports. Wenn er siegt, wird er der erste sein, der je drei MCRs in Folge gewinnt.
Zogat Guul, das alte Schlachtross von Tevarin, kann auch nicht ausgezählt werden. Diese Legende hat die MCR mehr als jeder andere in ihrer Geschichte gewonnen, aber Schicksal und Unglück haben ihn daran gehindert, seit über fünf Jahren ein Großereignis zu gewinnen. Sein zweiter Platz bei der Cassini 500 hat seinen Namen jedoch wieder in den Vordergrund gerückt. Kann er es noch einmal gewinnen, bevor er verblasst?
Und schließlich hat die Newcomerin Hypatia Darring den Kopf verdreht, indem sie Remisk die Pole-Position weggenommen hat. Sie hat in ihrer kurzen Karriere noch nie ein großes Rennereignis gewonnen, aber ihre konstanten Top-Ten-Platzierungen der letzten zwei Jahre zeigen, dass ihre Pole-Position kein Zufall ist. Kann dieser Junge mit dem enormen Druck umgehen, der auf ihn ausgeübt wird? Nur die Zeit wird es zeigen .....
Lassen Sie uns es zurück zu GSN Reporter Mike Crenshaw werfen, der seinen Weg durch den Empfang macht, während wir sprechen. Wen hast du jetzt für uns, Mike?
Hypatia Darring bemerkte nicht einmal die Frage der Reporterin, als sie über die belebte Empfangshalle starrte. Der Tevarin sah schlank und elegant aus, inmitten einer Schar von Reportern, die sich um ihn scharten. Ein Teil von ihr hatte Lust, sich der Menge anzuschließen. Ich sollte das Bedürfnis verspüren, seinen Arsch zu schlagen, auf der letzten Stufe an ihm vorbeizuziehen, sein Schiff in einen Asteroiden zu zwingen. Das wären die Gefühle eines großen Rennfahrers, eines großen Konkurrenten, eines fokussierten und siegesbereiten Menschen. Aber nein. So sehr sie auch versuchte, sie konnte sich dieser Legende nicht so nahe fühlen, die nur wenige Meter entfernt stand. Zu ihrem Leidwesen hatte sie keine Gelegenheit gehabt, mit ihm zu sprechen, als sich ihre Wege bei Cassini hätten kreuzen können. Jetzt musste sie die Zeit finden. Sie bekämpfte den Drang, durch den Raum zu gehen, an den Medienhunden vorbeizugehen, ihn zum Abendessen einzuladen und ihn zu bitten, das abgenutzte, verblasste, hundeohrige Poster von ihm in seiner Jugend zu signieren - stolz neben seinem silbernen M50 stehend - das noch an ihrer Gewohnheitswand hängt.
Sie schüttelte den Kopf und blinzelte. "Es tut mir leid. Wiederholen Sie das?"
Mike Crenshaw räusperte sich. "Glaubst du, Admiral Darring ist stolz auf seine Tochter?" Darring presste ihre Zähne zusammen und zwang ein Lächeln. "Natürlich ist er das. Warum sollte er nicht?"
"Er hat mehr als einmal öffentlich erklärt, dass er glaubt, dass du deine Talente als Rennfahrer verschwendest. Dass du diesen ganzen "Unsinn" - sein Wort - aufgeben und eine passendere Karriere in der UEE Navy verfolgen solltest."
"Mein Vater war noch nie einer, der seine Meinungen einschränkte", sagte sie und unternahm zaghafte Schritte in Richtung Guul. "Aber wenn du wirklich die Antwort auf diese Frage wissen willst, solltest du ihn selbst fragen."
Eine andere Reporterin kämpfte sich hinein. " Alice Frannif, Terra Gazette. .... die Pole-Position von Ykonde Remisk einzunehmen, war eine wunderbare Leistung. Wie hast du das gemacht?"
Ihr Lächeln war echt. " Glück."
"Oh, komm schon, Hypatia", sagte Crenshaw und gewann den Boden zurück. "Eine Zeit einen Punkt fünf Sekunden hinter dem Rekord zu erreichen, bringt kaum Glück. Wie hast du das gemacht?"
Sie kicherte. "Geduld, Hingabe, Konzentration und eine ausgeprägte Liebe zum Detail. Das und die schnellste verdammte M50 auf der Strecke. Alles, was mein Vater sicher zu schätzen weiß."
Die Reporter lachten und transkribierten hastig Notizen. Darring machte noch ein paar Schritte in Richtung Guul.
"Frau Darring", sagte eine andere Reporterin, "wie gedenkst du, dein Glück, wie du es ausdrückst, während der gesamten Rasse zu bewahren? Zehn Stufen, alle getaktet, viele mit engen, gefährlichen Kanälen, besonders durch die Asteroidengürtel. Du wirst Kopf an Kopf mit einigen der besten Rennfahrer der Geschichte fahren. Wie willst du als relativer Newcomer mit dem Druck umgehen, deinen guten Start beibehalten und letztendlich den Cup gewinnen?"
"Sie ist ein Naturtalent!"
Alle drehten sich um, einschließlich Darring, und fanden Mo'tak Xu.oa, den Xi'an, der in einem leuchtend violetten Overall gekleidet war und inmitten eines Pools von Schmeichlern stand, die ihm zu jedem Ereignis folgten. Einige von ihnen waren ehemalige GSN-Reporter, die jetzt vom Xu.oa-Haus unter Vollbeschäftigung standen, gefangen von seinem Ruhm, seiner Bekanntheit und seinem Reichtum.
Darring kontrollierte ihren finsteren Blick, als der stämmige Xi'an ein paar Meter von ihr entfernt stoppte. "Sie ist ein Naturtalent", wiederholte Mo'tak, um sicherzustellen, dass die Reporter seine Antwort aufnehmen konnten. Er war um ein oder zwei Zentimeter kürzer als Darring - was für seine Rasse immer noch ungewöhnlich groß war - aber seine kühlen, bernsteinfarbenen Augen scannten ihr Gesicht sorgfältig ab. Seine kräftigen Kiefermuskeln zogen sich in einer engen Annäherung an ein Lächeln zurück. "Sie wird es gewinnen, indem sie die beste Rennfahrerin auf der Rennstrecke ist."
"Glaubst du das wirklich?" fragte Crenshaw. "Sie ist die Beste?"
Mo'tak nickte langsam, diplomatisch, seine Augen auf Darring gerichtet. "Ich hätte es nicht gesagt, wenn ich es nicht getan hätte." Er blinzelte. "Wie geht es dir, meine Liebe? Ausgeruht von deinen Versuchen bei Cassini?"
"Ausgeruht genug", antwortete sie, unter ihrem Atem. Die Reporter lehnten sich an, um zu hören. "Aber du solltest alles darüber wissen."
Mo'tak winkte sie ab, als wäre sie seine Kleine. "Die Gefahren des Handels, meine Liebe. Ich habe getan, was ich tun musste, um einen Vorteil zu erlangen."
Darring nickte. "Aber du hast nicht gewonnen, oder? Mich in einem Zug zu unterbrechen, der technisch gesehen illegal war, brachte dir nur den dritten Platz."
"Trotzdem, ein besseres Ende als du." Mo'tak kicherte. Seine Anhänger taten dasselbe. "Der Cassini ist mir nicht so wichtig, meine Liebe. Die MCR ist das Kronjuwel. Das wirst du mit der Zeit verstehen.... wenn du lange genug durchhältst."
"Können wir ein Bild von euch beiden Seite an Seite machen?", sagte ein Reporter. Der Rest bestätigte diesen Wunsch mit übertriebenem Nicken.
Mo'tak wandte sich an die Menge und schaute sich um, damit alle es sehen konnten. "Natürlich hast du vielleicht ein Bild", sagte er und bot Darring aus Kulanz seine Hand an. "Ich fühle mich geehrt, Teil dieser großen Tradition zu sein. Die MCR liegt mir sehr am Herzen, und mit einem so brillanten Wettbewerb wie Hypatia Darring hier, wird das diesjährige Rennen ein unvergessliches Erlebnis sein."
Hypatia nahm seine Hand vorsichtig. Sie wickelte ihre Finger um seine breite Handfläche. Sie zwang sich zur Entspannung und wandte sich den Reportern zu, damit sie ihre Fotos machen und ihre Fragen stellen konnten.
Aber dann begann Mo'tak zu drücken, und zu drücken, und zu drücken, und zu drücken, bis sie spürte, wie die kleinen zarten Knochen in ihrer Hand unter dem Druck nachgaben. Sie drückte sich wieder dagegen, aber das brachte nicht viel Erleichterung, als Mo'tak weitergriff. Nicht zusammenzucken, sagte sie zu sich selbst. Nicht weinen. Gib ihm nicht die Befriedigung. Aber der Schmerz spreizte ihren Arm, in ihre Schulter, durch ihren Hals. Gott, er versucht, mir die Hand zu brechen. Er ist.......
Er ließ los, und der Schmerz ließ nach. Sie seufzte und wischte sich mit der anderen Hand eine Schweißperle von der Stirn.
Crenshaw wollte gerade eine weitere Frage stellen, aber dann entdeckte jemand Ykonde Remisk, und sie alle rannten in seine Richtung.
An ihrer Seite kicherte Mo'tak. "Wir sind für sie nur so wichtig wie unser letztes Angebot." Der Xi'an wandte sich wieder an sie.
Diesmal hat er seine Hand nicht angeboten. Er zwinkerte. ".athl'ē'kol an dich, meinen eifrigen Konkurrenten. Sicheres Reisen. Ich sehe dich dann auf der ganzen Linie."
Mo'tak verschwand in den dummen Armen seiner Fans. Als er wegging, fiel Darring einem schlanken, mürrisch aussehenden Mann auf, der eine wachsame Position hinter seinem Arbeitgeber einnahm. Er nickte ihr zu. Sie ignorierte ihn und stellte sich vor, wie sie ein Messer in Mo'taks Rücken trieb.
"Lass dich nicht von ihm anmachen."
Die Stimme war weich und freundlich. Darring drehte sich um, um es zu begrüßen.
Da stand er und überragte sie. In seinem Schatten fühlte sie sich wirklich klein, sowohl in ihrer Statur als auch im Status. Zogat Guul strahlte eine Freundlichkeit und eine ruhige Erfahrung aus, die ihre Wut beruhigte. Sie bot ihre wunde Hand demütig an. Er nahm es ohne Beanstandung.
"Lass nicht zu, dass dir dieser aufgeblasene Trottel unter die Haut geht. Er ist berüchtigt für seine Gedankenspiele." Mit einem schnellen Grinsen schnappte er sich in eine formale Haltung, als ob er einen Offizier begrüßen würde, und stieß seine Brust heraus, obwohl sie bequem in einen schwarz-goldenen Halbmantel gehüllt war. "Mein Name ist Zogat -"
"Ich weiß, wer du bist", unterbrach Darring, sofort verlegen von ihrer Grobheit. "Es ist mir eine Ehre, Sie kennenzulernen. Es ist ein Traum, den ich seit meiner Kindheit hatte."
"Und ich habe deine Karriere mit großem Interesse verfolgt." Er nahm sie am Arm und fing an, sie zu einem Tisch zu führen, der mit drei großen Punschschalen und einer Auswahl an Meeresfrüchtevorspeisen gefüllt war. Sie gingen langsam. "Du steigst stetig auf dem Kurs. Dein Name ist auf den Lippen vieler. Dein fünfter Platz bei Cassini war ziemlich beeindruckend, besonders für jemanden, der so jung ist."
"Danke. Es wäre noch beeindruckender gewesen, wenn ich gewonnen hätte, wenn Mo'tak mich nicht zurückgedrängt hätte."
"Du hast ihn zu nahe kommen lassen", sagte er, ohne Bosheit oder Anklage in seinem Ton. "Du hattest die Innenbahn, aber du bist langsamer geworden, um mit ihm zu kämpfen."
"Er hat mich wütend gemacht!"
Guul stoppte: "Ein solches Verhalten kann in den kleineren, umliegenden Rennen wie Cassini toleriert werden. Aber nicht hier. Hier werden Sie durch solche rohen Emotionen vertrieben oder getötet. Es stimmt, es gibt Etappen auf dem Weg dorthin, wo das Rennen eng wird, wo man um die Position manövrieren muss. Aber Geschwindigkeit ist hier am wichtigsten. .... Geschwindigkeit und Zeit. Denke daran, Hypatia Darring, die wichtigste Tatsache über den Murray Cup: Geschwindigkeit ist das Leben." Er neigte seinen Kopf zur Seite. "Geschwindigkeit ist Leben... oder Tod, wenn man in die falsche Richtung geht."
Sie lachte darüber und ließ die Ernsthaftigkeit seiner Worte durchsickern. "Wir werden jetzt nicht mehr über diese Dinge sprechen", sagte er und nahm ihren Weg zum Esstisch wieder auf. "Wir werden weitere Gelegenheiten haben, später zu reden, wenn die Neunaugen nicht so dick und hungrig sind." Er ignorierte die Welle eines Reportern in der Nähe. "Jedes Wort, das wir hier sprechen, wird interpretiert und neu interpretiert, bis es uns am Ende in den Augen der Öffentlichkeit zu einem Liebhaber macht."
Darring erzwang ein schiefes Lächeln. "Sorry. ...du bist nicht mein Typ."
Guul ließ ein herzliches Lachen aus. Er schüttelte den Kopf. "Die Geschichte meines Lebens." Er beschleunigte sein Tempo in Richtung Essen. "Jetzt komm und schenke mir ein Glas mit dem größten Geschenk, das die Menschen der Galaxie gemacht haben."
"Was ist das?" fragte Darring.
Guul schlug auf die Lippen. " Limonade."
* * *
Mo'tak zerquetschte die dünne Schale der Jumbo-Garnele in seinem Mund. Er kümmerte sich nicht darum, es zu schälen, wie es ein schwacher Mensch tun könnte. Verflucht sei diese menschliche Nahrung trotzdem! Was würde er nicht geben, um im Familienkomplex zu sein und sich mit einer großen Handvoll fermentierter Nadelfische zufrieden zu geben. Ihre Gallenblasen hatten eine Galle, die so süß - nein, süßer - war wie alles, was ein Mensch aushecken konnte. Nichts auf dem Tisch vor ihm war seiner Meinung nach wirklich angenehm, aber er tolerierte es so gut er konnte, und lächelte demütig, wie er es auf diesem oder jenem Gericht zum Wohle der Medien gewählt hatte. Mo'tak nickte einer menschlichen Reporterin zu, als sie vorbeikam.
Die Menschen hatten ihren Nutzen.
Und das tat auch derjenige, der jetzt im Zentrum des Medienrausches stand. Warum waren die Reporter um ihn herum, stellten ihm Fragen, flehten ihn an, seine Geheimnisse für den Sieg im Rennen zu enthüllen, genau wie sie Darring gebeten hatten? Diese verdammten Menschen und ihr Minderwertigkeitskomplex! So unwillig, Xi'an Überlegenheit zu erkennen. Aber Mo'tak war der beste Rennfahrer, der je in ein Cockpit gestiegen war, und sein perfekt modifizierter 350r mit seinem violetten Rumpf und verstärkten, goldbesetzten Flügeln würde das tun, was kein anderer Rennfahrer je getan hatte: den MCR dreimal in Folge gewinnen. Weder Remisk, noch Guul, noch Darring konnten eine solche Leistung beanspruchen. Also, warum waren die GSN nya-osen'p.u. nicht um ihn herum?
Aber vielleicht war das das Beste, überlegte er, knallte sich eine weitere Garnele in den Mund und nippte an einem warmen, schaumfreien Bier. Lassen Sie Ykonde Remisk seinen Moment im Rampenlicht haben. Lassen Sie die Medien ihre Favoriten haben. Denn wenn sie fallen, wenn sie dem Hype nicht gerecht werden, wird Mo'taks Sieg umso süßer erscheinen. Ja, lass sie sich sonnen.... dann lass sie fallen. Und ich werde dafür sorgen, dass sie hart fallen.
"Ist alles in Ordnung?" flüsterte er einem Untergebenen an seiner Seite zu.
"Ja, Sir. Ihre Wartungsteams sind gemäß Ihren Spezifikationen und den MCR-Richtlinien über das Ellis-System verteilt."
Mo'tak kratzte sich frustriert am Hals. "Das ist nicht das, was ich meinte."
Der Untergebene schluckte und wackelte mit dem Kopf. "Ja, die Angelegenheit, von der wir sprachen, wurde ebenfalls behandelt. Aber ich würde davon abraten, Sir. Das Risiko ist zu groß, und außerdem muss sich Mo'tak nicht auf solche Dinge verlassen. Er ist der beste Rennfahrer auf der Rennstrecke."
"Ich bezahle dich nicht, mir einen solchen Rat oder ein solches Lob zu geben. Ich bezahle dich, damit du tust, was man dir sagt. Jetzt geh und stelle sicher, dass alles bereit ist, wie ich es dir befohlen habe." Er stellte sein Bier ab. "Und ich werde gehen und den "Favoriten" an seine Verpflichtung mir gegenüber erinnern."
Der Untergebene nickte und rannte weg, um seine Pflicht zu erfüllen. Mo'tak seufzte tief, legte sein glückliches Gesicht auf und ging selbstbewusst auf den Wahnsinn um Ykonde Remisk zu.
* * *
Sie liebte ihre Origin M50 Turbo mehr als das Leben. Erschüttert, zerkratzt, rote und weiße Farbe aufgetragen, um einen Rumpf zu bedecken, der einen Integritätsfeger brauchte, aber nach Cassini hatte es keine Zeit für so etwas gegeben. Auch für solche Reparaturen hatte sie noch nicht genug Kredite gewonnen, nicht zuletzt, weil sie für Transportschiffe und ihre Boxencrew bezahlen musste. Aber was ist schon dabei? Das Kraftwerk war solide, die Triebwerke neu und erstklassig. In einer Prise bezweifelte sie, dass jeder Rennfahrer, egal wo, damit mithalten konnte. Sicherlich konnte keiner der anderen 24 Herausforderer hinter ihr - einschließlich Guul - sie auf Anhieb schlagen. Aber die MCR hatte nur wenige auf Anhieb. Die Integrität des Rumpfes war entscheidend.
Als ihr Crew Chief den finalen Systemcheck im Ohr rasselte, zog Darring die Karte für die erste Stufe hoch. Es erschien mit einem hellen Blinzeln, um Reihe für Reihe von Ringen anzuzeigen, die sich durch die niedrige Umlaufbahn über Ellis III winden. Darring studierte die Ringe sorgfältig und erinnerte sich daran, welche groß, welche klein waren, wo sich die Kameras und Zeitbojen befanden. Alle Rennfahrer mussten sich innerhalb der "unsichtbaren" Fahrspur bewegen, die durch die Ringe führt; wenn ein Rennfahrer nach draußen wanderte, verlor er oder sie Zeit. Diese erste Etappe wurde sowohl zeitlich geplant als auch mit zusätzlichen Credits für den ersten, zweiten und dritten Platz versehen. Die Pole-Position gab ihr dann einen Vorteil. Aber für wie lange? Darring lehnte sich auf ihrem Platz hinüber und studierte den Kurs sorgfältig.
Es war nicht anders als ein Abschnitt des Goss Invitational, also hatte sie viel Erfahrung mit dieser Art von Lauf. Ihre M50 wurde für anstrengende Züge und Zacks durch enge Stellen gebaut. Aber wie gut würde es ihr später gehen, wenn die Kurse tödlicher und anstrengender wurden?
Von Ellis III, die Rennfahrer quantumed zu Ellis IV, wo der sogenannte Seahorse Shuffle stattfand. Dann weiter zu Ellis V. und dem "Noble Endeavour". Danach ging es durch den ersten von zwei Asteroidengürteln, einen Kurs namens The Sorrow Sea, wo Rümpfe früherer Rennfahrer als Hindernisse schwebten. Dann um den Gasriesen Walleye herum, wo die Schiffe durch einen einzigen törichten Zug leicht auseinander gerissen werden könnten. Es folgte eine längere Etappe, über den äußeren Asteroidengürtel (ehemals Ellis XI) und schließlich bis Ellis XII. Dann wandte sich das Rennen wieder dem Herzen des Systems zu und endete bei Ellis VIII. Sie war dieses Rennen schon einmal gelaufen, aber nie als echte Kandidatin, und so hatte sie sich die Zeit genommen, jede Etappe langsam und ruhig zu fliegen, wie ein Marathonläufer, um alle Ins und Outs zu lernen. Diesmal jedoch war der Druck groß. Sie hielt die Pole-Position, den ersten Platz. Jetzt war alles anders.
Die Stimme des MCR-Starters knisterte über die Kommunikationsverbindung. "Racers, bereiten Sie sich auf den Start vor."
Darring schloss die Karte, bestätigte die Standardvereinbarung zu den Regeln und Vorschriften des MCR im Einklang mit den anderen Rennfahrern, schnallte sich an und betete ein kleines Gebet. Sie war bei weitem nicht religiös, aber sie dachte, es würde nicht schaden. Das Gebet beruhigte ihre Nerven, als sich die Buchtstüren des Starters zum Weltraum öffneten.
Sie konnte Ellis III. durch die Tür sehen. Es war wunderschön, grün, seine Umlaufbahn gespickt mit Korvetten und Vergnügungsschiffen der Wohlhabenden, die gekommen waren, um das Rennen aus erster Hand zu sehen. Auf dem Weg dorthin gab es viele Zuschauer, viele Medien, und Darring musste sie einfach alle aus dem Kopf bekommen. Sie konzentrierte sich auf Zogat Guuls Worte - Speed is life - und blickte durch eines ihrer Cockpitpanels zurück, um einen Blick auf die aufgerüstete Hornet des Tevarin zu werfen. Aber er war zu weit zurück. Alles, was sie sehen konnte, war Ykonde Remisks M50 mit seinen grellen Gold- und Blautönen. Sie bemerkte, dass er ihr zu nahe stand; in der Regel gab es eine bestimmte Distanz, die die Rennfahrer vor dem Start einhalten mussten: das Privileg der Pole-Position.
Sie knirschte mit den Zähnen und fluchte unter ihrem Atem. Jemand hat bereits gegen die Regeln verstoßen.
"Hypatia Darring... du kannst es starten."
Sie wartete nicht einmal darauf, dass der Sprecher fertig war. Darring brach mit Höchstgeschwindigkeit aus der Tür des Trägerfachs.
Durch einen schmalen Kanal, der von Medien und Zuschauern flankiert wurde, flog Darring die feierliche Runde. Der Rest der Rennfahrer folgte hinterher, ließ einen nach dem anderen los, behielt aber seine vorgegebenen Positionen innerhalb der Linie. Vor ihr funkelte das Schnellboot mit einem blinkenden roten Licht. Nervöse Energie entdeckte ihre Stirn mit Schweiß. Ihr Crewchef gab seine letzten Kommentare und Anweisungen. Sie unterschrieb ihn und konzentrierte sich auf den vor ihr liegenden Kurs.
In ihrem Ohr zählte der MCR-Starter herunter - zehn, neun, acht ...... Darring stieß nach links und versuchte, direkt hinter dem Tempofahrzeug zu bleiben. Ykonde Remisk war direkt hinter ihr her, die Nase seines Rennfahrers war gefährlich nah. Geht zurück! Darring sprach leise und wollte auf ihrer Kommunikationsverbindung blättern und sich auf seine Frequenz einstellen. Es war nicht unbedingt gegen die MCR-Regeln, mit anderen Rennfahrern zu sprechen, aber die Beamten rieten davon ab, da sie befürchteten, dass häufige Gespräche während des Rennens Ablenkungen hervorrufen könnten, die zu Unfällen und Verletzungen führen würden. Außerdem gab es genug Gerede zwischen den Rennfahrern und ihren Crews. Dennoch wollte Darring einen Kanal öffnen und Remisk ins Ohr schreien: Runter von meinem Rücken!
Fünf... vier... drei... drei.... drei......
Nun zogen sich alle Rennfahrer zusammen, als der Schrittmacher die letzte Kurve machte, um sie auf die ersten Ringe einzustellen. Darring hat es selbst ein wenig erschossen und nähert sich dem Schrittmacher. Sie stellte sich nun nur noch ein wenig rechts davon, um Remisk davon abzuhalten, in letzter Minute an ihr vorbeizuhetzen. Darrings Herz raste, ihre Hände zitterten auf ihrem Joystick. Sie versuchte, sich auf das kleine Objekt zu konzentrieren, das in ihrem Ansichtsfenster wuchs und wuchs: Der erste Ring, dessen rotierende Lichter um seinen virtuellen Rahmen wirbeln und den Beginn signalisieren.....
Zwei.... eins.... eins..... zwei.... eins..... zwei..... zwei..... eins.
Die roten Lichter am Schrittmacher blinkten grün, und er fiel schnell nach links und brach die Formation.
Darring drückte sich in ihren Sitz, schoss mit ihren Triebwerken und blies durch den ersten Ring.
* * *
Die blinkenden Lichter der Ringe ließen ihre Augen schmerzen.
Sie flogen schnell an ihr vorbei und sie konzentrierte sich zu sehr auf sie, zu sehr um ihre Zeit, ihre Position in der Linie. Sie war durch die Zählung des letzten Zeitmessers auf den dritten Platz gefallen. Es war auch ihre Schuld gewesen, weil sie sich so sehr um den Treibstoffverbrauch sorgte und einen Piloten mit einem übertakteten Avenger die Innenspur nehmen ließ. Ihr Crewchef schrie sie deswegen an; sie ignorierte ihn. Der kleine Scheißer hatte natürlich Recht, aber er war ein alter Akademiefreund ihres Vaters, und sie war nicht in der Stimmung, ihm zuzuhören, wie er sie anschrie. Außerdem konnte sie jederzeit einen Avenger überholen.
Der eigentliche Schwerpunkt ihrer Genesung musste Ykonde Remisk sein.
Der schmutzige Hurensohn hatte sie gegen die linke Wand des Tunnels gedrückt, durch den sie rasten. Ihr Flügel hatte tatsächlich die virtuelle Ebene gebrochen, und die Stimme des MCR-Rufers kam über ihr Kommando...... "Zehn Sekunden zusätzlich zu deiner Zeit." Verdammt! Remisks Presse war nicht strikt regelwidrig, da sein Schiff ihres nicht berührt hatte, aber es war sicherlich ein schmutziger Pool und gegen den Geist des Wettbewerbs. Sie hatte auch keinen Ausweg aus dem Pick-and-Roll; es war, als ob er und der Avenger-Pilot unter einer Decke stecken würden. Das würde sie nicht im Geringsten überraschen.
Sie konzentrierte sich neu und stieß ihre M50 nach vorne, tauchte unter den Rächer und rutschte auf dem Boden daran vorbei. Es versuchte, ihren Rücken zu muskulös zu machen, indem es seinen rechten Flügel nach unten zeigte, um ihre Sicht zu verdecken, aber Darring nahm den Zug vorweg, bewegte sich in gleicher Weise und behielt ihre Position und Gelassenheit. Unterdessen hatte der Avenger-Pilot den Fokus auf die vor ihm liegende Spur verloren und konnte nicht bemerken, dass sich der Ring schnell und nach links schloss. Darring traf ihre Triebwerke hart und schob sich nach links, in letzter Minute verließ sie den Weg des Rächers. Darring nahm die Drehung vor und klingelte perfekt; der Rächer sah ihn zu spät, versuchte, sich anzupassen, und klippte den Ring mit seinem linken Flügel. Er durchbrach die unsichtbare Ebene des Tunnels und überkompensierte dann zu einem Spin durch den Hohlraum.
Iss das!
Sie hoffte, dass Guul irgendwo hinter ihr jubelte. Sie konnte fast seine resonante Stimme hören, die ihr Lob sang. Sie mochte den Gedanken, aber die drängendste Sorge war jetzt direkt vor ihr.
Remisk hatte sein Schiff während der gesamten Strecke mit voller Geschwindigkeit getrieben. Wie war das möglich? fragte sie sich. Sicher, er hatte seinen M50 wie alle anderen angepasst und alles entfernt, was für zusätzlichen Kraftstoff und Kühlgeräte unwichtig war, aber er muss jetzt schon mit den Dämpfen laufen, nachdem er so hochgefahren ist. Es gab keine andere Erklärung. Er müsste bald ausbrennen, und je früher, desto besser.
Sie ignorierte die drei anderen Rennfahrer, die hart auf ihre sechs drückten. Sie nahm den nächsten Ring und den nächsten, ließ die starke Trägheit ziehen und ihr Schiff vorwärts treiben. Das war der beste Weg, um Überhitzung zu vermeiden, sie hatte gelernt, um den Saturn herumzufahren. Lasse den Schub in den Kurven los und lasse dein Schiff mit Höchstgeschwindigkeit in den Vektor driften. Dann hattest du genug Schub, um die wenigen Sekunden aufzunehmen, die du beim Driften verloren haben könntest. Dieser Renngig war ein Spiel von Millisekunden, und jeder einzelne zählte.
Sie rückte hinter Remisk auf und nutzte die letzte Straße, bevor das Finale durch die letzten drei Ringe führte. Es blieb nicht mehr viel Zeit, und sie musste sich jetzt bewegen.
Sie versuchte, sich auf und über sein Schiff zu bewegen. Er bewegte sich, um sie zu blockieren. Sie schob sich nach unten; er bewegte sich wieder, in perfekter Übereinstimmung, ihre Schiffe waren gleich groß. Sie bewegte sich nach links, rechts und jedes Mal, wenn Remisk zum Schalter wechselte. Wie macht er das?
Er war ein großartiger Rennfahrer. Daran bestand kein Zweifel. Er war stark, athletisch und kühl. Remisk war nicht dort angekommen, wo er auf der Strecke war, ohne klug und präzise zu sein. Aber seine Bewegungen, seine Instinkte waren fast übernatürlich, als ob seine Sinne verbessert würden. Aber das war unmöglich.
Jeder Rennfahrer durchlief eine strenge medizinische Untersuchung, um sicherzustellen, dass vor dem Rennen keine Medikamente eingeführt wurden, und weitere Tests wurden auf dem Weg dorthin durchgeführt, um sicherzustellen, dass nach der ersten Etappe keine eingenommen wurden. Remisk war einfach so gut.
Dann muss es mir besser gehen.
Sie drückte ihren Motor bis an seine Grenzen und überschritt sichere Werte, ganz zum Leidwesen ihres Crewchefs. Er flehte sie an, sich zurückzuziehen, den zweiten oder dritten Platz einzunehmen, riskiere nicht, dein Schiff so schnell für so wenig Belohnung zu sprengen. Kleine Belohnung, von wegen!
Sie hatte die Pole Position eingenommen, und sie wollte allen mitteilen, dass es kein Zufall war, dass Hypatia Darring hier war, um zu bleiben. Sie wollte ihr nicht das Leben geben - die Medien - Mahlgut für ihre Fräse.
Sie rollte den Lauf und ließ sich durch die Drehung ihrer M50 wie eine Schraube nach vorne drehen. Remisk, aus Angst, dass er selbst geschnitten würde, bewegte sich ganz leicht nach links, und Darring stürzte sich. Sie zog an seiner Seite und ließ ihr Schiff ruhen. Sie schlug ihre Triebwerke wieder und spürte, wie sie ihre Unzufriedenheit durch ihre Arme und Hände beklagten. Ihr Stock zitterte, ihre Hitzewarnungen blitzten. Sie konnte es durch ihren ganzen Körper spüren, und es gab in der ganzen Galaxie kein Gefühl dafür. Es war etwas, das ihr Vater vergessen hatte. Er war selbst ein guter Kampfpilot, oder zumindest war er in seiner Jugend. Aber er hatte zu viel von seinem Leben in langsamen Riesen wie Zerstörern, Kreuzern und Schlachtschiffen verbracht. Er hatte vergessen, wie es war, Fleisch zu prickeln, als starke G-Kräfte drohten, deine Haut von den Knochen zu reißen. Guul verstand es. Remisk hat es sicherlich getan. Und selbst dieser traurige Hurensohn Mo'tak verstand das ekstatische Gefühl der Geschwindigkeit.
Sie fuhr voraus. Sie nahm den nächsten Ring einwandfrei, bewegte sich gegen die Trägheit und rollte durch den nächsten Ring, der unmittelbar nach dem letzten erschien. Der letzte Ring war in der Ferne groß. Ihr Crewchef, seine Einstellung änderte sich plötzlich, bellte "Los! Los! Los!" in ihr Ohr. Sie lächelte. Sie hatte die richtige Entscheidung getroffen. Sie hat es definitiv verdient, hier unter den Großen zu sein.
Remisk zog sich über sie hoch und gab ihr offensichtlich den ersten Platz. Sie hielt ihren Kurs vorwärts und stark und ließ ihre Warnsysteme schreien. Sie kicherte wie ein Kind und nahm das Lob ihres Chefs an. Die Blinklichter des letzten Rings machten sie diesmal nicht schwach oder krank. Sie begrüßte sie fröhlich.
Dann kam ein Schatten über sie und verdunkelte ihr Cockpit. Es war Remisk, seine M50, die neues Leben fand und ihr Schiff überholte. In ihrer Freude hatte Darring nicht bemerkt, dass ihr Daumen den Druck auf ihr Gaspedal verringert hatte, und sie hatte sich nur leicht verlangsamt. Verlangsamt genug, damit Remisk sein Schiff nach oben und über ihren Rumpf schwenken und sich mit seinen Haupttriebwerken direkt vor ihrem Cockpit platzieren kann. Darring versuchte, ihre Geschwindigkeit und ihren Kurs beizubehalten, aber Remisk trat seinen Schub und warf eine Gicht aus gelbem Feuer über ihre Cockpitfenster.
Darring rollte nach links. Es war ein schwerer Fehler. Sie versuchte, ihre Position wiederzufinden, drückte ihren Daumen tief in das Gaspedal, aber es war zu spät. Ykonde Remisk durchlief den letzten Ring auf Platz eins. Der Rächer und ein anderer Rennfahrer belegten die Plätze zwei und drei, während Darring, ihr Schiff, das unkontrolliert durch den letzten Ring rollte, kaum Vierter wurde.
WIRD FORTGESETZT......
Chinese
Writer’s Note: Part one of The Cup was published originally in Jump Point 1.8.
Hello everyone, and welcome once again to GSN Spectrum Broadcasting’s continuing coverage of the Murray Cup Race. The MCR, or The Cup as it is more commonly known, is one of the finest sporting events in the UEE. Nearly 100 racers compete in the Classic Division’s grueling 10-stage run, which winds its way through Ellis system’s many wondrous planets and dual asteroid belts. Racers compete to determine who’s the fastest and strongest, as they struggle to maintain the integrity of their racecraft amid some of the deadliest conditions in the Empire. This year’s competition promises to be one of the toughest, as the top 25 share in a meet-and-greet with media and sponsors in GSN’s sports atrium in orbit above Green. Though many come to race, only a few are considered real contenders, and those contenders are now awaiting their chance for glory and honor.
This year’s darling is Ykonde Remisk, a Human who surprised everyone by winning both the Goss Invitational and the Cassini 500. He comes into the MCR with a real chance to be the first racer to win the Triple Crown in twelve years. Then there is Nyanāl Mo’tak Xu.oa, the finest Xi’an racer in the history of the sport. If he prevails, he will be the first to ever win three MCRs in a row.
Zogat Guul, the old Tevarin warhorse, can’t be counted out, either. This legend has won the MCR more than anyone else in its history, but fate and bad luck have prevented him from winning a major event in over five years. His second place finish at the Cassini 500, however, has brought his name back to prominence. Can he win it once more before he fades away?
And finally, newcomer Hypatia Darring has turned heads by taking the pole position away from Remisk. She has never won a major racing event in her short career, but her consistent top ten showings for the last two years indicate that her pole position is no fluke. Can this youngster handle the enormous pressure placed upon her? Only time will tell . . .
Let’s throw it back to GSN reporter Mike Crenshaw, who is making his way through the reception as we speak. Who do you have for us now, Mike?
Hypatia Darring didn’t even notice the reporter’s question as she stared across the busy reception floor. The Tevarin looked lean and elegant amid a gaggle of reporters who crowded around him. Part of her felt like joining the crowd. I should feel the need to whip his ass, to blow past him on the final stage, to force his ship into an asteroid. That would be the feelings of a great racer, a great competitor, one focused and ready to win. But no. Try as she might, she could not feel that way toward this legend who stood only a few meters away. Much to her sorrow, she hadn’t had a chance to speak with him when their paths could have crossed at Cassini. Now, she had to find the time. She fought the urge to walk across the room, push past the media hounds, invite him to dinner, and ask him to sign the worn, faded, dog-eared poster of him in his youth — standing proudly next to his silver M50 — still hanging on her hab wall.
She shook her head and blinked. “I’m sorry. Say again?”
Mike Crenshaw cleared his throat. “Do you think Admiral Darring is proud of his daughter?” Darring clenched her teeth and forced a smile. “Of course he is. Why wouldn’t he be?”
“He has stated publicly, more than once, that he believes you are wasting your talents as a racer. That you should drop all this ‘nonsense’ — his word — and pursue a more fitting career in the UEE Navy.”
“My father has never been one to restrain his opinions,” she said, taking tentative steps toward Guul. “But if you really want to know the answer to that question, you should ask him yourself.”
Another reporter fought her way in. “Alice Frannif, Terra Gazette . . . taking the pole position from Ykonde Remisk was a marvelous achievement. How did you do it?”
Her smile was genuine. “Luck.”
“Oh, come now, Hypatia,” Crenshaw said, regaining the floor. “Achieving a time one point five seconds off the record is hardly luck. How’d you do it?”
She chuckled. “Patience, dedication, focus and an acute attention to detail. That, plus the fastest damned M50 on the circuit. All things I’m sure my father would appreciate.”
The reporters laughed and hastily transcribed notes. Darring made a few more steps toward Guul.
“Ms. Darring,” another reporter interceded, “how do you intend on maintaining your ‘luck,’ as you put it, through the entire race? Ten stages, all timed, many with narrow, dangerous channels, especially through the asteroid belts. You’ll be racing neck-and-neck with some of the finest racers in history. Being a relative newcomer, how do you intend on handling the pressure, maintaining your good start, and ultimately winning the cup?”
“She’s a natural!”
All turned, including Darring, and found Mo’tak Xu.oa, the Xi’an, dressed in a bright purple jumpsuit, standing among a pool of sycophants who followed him to every event. Some of them were ex-GSN reporters, now under full employment by the Xu.oa house, captured by his fame, notoriety and wealth.
Darring controlled her scowl as the stout Xi’an stopped a few feet from her. “She’s a natural,” Mo‘tak repeated, to make sure the reporters could record his reply. He was shorter than Darring by a centimeter or two — which was still unusually tall for his race — but his cool, amber eyes scanned her face carefully His powerful jaw muscles pulled back in a tight approximation of a smile. “She’ll win it by being the best racer on the circuit.”
“Do you really believe that?” Crenshaw asked. “She’s the best?”
Mo‘tak nodded slowly, diplomatically, his eyes affixed on Darring. “I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t.” He blinked. “How are you, my dear? Rested from your trials at Cassini?”
“Rested enough,” she replied, beneath her breath. The reporters leaned in to hear. “But you should know all about that.”
Mo‘tak waved her off as if she were his lesser. “The dangers of the trade, my dear. I did what I had to do to gain advantage.”
Darring nodded. “But you didn’t win, did you? Cutting me off in a move that, technically, was illegal, only gave you third place.”
“Still, a better finish than you.” Mo‘tak chuckled. His devotees did the same. “The Cassini is not all that important to me, my dear. The MCR is the crown jewel. You’ll understand that in time . . . if you last long enough.”
“Can we get a picture of the two of you side-by-side?” a reporter piped up. The rest confirmed that desire with exaggerated nodding.
Mo‘tak turned to the crowd, preening for all to see. “Of course you may have a picture,” he said, offering his hand to Darring in goodwill. “I’m honored to be a part of this great tradition. The MCR is dear to my heart, and with such brilliant competition, like Hypatia Darring here, this year’s race will be one to remember.”
Hypatia took his hand cautiously. She wrapped her fingers around his broad palm. Forcing herself to relax, she turned toward the reporters to let them take their pictures and ask their questions.
But then Mo‘tak began to squeeze, and squeeze, and squeeze until she felt the small delicate bones in her hand giving beneath the pressure. She squeezed back against it, but that didn’t provide much relief as Mo‘tak continued to grip. Don’t cringe, she said to herself. Don’t cry. Don’t give him the satisfaction. But the pain spread up her arm, into her shoulder, through her neck. God, he’s trying to break my hand. He’s . . .
He released, and the pain subsided. She sighed and wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead with her other hand.
Crenshaw was about to ask another question, but then someone spotted Ykonde Remisk, and they all scurried in his direction.
At her side, Mo‘tak chuckled. “We are only as important to them as our last quote.” The Xi’an turned to her again.
This time he didn’t offer his hand. He winked. “.athl’ē’kol to you, my zealous competitor. Safe travel. I’ll see you down the line.”
Mo‘tak disappeared into the doting arms of his fans. As he walked away, Darring caught the eye of a lean, surly-looking fellow who maintained a watchful position behind his employer. He nodded at her. She ignored him and imagined driving a knife into Mo‘tak’s back.
“Don’t let him get to you.”
The voice was soft and amiable. Darring turned to greet it.
There he stood, towering over her. In his shadow, she felt truly small, both in stature and in status. Zogat Guul radiated a kindness and a quiet experience that steadied her rage. She offered her sore hand humbly. He took it without complaint.
“Don’t let that pompous twit get under your skin. He’s infamous for his mind games.” With a quick grin, he snapped into formal posture, as if he were greeting an officer, thrusting his chest out though it was wrapped comfortably in a black-and-gold half-coat. “My name is Zogat —”
“I know who you are,” Darring interrupted, embarrassed immediately by her rudeness. “It’s an honor to meet you. It’s a dream I’ve had since I was a kid.”
“And I have been following your career with great interest.” He took her by the arm and began to lead her toward a table filled with three large punch bowls and an assortment of seafood appetizers. They walked slowly. “You are rising steadily on the circuit. Your name is on the lips of many. Your fifth place showing at Cassini was quite impressive, especially for someone so young.”
“Thank you. It would have been even more impressive had I won, if Mo‘tak hadn’t forced me back.”
“You let him get too close,” he said, with no malice or indictment in his tone. “You had the inside lane, but you slowed down to spar with him.”
“He pissed me off!”
Guul stopped, “Such behavior may be tolerated in the smaller, roundabout races like Cassini. But not here. Here, such raw emotion will get you expelled or killed. True, there are stages along the way where the racing will be tight, where you will have to maneuver for position. But speed matters the most here . . . speed and time. Remember, Hypatia Darring, the one most important fact about the Murray Cup: Speed is life.” He tilted his head to side. “Speed is life . . . or death, if you are going in the wrong direction.”
She laughed at that, letting the seriousness of his words trickle away. “We will speak no more of these things now,” he said, resuming their course toward the food table. “We will have further opportunities to talk later, when the lamprey are not so thick and hungry.” He ignored the wave of a reporter nearby. “Every word we speak here is interpreted and reinterpreted until, in the end, they will make us lovers in the eyes of the public.”
Darring forced a wry smile. “Sorry . . . you’re not my type.”
Guul let out a hearty laugh. He shook his head. “Story of my life.” He quickened his pace toward the food. “Now come, and treat me to a glass of the greatest gift Humans have bestowed upon the galaxy.”
“What’s that?” Darring asked.
Guul smacked his lips. “Lemonade.”
* * *
Mo‘tak crushed the thin shell of the jumbo shrimp in his mouth. He did not bother shucking it as a feeble Human might do. Blast this Human food anyway! What he wouldn’t give to be back at the family complex, gorging to contentment on huge handfuls of fermented needlefish. Their gallbladders had a bile that was as sweet — no, sweeter — than anything a Human might concoct. Nothing on the table before him was actually enjoyable in his superior opinion, but he tolerated it as best he could, smiling humbly as he picked at this dish or that for the benefit of the media. Mo‘tak nodded at a Human reporter as she walked by.
Humans had their uses.
And so did the one that stood now in the center of the media frenzy. Why weren’t the reporters surrounding him, asking him questions, begging him to divulge his secrets for winning the race, just as they had asked Darring? These damned Humans and their inferiority complex! So unwilling to recognize Xi’an superiority. But Mo‘tak was the best racer that had ever climbed into a cockpit, and his perfectly modified 350r, with its purple hull and reinforced golden-striped wings would do what no other racer had ever done: win the MCR three consecutive times. Neither Remisk, nor Guul, nor Darring could claim such a feat. So, why weren’t the GSN nya•osen’p.u surrounding him?
But perhaps that was best, he reconsidered, popping another shrimp in his mouth and sipping on a warm, frothless beer. Let Ykonde Remisk have his moment in the spotlight. Let the media have their favorites. For when they fall, when they fail to live up to the hype, Mo‘tak’s victory will seem that much sweeter. Yes, let them bask . . . then let them fall. And I will see that they fall hard.
“Is everything in place?” he whispered to an underling at his side.
“Yes, sir. Your maintenance crews are dispersed through the Ellis system per your specifications and per the MCR guidelines.”
Mo‘tak scratched his neck in frustration. “That’s not what I meant.”
The underling gulped and wiggled his head. “Yes, that matter we spoke of has been taken care of as well. But I would recommend against it, sir. The risk is too great, and besides, Mo‘tak does not need to rely on such things. He is the best racer on the circuit.”
“I do not pay you to give me such advice or praise. I pay you to do what you’re told. Now go, and make sure everything is ready as I have instructed.” He put his beer down. “And I will go and remind the ‘favorite’ of his obligation to me.”
The underling nodded and ran off to do his duty. Mo‘tak sighed deeply, put on his happy face, and walked confidently toward the madness surrounding Ykonde Remisk.
* * *
She loved her Origin M50 Turbo more than life. Banged up, scratched, red and white paint slopped on to cover a hull that needed an integrity sweep, but there had been no time for any of that after Cassini. Nor had she won enough credits yet for such repairs, not with having to pay for transport ships and her pit crew. But what of it? The power plant was sound, the thrusters new and top notch. In a pinch, she doubted that any racer, anywhere, could match it. Certainly, none of the other twenty-four challengers behind her — including Guul — could beat her in a straightaway. But the MCR had few straightaways. Hull integrity mattered.
As her crew chief rattled off the final systems check in her ear, Darring pulled up the map for the first stage. It appeared with a bright blink to display row after row of rings winding their way through low orbit above Ellis III. Darring studied the rings carefully, reminding herself which ones were large, which were small, where the cameras and timer buoys were located. All racers were required to stay within the “invisible” lane running through the rings; if a racer strayed outside, he or she would lose time. This first stage was both timed and awarded extra credits to first, second and third place. Having the pole position, then, gave her an advantage. But for how long? Darring leaned over in her seat and studied the course carefully.
It was not unlike one stretch of the Goss Invitational, so she had ample experience with this kind of run. Her M50 was built for strenuous zigs and zags through tight spots. But how well would she fare later on, when the courses got more deadly, more strenuous?
From Ellis III, the racers quantumed to Ellis IV where the so-called Seahorse Shuffle took place. Then on to Ellis V and the “Noble Endeavour.” After that, it was through the first of two asteroid belts, a course called The Sorrow Sea, where hulls of previous racers floated as obstacles. Then around the gas giant, Walleye, where ships could be easily ripped apart by one foolish move. A longer stage followed, across the outer asteroid belt (formerly Ellis XI) and finally to Ellis XII. Then the race turned back toward the heart of the system to finished at Ellis VIII. She had run this race before, but never as a true contender, and thus she had taken her time, flown each stage slow and steady, like a marathon runner, to learn all the ins and outs. This time, though, the pressure was on. She held the pole position, the top spot. Everything was different now.
The MCR starter’s voice crackled over the comm link. “Racers, prepare for launch.”
Darring closed the map, affirmed the standard agreement to MCR rules and regulations in unison with the other racers, strapped herself in, and gave a small prayer. She was not religious by any stretch, but figured it wouldn’t hurt. The prayer calmed her nerves as the bay doors of the starting carrier opened to space.
She could see Ellis III through the door. It was beautiful, green, its orbit peppered with corvettes and pleasure craft of the well-to-do who had come out to view the race firsthand. There would be plenty of spectators along the way, a lot of media, and Darring had to just put them all out of her mind. She focused on Zogat Guul’s words — Speed is life — and looked back through one of her cockpit panels to try to get a glimpse of the Tevarin’s upgraded Hornet. But he was too far back. All she could see was Ykonde Remisk’s M50, with its garish gold and blue trim. She noticed that he was too close to her; by rule, there was a specified distance that racers had to maintain prior to launch: the privilege of the pole position.
She gnashed her teeth and cursed beneath her breath. Someone was already violating rules.
“Hypatia Darring . . . you may launch.”
She didn’t even wait for the spokesman to finish. Darring burst out the carrier bay door at top legal speed.
Through a narrow channel flanked by media and spectators, Darring flew the ceremonial lap. The rest of the racers followed behind, releasing one after another, but maintaining their specified positions within the line. Ahead of her, the pace craft sparkled with a flashing red light. Nervous energy spotted her brow with sweat. Her crew chief gave his final comments and instructions. She signed him off and focused on the course ahead of her.
In her ear, the MCR starter counted down — ten, nine, eight . . . Darring thrust to the left, trying to keep directly behind the pace craft. Ykonde Remisk was right on her six, the nose of his racer dangerously close. Back off! Darring mouthed silently, wanting to flip on her comm link and tune to his frequency. It wasn’t strictly against MCR rules to speak to other racers, but officials discouraged it, fearing that frequent conversation during the race could produce distractions that would lead to crashes and injuries. Besides, there was enough chatter going on between racers and their crews. Still, Darring wanted to open a channel and scream into Remisk’s ear, Get off my back!
Five . . . four . . . three . . .
Now, all the racers tightened as the pacer made the last turn to set them up toward the first rings. Darring gunned it a little herself, closing in on the pacer. She put herself now just a little to the right of it, to keep Remisk from rushing past her at the last minute. Darring’s heart raced, her hands shook on her joystick. She tried concentrating on the small object that grew and grew in her viewport: The first ring, its rotating lights swirling around its virtual frame, signaling the beginning . . .
Two . . . one . . .
The red lights on the pacer flashed green, and it fell to the left quickly, breaking formation.
Darring pressed herself into her seat, gunned her thrusters, and blew through the first ring.
* * *
The flashing lights of the rings caused her eyes to ache.
They flew by her quickly and she was concentrating on them too much, too worried about her time, her position in the line. She had fallen to third place by count of the last timing ring. It had been her fault, too, worrying so much about conserving fuel, letting some pilot with a overclocked Avenger take the inside lane. Her crew chief yelled at her for it; she ignored him. The little shit was right, of course, but he was an old academy friend of her father’s, and she was in no mood to listen to him yell at her. Besides, she could overtake an Avenger at any time.
The real focus of her recovery had to be Ykonde Remisk.
The smarmy son of a bitch had forced her against the left wall of the tunnel they were speeding through. Her wing had actually broken the virtual plane, and the voice of the MCR caller came over her comm . . . “Ten seconds added to your time.” Damn! Remisk’s press was not strictly against the rules since his ship had not touched hers, but it was certainly dirty pool and against the spirit of the competition. She had no way out of the pick-and-roll either; it was as if he and the Avenger pilot were in cahoots. That wouldn’t surprise her in the least.
She refocused and thrust her M50 forward, dipping beneath the Avenger and slipping past it on the low. It tried muscling her back, pointing its right wing down to mask her view, but Darring anticipated the move, shifted in kind, and kept her position and composure. Meanwhile, the Avenger pilot had lost his focus on the lane ahead of him, and failed to notice the ring closing fast and to the left. Darring hit her thrusters hard and shifted left, at the last minute moving out of the Avenger’s path. Darring took the turn and ring perfectly; the Avenger saw it too late, tried to adjust, and clipped the ring with its left wing. It broke the invisible plane of the tunnel and then overcompensated into a spin through the void.
Eat that!
She hoped that somewhere behind her, Guul was cheering. She could almost hear his resonant voice singing her praises. She liked the thought, but the most pressing concern now was right in front of her.
Remisk had been pushing his craft at full speed the entire course. How was that possible? she wondered. Sure, he had customized his M50 like all the rest, removing everything extraneous for extra fuel and cooling equipment, but he must be running on fumes by now after boosting like that. There was no other explanation. He would have to burn out soon, and the sooner the better.
She ignored the three other racers pressing hard at her six. She took the next ring and the next, letting the strong inertia pull and propel her craft forward. That was the best way to avoid overheating, she had learned racing around Saturn. Release thrust on the turns, and let your craft drift at top speed into the vector. Then you had enough thrust to pick up the few seconds you might have lost on drift. This racing gig was a game of milliseconds, and each one counted.
She moved up behind Remisk, taking advantage of the last straightaway before the final turns through the ultimate three rings. There was not much time left, and she had to make her move now.
She tried shifting up and over his craft. He moved to block her. She shifted down; he moved again, in perfect unison, their ships equal size. She shifted left, right, and each time Remisk moved to counter. How is he doing this?
He was a great racer. There was no doubt of that. He was strong, athletic and cool-headed. Remisk had not gotten where he was on the circuit without being smart and precise. But his moves, his instincts were almost supernatural, as if his senses were enhanced. But that was impossible.
Every racer went through a rigorous medical exam to ensure that no drugs had been introduced before the race, and further testing would be conducted along the way to ensure none had been taken after the first stage. Remisk was just that good.
Then I have to be better.
She pushed her engine to its limit, exceeding safe levels, much to the ire of her crew chief. He implored her to back off, take second or third place, don’t risk blowing your ship so soon for so little reward. Little reward, my ass!
She had taken the pole position, and she was going to let everyone know that it was not some fluke, that Hypatia Darring was here to stay. She wouldn’t give her fath– the media — grist for their mill.
She barrel rolled, letting the rotation of her M50 spiral her forward like a screw. Remisk, fearing that he would be clipped himself, shifted ever so slightly to his left, and Darring pounced. She pulled alongside him, letting her craft settle. She punched her thrusters again, feeling them wail their discontent through her arms and hands. Her stick was shaking, her heat warnings blaring. She could feel it all through her body, and there was, in all the galaxy, no feeling like it. It was something her father had forgotten. He was a good fighter pilot himself, or at least he was in his youth. But he had spent too much of his life in slow giants like destroyers, cruisers and battleships. He had forgotten what it was like to feel flesh tingle as strong g-forces threatened to rip your skin from its bones. Guul understood it. Remisk most certainly did. And even that sorry son of a bitch Mo‘tak understood the ecstatic feeling of sheer speed.
She pulled ahead. She took the next ring flawlessly, shifting against inertia and rolling through the next ring, which appeared immediately after the last. The final ring loomed large in the distance. Her crew chief, his attitude suddenly changed, barked “Go! Go!” into her ear. She smiled. She’d made the right decision. She most definitely deserved to be here racing among the greats.
Remisk pulled up above her, obviously giving her first place. She kept her course forward and strong, letting her warning systems holler. She giggled like a child, accepting praise from her chief. The flashing lights of the last ring did not make her weak or sick this time. She welcomed them happily.
Then a shadow came up over her, darkening her cockpit. It was Remisk, his M50 finding new life and overtaking her ship. In her joy, Darring had not realized that her thumb had lightened its pressure on her throttle, and she had slowed just slightly. Slowed enough for Remisk to swing his craft up and over her hull and plant itself, with its main thrusters, right in front of her cockpit. Darring tried keeping her speed and course, but Remisk kicked his boost and threw a gout of yellow fire across her cockpit windows.
Darring rolled left. It was a serious mistake. She tried regaining her position, pressed her thumb deeply into the throttle, but it was too late. Ykonde Remisk passed through the final ring in first place. The Avenger and one other racer took second and third, while Darring, her ship rolling uncontrollably through the last ring, barely finished fourth.
TO BE CONTINUED…
Hello everyone, and welcome once again to GSN Spectrum Broadcasting’s continuing coverage of the Murray Cup Race. The MCR, or The Cup as it is more commonly known, is one of the finest sporting events in the UEE. Nearly 100 racers compete in the Classic Division’s grueling 10-stage run, which winds its way through Ellis system’s many wondrous planets and dual asteroid belts. Racers compete to determine who’s the fastest and strongest, as they struggle to maintain the integrity of their racecraft amid some of the deadliest conditions in the Empire. This year’s competition promises to be one of the toughest, as the top 25 share in a meet-and-greet with media and sponsors in GSN’s sports atrium in orbit above Green. Though many come to race, only a few are considered real contenders, and those contenders are now awaiting their chance for glory and honor.
This year’s darling is Ykonde Remisk, a Human who surprised everyone by winning both the Goss Invitational and the Cassini 500. He comes into the MCR with a real chance to be the first racer to win the Triple Crown in twelve years. Then there is Nyanāl Mo’tak Xu.oa, the finest Xi’an racer in the history of the sport. If he prevails, he will be the first to ever win three MCRs in a row.
Zogat Guul, the old Tevarin warhorse, can’t be counted out, either. This legend has won the MCR more than anyone else in its history, but fate and bad luck have prevented him from winning a major event in over five years. His second place finish at the Cassini 500, however, has brought his name back to prominence. Can he win it once more before he fades away?
And finally, newcomer Hypatia Darring has turned heads by taking the pole position away from Remisk. She has never won a major racing event in her short career, but her consistent top ten showings for the last two years indicate that her pole position is no fluke. Can this youngster handle the enormous pressure placed upon her? Only time will tell . . .
Let’s throw it back to GSN reporter Mike Crenshaw, who is making his way through the reception as we speak. Who do you have for us now, Mike?
Hypatia Darring didn’t even notice the reporter’s question as she stared across the busy reception floor. The Tevarin looked lean and elegant amid a gaggle of reporters who crowded around him. Part of her felt like joining the crowd. I should feel the need to whip his ass, to blow past him on the final stage, to force his ship into an asteroid. That would be the feelings of a great racer, a great competitor, one focused and ready to win. But no. Try as she might, she could not feel that way toward this legend who stood only a few meters away. Much to her sorrow, she hadn’t had a chance to speak with him when their paths could have crossed at Cassini. Now, she had to find the time. She fought the urge to walk across the room, push past the media hounds, invite him to dinner, and ask him to sign the worn, faded, dog-eared poster of him in his youth — standing proudly next to his silver M50 — still hanging on her hab wall.
She shook her head and blinked. “I’m sorry. Say again?”
Mike Crenshaw cleared his throat. “Do you think Admiral Darring is proud of his daughter?” Darring clenched her teeth and forced a smile. “Of course he is. Why wouldn’t he be?”
“He has stated publicly, more than once, that he believes you are wasting your talents as a racer. That you should drop all this ‘nonsense’ — his word — and pursue a more fitting career in the UEE Navy.”
“My father has never been one to restrain his opinions,” she said, taking tentative steps toward Guul. “But if you really want to know the answer to that question, you should ask him yourself.”
Another reporter fought her way in. “Alice Frannif, Terra Gazette . . . taking the pole position from Ykonde Remisk was a marvelous achievement. How did you do it?”
Her smile was genuine. “Luck.”
“Oh, come now, Hypatia,” Crenshaw said, regaining the floor. “Achieving a time one point five seconds off the record is hardly luck. How’d you do it?”
She chuckled. “Patience, dedication, focus and an acute attention to detail. That, plus the fastest damned M50 on the circuit. All things I’m sure my father would appreciate.”
The reporters laughed and hastily transcribed notes. Darring made a few more steps toward Guul.
“Ms. Darring,” another reporter interceded, “how do you intend on maintaining your ‘luck,’ as you put it, through the entire race? Ten stages, all timed, many with narrow, dangerous channels, especially through the asteroid belts. You’ll be racing neck-and-neck with some of the finest racers in history. Being a relative newcomer, how do you intend on handling the pressure, maintaining your good start, and ultimately winning the cup?”
“She’s a natural!”
All turned, including Darring, and found Mo’tak Xu.oa, the Xi’an, dressed in a bright purple jumpsuit, standing among a pool of sycophants who followed him to every event. Some of them were ex-GSN reporters, now under full employment by the Xu.oa house, captured by his fame, notoriety and wealth.
Darring controlled her scowl as the stout Xi’an stopped a few feet from her. “She’s a natural,” Mo‘tak repeated, to make sure the reporters could record his reply. He was shorter than Darring by a centimeter or two — which was still unusually tall for his race — but his cool, amber eyes scanned her face carefully His powerful jaw muscles pulled back in a tight approximation of a smile. “She’ll win it by being the best racer on the circuit.”
“Do you really believe that?” Crenshaw asked. “She’s the best?”
Mo‘tak nodded slowly, diplomatically, his eyes affixed on Darring. “I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t.” He blinked. “How are you, my dear? Rested from your trials at Cassini?”
“Rested enough,” she replied, beneath her breath. The reporters leaned in to hear. “But you should know all about that.”
Mo‘tak waved her off as if she were his lesser. “The dangers of the trade, my dear. I did what I had to do to gain advantage.”
Darring nodded. “But you didn’t win, did you? Cutting me off in a move that, technically, was illegal, only gave you third place.”
“Still, a better finish than you.” Mo‘tak chuckled. His devotees did the same. “The Cassini is not all that important to me, my dear. The MCR is the crown jewel. You’ll understand that in time . . . if you last long enough.”
“Can we get a picture of the two of you side-by-side?” a reporter piped up. The rest confirmed that desire with exaggerated nodding.
Mo‘tak turned to the crowd, preening for all to see. “Of course you may have a picture,” he said, offering his hand to Darring in goodwill. “I’m honored to be a part of this great tradition. The MCR is dear to my heart, and with such brilliant competition, like Hypatia Darring here, this year’s race will be one to remember.”
Hypatia took his hand cautiously. She wrapped her fingers around his broad palm. Forcing herself to relax, she turned toward the reporters to let them take their pictures and ask their questions.
But then Mo‘tak began to squeeze, and squeeze, and squeeze until she felt the small delicate bones in her hand giving beneath the pressure. She squeezed back against it, but that didn’t provide much relief as Mo‘tak continued to grip. Don’t cringe, she said to herself. Don’t cry. Don’t give him the satisfaction. But the pain spread up her arm, into her shoulder, through her neck. God, he’s trying to break my hand. He’s . . .
He released, and the pain subsided. She sighed and wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead with her other hand.
Crenshaw was about to ask another question, but then someone spotted Ykonde Remisk, and they all scurried in his direction.
At her side, Mo‘tak chuckled. “We are only as important to them as our last quote.” The Xi’an turned to her again.
This time he didn’t offer his hand. He winked. “.athl’ē’kol to you, my zealous competitor. Safe travel. I’ll see you down the line.”
Mo‘tak disappeared into the doting arms of his fans. As he walked away, Darring caught the eye of a lean, surly-looking fellow who maintained a watchful position behind his employer. He nodded at her. She ignored him and imagined driving a knife into Mo‘tak’s back.
“Don’t let him get to you.”
The voice was soft and amiable. Darring turned to greet it.
There he stood, towering over her. In his shadow, she felt truly small, both in stature and in status. Zogat Guul radiated a kindness and a quiet experience that steadied her rage. She offered her sore hand humbly. He took it without complaint.
“Don’t let that pompous twit get under your skin. He’s infamous for his mind games.” With a quick grin, he snapped into formal posture, as if he were greeting an officer, thrusting his chest out though it was wrapped comfortably in a black-and-gold half-coat. “My name is Zogat —”
“I know who you are,” Darring interrupted, embarrassed immediately by her rudeness. “It’s an honor to meet you. It’s a dream I’ve had since I was a kid.”
“And I have been following your career with great interest.” He took her by the arm and began to lead her toward a table filled with three large punch bowls and an assortment of seafood appetizers. They walked slowly. “You are rising steadily on the circuit. Your name is on the lips of many. Your fifth place showing at Cassini was quite impressive, especially for someone so young.”
“Thank you. It would have been even more impressive had I won, if Mo‘tak hadn’t forced me back.”
“You let him get too close,” he said, with no malice or indictment in his tone. “You had the inside lane, but you slowed down to spar with him.”
“He pissed me off!”
Guul stopped, “Such behavior may be tolerated in the smaller, roundabout races like Cassini. But not here. Here, such raw emotion will get you expelled or killed. True, there are stages along the way where the racing will be tight, where you will have to maneuver for position. But speed matters the most here . . . speed and time. Remember, Hypatia Darring, the one most important fact about the Murray Cup: Speed is life.” He tilted his head to side. “Speed is life . . . or death, if you are going in the wrong direction.”
She laughed at that, letting the seriousness of his words trickle away. “We will speak no more of these things now,” he said, resuming their course toward the food table. “We will have further opportunities to talk later, when the lamprey are not so thick and hungry.” He ignored the wave of a reporter nearby. “Every word we speak here is interpreted and reinterpreted until, in the end, they will make us lovers in the eyes of the public.”
Darring forced a wry smile. “Sorry . . . you’re not my type.”
Guul let out a hearty laugh. He shook his head. “Story of my life.” He quickened his pace toward the food. “Now come, and treat me to a glass of the greatest gift Humans have bestowed upon the galaxy.”
“What’s that?” Darring asked.
Guul smacked his lips. “Lemonade.”
* * *
Mo‘tak crushed the thin shell of the jumbo shrimp in his mouth. He did not bother shucking it as a feeble Human might do. Blast this Human food anyway! What he wouldn’t give to be back at the family complex, gorging to contentment on huge handfuls of fermented needlefish. Their gallbladders had a bile that was as sweet — no, sweeter — than anything a Human might concoct. Nothing on the table before him was actually enjoyable in his superior opinion, but he tolerated it as best he could, smiling humbly as he picked at this dish or that for the benefit of the media. Mo‘tak nodded at a Human reporter as she walked by.
Humans had their uses.
And so did the one that stood now in the center of the media frenzy. Why weren’t the reporters surrounding him, asking him questions, begging him to divulge his secrets for winning the race, just as they had asked Darring? These damned Humans and their inferiority complex! So unwilling to recognize Xi’an superiority. But Mo‘tak was the best racer that had ever climbed into a cockpit, and his perfectly modified 350r, with its purple hull and reinforced golden-striped wings would do what no other racer had ever done: win the MCR three consecutive times. Neither Remisk, nor Guul, nor Darring could claim such a feat. So, why weren’t the GSN nya•osen’p.u surrounding him?
But perhaps that was best, he reconsidered, popping another shrimp in his mouth and sipping on a warm, frothless beer. Let Ykonde Remisk have his moment in the spotlight. Let the media have their favorites. For when they fall, when they fail to live up to the hype, Mo‘tak’s victory will seem that much sweeter. Yes, let them bask . . . then let them fall. And I will see that they fall hard.
“Is everything in place?” he whispered to an underling at his side.
“Yes, sir. Your maintenance crews are dispersed through the Ellis system per your specifications and per the MCR guidelines.”
Mo‘tak scratched his neck in frustration. “That’s not what I meant.”
The underling gulped and wiggled his head. “Yes, that matter we spoke of has been taken care of as well. But I would recommend against it, sir. The risk is too great, and besides, Mo‘tak does not need to rely on such things. He is the best racer on the circuit.”
“I do not pay you to give me such advice or praise. I pay you to do what you’re told. Now go, and make sure everything is ready as I have instructed.” He put his beer down. “And I will go and remind the ‘favorite’ of his obligation to me.”
The underling nodded and ran off to do his duty. Mo‘tak sighed deeply, put on his happy face, and walked confidently toward the madness surrounding Ykonde Remisk.
* * *
She loved her Origin M50 Turbo more than life. Banged up, scratched, red and white paint slopped on to cover a hull that needed an integrity sweep, but there had been no time for any of that after Cassini. Nor had she won enough credits yet for such repairs, not with having to pay for transport ships and her pit crew. But what of it? The power plant was sound, the thrusters new and top notch. In a pinch, she doubted that any racer, anywhere, could match it. Certainly, none of the other twenty-four challengers behind her — including Guul — could beat her in a straightaway. But the MCR had few straightaways. Hull integrity mattered.
As her crew chief rattled off the final systems check in her ear, Darring pulled up the map for the first stage. It appeared with a bright blink to display row after row of rings winding their way through low orbit above Ellis III. Darring studied the rings carefully, reminding herself which ones were large, which were small, where the cameras and timer buoys were located. All racers were required to stay within the “invisible” lane running through the rings; if a racer strayed outside, he or she would lose time. This first stage was both timed and awarded extra credits to first, second and third place. Having the pole position, then, gave her an advantage. But for how long? Darring leaned over in her seat and studied the course carefully.
It was not unlike one stretch of the Goss Invitational, so she had ample experience with this kind of run. Her M50 was built for strenuous zigs and zags through tight spots. But how well would she fare later on, when the courses got more deadly, more strenuous?
From Ellis III, the racers quantumed to Ellis IV where the so-called Seahorse Shuffle took place. Then on to Ellis V and the “Noble Endeavour.” After that, it was through the first of two asteroid belts, a course called The Sorrow Sea, where hulls of previous racers floated as obstacles. Then around the gas giant, Walleye, where ships could be easily ripped apart by one foolish move. A longer stage followed, across the outer asteroid belt (formerly Ellis XI) and finally to Ellis XII. Then the race turned back toward the heart of the system to finished at Ellis VIII. She had run this race before, but never as a true contender, and thus she had taken her time, flown each stage slow and steady, like a marathon runner, to learn all the ins and outs. This time, though, the pressure was on. She held the pole position, the top spot. Everything was different now.
The MCR starter’s voice crackled over the comm link. “Racers, prepare for launch.”
Darring closed the map, affirmed the standard agreement to MCR rules and regulations in unison with the other racers, strapped herself in, and gave a small prayer. She was not religious by any stretch, but figured it wouldn’t hurt. The prayer calmed her nerves as the bay doors of the starting carrier opened to space.
She could see Ellis III through the door. It was beautiful, green, its orbit peppered with corvettes and pleasure craft of the well-to-do who had come out to view the race firsthand. There would be plenty of spectators along the way, a lot of media, and Darring had to just put them all out of her mind. She focused on Zogat Guul’s words — Speed is life — and looked back through one of her cockpit panels to try to get a glimpse of the Tevarin’s upgraded Hornet. But he was too far back. All she could see was Ykonde Remisk’s M50, with its garish gold and blue trim. She noticed that he was too close to her; by rule, there was a specified distance that racers had to maintain prior to launch: the privilege of the pole position.
She gnashed her teeth and cursed beneath her breath. Someone was already violating rules.
“Hypatia Darring . . . you may launch.”
She didn’t even wait for the spokesman to finish. Darring burst out the carrier bay door at top legal speed.
Through a narrow channel flanked by media and spectators, Darring flew the ceremonial lap. The rest of the racers followed behind, releasing one after another, but maintaining their specified positions within the line. Ahead of her, the pace craft sparkled with a flashing red light. Nervous energy spotted her brow with sweat. Her crew chief gave his final comments and instructions. She signed him off and focused on the course ahead of her.
In her ear, the MCR starter counted down — ten, nine, eight . . . Darring thrust to the left, trying to keep directly behind the pace craft. Ykonde Remisk was right on her six, the nose of his racer dangerously close. Back off! Darring mouthed silently, wanting to flip on her comm link and tune to his frequency. It wasn’t strictly against MCR rules to speak to other racers, but officials discouraged it, fearing that frequent conversation during the race could produce distractions that would lead to crashes and injuries. Besides, there was enough chatter going on between racers and their crews. Still, Darring wanted to open a channel and scream into Remisk’s ear, Get off my back!
Five . . . four . . . three . . .
Now, all the racers tightened as the pacer made the last turn to set them up toward the first rings. Darring gunned it a little herself, closing in on the pacer. She put herself now just a little to the right of it, to keep Remisk from rushing past her at the last minute. Darring’s heart raced, her hands shook on her joystick. She tried concentrating on the small object that grew and grew in her viewport: The first ring, its rotating lights swirling around its virtual frame, signaling the beginning . . .
Two . . . one . . .
The red lights on the pacer flashed green, and it fell to the left quickly, breaking formation.
Darring pressed herself into her seat, gunned her thrusters, and blew through the first ring.
* * *
The flashing lights of the rings caused her eyes to ache.
They flew by her quickly and she was concentrating on them too much, too worried about her time, her position in the line. She had fallen to third place by count of the last timing ring. It had been her fault, too, worrying so much about conserving fuel, letting some pilot with a overclocked Avenger take the inside lane. Her crew chief yelled at her for it; she ignored him. The little shit was right, of course, but he was an old academy friend of her father’s, and she was in no mood to listen to him yell at her. Besides, she could overtake an Avenger at any time.
The real focus of her recovery had to be Ykonde Remisk.
The smarmy son of a bitch had forced her against the left wall of the tunnel they were speeding through. Her wing had actually broken the virtual plane, and the voice of the MCR caller came over her comm . . . “Ten seconds added to your time.” Damn! Remisk’s press was not strictly against the rules since his ship had not touched hers, but it was certainly dirty pool and against the spirit of the competition. She had no way out of the pick-and-roll either; it was as if he and the Avenger pilot were in cahoots. That wouldn’t surprise her in the least.
She refocused and thrust her M50 forward, dipping beneath the Avenger and slipping past it on the low. It tried muscling her back, pointing its right wing down to mask her view, but Darring anticipated the move, shifted in kind, and kept her position and composure. Meanwhile, the Avenger pilot had lost his focus on the lane ahead of him, and failed to notice the ring closing fast and to the left. Darring hit her thrusters hard and shifted left, at the last minute moving out of the Avenger’s path. Darring took the turn and ring perfectly; the Avenger saw it too late, tried to adjust, and clipped the ring with its left wing. It broke the invisible plane of the tunnel and then overcompensated into a spin through the void.
Eat that!
She hoped that somewhere behind her, Guul was cheering. She could almost hear his resonant voice singing her praises. She liked the thought, but the most pressing concern now was right in front of her.
Remisk had been pushing his craft at full speed the entire course. How was that possible? she wondered. Sure, he had customized his M50 like all the rest, removing everything extraneous for extra fuel and cooling equipment, but he must be running on fumes by now after boosting like that. There was no other explanation. He would have to burn out soon, and the sooner the better.
She ignored the three other racers pressing hard at her six. She took the next ring and the next, letting the strong inertia pull and propel her craft forward. That was the best way to avoid overheating, she had learned racing around Saturn. Release thrust on the turns, and let your craft drift at top speed into the vector. Then you had enough thrust to pick up the few seconds you might have lost on drift. This racing gig was a game of milliseconds, and each one counted.
She moved up behind Remisk, taking advantage of the last straightaway before the final turns through the ultimate three rings. There was not much time left, and she had to make her move now.
She tried shifting up and over his craft. He moved to block her. She shifted down; he moved again, in perfect unison, their ships equal size. She shifted left, right, and each time Remisk moved to counter. How is he doing this?
He was a great racer. There was no doubt of that. He was strong, athletic and cool-headed. Remisk had not gotten where he was on the circuit without being smart and precise. But his moves, his instincts were almost supernatural, as if his senses were enhanced. But that was impossible.
Every racer went through a rigorous medical exam to ensure that no drugs had been introduced before the race, and further testing would be conducted along the way to ensure none had been taken after the first stage. Remisk was just that good.
Then I have to be better.
She pushed her engine to its limit, exceeding safe levels, much to the ire of her crew chief. He implored her to back off, take second or third place, don’t risk blowing your ship so soon for so little reward. Little reward, my ass!
She had taken the pole position, and she was going to let everyone know that it was not some fluke, that Hypatia Darring was here to stay. She wouldn’t give her fath– the media — grist for their mill.
She barrel rolled, letting the rotation of her M50 spiral her forward like a screw. Remisk, fearing that he would be clipped himself, shifted ever so slightly to his left, and Darring pounced. She pulled alongside him, letting her craft settle. She punched her thrusters again, feeling them wail their discontent through her arms and hands. Her stick was shaking, her heat warnings blaring. She could feel it all through her body, and there was, in all the galaxy, no feeling like it. It was something her father had forgotten. He was a good fighter pilot himself, or at least he was in his youth. But he had spent too much of his life in slow giants like destroyers, cruisers and battleships. He had forgotten what it was like to feel flesh tingle as strong g-forces threatened to rip your skin from its bones. Guul understood it. Remisk most certainly did. And even that sorry son of a bitch Mo‘tak understood the ecstatic feeling of sheer speed.
She pulled ahead. She took the next ring flawlessly, shifting against inertia and rolling through the next ring, which appeared immediately after the last. The final ring loomed large in the distance. Her crew chief, his attitude suddenly changed, barked “Go! Go!” into her ear. She smiled. She’d made the right decision. She most definitely deserved to be here racing among the greats.
Remisk pulled up above her, obviously giving her first place. She kept her course forward and strong, letting her warning systems holler. She giggled like a child, accepting praise from her chief. The flashing lights of the last ring did not make her weak or sick this time. She welcomed them happily.
Then a shadow came up over her, darkening her cockpit. It was Remisk, his M50 finding new life and overtaking her ship. In her joy, Darring had not realized that her thumb had lightened its pressure on her throttle, and she had slowed just slightly. Slowed enough for Remisk to swing his craft up and over her hull and plant itself, with its main thrusters, right in front of her cockpit. Darring tried keeping her speed and course, but Remisk kicked his boost and threw a gout of yellow fire across her cockpit windows.
Darring rolled left. It was a serious mistake. She tried regaining her position, pressed her thumb deeply into the throttle, but it was too late. Ykonde Remisk passed through the final ring in first place. The Avenger and one other racer took second and third, while Darring, her ship rolling uncontrollably through the last ring, barely finished fourth.
TO BE CONTINUED…
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- CIG ID
- 16435
- Channel
- Undefined
- Category
- Undefined
- Series
- The Cup
- Comments
- 20
- Published
- 8 years ago (2018-02-28T00:00:00+00:00)