The Scarab (20 page)

“I need a close up of the mine
damage as well. Meanwhile, we need to get you some repair budget. First thing
you have to do is sell back your airbag, air-conditioning, anything you can
think of that isn’t critical for the rest of the race. It will also help
lighten the load and improve your lift ratios.” Once this instruction had been
acknowledged, I continued. Someone slipped me a fresh glass of pop. The damaged
section appeared on a pop-up window soon after.

“Ouch. It looks worse than I
expected, but still patchable. You’ve got to prop that corner of the vehicle up
firmly. Remove all the damaged skirting material and all the shrapnel you can
find. Sell it as recycling. You’re going to need every Lira by the time we’re
through.” I paced the room, in my element. “You should probably send that
cutter crew over now.”

“Worried I won’t keep my bargain?”
asked Antonio, sounding hurt.

“No. We’re going to scavenge
everything we can off this tank. Be careful not to touch the computers. You don’t
want what they’ve got. The strike hit the top rear of the North Korean; we can
still use his front lifter panels if your impellers aren’t too badly mangled.
Somebody get a repair manual for their model from last year and tap into Jane’s.
If we’re lucky, they weren’t too original this year, and it’ll speed the
conversion,” I said.

“Roger.”

People were scrambling. Mare put
Ghedra into recharge while we waited. This would help later. For now, she
picked over the tank inventory for any items we wanted. Nigel contacted our
friends on the net to get the Korean repair manuals. Steve had scraped together
some kind of team uniforms for the costume party. He pinned a white cape with a
giant sunburst around my neck. “Try this,” he said slipping my arm through a
hidden sling he had rigged inside.

I laughed. If I had been wearing
one of these during the rescue, I would have been committed for sure. “Perfect,”
I told him and resumed pacing. I liked how the cape flowed behind me. The team
was hitting all cylinders, and I felt great.

Half an hour into the repairs, the
Swiss hospital contacted us with details on the heart transplant. The ambulance
would sit at the border and the first qualified courier who came by would get
the mission. They had to do this to be fair. I was also reminded that any use
of weapons on the mission would disqualify me. I agreed to the terms for the
record, and thanked them for their kindness. I asked Foxworthy to send them a
donation once the race was over and told Mare she could plug the tool company
any time she felt like it.

Once we had stripped the tank,
Antonio figured that his team was going to make it. To borrow a phrase from the
Chicago slaughterhouses, we used everything but the squeal. LAS sent someone
over to help us repair. Of course, the first thing they wanted me to do was
send them a schematic. Show me yours and I’ll show you mine? I don’t think so. “I
don’t need that level of repair work. Porsche and North Ameri-Car would fry me
if I showed you. The damage is really just a windshield, a rinse, and a few
minor dents. Just loan me the body and I’ll do the rest. I’m deleting your
schematics even as we speak.”

Antonio was just happy to be in the
race again. Evidently, the media in Italy had gotten wind of his predicament,
and millions of fans were listening. Members of parliament had called, telling
him national pride was at stake. The repairs were not elegant, but they were
sufficient for today. Several design changes were already in the works to
prevent problems like this in the future. “Too bad you’re engaged,” he said
when he signed off. “My sister, Angela, should meet a guy like you.”

“Word spreads fast,” I said.

“My cousin, Enzo, makes bridal
gowns. Promise me you’ll talk to him first. He will design one especially for
the young lady. I have never needed his services, but I hear he is very good.
He will do it for free,” said Antonio.

“I think she’s already got one, but
I appreciate the sentiment. Tell you what; if we decide to honeymoon in Europe, you can have us over for dinner and show us your home town.”

“Done,” he concluded, and we parted
ways once more, counting down the final minutes till the race began. I was
suspicious about how easily Antonio had given up until seconds before the race
resumed. Two open-date round-trip plane tickets to Venice arrived in our e-mail
box, courtesy of the Italian board of tourism.

Mare’s face lit up. “Can we? I
mean, is it legal?”

Foxworthy nodded. “Completely. It
would be an insult to refuse.”

“Last chance for a bathroom break,”
I announced after ordering all our special munitions. “Everyone reloaded and
ready?”

At my mark, the right submarine
waldo decoupled, and the two vehicles took off in separate directions as fast
as they could.

I told Steve and Josie to watch both GEDM blips on the
overhead. If either got close to us, they were to tell me immediately. To the
media, I broadcast a clip from an old war movie in German, which said, “Rig for
silent running.” However, I didn’t waste the power to cloak. About five minutes
later, everyone was surprised when the main unit disappeared into the dead
zone. I did this mainly to draw attention away from the sled which we had
programmed to retrace its steps back to Switzerland at its highest stable
speed. Mare was only there for emergencies, which happened almost immediately.

The radio sent out an urgent
warning to all drivers. Some fool was traveling at breakneck speeds down the
wrong side of the Autobahn. It took a second before I figured out they were
talking about us. We were zipping south at full speed down the north-bound lane
of a divided highway. The closest opponent was the BW. Thor’s hammer saw our
blip closing, and slowed to anchor and sight their main guns.

“Find a ramp!” I shouted to the
navigator. Then I realized I was the navigator. Rushing to the map, I cursed. “We
can’t cross back for another ten kilometers, less than twenty seconds at this
speed. If we turn now, we’re a little tin target. Wait. Stay on this side,” I
improvised. “Flip to manual and accelerate. Arm the paint balls.”

Steve watched in awe as his little
sister, decked out in data gloves and a VR head set, pushed buttons in mid-air
to take control of a virtual vehicle traveling in excess of 320 km/h. She
brought the targeting crosshairs onto the main screen while I selected another
message to broadcast. I hadn’t planned to use this till later, but I had it
ready. We closed on the BW so fast they didn’t know what hit them. Since we
weren’t using live ammo, they didn’t bother to take evasive measures.

“Spray them on full automatic as we
pass, then get the hell out of Dodge. There’s another clover-leaf two minutes
away. We can jog over there,” I told Mare.

“No barges,” said Foxworthy. “Commencing
Operation Huck Finn.”

Mare plastered the BW’s long flank
with blue paint balls as I broadcast the image of the Road Runner uttering his
trademark “Beep, Beep” just before streaking away from the Coyote. The message
was that we were simply too fast for them to hit and we could moon them like
this any time we wanted. What I didn’t count on was that paint balls impacting
about twice the speed of sound can Swiss-cheese fiberglass quite nicely. It
seems BW had armored their front and rear heavily, but neglected to reinforce
the sides. It had been deemed too heavy, expensive, and unnecessary.

Since he had been partially out of
the vehicle at the time, Mare had also scored their forward observer.
Fortunately, the mission of mercy rules didn’t apply until we actually
possessed the football. Doing a fast bit of damage control, I made BW promise
not to come after us if I promised not to tell the media I had holed them with
what was effectively a child’s toy. Our style points jumped as the judges rated
the difficulty and execution of our high-tech mooning.

Once we crossed over to the proper
side of the road, it was smooth sailing. There were no simulated cars to dodge
on the south-bound side of the Autobahn. The simulation builders never thought
anyone would use it. “We’re making great time,” Mare said. “Let’s come back
this way, too.”

I agreed.

About the time we hit Austria, Steve announced, “GEDM is turning south, full speed.”

To paraphrase Monte Python, we had
a rat in the wainscoting. “How long till he intercepts?” I asked.

“He’s moving about the same speed
the main unit is. It’s hard to say,” said Mare.

“How’s the battery power,” I asked
Nigel.

“Three-quarters,” he answered.

“Wait till it hits 80 percent and
then gun the engines. Working with the current, we should outrun him easily.” I
turned to Mare and asked, “What’s our ETA look like, baby?”

“Pick up will be five minutes from
now. Add twenty more to reach the branch point, more with a pilot. I’m guessing
forty minutes till we can hook up,” Mary Ann said.

“GEDM just disappeared from
tracking,” Steve said. “They’re in the dead zone.”

“No problem, we can make the railroad
tracks before he catches us,” I said, to myself more than anybody.

Once we picked up our pilot and
packed the heart safely away in the Duratech mini-vault, I spent a few seconds
removing the safety governors from the sled’s floatation grid. Our simulated
pilot weighed seventy kilograms the same as everyone else’s, and I wanted to
make adjustments so that this added weight wouldn’t hinder us on the return
trip. “You know, we put kids in jail for this sort of thing,” Mare lectured. “You’re
being a terrible role model.”

“It will get us another twenty
km/h. I have a bad feeling about this GEDM thing. I want to get back there
fast,” I explained.

She agreed reluctantly. “But you’re
not showing our kids how to do this sort of thing.”

I promised. After all, no one had
showed me. Our kids would figure it our by themselves if they had a mind. “Kids?
How many?” I asked as an afterthought. We hadn’t discussed this before, but we
seemed to be in agreement so far.

“Two, three, the usual. Stand back,
hon’. I’m going to break some laws.”

I went back to Steve. “Give me the
data sheet on the enforcer who’s after us.” I used a hockey term, because it
seemed to apply. We were about to be body-checked out of the game by the
biggest bad boy on the rink.

I scanned the sheet again. “Crap.
They have JATO in five minute bursts.”

“Jet assist?” Steve asked. “So we
won’t make it?”

“I don’t know, but neither do they.
Exciting, isn’t it? We’ll lay an ambush in town, just in case. We’ll plant the
nerve gas to distract them,” I responded.

“Mare’s right, you do change when
you’re Scarab. I’ve watched you go from Mr. Rogers, the friendly neighbor, to
Joseph Stalin in the span of half an hour,” Steve said.

“I’ll seek help after we dust these
candy asses,” I said.

He mouthed an encouraging profanity
as he slapped me a high five.

Fifteen minutes later, we watched
from cover on the pier as the GEDM enforcer rolled up out of the water in our
exact path. “How disappointingly predictable,” I sighed.

I gave Nigel the go ahead to send a
message to the enforcer. “Yuck. What did you just step in?”

They spotted the canisters ahead,
but momentum carried them over the trap any way. When enough weight settled on
them, the canisters ruptured, spraying North Korean nerve gas over the entire
dock area. Wind would take the poison through two towns before it dissipated,
killing hundreds, and contaminating the river for many more.

“Any luck?” I asked Nigel.

“They have scrubbers, filters, and
masks. Who expects this sort of greeting?” Nigel wondered.

“Someone with inside information,”
I said. “Now for the surprise. Hit function two,” I ordered.

“Commencing Operation Rubber Duck,
sir,” he said as he activated one of the extra weapons I’d purchased this
morning.

“Make it count, because I could
only afford one dose. Besides, once we do this, he’ll do a trace-back on the
trajectory and blast us,” I warned.

Nigel did us proud. The disposable
launcher tossed a small plastic drum directly under the enforcer’s main muzzle.
Once its contents hit the air, foam erupted to surround the entire front of the
GEDM tank.

Steve announced, “Anti-submarine
foam, used by helicopters. It keeps the sub from going back down, moving, or
firing back if you’re lucky.”

Once I was sure the foam had
solidified completely, we broke cover, and I had Nigel bump the enemy tank into
the river. A cheer broke out in the room.

“How long?” I asked Mare.

“Twelve or thirteen. I can’t see
you in the dead zone. Wait for me at the rendezvous spot, and I’ll be able to
tell you better.”

Nigel drove to the designate
location on the railroad, and we waited impatiently, charging our batteries the
last few percent.

Steve told us there was more
activity on the radio. “Fire. Down at the docks. The enforcer had freed a flame
thrower. The whole dock is in flames. They drove blind through a couple buildings,
but they’ve cleared away most of the foam. They’re coming after you like a bat
out of Hell!”

I hit the spin-up key for Nigel.
Batteries were at 95 percent. That was good enough. GEDM couldn’t risk the
MASER if it were still clogged with foam. That had been my main objective,
really. I had hoped that they wouldn’t bounce back so fast, though.

“I need you to position yourself
right here,” I told Nigel. “When he comes into the rail yard, charge him like a
bull. Steve, get me the orange book on top, the train schedules. Josie, get me
the CD labeled Coyote’s greatest hits. Whitaker, tell the Feds we’re going to
have sudden death syndrome here any minute.”

Steve tossed the book over, and I
flipped through it frantically for this city’s Sunday schedule. “It’s all
written in German. Blast! Nigel, find it. I’ll steer while you look.” I traded
the book for his joystick. When I pushed the next function key, the words THE
BLUE BUTTON appeared at the bottom in ornate lettering. The view shifted to a
tactical overhead.

“What’s the blue button for?” asked
Steve. I winced.

“Not the blue button!” Mare said. “I
thought we agreed.”

“It’s only a game,” I told her,
hitting the cloak.

Steve, Josie, and Whitaker all
stared at each other in puzzlement.

Josie switched CDs for me after I
played blaring Spanish trumpets over my loud speakers.

“Found it! What do you need?” asked
Nigel as the GEDM blip passed through the front gates.

I waited till my opponent was
beside a warehouse, and then I threw a satellite shadow at him. He swerved and
smashed into the wall, barely slowing. “What track is the next south-bound
train coming in on? They get here about every ten minutes. I haven’t seen one
in a while, so we’re about due.”

I threw a second shadow at the
enforcer, and his collision avoidance system rode him over a brick wall and
several parked cars. It slowed him even more. My third try just annoyed him,
and he turned his avoidance system off. When we passed like jousters, the
enforcer used his weight to try to ram me. Luckily, I was spinning the proper
direction and bounced harmlessly off. “Nigel!” I shouted. “I’m dying out here.
No more rabbits in my hat.”

“Track number nine. The last one on
the right,” Nigel said.

“Which right? Here, you drive.” My
arm was killing me even from that brief use.

He traded the book to me again.
Steve traded me the book for a fresh ice pack. Then he noticed, “This book is
from last year.”

“It’s okay,” said Nigel. “If the
trains were on time, there was no need to change the schedule.”

“Warp speed,” I told him.

“Aye, Captain,” he echoed as he
made the wide turn through the yard and onto track nine. Flames erupted in the
empty rail cars behind us.

“Blue button him again,” I ordered.
“Just to make sure.” No crash followed. Excellent, the avoidance system was
still off. “Up the track as fast as she’ll go. How are you doing, Mare?” I
asked.

“Ten minutes three seconds to the
old spot, nine and change to the new. I hope you know what you’re doing,” she
said, intent on her own problems.

Soon, we were racing down the
tracks, with GEDM hot on our tails. “See that blip? Slow to about 50.” The GEDM
gained. “Stay just out of his flame thrower range.”

“How far is that?” Nigel asked. The
tank behind us answered by removing most of our remaining paint. He goosed it a
little more.

“Hold it steady. Aim straight for
the tunnel,” I coached. Only when we were about to hit the oncoming bullet
train ourselves did I say, “Hard left! Brake, brake.” We stopped spinning
quickly in the gravel.

I sent GEDM a Wiley Coyote train
encounter so they’d get it a second before we all heard the crunch in digitized
stereo. They never saw it coming. Nigel Foxworthy, lawyer from Pittsburgh, had
just scored on Detroit’s meanest machine. The room went wild. Style points and
kill points racked up on our tote board. Nobody else saw the Charon program
kick in. I could see it transmitting, but I couldn’t shut it down. “No!” I
shouted. It happened too soon for the Feds to act. Kali was going to get away
with it again unless I did something immediately.

“Nigel, chase him down,” I said.

“But he’s dead.”

“Do it!”

As we raced back along the track,
he asked, “Any special piece you’re looking for?”

We didn’t have far to go. In the
time intervening, our spin continued to slow. “The flight recorder, there.” I
lowered the landing gear, and parked beside the fragment, using the sled’s
flaps to slow the spin even further. Now that we were parked, the joystick
could be used to control the docking clamps. I activated the right waldo
controls and told Nigel to pick the black box up in the small metal claws. He
fumbled with the controls while I talked to Whitaker.

“Did they get Kali?” I asked. He
shook his head.

The clamps were pretty strong. They
had enough force to hold 200 kilos of machinery on a hull at maximum rotation
with several factors of safety. As soon as Nigel had the box, I closed the
claws hard. This crushed the box, and stopped the transmission instantly.

“What did you do that for?”
demanded GEDM and several judges over the next couple minutes.

“Just making sure he doesn’t find
me a third time, a stake through the heart generally works,” I improvised. I
just didn’t want Kali to get another soul stronger, and I wanted to let her
know it was my doing. “They can still get all the data at the end of the game.
No harm done.”