all-night movies, flyers offering seminars, and women in
bikinis inviting passers-by to trade shows. All of them were vying for
attention against the giant TV screens on the ceiling. It was a circus with a
hundred rings.
Twenty minutes before the first
virtual racer was scheduled to start, we made it to our hotel room. The
elevators had been packed. “Geez, if the elevator had broken down, there’d be a
lot fewer competitors,” Mary Ann said, taking off her high-heels and massaging
her right foot. Her black stockings made me wish that I had time to relax her
whole body.
I logged back on to my system and
checked the watchdog programs. “That’s why some people race from booths in the
auditorium, despite the audience. At least you know you can get to your
terminal.”
Her face looked innocent, even a
bit shocked. “Hey, I was just kidding.”
My “trio” of vehicles would start
in tandem mode. This was considered by some as putting all my eggs in one
basket. When you use baskets with armor this heavy, why not?
“We’ll start in non-spin mode to
keep our abilities secret for as long as possible. It will take a minute to
spin up the hull, but once we turn on the cloak, we can keep it on all the
time. Until we do, it’ll steer like an overweight hippo. On the bright side, we
shouldn’t need much speed inside the city.”
I started checking all systems,
beginning with the radio. The game permitted two types of communication,
broadband broadcast to everyone in range (including the press) and
point-to-point message squirts for messages you only want one other vehicle to
hear. The secret transmissions were generally for your own team members, but
could be sent to other players if they accepted.
We had only five minutes to post
time when I looked up from my screen. Mare had already changed into a Team
DeClerk jump-suit and put her hair up. I was so absorbed in the preparations,
she hadn’t even shut the bathroom door while she changed. The screen showed an
aerial view of northwest London in the Regents Park region. The speaker
broadcast revving engines that had been digitally recorded at the Indianapolis 500 a few years back. In reality, most of our machines would be much quieter.
For both fuel efficiency and attack stealth, noise is your enemy.
“What’s on the telly?” I asked,
getting into the Continental swing of things.
“The usual. Since Abbey Road studios is in the area, On-line Music is doing old Beatles hits. ESPN is winding
up their piece on polo, fox hunting, and other sports of the wealthy English.
The local channel is covering the four day weekend they’re having at Sandia
this week and how the extra tourist money from this convention will help the
city.” She had several miniature TV’s and a cellular phone she was arranging on
the huge, glass-topped, living room table.
“Where’d you get all that?” I
asked, paying attention to her for the barest instant.
“The same place I got the phone list
of all the contestants, International time and temperature, information, and
the short-wave I haven’t unpacked yet—room service,” she said matter-of-factly.
“The portable phone is the one I use at work.”
“You’ve done this before?” I asked.
She shrugged. “I just pretended I
was setting up a comm center for a police dragnet. I figured a racing crew does
about the same thing, keeping tabs on both friends and enemies. The racers just
have better funding.
“So what should I expect for the
first leg?” she asked.
I flipped my engines into warm
standby and disconnected from the control chair. I was about to rummage through
my map pile and get the London detail, but she already had it spread on the
wall beside me. Wow, she was efficient. “Uh, we start here, head south toward Hyde Park, and pass by the Hard Rock Cafe. Zip down this way, through Piccadilly Circus,
and eventually out of the city. We connect up with the A2 freeway through Canterbury to Dover, catch the ferry to Calais,
bikinis inviting passers-by to trade shows. All of them were vying for
attention against the giant TV screens on the ceiling. It was a circus with a
hundred rings.
Twenty minutes before the first
virtual racer was scheduled to start, we made it to our hotel room. The
elevators had been packed. “Geez, if the elevator had broken down, there’d be a
lot fewer competitors,” Mary Ann said, taking off her high-heels and massaging
her right foot. Her black stockings made me wish that I had time to relax her
whole body.
I logged back on to my system and
checked the watchdog programs. “That’s why some people race from booths in the
auditorium, despite the audience. At least you know you can get to your
terminal.”
Her face looked innocent, even a
bit shocked. “Hey, I was just kidding.”
My “trio” of vehicles would start
in tandem mode. This was considered by some as putting all my eggs in one
basket. When you use baskets with armor this heavy, why not?
“We’ll start in non-spin mode to
keep our abilities secret for as long as possible. It will take a minute to
spin up the hull, but once we turn on the cloak, we can keep it on all the
time. Until we do, it’ll steer like an overweight hippo. On the bright side, we
shouldn’t need much speed inside the city.”
I started checking all systems,
beginning with the radio. The game permitted two types of communication,
broadband broadcast to everyone in range (including the press) and
point-to-point message squirts for messages you only want one other vehicle to
hear. The secret transmissions were generally for your own team members, but
could be sent to other players if they accepted.
We had only five minutes to post
time when I looked up from my screen. Mare had already changed into a Team
DeClerk jump-suit and put her hair up. I was so absorbed in the preparations,
she hadn’t even shut the bathroom door while she changed. The screen showed an
aerial view of northwest London in the Regents Park region. The speaker
broadcast revving engines that had been digitally recorded at the Indianapolis 500 a few years back. In reality, most of our machines would be much quieter.
For both fuel efficiency and attack stealth, noise is your enemy.
“What’s on the telly?” I asked,
getting into the Continental swing of things.
“The usual. Since Abbey Road studios is in the area, On-line Music is doing old Beatles hits. ESPN is winding
up their piece on polo, fox hunting, and other sports of the wealthy English.
The local channel is covering the four day weekend they’re having at Sandia
this week and how the extra tourist money from this convention will help the
city.” She had several miniature TV’s and a cellular phone she was arranging on
the huge, glass-topped, living room table.
“Where’d you get all that?” I
asked, paying attention to her for the barest instant.
“The same place I got the phone list
of all the contestants, International time and temperature, information, and
the short-wave I haven’t unpacked yet—room service,” she said matter-of-factly.
“The portable phone is the one I use at work.”
“You’ve done this before?” I asked.
She shrugged. “I just pretended I
was setting up a comm center for a police dragnet. I figured a racing crew does
about the same thing, keeping tabs on both friends and enemies. The racers just
have better funding.
“So what should I expect for the
first leg?” she asked.
I flipped my engines into warm
standby and disconnected from the control chair. I was about to rummage through
my map pile and get the London detail, but she already had it spread on the
wall beside me. Wow, she was efficient. “Uh, we start here, head south toward Hyde Park, and pass by the Hard Rock Cafe. Zip down this way, through Piccadilly Circus,
and eventually out of the city. We connect up with the A2 freeway through Canterbury to Dover, catch the ferry to Calais,
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