And moving onto book 2:

1

  The title had read, "Darwinist Regression*," but had been no such
thing. Ms. Wheeler's editorial had failed to pique me again. Setting the
paper down carefully, I took another sip of it, warm distilled water. (So
as not to provide any useless, arbitrary stimulation.)

  "No, that was not your cue," I quickly said to my right foot,
hovering over the gas pedal.

Eh? Seems a bit disjointed there.

injuries, they start at the fifty gate or at least somewhere in the high
forties. My excellent race results in the past combined with a decent
crowd following had probably been the main factor in getting me the
spot I had.

Either that or the higher power is still in play. Hard to tell, though.

  There were more than a few racers and board members alike who
wanted to see my ass back in the mini-car circuit.

Or even the moped circuit, for those that truly hated me.

 The scars I had left a

decade ago had not healed among the veterans;

Hence why they are 'scars' instead of 'wounds' :)

Actually, I know what you meant, and it's probably correct, but I like being
a wiseguy.

  The Jarred incident had strangely neither helped nor hindered my
return. The board thought I may have become mentally unstable after so
many long years underground.

Which was good, since they thought that meant I would be a bigger draw.

 But the blood and action was just what

my old fans had been waiting for, being in their thirties like myself. I
don't think anyone had taken my release so seriously as to boycott live
racing, but I bet Race-Cams city wide

citywide (I think)

  I was the best driver on the tarmac and I could feel it where it
counted, down in that solid, unwavering place that motivation and
inspiration frequent.

Somewhere around the liver.

that fast. At that speed you lose so much control over your car it would
be a waste of my talent to sit behind the wheel. The Bad Storm was
faster than the Gun, which had been my baby. But I had grown too. Jail
time had probably dulled my senses and my driving ability was not what
it used to be. My little adventure with Jarred had taught me that I
couldn't swerve like I used too.

to.

 This time I would need to take things

easier; to concentrate more.

Yeah, right.

The plan would be to stay out of the pack

altogether until the slower bruiser cars were left behind. Then I would
make my presence felt, and the rest of them would learn what prison *had*
taught me.

Mostly it involved the many uses of vasoline, but we won't get into that
now.

  I shifted out of neutral and strait

straight

  For the first and possibly least strenuous twenty minutes I could
see or feel nothing but the rumble of rubber on road, causing the dash to
vibrate against a smoldering black horizon. The seat's hydraulics kept
me level and undisturbed, but after a minute I switched them off with the
kick plate. I wanted to feel it. Thoughts of my apartment, my friends,
Zig, Alethea, and Wells needed to be shaken from my concentration. I
would have cracked my windows but they were bolted in place. Instead I
breathed in the smell of leather, vinyl, and grease from inside the cab. A
smile slowly spread across my face.

Nice imagery.

  "Will do. Say, Zig showed up after all. He's watching from the
big screen Race-Cam. He wanted to help down here in the pit but I gave
him a case of beer and sent him and a few other guys up to the lounge.

Heh

Didn't have that luck with Alethea. She's stubborn." He paused. "Still
no sign of that Chris guy though."

  "Damn," I said mostly to myself.

  As I heard this, I waved my fingers in front of the Race-Cam
camera that hovered over my right shoulder. I had not seen Chris since
the four of us had parted at the Aqueduct train station. He had said he
would call me later, but had not. I had him mailed a pair of tickets to
today's race, but apparently he had other plans. I guess I could not blame
him for being busy.

I'm surprised Screw wants to get involved, unless he figures he already is
and needs friends and allies now.

  "I hear you."

  "Good. I don't know if you can see the stands yet, but about half
of them have thunderbolts on their jackets. Derring came through on the
PR for you."

My, impressive

  In my catalogue blue and gray racing suit, I did not feel the
thickening heat inside the car, which was registering at 112 degrees.

Now that's hot.

this. Now in a tighter turn than before, I was only able to push 350
without fear of my tires slipping.

  I concentrated on the track ahead of me and tried to plan what I
was going to do when I finally caught up to mister twenty-six. Diago
buzzed me, and told me I had gone a three quarters of a lap now, but at
this speed was not going to catch up in time.

Hmm. Thought he would. Well, we'll blame the machine and not the man. :)

  No one accosted me. Must be newer racers or ones with the sense
to hold on to a good formation. I had none of that. I was out in front of
them in another five minutes and were beyond their sight in another ten.
Breathing came easier. But before long I was right up against another
group.

And I doubt they will be so easy.

  To my left was Derek Cassidy, in the Devil's Dog, and when he
saw me out of his side window, he turned inward.

  I started to steer away from him, when suddenly the handling
became difficult again.

Heh. Here it comes.

I was moving right, but not fast enough. Our

sides touched, and he started pushing me toward the inner wall. I tried to
resist by steering left now but could not intimidate him. So I just
punched the gas again, and sped forward. Rookie drivers might spin out
when their rear axles were pushed from behind, but the trick did not
work on me. I turned deftly into the skid and his front bumper slid away.
Our cars left a salute of orange sparks that must have been seen in the
stands. But I left Cassidy behind and took the twenty-third position.

Harder one is coming up. You can feel it.

  As I headed toward the next car at a clean 355, my steering
temporarily returned. I thought back to the beginning of the race where I
had noticed a little bit of sluggishness which had promptly subsided. I
seemed only to have problems when other cars were actively trying to
wreck me.

That is a very odd liablity.

  Like I had expected, as soon as I got into the thick of the next
pack, I felt my car losing response time. There were five cars here, all

of

them being harassed by the big black one in front, Rod Styller's
'Necromancer.'

Heh. Nice name.

The four cars behind him could not advance because

anyone who drifted near him got rammed. I had already passed a wreck
in front of an obstacle a few miles back and I bet it had been his work. I
tried to get close, but I just could not get my car to respond properly.

It

bucked and swerved beneath me. He must have seen me by now, and
was now turning out to the left, probably to clear some space to swipe
me into the inner wall.

Think one of the others might make a break for it at that point.

  I saw the move coming a full five seconds before Styller winged
in from ten o'clock. I had prepared to decelerate suddenly and let him
pass in front of me. But as I hit the brake, he did too, and our cars
slammed into each other. We saw a pylon pop up about a mile down the
track, and he started to try to push me into it. I applied more pressure

to

the brake, sending up smoke from my rotors, and soon only my front
bumper was touching his car. The other four cars, having seen that this
was their chance to pull ahead, started to cut around us to the outside.

Thought so.

  The Necromancer had apparently run too far to the left, and one
of the other drivers sliding past had thought he was the next target. It
was Guy Jinn, number 99, and he in turn steered hard to the right, hitting
Styller's car in the hind quarter panel. This was the extra push needed to
send both cars reeling and their collective twelve tires all lost traction

at

once. Spinning clockwise toward the pylon, both drivers hit the brakes in
an attempt to ease the crash. Jinn pulled his own car out of the spin, but
had to brake so hard he ended up in a near dead stop. Styller was not so
lucky and struck the pylon on the drivers side of the car. I frowned as
my screens relayed his failure in vivid thermal color. They had better not
blame that one on me.

It obviously wasn't. BEsides, one would assume bruisers tend to get pay back
for playing 'rock 'em sock em' with other cars.

passed them, thinking I had been the one who took out Styller's car. I
managed to dodge obstacles only by leaning my full weight on the
wheel, and then suddenly letting go to avoid overcompensation. I would
be able to stay within a hundred yards of the inside wall, but if this
continued, I would crash long before finishing the race.

Yeah. Still wonder what keeps going wrong.

  Guy Jinn's yellow Peygan Alterra started to swing back toward
me. He must have spent some serious cash before this race because he
was easily keeping pace.

Yeah. I'm a bit surprised.

 But even in the absence of steering trouble, his

car was losing its traction on the tarmac. In one of my rear view screens
which had not been completely shaken out of working order, I saw that
he had taken his racing helmet off. The white sealing paper around his
neck was matted to his chest with sweat. He was either still screaming at
me or had a nasty bronchial infection. I game

gave

  A buzz. "Screw, its

it's

  While I was speeding up, shaken, and entering the last group of
cars

Well, he is still in it.

, my ears started that ferocious ringing again. It was really awful and

I slapped my helmet to try to get it to stop. The helmet was coming apart
at the welds.

Wonder if it's some kind of defense mechinism to however someone is
tampering with him.

  The last dozen or so cars belonged to the best of the best veteran
drivers. I recognized about half of them showing the same colors of the
same crews they raced under ten years ago. In the lead was Veretti, who
at one time used to be an old friend of mine. Following him were two
cars that had only been in the circuit for a few years now; I knew them
only from broadcasts. After them, batting cleanup, was 'Flyin' Brian in
the white Ford. I had raced him many times. He was over fifty and had
one hell of a fast car. Strangely, in the last few years of his career he

had

simply refused to ram other drivers, even when it was necessary to win.
He had lost more than a few races solely due to this, but had never
decided to start playing dirty. Revitalized and scheming, I steered in his
direction.

Heh. Nice attitude.

  The one thing out of all this that I had learned was that I only
really lost control when I came into close quarters with other drivers
who were openly out to get me. I figured that if I could stay right behind
Flyin Brian as he cut up the inside lane, I would be safe from bruisers
out to claim blue and gray paint scrapes on their railed titanium
bumpers. I

Oh, I see.

  Apparently Flyin Brian had the same idea and he abruptly pulled
away. My steering was only a little worse than normal now, but the
ringing and buzzing in my ears had returned en force.

in force

  I frowned deeply.

  "Oh crap."

  Guy Jinn had returned. Miraculously. Magnificently. I choked.
He was back behind me in his little yellow car, and his little yellow

tires

weren't touching the ground anymore.

My, got to hate it when that happens. Looks like someone has a bad tendency
to drive other drivers insane to kill Guy, and they have this bad tendency
to help them try to whack him in paranormal ways. Should be interesting to
see how this one turns out.

D.B. Sommer




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