The Brotherhood #40

By Mark W. Meier

Part 40

Act IV

Windowed The Soul

Chapter Twelve

Christmas Tree

A post with lights to let racers know when they’re staged and when to start.

You found the noise of the Atlanta venue distasteful. For some reason it never occurred to you that race cars – and fans – would be that loud. Only an idiot would think otherwise, but more than likely you never thought about it at all. Sailing, for all its uncertainty, was far quieter.

You entered the pit area where your car, #88, was being looked over by your team manager and crew. Adjustments and tinkering seemed to go on and on.

Engines roared nearby as two racers blasted away from the starting line. Your hands flew to your ears, and you wished for the earplugs the beagle had offered on your trip to Atlanta.

You turned to him as he grinned and held out the yellow foam inserts. Seconds later there was a deafening cheer. Then the beagle offered over-the-ears protection, which you also accepted.

Too late for that race, though. A typical funny car drag race lasted about eight or ten seconds. Stock car races went a bit longer, but top of the line dragsters could finish their quarter-mile in less than four seconds.

“Mr. Grambic.” Your team manager stepped away from your car and offered his grimy hand. “I’m Harley Wilson.”

“Harley.” You looked at Wilson’s filthy appendage but took it despite the grease and grit. “Is it always like this?” Your eyes darted around, nervously looking for where the next explosion of sound would come from.

The beagle pulled a shop towel from the nearby stack. He handed it to you so you could wipe transferred slime off your hand.

Wilson grinned. “Yes, sir. A moment of mind-numbing sound, then the background roar of the crowd.” He pointed out a half-full bin of dirty cloth.

After disposing of the messy material you asked, “Why don’t they run another one right away?”

The breeze shifted a bit and the smell of hot rubber and the acrid stench of burned nitromethane blew into your pit area. Only concrete columns showed where one pit ended and another began. Though a long roof covered pit row, the sides were open to the odors of racing. That explained your burning eyes and throat – the byproducts of volatile fuel could easily enter. At least the roof protected the concrete ramp from the scorching noon-day sun.

“Staging takes time, Mr. Grambic.” Wilson’s grin never wavered, almost like it was a permanent feature added by some inept plastic surgeon. “Some facilities have multiple tracks. They can stagger-start and run more races. But interest in drag racing has been,” he paused to think of the right word, “lax for a few years, so it’s not busy enough for every track to expand that way.”

Mr. Grin went back to prepping his – your – car. You tried watching both your pit and the two cars staging near the starting line. Numbers 19 and 16 would race in a few minutes.

On the track, the pit side driver, #19, spun his tires and lurched forward a few yards, then reversed. He wanted his rubber tires to warm up, giving him better traction. A worker went out in front of the car and sprayed something on the track while technicians lifted the body and tinkered with the engine.

“It’s an adhesive.”

You turned to see Judge Boynton step up beside you. “Judge.”

“Mis-ter Gram-bic.” He looked askance at your right hand. “I didn’t think you’d actually be in the pits. Most multimillionaires don’t like to get . . . dirty.”

Self-conscious of the residue of filth still on your palm, you tried to ignore the imagined feeling of grease clawing its way up your arm. “Do I detect a tone of respect, Boynton?”

That would be uncharacteristic. Nothing about him suggested he’d find anything about you worthy of more than derision.

The judge looked at you and sniffed. “Do I detect fear, Grambic?”

There was the attitude you knew and hated. “I only fear one thing, and it isn’t you, Boynton.”

The staging cars spun out again to keep their tires soft. Mr. Grin came up to where the two of you talked. “Mr. Grambic, we’ll be up after the next race.”

Boynton sneered at Wilson. “As if he didn’t know.” He glanced at you. “Wait. You didn’t know, did you?” The judge shook his head in disgust. “Some owners shouldn’t be allowed to have a team.”

You rolled your eyes. “Thank you, Harley. I’m not here to interfere.”

The judge smiled with contempt. “Your presence on the planet is an interference, Grambic.” More truth to that than you knew.

Mr. Grin’s smile wavered, but managed to stay in place. “Your car is up against a David Boynton.”

Boynton gasped in mock surprise. “Oh! That’s me. I’d better get to my car and change into my protective gear.”

Mr. Grin’s eyes widened. “You’re David Boynton?”

“He is.” You scowled at the justice. “You’d better get ready or you’ll forfeit.”

“Twenty years racing, never missed one yet.” Boynton ambled toward the next pit.

“Mr. Grambic?” Mr. Grin’s smile turned puzzled. “Isn’t he a bit old to be a driver?”

“You’ve never seen him drive?”

“Today’s a first, as far as I can remember.”

You watched as Boynton shed his clothing down to his underwear and pulled on a fire suit. No shame in the old man, who kept his eyes turned in your direction.

“Today’s my first race, too,” you reminded Mr. Grin.

“You aren’t driving.” His expression turned apologetic. “Sir,” he added.

The two cars which had shot down the lanes a few minutes before arrived back at their respective pits. Technicians swarmed over them, but you lost interest. You wanted to concentrate on the processes playing out at the starting line.

Engines revved with occasional sharp cracking as raw fuel exploded in the exhaust pipes. The drivers spun out again, and the roar of the crowd increased in anticipation of the race.

While #19 and #16 moved into the starting area, your driver, a man about your own age, climbed into your #88 to get ready for the following heat. His helmet went on, and he started the engine. He’d be leaving the pit as soon as the other cars left the starting line.

The Christmas Tree a few yards away showed both the “pre-stage” and “stage” lights on. A few seconds later the top amber light illuminated, followed by the middle and bottom a half-second apart, then the green.

The cars blasted away from the starting line. The crowd roared, and a few seconds later chutes deployed to slow the racers before they got to the sand at the end of the track.

“Only thirty-three thousandths of a second.” Mr. Grin pointed at the trackside digital display which read “RT - 0.033.” He looked your direction. “That’s a really good reaction time.”

“What’s typical?”

Mr. Grin rubbed his chin and waited for the crowd roar to pass as the racers decelerated. “To be honest, a racer’s RT doesn’t mean much in a race. The elapsed time determines the winner, and an RT of a half-second doesn’t add to the ET.”

You nodded, though no doubt you didn’t really understand what he was talking about. When you glanced at Judge Boynton in the next pit you noticed he still watched you. Intently. That seemed creepy to you.

But not as disturbing as his smile.

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Running Before the Storm 6

“Who’s in charge here?” A short Wanti woman with rank markings of a captain waved her powerful hand blaster around as if unsure whether to shoot, and which target she should take first. Her perfectly pressed ecru uniform looked starched enough to crack if bent too far.

Lannetay stood. “I am. What appears to be the trouble, Captain?”

“We received a transmission from this ship that bordered on treason. I demand access to your Core to discover the culprit for proffering charges.” Her pistol centered on Lannetay’s throat.

Lannetay gulped. She didn’t like having guns aimed at her. Bill? Don’t give her what she wants, just what she needs so we can get rid of her without complications. “Captain, I’ve ordered our ship to comply. You should have access by now.”

The woman’s eyes glazed as she accessed Bill impersonating a Core. Her weapon never wavered. “The sergeant spoke with a Victoria Rickman. Where is she?”

Carnifor remained seated, but smiled at the Wanti. “There is no Victoria Rickman aboard the William Placard.” She seemed unfazed by his charm.

The captain shifted her aim to a spot between Carnifor’s eyes. “That much I can see from your Core,” she snapped. “What happened to her?”

Iresha cocked her head to one side. “There’s never been a Victoria Rickman aboard, at least not since I’ve been a member of the crew.” She stood, and Bill dissolved the chair where she’d been seated.

The captain shook her head. Her collar remained stiff as a board. “There’s seven of you. I want you all in your living area – now.” She turned and stalked out, stuffing her pistol in it’s holster.

Carnifor sent an imitation of the woman’s voice to Iresha and Lannetay. I want you all in your living area – now.

Lannetay gave Carnifor a faux scowl. Bill, have everyone meet up in the common room.

The three crew exited the control cabin as the rest of the ship’s complement filed in. The soldiers held their JS-18 Monarch blaster rifles ready to cut down anyone who resisted.

The Wanti in charge stalked from one of the William Placard’s crew to the next, glaring at each in turn. “I’m Captain Bokkup. Someone from this ship spoke with the guard headquarters at Gorbandic Station. Confess now and your life will be spared.” She stopped pacing and looked around the common area as if suddenly realizing the size of the room.

Yeah. Right. Iresha’s quip reflected Lannetay’s estimation of the situation.

The seven crew of the William Placard exchanged glances of confusion. Lannetay took a half step toward Bokkup. “I was just speaking to Gorbandic Control. No other crewman aboard this ship was in contact with your guard station.”

Bokkup’s expression told Lannetay the captain accessed some on-board wet-ware. “You’re not lying.”

“You sound surprised.” Lannetay glanced at the deck before meeting Bokkup’s eyes. “Look, I try very hard to never lie. It’s too easy for people to check, and if I tell the truth I don’t have to remember what lies I told.”

Bokkup scowled. “Let’s just be sure. I want each of you to say ‘you can jolly well stew in your own juices’ so I can check voice prints.”

One after another the seven had their voices checked. Bokkup verified none of them had said the offensive words. Turning to a corporal she said, “Check for other life signs. That communication came from this ship.”

A young corporal produced a hand scanner and followed the running track around the circumference of the room. When he finished his scan he showed the results to Bokkup.

“No other life signs. But there are some rather odd inaccessible spaces.” She turned to Lannetay and pointed at a holographic display. “What’s in that area?”

Lannetay frowned. “I’m not an engineer. I’d have to assume that’s an area related to the operation of the ship. I’m a trader, not a starship designer.”

Bokkup nodded. “Any chance I could get a schematic to the ship?” Her eyes narrowed with implied threat. “No” wouldn’t be an acceptable answer.

Bill? Lannetay sent. Can you mock up some schematics to cover “those” spaces?

Already done, Lannetay.

“I’ve made a schematic available for you, Captain.” Lannetay crossed her arms and fought a smile.

Bokkup scowled. “Never mind. You couldn’t have faked that so quickly.”

Bill sent, A reward for Victoria Rickman has just been made public. Five hundred credits. Bokkup is probably angry about missing out on a bonus.

The captain waved to her soldiers to vacate the ship. “There’s nothing to find here. Let’s get out.”

“I’m sorry your search wasn’t more rewarding.” Lannetay added a touch of emphasis on the last word – just enough to hopefully make Bokkup wonder, but not enough to raise suspicion.

“Yes, well, see if you can find a cargo and leave.” Bokkup again looked around the huge common room, clearly amazed at such a large unused space.

Lannetay walked with the captain to the airlock. “We’ll certainly do our best. We don’t make a profit while we’re sitting still.”

When the airlock finished cycling Lannetay burst out laughing. “Bill, you’re killing me.”

The AI’s voice held a prim tone. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Carnifor chuckled. “You’re going to get us in trouble, Bill. This is why AIs are illegal in the Confederation.”

Bill managed to sound smug. “I can handle any trouble they dish out. They’re Wantis, after all. If they had brains they’d have already surrendered.”

“Like me?” Iresha snapped, hands on hips.

“You show uncommonly good sense.” Bill cleared his non-existing throat. “For a Wanti.”

Iresha’s voice belied her vocalized gratitude.“Thanks, Bill.”

L-T said, “Can’t we just get Gorbandic’s colony kit deployed and get off this rock?”

Lannetay walked back to the group. “The problem is how to do that. The Wantis will be watching the ship, and if Gorbandic sends out surface vehicles they’ll be watched, too.”

Goofball, leaning against the sofsteel aft bulkhead, gave a crooked smile. “I know a way.”

Lannetay opened her mouth to launch into a diatribe about how Goofball only wanted another joyride, but Carnifor cut her off. “When Tabby’s stealth is active she’s resistant to all but military grade sensor scans, Lannetay. The colony scanners won’t see it, so Goofball’s plan should work.”

“She’s perfectly capable of placing individual canisters.” Goofball stood, almost dancing with anticipation. “It’s up to you, but I could do it in ten minutes.”

Lannetay pondered. “We should do something to distract anyone watching the ship. Some of us could visit the station in person.”

“I’ll prep for launch.” Goofball nearly jumped toward his quarters and the secret hatch to his fighter, Tabby. “Bill, can you have the kit transferred to Tabby?”

Lannetay exited the control room to prepare for a distraction.

Ten minutes later the starboard lock cycled. Lannetay, Iresha, Marc, and L-T, all wearing support belts, made their way across the desolate landscape to Gorbandic’s main dome, gesticulating the whole way. As the station’s airlock opened, Tabby dropped from the belly of the William Placard and shot off into the distance.

Let us know when you want to return, Lannetay sent. We’ll be ready to leave in about eight minutes.

Copy that, Lannetay.

***

Goofball soared, physically and emotionally. Once again he could reach out and touch the horizon, gather stars from the sky, and redistribute them as he wished. The universe was his toy when he flew. However, he had a job to do so remaking creation would have to wait. Maybe his next flight.

He dropped down into a circular valley and mapped the insertion points of the various canisters in the colony kit. One by one Tabby fired them off as Goofball deliberately circled the depression. With the valley walls so high, the nanites would have less work to erect the physical atmospheric retaining walls. The field generators to put up the atmo shield would be ready ahead of schedule, so the air inside would quickly thicken to Earth normal. The last step, turning inert rock and silica into organic compounds, would require the physical involvement of colonists.

Goofball’s ten-minute trip was over before it began. Lannetay, I’m Romeo Tango Bravo.RTB in the phonetic alphabet, standing for return to base.

Confirmed. We’ll exit in fifty seconds.

A half-minute later the station’s lock cycled for the four members of the William Placard. They meandered across the lifeless soil, making wild gestures, as Tabby slid beneath the ship. Moments later the fighter seamlessly melded into the ship’s hull.

If you're wondering more about these characters, their origins are detailed in Ebony Sea: Origins. If you appreciate this story, please share on social media, and consider supporting the author's ability to continue writing by purchasing the Origins story and leaving a review at the link above.

The Brotherhood #39

By Mark W. Meier

Part 39

Act IV

Windowed The Soul

Chapter Eleven

In the marbles

Bits of rubber peel off racing car tires and the “marbles” build up on the edges of a track.

An hour after you arrived home a text arrived from the beagle. He’d found a drag racing team whose owner needed a rapid influx of cash. Five of his most lucrative stock investments all took a nosedive after rumors of sexual misconduct allegations were leveled at the CEOs. Then the team owner’s thirty-million-dollar mansion caught on fire, the suppression system malfunctioned, and the garage doors at the nearest fire stations jammed closed.

The mansion was a total loss.

Coincidentally, vandals ruined his summer home in the Hamptons, his Jamaican home was infested with termites, the workers at all of his factories went on strike, and cleanup from a hurricane in Texas kept him from his ranch.

He’d be living in a hotel until allowed to return to one of his homes. And the penthouse suite’s costs forced him to liquidate his racing team.

All a happenstance, of course.

Your offer of fifteen million dollars was accepted. You were the owner of the Muted Roar Top Fuel Funny Car drag racing team – or would be after the details were sorted out.

“How did you hear about this, Victor? It’s not like this kind of thing is on the news.”

“I’m friends with a guy at Hennen Motorsports. I’d asked him about getting into a race team, so he kept a lookout.”

You nodded. “Good job. Have Ben Kiel look over the papers when they get here, and schedule a signing.” Kiel was your personal attorney, not a corporate hack.

The beagle wrote on a sticky note at his desk. “Should we have a press conference, sir?”

“I don’t think so, Victor.” You stood to take your typical spot by the window, looking toward the river. “It’s not newsworthy.”

“Have you considered updating your will, sir?” The beagle seemed genuinely concerned, but he could be likened to a dog worrying a bone. “After all, picking up a race team will complicate things even more than they already are.”

You scowled, confident your assistant couldn’t see your expression. “I only have the one living relative, Victor. Hounding me won’t get me to change my mind.”

Now the beagle frowned. “Maybe Kiel could write something up. Would you look it over if he did?”

“Fine.” Your sigh would have been enough to tell anyone else not to bother. “But first have him look over the paperwork for the race team.”

“Very well, sir.” The partition between your desk and his rose.

Boats moved up and down the segment of the river you could see between the buildings of Savannah. The water still called to you. Though you weren’t about to race a sailboat again, the peace of sliding over the water was compelling. You considered the sounds of waves and wind and flapping sails as part of the contentment of the process. A smile blossomed at the memories.

That smile would soon be ended, along with your life.

Then the beagle finished a phone call and lowered the panel. “Kiel said he’d contact Saffron Racing and get the paperwork sent to him by the end of the day. If everything is in order we could sign by end of day tomorrow.”

Reality imposed itself. You nodded your response and kept your lonesome vigil.

Then the memory of the street racers screaming past on the interstate bubbled up in your mind. A bit more adrenaline and boating vanished from your imagination.

“Does Isaiah know anything about racing cars?” You turned toward the beagle. “I’ll need someone to oversee the team without getting in the way. I’d hate to have to fire him so soon.”

Howe pondered a moment. “He might have what it takes to manage without being intrusive.”

You turned back to the window. “The people in place know their jobs, Victor. Make sure Isaiah doesn’t step on any toes.”

The beagle’s phone rang, and after a muted conversation he stood to look over the partition. “Sir, Terrance Yang would like a word.”

You sighed again, then returned to your desk and picked up the phone. “Terrance. Michael here.”

“Mr. Grambic.” He’d never called you by your first name, despite your repeated efforts to keep things informal. “How’s business?”

I stirred in your mind, and suddenly you realized “how’s business” sounded like “Howe’s business.” And the beagle had been pushing you to change your will. You stumbled through an explanation of the latest developments in Canada, the police in France releasing their hold on the sale there, and the death of the man responsible for the explosion.

Could Howe have hired the mercenaries? Was he angling to take over?

“Mr. Grambic? Are you there?”

“I’m sorry, Terrance. What was it you’d asked?”

“Any idea when Dannacona will be up and running?”

Though Yang was a minor owner, ten percent of the company was significant enough that you’d have to calm his nerves. “These things take a considerable amount of time. We might not be producing anything until late summer next year.”

You turned to the internet to get some information about Yang while you spoke. “First off there’s the permitting, Terrance.” A quick scan showed his interest in Grambic Tiles to be his only investment in industry, and about half of his personal wealth. No wonder he was nervous. “Our land purchase offer was contingent on getting the required permits for construction. Then we have to line up contractors, subcontractors, municipal workers, and more. Then, and only then, can we break ground.” A notation indicated Yang suffered from ulcers. “If you’d like, I’m willing to buy back your share of the company at a pre-Paris price.”

“Oh, no-no, no.” Yang’s voice still held a nervous edge. “I’m willing to stay the course.”

Time to increase the heat on you. Your end was approaching and events were falling into place.

You heard the beagle’s phone ring again.

“Terrance, it’s busy here. Is there anything else I can do for you?” You noticed Howe lowering the partition at his desk. He held up the phone and mouthed the name of Judge Boynton. You raised a finger to tell him to hang on for a moment.

Yang grunted. “That should do for now, Mr. Grambic.”

After hanging up, you took a deep breath and had the beagle send the call to your phone. “Judge. What can I do for you today?” The vein at your left temple pulsed.

“Mis-ter Gram-bic.” The judge’s condescending greeting grated from your handset. “Going for a different kind of racing now? Drag racing? Are you going to drive wearing women’s clothing?”

Your teeth ground like a neophyte driver shifting gears. “What do you want, Boynton?”

“You realize I saved your life out there on the water, right?”

“Victor told me a fisherman hauled me out and took me to Polly’s Landing. Isaiah had already called for the ambulance. You had nothing to do with it.”

“Au contraire.” The judge’s French was atrocious. “I nearly sailed right over the top of your unconscious body. My keel would have split you wide open. I managed to swerve out of the way, saving your life. You’re welcome.”

You snorted your disbelief. “I’m pretty sure you only dodged to keep from hitting the log, Boynton.”

“Perhaps.” He still sounded smug, regardless of you catching him out. “But now we have another opportunity to race. I’m counting the sailing trip as a win, by the way.”

You sputtered incoherently for a moment. “A win? By what definition could you count that as a win?”

“I crossed the finish line before your fisherman savior.” Boynton sounded genuinely surprised. “Even if he’d beaten me, you weren’t in a sailboat, you weren’t in the same boat you left in, and you weren’t in command of the fishing boat when it returned to Polly’s Landing. I won by any definition.”

“I’ll repeat myself. What do you want?”

“You keep going over the same part of the track, Grambic. Careful you don’t get into the marbles.”

“So as long as I stick to my issue I have traction?” You couldn’t believe he’d admit that.

Boynton “hmmmed” to himself. “Whatever you have in mind it’s not working with me.”

“You still haven’t answered my question.” You sat, planting your forehead into the palm of your left hand. “I’m going to hang up unless you get to your point.”

“Your new race team,” said the judge. “Will you be racing Saturday?”

“Not personally, Boynton. I’m not a practiced driver.”

“But I am.”

This revelation silenced you for several seconds.

Boynton laughed. “Now you’re in the marbles, Grambic. You didn’t know that, did you?”

“What difference does that make?”

“I beat you on the water,” the judge snarled, “and I’ll beat you on the track. Even if you yourself aren’t racing. You’re nothing but a loser, Grambic, as that little event in Paris proves.”

You wondered how a state supreme court justice could possibly be so blatantly nasty. “Beating my racer on the track proves nothing.” But your voice had climbed at least an octave.

“If you say so, Grambic. See you in Atlanta.”

Click.

If you appreciate this story, please consider supporting the author's ability to write more stories by purchasing The Brotherhood, available in print and on Kindle. Please share on social media, and leave a review on the page linked above.