Ben -v- Jet. Just messing around, with Lebia Maverick starting the race.
Assuming the 2015 convention is held at Genaros because, well, there hasn't be a con at the L5 stations yet...that's about the only place in Fenspace there hasn't been a con and it's got plenty of space for a drag race. And there's something cool about racing motorcycles under neon lights, along with being an excellent place for a photoshoot.
Besides, would there be anywhere else Fenspace that'd let them run and have the space for it?
--m(^0^)m-- Wot, no sig?
Assuming the 2015 convention is held at Genaros because, well, there hasn't be a con at the L5 stations yet...that's about the only place in Fenspace there hasn't been a con and it's got plenty of space for a drag race. And there's something cool about racing motorcycles under neon lights, along with being an excellent place for a photoshoot.
Besides, would there be anywhere else Fenspace that'd let them run and have the space for it?
Quote:Day 2 of the convention. Afternoon. Not that anyone could tell. The Genaros Weather System kept things in a perpetual twilight. Clouds fluoresced orange with the sickly overspill of a million neon advertisments. The loglo illuminated all.________________________________
Outside of a cheapo YT 2032 franchise in the Timex City district, shoppers looked up at the sky above. Thunder cracked far above, chased by a deep rolling roar and the rasp of a thousand chainsaws all screaming at the top of their lungs.
Through the clouds and back out again, half a kilometre above them on Gibson Route 1 in the centre of Tinsel City, it was time for a race.
The startline was the main junction, in the shadow of the JD Quincy tower. 400 meters of elevated freeway had been marked out for the race with pulsing orange lights. Normally they marked out the regular accident or rogue boomer incident. Behind the startline, a building crowd of neon-dressed spectators, mingling with congoers. Someone’s hair shone like a miniature sun until they were encouraged to put on a hat. The Hong Kong Cavaliers were putting out the closing bars of a song by Deep Purple, keeping the waiting crowd entertained. After the race, would come a little Red Rider... both songs were too different to be played in the same set.
Drag racing on Genaros’ streets was nothing new. But this was a little different. Tonight, a pair of BNF’s were settling a bet.
In the left lane, Benjamin Rhodes, owner, designer, builder and current rider of the Lunatic Fringe. A whooshing, roaring, dual turboshaft-powered streamliner bike. Fat, hubless wheels wore bulging tyres which moulded themselves to the road beneath. Ben described is at a lightcycle with a fairing. Others called it a jet fighter without wings. Sitting at the start line, it was going Mach 1.
Brownwyn Foulkes, the Fringe’s usual pilot, was giving some last minute suggestions. Gina provided last minute warnings about what she’d do to him if he wrecked it. Ben knew what he feared most.
The music went down and Ben Fen in the crowd cheered as twin gas turbines began to spin up. There were more than a few in there, decked out in Blackbird t-shirts. Most were belters and Blackbird lovers. Momentum built inside the turbines, winding up from a deep moan, through a building wail into a pure-pitched scream. Igniters clicked and sparked. Jet fuel sprayed freely into the combustion cans. Both engines grumbled to life, the grumble building into a deep, rolling roar like a tornado turned on its end.
Compressors whistled as he tweaked the throttle, blowing a wall of white noise out two fat pipes. Papers and light stones were whipped up in scorching jet breeze. Tarmac began to steam.
It was sleek and clean and pure, wearing only Roughrider markings, seemingly oddly out of place in the city’s dingy atmosphere. It was the single silver spoon in a drawer full of tarnished steel cutlery. Even its turbine engine sounded clean and pure somehow.
In the right lane, the home-fan favourite. Jet Jaguar and Team Stingray with the Highway Star. Jet the Knight Saber. She looked the part in her armour, riding a running replica of one of the most famous motorcycles from Bubblegum Crisis. She couldn’t help but be the local hero. Don’t you know, she still keeps an apartment here? She’s a cyberpunk, just like us.
A few Soviets had gotten close, invited in by KJ DeRosia. Among retro-reflective sponsor-stickers were a Soviet Star from KJ, a StelOil logo prominent on the tank, ACP Engineering, Sara Metalworks, JMC, Garret, Motec, Mazdaspeed and a cluster of others fighting for limited space.
It was a brutal-looking machine. Sharper and more bluff than the Fringe, it looked much older. It looked cruder. It looked used. It looked right at home in the middle of Tinsel city. It was long and low to the ground, with an exposed rider, thinner tyres and a pair of bazooka silencers scorched and blued by intense heat. Two fat radiator ducts seemed capable of swallowing an entire station’s worth of atmosphere, and blowing it right out the back again.
The Highway Star banged to life, spitting flame out open exhausts before settling into a lumpy idle. Crowds stepped back and covered their ears. Jet blipped the throttle. It ripped the very air apart with a 'beat that' challenge laid at the very feet of the Thunder God to which he could only answer deafly, 'WHAT?'.
In a final act of hubris, Jet engaged the launch control, held the brakes on and pinned the throttle. The big rotary ripped up, turbochargers spooling for a few brief seconds before the motor hit it’s launch RPM. Hot flame shot through open wastegates, keeping the boost up, blowing the atmosphere apart with window rattling detonations that seemed to shake the structure of the station. Satisfied, she let it drop to an idle.
Not to be outdone, Ben cranked the Fringe’s throttle, turbine engines screaming and roaring, inhaling deep gulps of cold air and spitting it out hot and loud. It was a noise that filled spectators up from top to toe, that seemed to get right inside their chests.
Satisfied he’d made his point, he let the engine spool down. Anything you can do Jet...
The crowd had wisely begun to step back, for fear of their hearing. Both riders laughed at each other. That was fun.
As the machines warmed up, the arguments started. Everyone could agree that the underdog should win, but who was the underdog?
Was it Ben, challenging the established runners with his self-built machine, designed from scratch? Stingrays the corporate sellouts, bike plastered with logos. Ben with a clean, pure machine. Something innovative and new, something futuristic, something awesome. Something that reached forward and pushed the envelope.
Was it the Stingrays, defending against the newcomer, picking parts sensibly, and taking money and help where they could? Ben the BNF battering them down to sate his own speeder’s ego. Something lovingly refined, old-style motor engineering, the pinnacle of its type, and possibly the last.
The riders didn’t care... they just wanted to race in good fun. Both traded wishes of good luck. Neither wanted a sticky end. Gina offered Ben a last-minute kiss. Jet and Ford touched cheeks. Bronwyn kept Ben-fen clear of the Fringe’s exhausts. KJ performed last minute checks on Star’s launch control. Gina snuck a kiss from Jet, throwing a wink at a laughing Ford. Ben signed an autograph. Jet tried to pose for a photograph. The crowd continued to grow. It was either this, or the Martian Water reclamation panel.
Everyone in the crowd considered themselves a pundit. Tactics, tactics would be key, they knew. Power settings, launch control adjustments, rider skill. Even the basic characteristics of the machines and riders. The Fringe had more power than the Star, easily with two engines, and those big fat tyres to boot. But the Star had the straight line stability given by 2-wheel drive, and was a good deal lighter. Ben was mostly baseline human with a fighter-pilots skill, while Jet had a cyber’s enhanced reactions honed by combat and supersonic flight. How the rotational forces of the station would affect things, nobody could guess.
The road surface was still wet from recent rain. It was perpetually wet. The highway ran right down along the long axis of the station. Long enough for a quarter-mile drag race and brake-down, even on a wet street.
General assumption was, Jet would get the start on reaction, less power to twice the driving wheels and genuine wet-weather tyres. Ben would have trouble keeping thing straight with all that power through the rear wheel only, giving Jet some early distance. Halfway down the course, Ben’s power advantage would start to tell.
Could Jet put enough of a distance over Ben at the start not to get overhauled by the finish line? That was the 64 million credit question. There were more than a few credits riding on it. A few scoffed and pointed to the concert program, suggesting the results had already been decided, not knowing the order of the songs had been decided by a coin toss.
Lebia Maverick at the start line could make the most educated guess, but that discounted such variables as rider performance, tuning, mechanical hitches, imperfections in the road and any number of other flukes. And it would’ve robbed the race of certain amount of fun. She signalled both riders to move forwards. Race time.
The Star ripped and snorted forwards, taking position for burnout. The Fringe exhaled effortlessly forwards, taking station beside. The Star still had its cooling fans mounted. The turbines on the Fringe didn’t need cooling beyond intake air and oil circulation.
Burnout was a riot of noise, flame and smoke to beat hellfire, Highway Star slewing wildly as the rear tyre tried to overtake the crawling front. Lunatic Fringe stayed rooted to the spot throwing billowing clouds of burning rubber behind it. Jet exhaust blasted the smoke clear.
Some in the crowd began to revise their estimates of the Star’s traction. In reality, it was just a function of two-wheel drive, and a single brake lever linked to both wheel’s brakes. Lebia raised her hand, signalling Jet to stop.
Highway Star, staged and ready to go. Jet answered with a thumbs-up, before closing her visor. Blue eyes were staring.
The Lunatic Fringe crawled up beside, been grinning as Lebia signalled to him to hold. Thumbs up, visor down. Rock and roll.
He was the hot-shot jet pilot on his wingless missile. Jet was the animé refugee, playing to type. The crowd whooped and cheered. Lebia started the final countdown. Rev’s built quickly, mixed with screaming turbines and roaring, tearing exhausts.
The Star’s launch control kicked in, spitting machine gun backfires and bright multi-hued flames through open wastegates. The ground started to steam under the Fringe’s big exhausts.
Three.
Hold your breath. The crowd was lost in the noise of burning dinosaur bones and refined Venusian broadleaf.
Two.
Grit your teeth, grab on tight. Offer a prayer to the God’s of speed.
One.
Hold your breath. Wait. Wait just a few extra heartbeats, Lebia adding just a slight pause to keep anyone from anticipating the go. An interminable pause.
Lebias arms dropped. Engines roared. The crowd bayed and howled. Tyres scrabbled and screamed. Windows rattled. Babies cried. A cacophony of sound and speed. The brimstone smell of burning rubber, sweet, hot burning petrol and acrid jet fuel. Noise which punches you in the chest and makes your guts rumble. Smoke which burns at your ears. Noise which tears at your eardrums and leaves you feeling like you lost a fight with an invisible gorilla.
Both machines sprang forward. Go! Go! Go! Go like holy fuck and hang on for dear sweet life.
Race on!
--m(^0^)m-- Wot, no sig?