I genuinely struggle to tell the difference. Only a few of the really oddball American tones stick out.
Either way, I dug up the dub and took a shot at it. After trying to gun that ear worm of an OP from my brain.
Anyway.
--m(^0^)m-- Wot, no sig?
Either way, I dug up the dub and took a shot at it. After trying to gun that ear worm of an OP from my brain.
Anyway.
Quote:Kohran mumbled to herself as she prepped the Highway Star.________________________________
“Nobody gonna take my head
I got speed inside my brain.”
It wasn’t exactly designed with user friendliness in mind. Maybe it would’ve been better to use Lebia’s. Well, too late to worry about it. She double checked the time, allowing for a safe warmup period for the engine without burning too much fuel.
Another thirty three seconds.
Her fingers tapped on the handlebars along with the beat of the song she was mumbling. She was begging to just go. The bike was whispering in her ear, goading her to just fire it up and blaze into the darkness.
It was a dirty, scuffed, rattling, living thing that seemed to speak right to her soul.
Still, she needed to get a few final details, since he was the only one not actually doing anything. She dialled his phone with her free hand.
“Hey. It’s Kohran.”
The stunned silence on the other end of the line spoke volumes.
“If their plan doesn’ work I’m going to be pickin’ you up on the Highway Star an’ I need to know a few things first. I need your shutdown times, your drag, your inertia...”
“I’m sorry I don’t have a calculator right now.”
The answer was equal parts caustic and absolutely terrified.
"I need you t’ stop pretendin you're flesh ‘n’ blood ‘n’ use that computer brain of yours, boy!”
“Ah...”
“You know how long the fuel feed line is. If you cut the fuel supply, how soon until the engine dies? And how soon after that do you lose hydraulics? Run the numbers!“
There was a pause. She could hear him mumbling the calculations to himself.
“Five seconds. Then another three seconds.”
“It’s not back-driven by the transmission?”
“No. only the power turbine is. The pump’s on the accessory drive.”
“Alright. Now, what’s your mass? And what’s your drag force, as a function of your speed?”
The Reynolds number of the car going at that speed was large enough that the coefficient of drag could be taken effectively as a constant, that gave a simple enough equation to relate the drag force to the square of the velocity. And Mackie had to know those numbers, how else could he have made sure it was aerodynamically stable at top speed?
He couldn’t have been that reckless, could he? She decided that was one question she didn’t want an answer to.
“2.25 tons. And .2025.”
“Good.”
She offered the data to Lebia’s node, where it was graphed and processed and added to the Tachikoma’s calculations. Another pair of variables to add to a very complex equation.
“An’ remin’ me t’ smack Jet for not teachin’ you proper design discipline when we’re through.”
Kohran cut the line before he could answer.
It was time. She was shivering as she activated both fuel pumps.They whined to life, building pressure. The ignition system clicked on, electronics completing a quick self-test. The starter button latched under her finger, motor chattering as it cranked the engine over.
Her cry of joy was drowned out by a thousand chainsaws clearing their throats at once. It was an explosion of noise that sent people diving for cover. She tickled the trigger throttle, racing the engine to build heat and circulate oil. It responded with a wall of noise, chase by gunshot backfires than rang back off the walls. It made her smile as she placed a hand against the fuel tank, feeling the living heartbeat of the idling engine.
“I know you’ve got soul.”
------
All KJ could hear was the roar of the wind blasting past, a turbulent drumming on the sides of his helmet drowning out the noise of the engine between his legs. The engine noise had been blasted out the exhaust and left behind in the tunnel. The Stilleto was alive beneath him, kicking, bucking and squirming off the little imperfections in the tunnel floor.
A solid punch kicked the bike hard into the air. For a few heartstopping moments it felt like it was going ballistic, taking off like the missile it was painted to be. His body went light in the saddle - an instant of zero-g. His mind locked on the instant, his body waiting for the inevitable crash.
It crashed down onto its springs a heartbeat later, spinning tyres scrabbling to regain traction once more. A vision of himself cartwheeling over backwards in a ball of flaming debris flashed through his mind as the bars tried to wrench themselves free from his hands. The shock moved back through him, through the frame, then out behind as it finally found grip and powered forwards with its second wind.
For a moment, he recalled the Song of the Sausage creature, and had to fight not to burst out laughing.
At 600kph, every little molehill in the road became a mountain.
A refuge flashed by, parked cars abandoned. He glanced down at the navigator stashed under the screen. A rear-view camera - ostensible to check the parachute - showed the Griffon’s lights sparking behind him.
“Position Charlie Five clear. I’ve got the car. About Six seconds behind me.”
He had to be shout to be heard. The response was smothered in a blanket of noise.
“Say again!. I did not copy your last...”
“Increase to at least fifteen”
It crackled in his ears at full power, and still he could barely hear it.
“Fifteen seconds, copy that.”
He ripped the wastegate controller out, jamming it shut. There was no time to reset the controller. A small yellow light came up on the dashboard warning him off the fault, but the engine kept galloping forward.
With the wastegate stuck shut on the turbo, it’d build more boost. More boost meant more power, meant more speed.
It meant the engine now had a lifespan measurable in minutes.
He glanced down at the camera image. The headlights had already begun to recede away behind him.
------
Two men watched the Highway Star warm up.
“Can you hear me James?”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to speak up, I can’t hear you.”
Neither of them could hear the phone ring.
-------
Ford felt like she could murder and entire pot of coffee. She felt like she could murder Mackie first. She stood there, staring at the map, hoping as if by force of gaze it’d stop the Griffon.
Her headset came to life.
“Aisha just responded. They have exocomps that can go that fast and lift the weight of the car.”
“How long Anika?”
“Ten minutes to get ready and get through the transfer passages.”
“This’ll be over in ten minutes.”
“Best they can do.”
So. That option was out. Not that it was ever really feasible in the first place.
“What about emergency teams?”
“Infirmary’s ready,” Sydney answered.
“Asuka’s got an emergency team on the way, Alert 1. They’re using Halcyon to make contact. I’ve already updated them.”
“And the evacuation?”
The Dorsai commander swept through a few final reports on his tablet with brush of his hand. “Everybody who wants to leave has left. Everyone else is at their own risk.”
Finally, she could stop sweating. It might not have been over, but it was under control. She closed her eyes, taking a deep, calming breath. She opened them in time to see a cluster of dots moving in the tunnel. A chill rolled across her body as she realised exactly who they were. The ID tags confirmed it.
She keyed the number into her comm. It didn't even ring once before being answered.
“Hello. Yes?”
He sounded out of breath, almost like he’d been shouting. Or running.
“Hey guys, what the hell’re you still doing in that tunnel? I hope you’re not stupid enough to try and film this.”
“When we parked up we blocked the exit with the caravan. We’re shuffling things around so we can get out.”
Idiots, she didn’t say.
“Well, you got one minute. Or you’re at ground zero for the biggest accident you’ve seen in your life.”
“No problem."
They hung up before she could tell them exactly what she thought. The BBC crew had been nothing but a problem. The beginnings of a headache began to form in her temples.
"This sucks."
--------
The Land Rover was stopped with it’s bonnet up, it’s doors open, and two sound engineers poking at the engine in the vain hope that it might pull a Lazarus . It had died halfway out of the refuge, with the caravan blocking the road, waiting for the inevitable. It was dead enough that fixing it wasn’t an option in the time available..
It’d been hooked up to the Ferrari by its own winch, the cable tied around a piece of the supercar’s rear carbon structure that they hoped would be strong enough to take the weight. It didn’t have it’s own tow-hooks. Steel cable had already chafed away the red paint and scuffed the chrome plating on the Cavallino Rampante.
The factory would be pissed. But they’d be considerably more pissed if the car caught in the wreck and destroyed. It was - all jokes aside - probably more valuable than they were. At least going by the insured costs.
The producer stuffed the phone back into his pocket, tried to do the stiff-upper lip thing and not show everyone how utterly terrified he was.... and failed utterly. The health and safety reports he'd have to file after the incident alone were horrifying enough
“Alright lads,” he said in a shaking voice. “We’ve got a minute to move this before the car gets here.”
The camera’s meanwhile, had been carefully abandoned in a position that would record it all.
-------
--m(^0^)m-- Wot, no sig?