"Starting mark is in ten seconds..."
I hear the guys in the control room, distantly. I'm in the zone right now. Ready for that starting mark to go off.
"Nine seconds."
My engines rev inside as I feel pistons and artificial muscle fibers warm up, ready for the run that I was made for.
"Eight seconds."
People really don't know how long ten seconds can be, but most people aren't designed to go one thousand, one hundred and twenty nine feet in one.
"Seven seconds."
The concept of failure here is alien to me. I'm precision engineered, and unless some catastrophic technical failure occurs, I'm about to make history.
"Six seconds."
I lower myself into a starter's crouch. An affectation, really. I can be off the mark from a standing start. I guess there's a little of a racer in me
after all.
"Five seconds."
I wait, and decide that's enough time waiting, speeding up my internal clock to get the show on the road.
"Foursecondsthreesecondstwosecondsonesecondmark!"
And then I run. A full kilometer is gone in under five seconds, and I'm still accelerating. Nothing but glassy
white sand as far as my optical visor can see. The airspeed sensors in my slicked back antenna array send my telemetry to home base, and my internal systems,
as my groundspeed goes higher and higher and higher. 400 MPH. 500 MPH. 600 MPH. At 700 MPH, certain loose mechanisms in brace themselves for the impact as I
approach the sound barrier. The wind resistance and friction is incredible at this speed, and I can feel my legs heating up, despite the coolant and lubricant
applied to them, as I head towards that perfect, round number.
Then I hit it. 760 MPH and climbing, I feel a slight layer of inertia fade away as I literally outrun sound itself. I
know back at the base camp, a crack of thunder's just emanated from position, but I'm moving too fast for it to catch up with me. Shockwaves from my
passing send sand flying everywhere as I reach the limits of the course, slowing into a wide banking turn and then accelerating again, hitting another sonic
boom as I reach that glorious straightaway. I'm not paying attention to any of my telemetry now. All that matters is the raw, undiluted sensation of speed.
Other machines would fall apart from the sheer friction this level of acceleration requires, but I revel in it. In fact, it's a bit of a letdown when I see
the basecamp approach, slowing myself down to come to a stop. I skid past the camp by about 100 miles, and jog back at a much more sedate pace of about 90 MPH.
The team are all hooting and yelling and cheering, and I know that I did it. Not that they need to tell me. I could feel it in the air.
The crew and I head back into town, and they all buy rounds of drinks at the local bar as I just sit there and bask in the accomplishment. I'm the fastest
thing on the planet....until someone tries to beat me. Let'em try. I could use the race.
---
"Oh, silver blade, forged in the depths of the beyond. Heed my summons and purge those who stand in my way. Lay
waste."
I hear the guys in the control room, distantly. I'm in the zone right now. Ready for that starting mark to go off.
"Nine seconds."
My engines rev inside as I feel pistons and artificial muscle fibers warm up, ready for the run that I was made for.
"Eight seconds."
People really don't know how long ten seconds can be, but most people aren't designed to go one thousand, one hundred and twenty nine feet in one.
"Seven seconds."
The concept of failure here is alien to me. I'm precision engineered, and unless some catastrophic technical failure occurs, I'm about to make history.
"Six seconds."
I lower myself into a starter's crouch. An affectation, really. I can be off the mark from a standing start. I guess there's a little of a racer in me
after all.
"Five seconds."
I wait, and decide that's enough time waiting, speeding up my internal clock to get the show on the road.
"Foursecondsthreesecondstwosecondsonesecondmark!"
And then I run. A full kilometer is gone in under five seconds, and I'm still accelerating. Nothing but glassy
white sand as far as my optical visor can see. The airspeed sensors in my slicked back antenna array send my telemetry to home base, and my internal systems,
as my groundspeed goes higher and higher and higher. 400 MPH. 500 MPH. 600 MPH. At 700 MPH, certain loose mechanisms in brace themselves for the impact as I
approach the sound barrier. The wind resistance and friction is incredible at this speed, and I can feel my legs heating up, despite the coolant and lubricant
applied to them, as I head towards that perfect, round number.
Then I hit it. 760 MPH and climbing, I feel a slight layer of inertia fade away as I literally outrun sound itself. I
know back at the base camp, a crack of thunder's just emanated from position, but I'm moving too fast for it to catch up with me. Shockwaves from my
passing send sand flying everywhere as I reach the limits of the course, slowing into a wide banking turn and then accelerating again, hitting another sonic
boom as I reach that glorious straightaway. I'm not paying attention to any of my telemetry now. All that matters is the raw, undiluted sensation of speed.
Other machines would fall apart from the sheer friction this level of acceleration requires, but I revel in it. In fact, it's a bit of a letdown when I see
the basecamp approach, slowing myself down to come to a stop. I skid past the camp by about 100 miles, and jog back at a much more sedate pace of about 90 MPH.
The team are all hooting and yelling and cheering, and I know that I did it. Not that they need to tell me. I could feel it in the air.
The crew and I head back into town, and they all buy rounds of drinks at the local bar as I just sit there and bask in the accomplishment. I'm the fastest
thing on the planet....until someone tries to beat me. Let'em try. I could use the race.
---
"Oh, silver blade, forged in the depths of the beyond. Heed my summons and purge those who stand in my way. Lay
waste."