9. XONORA, X 3 Lockheed-Martin 0:53.300
10. RIVIERA, P 12 Lombardi Racing 0:53.755
11. PETERS, B 05 General Motors 0:54.300
12. CHASER, J 55 Lombardi Racing 0:54.841
12th.
12th was good. Jason certainly hadn’t expected to win pole. He was just hoping to put in a good performance - and come out of the Chute with his car in one piece. Hell, if he managed a place in the top ten, he’d have been over the moon.
But 12th out of a total of 28 starters made him pretty happy.
‘Not bad,’ Sally said. ‘Not bad at all…for a first timer.’ She messed up Jason’s hair. ‘Nice racing, Superstar.’
* * *
That evening, even though he really didn’t want to go, Jason was obliged to attend the official gala dinner for the Italian Run.
If the gala for the Sponsors’ Tournament at the Race School had been opulent, then this dinner was in another league altogether.
It was held in the Piazza de Campidoglio - the famous triple-palace plaza designed by Michelangelo himself situated on the Capitoline Hill - and in the blazing glare of revolving spotlights pointed up into the sky, the glittering piazza looked like something out of a fairy tale.
Hover limousines unloaded the cream of Europe’s rich and famous - billionaires, movie stars, rock singers, and of course, racers. Gushing reporters breathlessly announced each new arrival on the red carpet.
For Jason, though, it was just another dinner.
‘How long do we have to stay?’ he asked Sally as they walked through the crush of black-tie-wearing guests, searching for their table, the Bug staying close behind them.
‘Lombardi says we only have to stay until the speeches,’ Sally said. ‘Then we’re free to leave.’
‘Thank God. Any sign of Mr Syracuse? Is he still coming?’
Sally said, ‘Last time I spoke with him, he was hoping to get here on Saturday. They had a race on at the School today - you know, the one Ariel had to go back for - and he had to stay for that.’
‘Any idea who won - ‘ Jason said as he slid past a tight cluster of people and abruptly bumped into someone he knew.
Xavier Xonora.
An awkward moment.
Jason, Sally and the Bug faced their rival, the Black Prince.
‘Hello, Xavier,’ Jason said.
‘Chaser.’
‘Thought you drove well in the Shootout today,’ Jason said. ‘Tough competition here. Where’d you end up? 9th?’
‘That’s correct. 9th. But then my goal was to finish in the top ten, so all in all, I’m pleased.’
At that moment, Xavier’s father, King Francis of Monesi, came up behind Xavier. ‘Excuse me, son. I have someone - ‘ at which point the King saw Jason and his team and he cut himself off. ‘Oh.’
‘Hey there, your Highness,’ Jason said good-naturedly. ‘Good to see you again.’
The King seemed taken aback, as if he didn’t expect Jason to be capable of speech, let alone friendly speech.
‘It’s, er, nice to see you again, too, Master Chaser. Xavier? I have someone I’d like you to meet. When you’re finished talking with Master Chaser.’ The King nodded to Jason. ‘Have a…pleasant evening.’
When his father had gone, Xavier turned to Jason, ice in his glare. ‘So. Chaser. Are your parents here? I hear there are some very good caravan parks on the outskirts of Rome.’
‘You know, Xavier, you’re a great racer. It’s a shame you’re such an asshole.’
And with that, Jason went to his table.
Besides his meeting with Xavier, Jason had two other interesting encounters at the gala dinner.
The first came midway through the main course, when he went to the restroom.
As he washed his hands at the basin, a short weedy-looking Indian man came alongside him, also washing his hands. Without even looking at him, the Indian man said, ‘Ooh-ooh, my oh my. Look who it is. It’s Jason Chaser, hover car racer. How are you feeling, Jason?’
Jason turned. ‘Do I know you?’
The Indian fellow extended his hand. ‘Ooh. Pardon me, pardon me. How rude of me. Gupta is my name. Ravi Narendra Gupta.’
‘Again: do I know you?’
‘No, but I know you, Jason.’
Jason said, ‘Are you involved in one of the racing teams?’
Ravi Gupta smiled in a way that Jason immediately disliked. ‘Ooh, sort of yes. Sort of no. I’m just a very interested observer of racing.’
Jason became guarded. ‘You’re not a reporter, are you?’
‘Ooh, no. No-no-no! Certainly not! I promise you, young Jason, I am no reporter. Just an interested observer. For instance, I’m keen to know how you’re finding top level racing. You seemed to manage the Shootout very well today.’
‘I was pleased to finish mid-field.’
‘How do you like the F-3000? Not too much grunt for you?’
‘It’s a good car.’ Jason didn’t understand why Gupta was asking him this.
Just then, Umberto Lombardi entered the men’s room - and before Jason knew what had happened, Gupta had vanished, gone in an instant.
Lombardi saw the perplexed look on Jason’s face. ‘Something wrong, my young star?’
Jason looked about himself. The Indian was indeed nowhere to be seen. ‘No…no…nothing’s wrong.’
Jason’s second interesting encounter of the evening occurred immediately after the speeches had ended.
Just as the applause for the President of Italy was dying down and Jason was preparing to leave the dinner and go home, an absolutely beautiful young girl suddenly sat down next to him.
‘Hi!’ she said. ‘You’re Jason Chaser, aren’t you?’
‘Er…uh…yeah,’ Jason stammered, awestruck. She was about his age, 15, with big blue eyes and dazzling blonde hair. She wore an expensive sky-blue cocktail dress that just shone with style. In short, she was the prettiest girl Jason had ever seen in his life.
‘I’m Dido,’ she said in Italian/American-accented English. ‘Dido Emanuele, and I’m a huge fan. I watched you on TV in that School tournament a few weeks ago and then I saw you in the Shootout today. You’re amazing, and look at you, you’re so young! Okay, that was dumb. Sorry, I don’t mean to sound so pathetic, like some starstruck groupie. I just saw you sitting over here and decided I had to say hi. So…hi!’
Jason was speechless before her. ‘Th…thanks.’
‘Well,’ Dido said. ‘You look like you’re getting ready to go. I won’t bother you any more. Maybe - hopefully - I’ll see you round.’
And with that, she stood and flashed her big blue eyes at him and Jason melted.
Dido skipped happily away from the table. Jason just watched her go.
Sally McDuff broke the spell by clapping him on the shoulder. ‘Nice work, Romeo. I didn’t know you were such a sweet-talker with the ladies. Let’s analyse your performance during that conversation: “Er…uh…yeah” and “Th…thanks”. Heads up, Champ, I’m sure you’ll do better next time. Come on, let’s go home and get you to bed. Tomorrow, we rest. Then on Sunday, we race.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE LOMBARDI GRAND HOTEL VENICE II, ITALY (SATURDAY)
Saturday was a ‘focus’ day for Jason. A time to sit and contemplate and focus on the big race ahead.
With the press camped outside his hotel, Jason stayed in his suite for most of the day, mainly staring out the
window at the sea.
The Bug played headset car-racing computer games, his form of relaxation. Sally paced a lot, and read and re-read her pro circuit Pit Bay Rules and Regulations Manual. In the afternoon, Henry and Martha Chaser arrived in
Venice II. They would have come earlier in the week, but Henry had had to work on the farm. Now, they just hung
out nearby - Henry marvelling at the suite (‘Gosh, it’s so big’), Martha just knitting as usual.
Midway through the day, Jason’s racing leathers arrived: a brand-new black flightsuit with yellow piping down
the arms and legs and ‘LOMBARDI RACING‘ splashed across the chest. Yellow gloves, black boots and a sleek yellow helmet completed the package. The Bug and Sally received similar outfits.
And then in the early evening, Jason made a fateful decision. Tired of room service, he went down to the hotel’s executive dining room for some dinner.
The executive dining room was an exclusive restaurant reserved for those guests staying in the upper floors of the hotel.
As he sat down on his own, Jason saw Dido sitting at another table with two adults, presumably her parents.
‘Dido…?’ he said.
‘Jason!’ Dido came over.
‘I didn’t know you were staying here.’
‘Yeah, I am, well, thanks to my parents,’ Dido said. ‘They’re, well, kinda rich. Listen, you look like you want to be alone, to prepare for the race, so I’ll just leave you be - ‘
‘No,’ Jason blurted. ‘It’s okay. You don’t have to go. I mean, if you…if you wanted and if…if it was okay with your folks…maybe you’d like to eat with me.’
A wonderful smile sprang across Dido’s face. ‘I’d like that. Let me go and ask.’
Moments later, Jason was seated by a huge bay window overlooking the Grand Canal, dining with the beautiful Dido Emanuele by the light of a lone candle - two teenagers looking like a pair of adults, dining in one of the most exclusive restaurants in the world.
They talked into the evening, and Jason loved every minute of it. Dido was smart, funny, captivating and normal. And better still, she seemed to like him, too! Before he knew it, the restaurant was empty and they were sitting there all alone and it was only when Sally McDuff appeared at his side that he came out of his trance-like state.
‘Well, hey there, Superstar,’ Sally said. ‘We were all wondering where you’d got to. Thought you might have taken an introspective stroll or something. But then it got a bit late for that. It’s almost midnight, you know.’
‘It’s what?’ Jason looked at his watch. She was right. It was 11:55. ‘Dido, I’m sorry. I have to go. I’ve got to get some sleep. Big day tomorrow.’
‘Hey, no problem at all,’ Dido said. ‘I’m sorry for keeping you this long. I didn’t even notice the time. Thank you for dinner.’
Jason nodded. ‘No. Thank you. I really enjoyed it.‘ He left with Sally.
Sally watched him as they walked, bemused. He looked like he was walking on air.
She shook her head. ‘You know. That’s what I like about you, Jason. You’re a quick learner. Yesterday, you were a stammering idiot in front of that girl. Today you’re as smooth as Casanova himself. Nice work, kiddo. Nice work. Now get some sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be a big day.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE ITALIAN RUN
ROME, ITALY (SUNDAY, RACE DAY)
‘ Racers. This is your three-minute warning. Would all pit personnel please vacate the start area,‘ intoned a stern male voice over the public address system.
The starting area for the Italian Run was the Colosseum. Every racer started from the same spot, in the exact centre of the 2000-year-old Roman amphitheatre.
The pole sitter took off first, blasting out of the stadium, followed by the second-placed starter who, sitting on a car-sized conveyor belt, would be cranked out onto the starting grid, ready to go exactly twenty seconds later. Then would come the third car, and the fourth, and so on, all drawn out into the arena on the conveyor belt, a new racer starting every twenty seconds until all 28 had commenced the race.
In the dark stone conveyor-belt tunnel, Jason and the Bug stood a short distance away from their F-3000 - now christened the Argonaut II - 12th in line on the belt. Jason’s eyes scanned the preparation chamber.
‘He’s not coming,’ he said.
Sally had a headset phone strapped to her head. ‘He’s not answering his phone either.’
There was no sign of Scott Syracuse. He hadn’t arrived in Italy yesterday, nor had he left any messages for Jason and the team. No ‘Good luck’, no anything.
Having his parents here was one thing, but Jason had hoped Syracuse would come - if only just to give him some professional words of support.
‘Racers. This is your one-minute warning. Pole sitter to the starting grid, please.’
‘Jason…’ Sally pressed him towards the Argonaut II.
But Jason was still scanning the area for Syracuse.
The simple truth was, he was nervous as hell.
In fact, he’d never felt this nervous before in his life. His stomach was positively churning. He couldn’t believe this: he was about to race in a pro event. You could watch pro races on TV every weekend, but until you were in one, you never knew what it was really like.
Then, finally, he turned to face his car - and glimpsed a flash of movement near the tailfin of the Argonaut II. For an instant, he could have sworn that he’d seen someone lurking there - someone small - a man he had met before.
Ravi Gupta.
Jason went to investigate, but found no-one near the Argonaut II‘s tail. He scanned the tailfin itself but found nothing out of place or out of order.
And then - lo and behold - he saw Gupta, standing a short distance away, over with another driver.
Gupta caught him looking and waved back happily.
Jason eyed him carefully: ‘Sally, do you know that guy? The guy waving at me.’
‘Yeah, of course,’ Sally’s voice became a low growl. ‘He’s Ravi Gupta, and you don’t want to get caught up with him. He’s bad news.’
‘What’s he do?’ Jason remembered the weird questions Gupta had asked him on Friday night: how he was coping with top-level racing; how he was finding the F-3000’s extra power.
Sally said, ‘You don’t know who Ravi Gupta is? Sorry, kiddo, but sometimes I forget you’re still so young. Ravi Gupta is a gambler. A bookmaker. Hell, one of the biggest bookmakers in the racing world. Now, come on Superstar,’ Sally handed him his helmet. ‘You got other things to worry about.’
‘Right,’ Jason took the helmet.
Then he and the Bug climbed into the two-man cockpit, strapped themselves in.
Once they were settled, Jason exhaled. ‘Whew.’
The Bug said something in his earpiece.
‘Yeah, me too,’ Jason replied. ‘Mine’s churning like a tumble dryer.’
With a dramatic mechanical clanking, the giant conveyor belt rumbled to life and the super-sleek Lockheed-Martin of Alessandro Romba, the pole sitter and current world champion, was drawn out into the main arena of the Colosseum…
…and the 60,000-strong VIP crowd packed into the ancient amphi-theatre roared as one.
Romba’s car, La Bomba, came to a halt, now pointed like a missile towards the external archway of the Colosseum. The exit to the course proper.
‘ Twenty seconds to race-start…’ came the voice. ‘Would the second place-sitter please stand-by…’
A 20-second digital countdown ticked downwards on a giant scoreboard, beeping with every second…
…the crowd leaned forward…
…beep-beep-beep…
…Jason watched Romba’s car from the stone tunnel, his heart in his throat.
Sally patted his shoulder. ‘Good luck, kids. I’ll be waiting for you at both pit stops.’
‘Thanks, Sally. Have a good race.’
Beep-beep-beep…
Then the countdown hit zero and a shrill beep screamed and the lights went green and Alessandro Romba screamed off the starting grid, blasting out of the Colosseum and the Italian Run was underway.
As soon as Romba was out of the stadium, the conveyor belt tunnel erupted with activity.
The great belt immediately rumbled into action once again.
‘Twenty seconds to next racer. Second-placed racer to the grid…’
The 20-second countdown restarted and the secondplaced car - Fabian’s purple-and-gold Renault - was drawn out of the prep tunnel and into the sunlight and Jason heard the roar of the crowd.<
br />
The conveyor-belt-line of racers shunted forward one place, all of them watching tensely as they awaited their turn to move out onto the starting grid and into the glare of the hysterical crowd.
The countdown hit zero and Fabian shot off the mark.
‘Twenty seconds to next racer. Third-placed racer, to the grid…’
Jason watched each car shunt along the conveyor belt, take its place on the grid, and shoot out of sight - they looked like bullets being loaded into the chamber of a gun and then fired.
His nerves got tighter and tighter with every passing moment. Watching each car go was almost hypnotic - shunt-shunt, beep-beep, blast-off; shunt-shunt, beep-beep, blast off…
And then, surprising him, the announcer said: ‘Twenty seconds to next racer. Twelfth-placed racer, to the grid…’
He’d become so preoccupied with the rhythm of each new car moving out onto the grid and blasting off that it surprised him when his turn came round.
And so Jason sat in the Argonaut II as it was drawn out of the tunnel and into the dazzling sunlight - where it entered another world.
The crowd packed into the ancient stadium howled and roared, clapped and screamed. They were absolutely wild. And these were the VIPs. Jason couldn’t imagine what the ordinary race fans out on the course would be like.
The Argonaut II jolted to a halt on the starting grid. Locked and loaded.
The arched exit tunnel leading out of the Colosseum yawned before Jason.
The Bug whispered something.
‘You can say that again, little brother,’ Jason replied. ‘Hang on.’
The digital countdown hit zero, the lights went green and Jason floored it and his Ferrari F-3000 exploded out of the Colosseum and he began his first Grand Slam race.
CHAPTER NINE
Speed.
Supercharged, blinding speed.
Rome whistled past Jason’s cockpit in a hyperfast blur of horizontal streaks - before abruptly he left the city in his wake and shot up the spine of Italy, knifing up the Autostrata, heading towards Florence.
Hover Car Racer Page 15