Overdrive

by Simpson, Phillip W.

  “I’m not interloping. Felix is my friend and as far as I know isn’t involved in any of your so called ‘Church Business’.”

  The Templar frowned. “Nevertheless, if you receive any communication from him, it would be in your best interests to contact us."

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “Yes." Captain Tynan’s frown deepened.

  “Gracious. Best I tell you where he is right now then." Who said sarcasm was the recourse of the weak mind. Logan thought it was underrated.

  Captain Tynan leant closer to Logan. “Don’t fuck with us Mr. Pope," he said quietly.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it. I prefer woman. And its Captain Pope."

  “Not from what I’ve heard," the Templar said snidely. “I believe you are no longer with Military Intelligence."

  “Surprisingly well informed for a bunch of religious morons aren’t you?” Logan thought that the situation was about to kick off as Captain Tynan obviously struggled to maintain control. The other Templars looked at their Captain but a slight shake of his head caused them to relax.

  “Remember what I said Pope. If you find your friend, your first call should be to us." Logan’s AI reported that he had received the Templar’s eddress. He toyed with the idea of returning the address to sender out of general vindictiveness but was pretty sure that would lead to violence.

  The Knight Captain turned and began walking off. His two men lingered for a bit longer and glared at Logan.

  “Can I help you?” he asked innocently, smiling at the Areopagite’s.

  Saying nothing, the two men glowered impotently, turned and followed their Captain down the corridor.

  Logan stood for a moment, watched them go and then entered Felix’s apartment. It was trashed. Spending a couple of minutes looking around, he could see no sign of Felix – not that he really expected to. There were no obvious blood stains, no indications of a fight, and with all the mess, it was hard to tell whether Felix had ventured back to hurriedly pack. Starting to get disturbed, not only by the state of his apartment but also by his encounter with the Templar’s, Logan ordered his AI to bring the higher order search programs on line. Feeding in Felix’s physical characteristics, he ordered his AI to find a match, or anything close in the asteroids records from the last 24 hours.

  Coleridge reported it had 12 close matches. Logan requested a visual, and the asteroid showed him various people matching Felix’s basic physical dimensions. He scrolled through the first 10 without any joy. The 11th displayed a man walking out of a StarCruise office. Red hair, 3 inches taller and with a bigger nose and a moustache, Logan had to play it back again to make sure. It was Felix alright. The walk gave it away. He doubted anyone who didn’t know Felix personally would have spotted it, assuming they had access to the same military tracking program that he did.

  Recognizing the StarCruise company, Logan placed a call, and handing over his security clearance, received a report on Felix’s (now known as Horace Belloc) destination. Interesting. The StarCruise Hedonist ship the Dirty Little Minx, had left port 3 hours ago. He’d need a fast ship to catch it. Only one of his friends had access to one, and the Chocolate Avenger would doubtless be busy.

  With nothing to lose, Logan made the call.

  ◊

  This was the bit Tarquin Compton-Burnett, AKA the Chocolate Avenger liked the best. Standing in a Unamuno’s premiere Snareball arena surrounded by a million cheering fans was a high unlike any other. Of course the rush he felt had nothing to do with the 27 illegal substances coursing through his blood stream.

  He raised both hands into the air, one holding a stun cannon, the other a Field gun. The fans of the “Death Skippies," or the Skips as they were affectionately known, went wild. Standing 6’7’’, with glowing ebony skin, a silver head cap over his bald scalp, and clad in only a leopard skin G-string, Tarquin knew he was an impressive sight. The Death Skippies for whom Tarquin was the leading goal scorer, were now second in the table, a position that was greeted with vigorous celebration by their fans. Tarquin could see a group of them getting into the swing of things by having an impromptu orgy down near the front of the stand. Tarquin waved. Those that had any free limbs waved back.

  He looked around at his home ground. The arena was a kilometer in diameter, still probably the largest Snareball arena ever built. Fully enclosed and capable of seating more than a million people, it was quite an experience to be in the crowd, let alone be playing on the field. His ten team mates looked as hyped as he felt. Smiling, Tarquin looked up into the face of his 14’ Kangaroo mount standing next to him. His Kangaroo looked back. “Whatya reckon Bob. We gonna win?” Bob looked unconvinced and started industriously scratching a flea with a forepaw. Tarquin shrugged. What did you expect when your mount had only slightly higher than animal intelligence.

  Bob and the other 10 Kangaroos standing next to their riders, were of course a product of Genetic Engineering. Based on the giant Procoptodon which lived in the late Tertiary period of Earth, they had been modified specifically for the gladiatorial arena. The GE’d version of Procoptodon was larger, slightly more intelligent and had a significantly larger pouch. In addition, they were equipped with their own AI to enable their riders to link with and control their mounts.

  Trumpets sounded heralding the imminent arrival of the opposition – The Tumultuous Transgressors or TT’s. Tarquin watched as they filed into the arena, greeted by a rapturous uproar by their fans. The TT’s rode upon GE’d versions of Wombats. The Wombat, an Indigenous Australian mammal from old earth, resembled a small squat bear that walked upon all four legs. Unamuno’s version, like the Procoptodon, was specifically bred for the arena. Using Earth’s early Pliocene Ramsayia Lemleyi as a template, these wombats stood 8’ at the shoulder and weighed well over a tonne. Although built like a tank, the huge mammal could turn on a surprising burst of speed when required.

  The TT’s were currently No.1 in the Gladiatorial standings, a position the Skips envied and could succeed, depending on the outcome of this game. Tarquin looked across at his adversaries and was not filled with an overwhelming feeling of confidence. The TT’s were at the top of the table for good reason. They had proven their superiority in both skill and sheer bludgeoning power time and again. The last time the TT’s and the Skips had met, the Skips had lost by 5 points. Feeling nervous, Tarquin distracted himself by making adjustments to his pouch harness.

  One of his teammates, Trevor McKeown, also known as the Rampant Exterminator, strode over to where Tarquin was standing.

  “Have you heard Tarq?," asked Trev.

  “Heard what?” replied Tarquin, still making minor adjustments to his pouch harness and trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

  “About the board of enquiry stupid."

  Tarquin paused in his adjustments. He didn’t need to hear this right now, right when his total concentration was required for the upcoming game.

  “No. I don’t find out until after the game, but you’ll be the first to know, apart from the gutter press and 5 billion Snareball fans. Thanks for your concern.” Tarquin studiously avoided looking at Trev and concentrated on removing a burr from one of Bob’s foot pads.

  “Hey don’t mention it. Thinking of your health and well-being at all times." With that, he walked back to his own Kangaroo. Trev wasn’t the sharpest tool in the box, sarcasm evading him with ease.

  Just another thing to worry about, thought Tarquin. He was currently being investigated for match fixing, and although hotly denying the accusations, Tarquin knew he was in deep shit. Sadly, because it was true. All he’d done was thrown two games; specifically missed three goals, on purpose, and now his career was on the verge of being destroyed. And all he’d received from this was a lousy 100,000 Galactic credits. Admittedly, it was small change for a Snareball player, but your average Joe Citizen received less that that in their yearly salary. A stupid thing to do in hindsight, but he now had to realize that he may never play Snareball again. Could be wors
e, he thought. At least they haven’t found out about the illegal drugs he was using.

  His reverie broken by the pre-start siren, his AI reported that he had 1 minute to saddle up. Jumping into Bob’s pouch, he connected his pouch harness, checked his weapons and formed a link between his and Bob’s AI. Opening a link to his team-mates, their collective AI coordinated team tactics, assigning starting positions and re-defining individual objectives. One of two strikers, Tarquin was on the wing and guided Bob to his designated zone. Surprisingly secure in his harness, Tarquin hardly felt the great bounding motions of his Kangaroo, capable of leaping 10 meters straight up and 40 meters horizontally.

  The starting siren sounded. The 3’ oblong game ball hovering in the centre of the arena, released from its holding field, dropped to the ground. The object of the game was to snare the ball using field guns, fend opposing players off with your stun cannon and deposit the ball in their net, situated at opposite ends of the arena and 10 meters off the ground.

  Eleven giant Kangaroos, the same amount of Wombat’s and 22 fully focused and mostly illegally hyped Snareball players charged towards it, making almost enough noise to drown out the screaming fans in Tarquin’s ears.

  The main advantage that the Skip’s had over the TT’s was the greater maneuverability possessed by their Kangaroo’s. This Tarquin used to his advantage, arriving at the ball marginally before that of an opposing player. Firing his field gun, Tarquin snared the ball in a field, simultaneously commanding Bob to leap straight up. Looking down, Tarquin’s targeting graphics superimposed themselves over his vision, confirmed a target lock on the opposing player. Using his stun cannon, he fired a three shot burst. One connected on the rump of the Wombat which staggered slightly. Giant Wombat’s were exceptionally stun resistant. Three hits were normally required to incapacitate them for up to 20 seconds. Bob and the other Kangaroo’s would be in the same state after one direct hit.

  Landing, Tarquin sent Bob on an evasive sideways maneuver, narrowly avoiding the volley of stun shots coming from the opposition. His AI, graphically displaying player dispositions under one eyelid, reported that one of his team mates was open. Without looking, Tarquin fired the Snareball in that direction, sent Bob in a somersault and fired a barrage of wild stun shots at the charging Wombats. A stun bolt slammed into Bob in midspin, hitting him on his forepaw and narrowly missing Tarquin’s head. The Kangaroo, unable to compensate with the additional spin, landed awkwardly, face planted and then toppled over onto its side. Tarquin, struggling to remove himself from his pouch harness, watched helplessly as a Wombat charged up.

  “Oh fuck."

  The Wombat came to a halt, stomping on Bob’s hind leg for punctuation. There was a audible cracking sound and the hapless Kangaroo roared in consternation. In retribution, Bob bit back, chomping on the rear leg of the monstrous Wombat standing above it. The Wombat replied by stamping down again on Bob’s leg. Thankfully, any response by Bob was silenced by a stun bolt hitting him directly in the head. The TT player leant over his saddle and looked casually down at Tarquin.

  “Hello there. Looks like you’re out of the game, Choco nuts."

  “That’s Mr. Choco nuts to you," replied Tarquin surreptitiously trying to slide his stun cannon into some form of shooting position.

  “Whatever. Good night," the player said, pointing his weapon in the direction of Tarquin’s head. Instead of shooting, the player toppled off the back of his Wombat and lay prone next to Tarquin. A Kangaroo bounded up containing Trev, the Rampant Exterminator.

  “Thought you might need a hand," he said, smirking down at Tarquin.

  “No, no. Had it all under control." Tarquin finally succeeded in popping the straps of his harness and clambered out of his slowly reviving Kangaroo. Even now a recovery team was heading towards them to remove the injured animal. A group of naked fans, somehow getting over the arena’s barriers and hotly pursued by security were running around the recovery team. Two naked fans were carrying what looked like a large beer dispenser between them.

  “Thanks anyway. Can you give us a hand for a sec?," Tarquin asked, indicating the stationary Wombat. Trev ordered his Kangaroo to bend over, whilst Tarquin used it to get on the back of the large furry mammal.

  “What are you gonna do?," inquired Trev.

  Tarquin looked around the field. The Skips were still attacking, despite being one man down. The action seemed to be centered around the TT’s goal.

  “Not sure yet. Help me turn this Wombat around."

  Trev used his Kangaroo to slowly push the Wombat in a full circle so that it was facing in the direction of the TT’s goal. Tarquin climbed up to the Wombat’s neck and placing his weapons on the mammal’s back, searched around for the animal’s AI surgical interface. Finding it, he picked up his Stun cannon and switching it to its lowest setting, placed the barrel of the weapon against the interface. Discarding his Field gun, Tarquin used his other hand to get a firm grip on the Wombat’s fur.

  “See you soon Bob," he said, looking down at his slowly reviving Kangaroo,

  “Right," he said, turning to Trev, “you provide us with some covering fire while I kick start this beast."

  Trev nodded, and Tarquin, turning back to his gun, fired it directly into the interface on the Wombat’s neck. The response was immediate and explosive.

  The Wombat, its AI control programs disrupted and in a state of shock, disorientation and no small amount of anger, charged back towards its on goal line with Tarquin riding shotgun and griping on for dear life. The recovery team for Bob, a few naked fans and their attendant security guards, scattered as they rapidly moved to avoid getting trampled. Trev kept pace, ready to employ his stun cannon.

  Two of the TT’s, pre-occupied with defending their own goal, were dropped off the back’s of their Wombat’s before they knew what hit them. Tarquin and Trev were firing almost continuously as they rapidly neared the arena wall and the TT’s goal. Tarquin’s Wombat slammed into another Wombat, dislodging both riders and sending the mounts tumbling in the dirt.

  Rolling, Tarquin hardly saw the massive leg of a flailing Wombat as it swung around, hitting him squarely in the head. With the roar of the crowd still in his head, Tarquin’s vision faded as he lost his battle with consciousness.

  ◊

  He came to in the teams medical facility. Bright lights were in his face. His irises darkened to compensate. Three figures were bent over him. Two of them he recognized. One of them was his current girlfriend and Snareball groupie, Sharon. Blond, buxom and not much in the way of brains. The other was the team physician, Dr Edmund Voltaire, a short, stocky serious faced man with closely cropped brown hair.

  “What happened?," he croaked.

  “You lost," Sharon said brightly.

  He groaned. So much for the teams win bonus.

  Dr Voltaire spoke up. “You have a concussion Tarquin. No strenuous activities for the next few days and lay off on the partying.” As an after thought he added, nodding his head in the direction of the man Tarquin didn’t recognize, “This is Mr. Dryden. He’s with the board of enquiry."

  Tarquin looked at the man. Typical looking petty bureaucrat dressed in a severe looking suit with nondescript features and very little expression on his face. With no preamble, the man addressed him directly.

  “Good day Mr. Compton-Burnett. As Dr Voltaire has stated, I am with the board of Inquiry.”

  Here we go, thought Tarquin. He feigned disinterest by rubbing his sore head and smiled up at Sharon, who returned his smile with enthusiasm.

  “Recently," he continued, “allegations have been made, directed at you Mr. Compton-Burnett, of trying to influence the normal outcome of certain Snareball games. To whit, you have been accused of match fixing.”

  Get to the point you fucking dickhead. Sharon was stroking his head and making little crooning noises. The Doctor was obviously engaged in some form of electronic discussion. One of his eyes was closed and he had the air of someone not quite connected with re
ality.

  “Now then," Dryden went on, “without any further ado, the board has found you guilty of these charges. This decision has been fully ratified. The Chairman of your club also agrees with our verdict and has suspended you from Snareball for the next six months."

  “Six fucking months!." Tarquin was livid. He tried to rise from his stretcher but a spinning head caused him to lie down again. “What the fuck am I meant to do for the next six months?."

  “That is none of my concern," Dryden said blankly. “Good day sir." With that he walked out of the room.

  “Oh," said Sharon.

  “Fuck," said Tarquin. The preoccupied Dr Voltaire didn’t say anything.

  “Shazza. Doc. Give us a hand here," he said, once again trying to rise from his stretcher. Doctor Voltaire opened his other eye, and he and Sharon succeeded in elevating Tarquin to a sitting position.

  “What are you going to do Honey?," inquired Sharon.

  Tarquin stared blankly at the far wall. “Fucked if I know."

  The Doctor, feeling awkward, made his excuses. “I’m off. Got other players to treat you know. Remember, no partying for a few days," he said, eyeing Sharon with a knowing look before walking out.

  Tarquin stood, towering above the diminutive Sharon, and after a few moments to clear his head, headed for the exit.

  “Where are you going?," whined Sharon.

  Tarquin didn’t bother looking back to see if she was following.

  “Changing room. Gonna clear out my stuff."

  The door slid open for him and he exited into the corridor. He found himself in a maelstrom of noise and light. If possible the corridor was brighter than the medical bay. A multitude of floating camera orbs were directing the light in his direction, and it was hard to make out, but it looked like all of Snareball’s paparazzi were gathered in the corridor. An uproar ensued upon his emergence with all of the paparazzi trying to get as close to Tarquin as possible.

  “Is it true that you’ve been suspended from the game for six months?," asked one. “What have you got to say in response to the allegations for match fixing”?, inquired another.