The Bloodlust: (Volume Three of the Virion Series)

by R. L. M. Sanchez

  “McKenna…?”

  “Click. Roberts, he…”

  “What is it? Do we need to know something? Does he have a grudge against Click? Bad blood?”

  “More than a grudge. Murderous intent, I think,” McKenna said. Hugo scratched his head in a nervous tick.

  “Is he a man of poor conscious? Can he make correct decisions?”

  “He’s calm and capable. I doubt he’d do anything to throw the race. He knows how important it is.”

  “Important to who, McKenna? If he’s after some solace or revenge, I doubt he’d care what someone else wants.”

  McKenna nodded. He took Hugo’s headset and moved the earpiece down to his mouth. “Dill, can you hear me?” McKenna said.

  “McKenna…?! Enjoying the show?” Dill chuckled through the high-whining engine.

  “Yeah, a new favorite of mine. Listen, I know what you’re trying to do, Dill, and I just want to remind you of how important this race is. We cannot afford to lose. We need to win this thing.”

  “McKenna, I’m in third place, mate.”

  “Click, Dill. What are you going to do when you catch up to Click?” Dill’s silence confirmed it all. “Dill, don’t do this.”

  “What this man did-”

  “It destroyed you, Dill. I understand what you’re feeling, but there are people’s lives at stake. We can’t afford to be disqualified. You’re an Interpol detective—”

  “What do you know of it, Alan? Do you know what it’s like to have your father murdered before your own eyes? Because of something you did?!” Rossberg turned to look at Hugo after hearing the graphic circumstances. McKenna rarely thought of his own parents. A chapter omitted in his beginnings as a being.

  “You’re right, I don’t know. I wasn’t allowed to know a father, a mother.” Dill bit his tongue as he once again lashed out at the Martian, regretting he did so. He began to think of the consequences. “But I do know that revenge can poison you. Some people deserve death and I promise you he’ll die someday, but that day can’t be today.” The team was listening when two Wordkeepers walked into the paddock, armed with rifles and approaching McKenna, cutting his conversation with Dill short. “Be more than this, Dill.” When he heard only the engine noise but no response, he reluctantly handed the headset back to Hugo as he turned to face the guards.

  “You’re Martian Grey’s fighter? Red Fields?” the Wordkeeper said.

  “Yeah, that’s right. What is this?”

  “All Red Fields participants receive armed escorts to the staging pits below. The Red Fields begin soon. If you would come with us, sir.” McKenna looked to Hugo who nodded his head.

  “It’s standard,” Hugo said. “Don’t worry about them bagging your head like Rossberg. Good luck.” McKenna looked to his team, all of them standing up. The team looked at McKenna, Kimmy stepping forward.

  “Good luck, Martian,” she said. She tried to say something else, but he knew what came out wasn’t what she had intended. “I couldn’t have gotten here on my own.” McKenna nodded. Humphries walked up to him and extended his hand.

  “Humphries,” McKenna said.

  “The master will be fine,” the bot said. “I’ll enjoy watching the carnage a Martian leaves in his wake.” They shook hands and then Ripper looked to him with sad eyes, whimpering.

  “Stay,” he said. Ripper laid back down and followed it up with a whimper. “Alright, then.” The Wordkeepers began to walk out of the paddock before McKenna looked to Hugo again. “Keep Dill focused on the race.”

  “I’ll try.” Hugo watched McKenna make his way out of the paddock and out of sight. He was uncertain of the outcome of the race now. He dreaded it and he dreaded he couldn’t be there to talk more sense into his partner, but he hoped he made some impression. Even if Dill didn’t come in first place, second or even third would surely help in the Prime Point challenge; however, it put them at risk, especially considering the possibility of McKenna losing The Red Fields. He walked away with doubt that Dill Roberts could put his past behind him.

  Dill saw Gideon’s driver decelerate suddenly and nearly slammed into him. He immediately swerved to avoid the collision.

  “Christ!” Dill shouted. He watched as West moved alongside him. “What the hell is your problem, mate…?” Dill muttered. Dill backed off to the left, but West kept squeezing towards him, even around the next turn. It may have seemed like over-aggressive blocking at first, but when West blocked Dill’s entrance into the pit lanes, it was clear what Gideon’s goal was. “Hugo, this twat is on me something hard!”

  “Rossberg is heading over to their paddock now to get some answers. He’s got more pull than I do. Just keep clear of him!”

  “I can’t, the bastard’s trying to run me off!” Dill did his best to stay on the track and, although the two hadn’t touched yet, the Gideon racer wasn’t giving Dill much chance to avoid it.

  Meanwhile, Rossberg walked with authority into Gideon’s paddock to see the crew chief in an uproar with Peyton.

  “What the hell are you people doing?!” Rossberg shouted before being stopped by two Wordkeepers, holding him back. The crew chief immediately tried to play it cool.

  “Go back to your paddock, Rossberg,” Peyton said.

  “To hell with that. Get your driver off mine!”

  “I said get back to your paddock, Rossberg! Our driver is having drag issues on the chassis.”

  “You expect me to believe that?!” Rossberg saw the Wordkeepers step away and felt a firm grip on his shoulder. Lindsey was smiling over him. Rossberg felt his stomach drop as he realized the previous obligations that he broke to Hasker.

  “Rossberg,” Lindsey said, “I’m shocked. I didn’t think you’d show your face within miles of here after you broke our little agreement.”

  “I’m a free man. I don’t answer to you or Hasker.”

  “Hmm, maybe. Deals often go south, but I never expected you to turn and do the opposite and assist Martian Greys. Ain’t that just grand?”

  “Call your racer off or the race heralds will hear about this right now.”

  “The race heralds? Hasker owns them, you’ll get nowhere. So, before I decide to kill you, I suggest you get back to your paddock like Peyton said and maybe I’ll forgive this.” The Keepers then shoved Rossberg out of the paddock. Rossberg was angry but there wasn’t much he could do.

  Dill tried to avoid the scrape but West managed to hook one of his fenders on a part of Dill’s, the two chassis stuck together. Dill tried to wiggle loose, but it proved no use. The two bikes came around the next corner to see the next straight. Dill smiled as he prepared his warp core.

  “Whoa, whoa! What are you doing, Roberts?!” Hugo barked.

  “I’m taking this bloke into the warp with me, that’s what I’m doing!”

  “Roberts, the warp core on your bike is faster than his, if you’re not at his exact speed when you jump, and you’re stuck to him—”

  “His bike will shred apart during the jump! Right?!”

  “And maybe yours too, loco!” Dill hovered his finger over the warp button in hesitation before finally tapping it, launching him into the jump and miraculously exiting safely. He looked to the side to see the Gideon racer exit the warp, but the bike tore itself apart within the warp with the loss of the fender, the pieces slamming into the wall at blink speed followed by a fireball.

  “Up yours, you dirty Hasker rotter!” Dill shouted in relief.

  “You’re fucking crazy, man, just fucking crazy!” Hugo said while laughing, the rest of the team cheering in the background.

  “Roberts, it’s Rossberg. That racer was under orders from Hasker to knock you out of the race. Guess you don’t have him to worry about now.”

  “And the Heralds?” Hugo said.

  “Hasker has his influence over them but they can’t dispute an accident that occurred during a warp jump. Good news and bad news now, though. Good news is that you’re on your final lap and just Mister Click ahead of you. B
ecause you didn’t stop for a change of plates, you closed the gap and he only has a six-second gap on you.”

  “What could possibly ruin that?”

  “Bad news is you didn’t stop for plates and yours are white hot now. Hugo designed the chassis to be flawless, but the vector plates are regulated and are just standard issue parts, just like everyone else’s. You’ll be slipping and sliding around out there, so you can’t take any more chances.”

  “I’ll be careful, I guess!”

  “You still have the faster bike judging from his lap times, so creep up on him and make a move. He’s going to give it everything he’s got, so don’t get careless!”

  “I said I’ll be careful.”

  “Don’t make us regret putting you in that seat, Roberts, personal vendettas aside.” Dill sped up as he saw the Wargame driver just ahead.

  Click looked at his rear-view monitor to see the Circuit Enforcer close in. It wouldn’t be long before they were neck and neck. Click’s pit stop cost him time and the Enforcer used it to close the gap. Click started to panic and even more so when an alarm went off to his right.

  “BabyFace, my engine’s temp is bogged. It’s going to blow if I push it any further!”

  “Then throttle it down for a spell, accelerate only in short bursts. Your warp core is still good lookin’, so get to the next straight and gain some ground. You’re almost through this!”

  “If I lose because of your shit bike, Wargame will feed you to the dogs!”

  Dill closed in on Click, riding side by side with him. It took every ounce of will not to drive him off the course so he would meet a fiery death, but he thought of McKenna’s words and his duties as an Interpol detective. The two bikes reached another warp straight and Dill clenched his fist, as the bike was trembling.

  “Let’s see what you got, Circuit Enforcer!” Click slammed his warp just as Dill did, both launching into the warp. They both came out neck and neck and rounded a corner, with Click in the lead. Both engines whined as they sped back up. Dill maneuvered left and right, trying to get a pass, but Click was superb at his defense, denying every move. They rounded another corner with Dill trying to take the inside and cut ahead, but Click was there to deny once again.

  “Blast!” Dill shouted. “He’s bloody everywhere I am!” Click managed to get another two seconds ahead of him and the finish line was just around the next two corners. He then felt the slip in the vector plates as he managed to barely keep the bike from fishtailing. “Hugo, how many warps does this core have left?!”

  “There’s no more straights and no more warp zones!”

  “How many?!” Dill shot back. There was a pause, a reluctant Hugo on the other end.

  “I’ve never pushed it this far, but vitals are still good…”

  “What’s the length of the next straight?”

  “Straight?! That’s not a straight, that’s a hundred-meter length sprint to the finish line!”

  “Hundred meters, thank you, arse wipe!”

  “Roberts!” Rossberg shouted. “There hasn’t been a warp shorter than two hundred meters. The core will be ruined if it doesn’t go atomic!” Dill punched in a command on his dashboard, presetting the warp. He rounded the next corner, barely keeping control of the bike. Once he came around, he saw Click right in front of him. He wouldn’t be able to catch up before the finish through normal gain. He closed his eyes and took in as long of a breath as he could. He slammed the switch.

  The bike shot straight ahead of Click by a fraction of the bike’s length just as they passed the finish. Dill began to chuckle but only for a spell, as he saw the core message was critical. He quickly brought the bike in as fast as he could.

  Click looked at all his instruments going haywire, all flashing red as he frantically tried to remedy the issues by slowing and flushing the engine. He yelled in frustration and ultimately yielded as he made his way back to the pits.

  “Everything’s in the red, Babyface. I’m shutting it all down and bringing it in or else this core could go nuclear. Fucking useless trash couldn’t make it four fucking laps!”

  “You’re the one who pushed it over the threshold for three of those laps just to gain a bigger lead, you crazed ape!”

  “Clear the fucking paddock, you cock!”

  Hobbes and Jules were almost speechless as they saw the spectacular battle and finish across the finish line.

  “A warp finish!” Jules yelled over the broadcast. “Astonishing, absolutely astonishing! The Circuit Enforcer gets first place here at the Red Sector Grand Prix!”

  “I can’t believe it myself, truly an exceptional driver and a perfect machine he was in too. Whoever designed that engine and chassis is definitely going to be getting some offers from some big companies, I guarantee you.”

  “We saw this race from a dodgy start to a nasty pile up at the first warp, then Team Gideon’s control issues before meeting his demise. But we couldn’t have predicted Head Hunter’s driver to experience all manners of engine failures and mechanical issues on the last lap.”

  “It’s the thrill of racing. You experience problems and you push through them, all at high speeds.”

  “Not that Circuit Enforcer. He had just a grand time tonight, taking positions left and right. He goes home a happy man with the Prime Points lead and a five hundred thousand credit prize on top of that.”

  “With that, we’re now going to switch over to the Red Sector’s Red Fields event starting momentarily. We thank you for joining us for Warp One here in the Red Sector and everyone be safe.”

  Dill cruised down the pit lane in a desperate search. He could see his pit crew far down the lane waiting anxiously for his return to tend to the core and much more, congratulate him if they survived. Dill stopped his bike and the crew came running over, Hugo and Rossberg straight to the rear engine compartment. The pit crew came running behind with canisters of liquid nitrogen ready to douse the core. When they got there, Hugo held his hand back.

  “Wait!” Hugo said. His OPIaA revealed surprising information. “It’s stable!” He laughed from pure joy. “It’s fucking stable, man!” Rossberg looked on and could only laugh himself.

  “You crazy son of a bitch, you really did it!” Rossberg laughed. He grabbed Hugo and eagerly shook him, the two of them knowing they had something much grander than the cash prize. Dill jumped out of the cockpit and walked towards the Wargame paddock, bumping past the two of them harshly and interrupting their celebration.

  “Where the hell does he think he’s going?” Rossberg said.

  Click was yelling at his crew chief, all of them scum just like Click. Dill saw the tattoo on his neck, eliminating any doubt. As Dill approached the Wargame paddock, time began to slow as he thought about his actions. For years he searched for Click, wondering what he’d do if he found him. As his mind filled with memories of a time he wished he could forget, he made up his mind.

  10

  DILLON: THE INFILTRATOR PART I

  Quiet days always foreshadowed something grim. Something damp in the air or maybe a strange smell. It all meant something for the fate of the day. “God has a plan,” my father always said. “While he doesn’t speak directly, he makes himself known in many mediums.” Like I had that sort of hindsight back then. Can’t say I have it now. But if there ever was a plan, it was sick, it was twisted, and it wasn’t something you could foresee. And that day, was it ever so quiet.

  But it took time to get there, just as any undercover stint would. It all started with ICS, or, Infiltrator Candidate Selection. The requirements were impressive. Experience in Patrol, Operations, Pursuit, and at least four years both in TAC-OPs and in a prison environment. While I was able to dive into everything and come out with distinction, the requirements were shaved to accept me as a candidate. Some thought it was because of my father Liam and his own respectability and influence, and frankly, I liked keeping that narrative. The truth of it is, I was once destitute. The living experience of being in London’s Red
Sector for ten years was invaluable and the Infiltration Commanders at ICC recognized that almost immediately. To make it perfect, my lineage could even be traced and sold as part of my profiling into a new identity. With a few changes to some unconfirmable yet very believable details, Blitz was born.

  Only an average of fifty candidates applied into Infiltration every year. It wasn’t the position favored by any Enforcer. Having to forfeit the life you know and live another was unfathomable to most. You didn’t know where your assignment would be but, in most cases, one would expect it would be unfavorable. But one thing was certain, the men and women who held that experience were respected and praised by all.

  The training alone was enough to generate nightmares. I was only twenty-four when I went in for training, the youngest candidate in over ninety years. The next youngest was thirty-one. Training doctrine was so tight-lipped and off the books that not even the Chief of Interpol knew its regime. We received skills that we expected to have learned. Combat, survival, and hand-to-hand techniques that were akin to Special Force Marine training made us feel like hard asses. Our bodies were broken and forged into operatives that could get us out of any danger. After twelve weeks of reconditioning and transformation, we realized our training had only begun.

  One morning after some light sparring practice, we were called into formation like proper Interpol chaps. I remember a Lieutenant Grange, whom we hadn’t met as of then, walking over almost casually.

  “At ease, men,” Grange said in a low voice.

  His presence alone commanded respect; we could feel it in our gut as he walked passed. We didn’t know it then, but he had been an Infiltrator for over twenty years with over three dozen successful operations completed. The fact that he was intact and level-headed gave us hope that we weren’t going to be lost to the undercities or crack from a split-personality. A legend was right in front of us.

  “We’ve made you men into scalpels. You are among the best Enforcers Interpol can muster.” We felt proud when he said that, untouchable. “But you’re not Infiltrators yet.” When he said that, our stomachs sank a bit. I didn’t know what more we would have to prove. We had learned combat, studies, undercity gangs, but there was one thing us lot hadn’t done: lived it. “Pile into transports at 1800. Make sure to get chow before. You men are on to Covert Ops training.” The legendary Covert Ops training. It was the final crucible before we could call ourselves Infiltrators so, naturally, we were ecstatic to progress. What would follow was something none of us could forget.