The Scarab

by Rhine, Scott

  I cringed. “Look, I don’t see a dime of that. The parts eat most of it, and my salary is garnished. I just told her I wouldn’t work on the car period unless she got it done right.”

  “Well, I yelled at her something fierce. But a few weeks later, some drunk ran her off the road into a ditch. You probably saved her life. Hell, this black box that I’m supposed to forget all about will save a lot more.”

  Leaving on this plane was my big chance, I was relieved the chief wasn’t going to slap me in jail long enough for Exotech to get it’s mitts on me. “Just doing my job.” I shrugged.

  “Yeah. I never got a chance to thank you. Not many people will thank you for doing a job, but cops know how it feels to get only negative press. I wanted to do something for you.” He took a file out from his briefcase, my file I assumed. I’m not sure what he was doing, but I wanted to keep liking him.

  “Thanks.” I cut him off and wouldn’t take the file.

  “It might make interesting reading on the plane. And if it were to get lost, we wouldn’t look for it too hard, seeing that you wouldn’t live in our jurisdiction any more.” He tried to slip it to me again, and I refused again.

  “No, sir. All I did was give advice. But I wonder if you could give someone else some advice in exchange.” I studied the beckoning bustle and noise of the airport, waiting to enter my new life through this gate. “In a few months, Miss Anselm’s going to get a plane ticket in the mail. Without acknowledging you know what’s going on, I’d appreciate it if you hinted strongly that she was due for a vacation.”

  Jenkins smiled. “It would be true. Deal.”

  It would be my first time on a plane since my return from Brazil. This had been a week of many beginnings and endings. Almost everything I considered part of myself had changed at one stroke, everything but the game.

  Chapter 5 – Ghedra Designed

  Still depressed from my last day in Bayside, I threw myself into the task of qualifying for SimCon. A week later, sitting at my thirty-year-old plaid kitchen table, with an open window view of the beach, I held this year’s 400 page design guide which the Simulation Coalition sent me after receiving the entry fees. We were this year’s final entry (late in fact, but they squeezed us in with a word from somebody in Washington).

  Each year, the game had a different theme continent—Africa, Asia, Australia. This year’s four day race would be set in Europe. Some wise-guys, complaining that they had skipped Antarctica, held a “winter games” session. Events included snow slalom, penguin herding, blind blizzard driving, and cold starting engines in 40 below weather. The virtual race had been a re-enactment of Byrd’s last dog-sled run to the South Pole.

  SimCon was the Olympics of ground vehicle design. A vehicle was street legal if it flew at less than four meters off the ground, was less than two meters wide and three meters high. Although no length restriction had been imposed, long bodies made easy targets. Even the smallest design decision could make or break your vehicle. A few years ago, with the addition of sting-ray missiles over the tail lights of a simple sports model, the Lamborghini Aerospace Courier Elite became the vehicle of choice for messengers, diplomats, bank presidents, and rock stars. LAS sold 2000 units before their plant even had the tools to make them. Many young designers and small companies risked everything at this bazaar of nations to become famous, respected, and most of all—rich.

  Even mistakes in SimCon became legendary. The original race going through the Texas badlands had armadillos as road hazard for the pilots to swerve around. The first cocky tank driver who attempted to run them down found out that the programmer had accidentally given them a density higher than steel. The armadillos totaled his vehicle. Since then, the “killer dillo” has been a regular feature of the game.

  After the extensive overview in the introduction, the rule book was divided up by price category: under thirty thousand, the lightweight division representing middle-class consumer fare; under 100K, middleweight division where the majority of serious designers and players competed; and the over 100K non-residential class, as they euphemistically billed the heavyweight military category. Because several government contracts rode on the results of the contest, participants at the high end regularly used espionage and every black trick in the book, before during and after the event.

  Each team could contain up to two prototypes per price range, for a total of six. To emphasize the benefits of using off-the-shelf parts and mass-production techniques, a discount was given if vehicles shared the same chassis or other common traits.

  Every contestant had to allocate at least 5 percent of the entry fee for vehicle fuel and repairs during the game. From experience, I knew that a good designer set back at least 10 percent. A last minute adaptation could save your life in a close game. Something as simple as tracer rounds could make all the difference in a night fight. Since the cost of a vehicle could not exceed my entry fee, I had less than $95,000 to build my prototype. This restriction kept most small businesses out of the competition.

  Like a kid locked in a candy store, I didn’t know where to begin. Because of my late entry, I only had ten weeks left to present the AI referee with a draft design. It took about an hour to download and verify the plans from a standard CAD package, and another hour or two to “explain” any irregularities and special materials, unusual movement equations or aerodynamics to a human judge. This gave your vehicle’s price and preliminary ratings to be published in the convention’s guide book.

  The two weeks after that were used to rework objections raised by the expert-system analyzer. The final design was due a mere two weeks before the convention. After the second submission, the only changes allowed were the repairs before each day of the race.

  I knew already that getting ready for the event would keep me awake at night. Normally, a design begins with the repulsion grid that negates the vehicle’s weight. I almost worked in reverse.

  The hardest part in constructing the scaled-up version of my prototype would be building a sturdy cockpit cheaply, one that was perfectly round without obstructing my field of vision or being obvious about why it was circular. The solution came from Jane’s On-line Military Guide. The B-52 was being sold for scrap in several places, and I was able to pick up two belly-gunner turrets for ten cents a pound scrap plus transport fees. They even had swivel mounts for guns in them. I replaced the old 1940’s glass with clear, bullet proof plexar from a snow-plow factory.

  The engine itself was from the more modern hush-copters, also surplus, but much harder to get. To avoid contact with the central bubble, all my body support frames had to be curved, and heavy-duty, like what they use in submarines. As a side-effect, my outer hull would be over-engineered. My hull would be airtight and float.

  Because of my odd design, no repeller field grid on the market today would fit. I rigged the center for the landing gear, a ground car arrangement with tiny tires on retractable armatures for parking. As the final step, I figured out the weight of everything the vehicle would be carrying, the blaze armor, the machine guns, the ammunition, the aluminum tinsel (to confuse laser and radar targeting), all the electronics, and the pilot. I wanted to use mini-repulsion-grids like they do under each axle of a semi trailer, but the new design weighed just too much for two grids and not quite enough for three. Unfortunately, I couldn’t afford three grids and stay under the required price.

  After working and reworking the design so tight that it squeaked, I was still overweight. I spent days agonizing over the weight factors and materials. With this much lift and expense, I could build several vehicles, but not the one I needed.

  Then it hit me—the discounts for similar designs! I would build them like three separate, but tightly-coupled machines. The two support lifers would be as Spartan as possible, carrying the ballast, sweeper guns, expendables, spin brakes, and gearing systems. They would be little better than glorified open-air sleds with less room for passengers than a luge. The two would differ only in the handedness of the
coupling. I would pass that off as the American and European versions of the same vehicle line, with driver slots on the left and right respectively. I planned to drop in used Porsche or motorcycle engines to power them with as little modification as possible. Because of the similarity in design, they would cost two-thirds as much as they would have separately, and used they would cost even less.

  The main compartment would carry the over-sized spin engine, electronics, and the primary cockpit. From above, the whole thing would assemble like a giant, bulging hamburger that had a top cruising speed of 220 km/h on the highway. Without the twins to help, the main section would crawl at up to 75 km/h—about right for traffic in the city. As individuals, the sleds were grossly over-powered and could do over 330 km/h if they jettisoned their deadweight and no turning was required.

  The twins would be joined to the hull with a modified version of mini-sub docking waldoes. I played with the external lines a bit to hide the obvious points of joining, but that only made the main compartment look uglier. With two gaping holes in its sides, and the segmented armor, it looked like a fat lobster. Before someone else could name my invention and spoil what little appeal it possessed, I decided to call it something with a little panache.

  Mere hours before my deadline to call in with the design, I came up with the name “Ghedra” after the jet-propelled giant turtle of Japanese monster movie fame. I’d name the sleds for the two little kids who rode on the monster’s back.

  To add to the air of mystery surrounding the craft, I put a polarized gray tint in the cockpit bubble and gave the frame a black-and-white turtle paint job. Finally, with the last few dollars, I added a pair of external speakers where the eyes would be, just in case I felt like blasting “Ride of the Valkyries.”

  While I was still struggling with the final revision near the end of November, Foxworthy called me. “Hayes, how’s the weather out there?”

  I looked out my window. It was pitch black outside. “Fine.”

  “Good, good. Meet any of your neighbors?”

  I shrugged, not in the mood for small-talk. I wouldn’t live like a human being again until after I met the deadline. “Just at the grocery store, but I haven’t been there since I found out they deliver. Something I can do for you, Nigel?”

  “We just sold all but 15 percent of the preferred stock in DeClerk Enterprises using that prospectus you approved.” I barely remembered the high-gloss advertising pamphlet, but grunted to keep him talking.

  “That’s nice.”

  “More than nice, you’re going to be a rich man if we sell all of it. If we hadn’t sold any of it, you wouldn’t be in the convention next month. What do you want done with the money while we’re waiting for ground-breaking on the factory?”

  Creditors appeased and record wiped clean, I finally had my own money, but I was already living comfortably. “Just send me a check for my allowance, and put the reset in stock somewhere. LAS is a good company. Use your discretion.”

  He seemed disappointed, but I was busy. “I’ll send you an itemized account of all income every month, along with a distribution list.”

  “Nigel, I appreciate what you’re doing for me, but I don’t want to know how much money I have. Maybe some day. Right now, it’s like Monopoly money, it’s not real to me. If anything, it would only make me want more, and I’d never be satisfied. Now I’m happy, happier than I’ve ever been in my life. I like being free from banking. From time to time, I might want something extra like a gift for a friend, but knowing how much I have would change me.”

  After a brief silence, he said “I want people to know I’m honest, so we’ll compromise. I’ll still send you the accounting, but I won’t put any numbers on the cover page. Know something Hayes? I envy you. You probably sleep better at night than anyone else on that island.”

  “When I’m not working,” I replied, smiling. “Any word on the Congressional probe into Exotech?”

  “They’re scheduled to launch it the second day of the convention. What a coincidence!” he said, impishly.

  “You are lethal, Nigel. I can hardly wait to see their faces. Listen, you want to visit me at the convention? You’ve helped me this far, I’d think you’d want a front-row seat at the finish line.”

  “We’ll see. I’ll watch periodically on ESPN to keep tabs. I don’t know if I’ll have time to fly there,” said Foxworthy.

  “Do you have any kids, Foxworthy?”

  “Three.”

  “You went to see all of them graduate, right?” This time there was a longer silence. “I never got to go to my own ceremony because I was working. This time, I’ll be graduating in vehicle design, and I want somebody there to cheer for me. How about it?”

  In a very meek voice, he said, “We’ll see.”

  Chapter 6 – A Grand Entrance

  This year’s convention started the second Thursday of December in Albuquerque, New Mexico, using the Sandia supercomputer network. It was a high-security net, but the SimCon consortium had obtained special permission to use the computers for this week. The cab driver, Omar, said we passed the Sandia security compound on the way from Albuquerque International Airport. I gawked at the mountains which hemmed in the city to the south and east.

  He said “They are the Sandia Mountains. It is good for the hot air balloons. We have a festival here every October for that. It is a very busy time, dangerous to drive in because everybody is looking up at the sky.”

  “There might be a few dangerous drivers at this event, too,” I countered.

  Omar laughed at this. Encouraged, he became a fountain of tourist information. “Would you like to go on a brief detour to see the scenic Rio Grande? It is not far. Out by the park I know a place with a once-in-a-lifetime view. Very nice.”

  I begged off because I had to check in early that afternoon. He let me off easy because business was booming today. Over half the cabs in the city were making round trips from the airport to the arena and back again.

  Omar dropped me at the arena entrance. The indoor sports and music center had been transformed from a warehouse in the desert to a Mecca, drawing enthusiasts from the world over. I took off my sunglasses and stared like a yokel at the state fair. The sheer size of the arena made the hordes of people look like worker ants swarming a mound. I didn’t notice how loud the background noise of talking and sound testing was until I had to raise my voice to ask the door guard which direction I should go to register.

  “Press crew?” he shouted.

  “Contestant,” I said holding up my photo badge. He squinted at it, and back at me. “I shaved the beard.” I wondered briefly if Mary would recognize me without it, or like the change. I felt like a department store dummy in my crisp, new cotton clothes. Everything about me was awkwardly new, even my underwear.

  He nodded and pointed to the other end of the complex at a pair of gold-embossed sliding-glass doors. “All you’ve got to do is pick up your room key, sir. Shall I radio someone for your luggage?”

  I shook my head and hefted the small black nylon bag over my shoulder. “Nope. I always travel light.”

  I knew what to expect from the increasing video coverage over the past few years, but even I ogled at the giant race score boards, panoramic view screens, and sheer techno-glitz surrounding the event. In the glassed-in press booth, high above the milling multitudes were the news-casters from local stations, ESPN, and MTV. They were getting set up for the crowd reactions and big flying-logo opening of this year’s coverage. MTV was going all out and had sent reporters to all major real-world sites along the simulated race route. They planned to mix sound-effects, a backdrop of European scenery, and spectators from the arena to create the illusion of an old-style grand-prix.

  When I walked through the glass doors into the Windsor Hotel, I immediately entered yet another foreign world. The sudden lack of sound was staggering. The air was a perfect 74 degrees, making me aware that I had been sweating during my walk through the arena. This was hands-down the most e
legant hotel I had ever seen. The floor and front desk were all a polished, beige stone from the local desert called “fossil stone.” This transitioned to a tan, marble fountain on one side and a plush, maroon carpet leading to the elevators on the other. The arched ceiling was inset with carved stone rosettes and even the security cameras had tasteful gold trim. I wasn’t certain, but the painting behind the front desk looked like El Greco. The brass plaque beneath it proclaimed it to be a gift of gratitude from some sultan.

  Although there were twelve people waiting, the six clerks served us promptly, and it was soon my turn in line. After showing my passport and photo badge, the clerk handed me a copy of the schedule for the week’s festivities, and a small plastic credit card. It had a DeClerk logo on it, and the legend “Team Lead.”

  “That will serve as your room key as well as your expense account during your stay here. Please type your pre-selected password into this console for confirmation, sir,” said the man who looked and sounded like David Niven playing the butler in an old Disney movie. I typed CINDERELLA, trying to block the camera’s view of the key pad.

  When the green light came on, Mr. Niven handed me a black matchbox with prongs on the end. “This is your personal encryption device, courtesy of the Windsor. It attaches to your terminal and guarantees secure communication with the Sandia network. Do know how this device works?”

  I shook my head.

  Niven explained. “There are two large prime numbers on this device—a public one which you share with everyone, and a private one which not even you get to look at. Messages encoded using the private key may be read by anyone using the public key. This device also affixes a unique digital signature to the end of all transactions. You will be held responsible to honor anything signed with it.”