The Scarab

by Rhine, Scott

“This is my dear friend, the lovely and talented Josie Valencia,” she extended her tiny hand for me to clasp or kiss as I chose.

  “The singer?” I asked. She looked a lot different than I expected, smaller, with less makeup. She certainly liked to be noticed, though. “I hear you on the radio all the time while I’m working in the shop. I love that cover you do of Cyndi Lauper’s ‘I Drove All Night’.”

  “I want to be an actress like her someday, too.” She had a charming Louisiana accent that never manifested when she was singing.

  “I hope the wake isn’t too boring for you.”

  She waved the thought away. “This is a great party. They’ve got the third and fourth place winners from Indy last year. Cremation, the lead guitar player for that new Liverpool group Gravity Sucks is over spiking the punch. The cartoonist who draws those adorable dogs is over hiding behind that fellow from the Olympics. And Tony knows them all! He introduced me to them. Later on, he’s going to take me up to his room and show me his interface.”

  I kept a straight face. “Yes. I hear he’s got some fine equipment.”

  Antonio stepped in. “Josie, why don’t you ask our cartoonist friend if he’ll come and sign the Scarab’s sling.” She ran off after he promised she could sign it next.

  Once we were alone, Antonio made no mention of my new hair style, which I appreciated. I had paid a quick visit to the hotel barber shop to cover up the imbalance due to the fire. Now, both sides were quite short, and hair from the top of my head stuck out in all directions. Several younger people told me it was the latest style; however, I’ve had my hair done by the same barber for ten years, and he’d turn in his razor before he’d try something like this. Antonio did, however, want to know how I’d earned the sling on my right arm.

  “I tripped on a chair celebrating after we killed the tank,” I said.

  “What did you hit the North Korean with to disable him? I thought he’d tear you a new tailpipe. Instead, he was begging for help on broad band frequencies before I put him out of his misery. His tank was jerking around like an epileptic on speed,” said Antonio.

  I kept a tight lip about the virus generator and shrugged. “That was just an annoyance. He would’ve recovered soon enough if you hadn’t breached him. I’d keep my distance from the site, though. There might still be some nasty bio-contaminants floating around.”

  “An inspiration,” said some guy with a British accent, slapping me on the back. He was lanky, and dressed in black leather pants like Jim Morrison. It could only have been Cremation. “I wrote a whole new song watching that last kill. We want to use the race footage for the video. The whole post-industrial theme combined with the backdrop of nature and big explosions. What a rush! What an ending, watching him sacrifice his life for another.”

  I put on my Saturday socializing smile again. “I’m not quite dead yet. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” Antonio responded with an evil chuckle that started low in his belly and ended much too loud. It was the same sort of chuckle used by fathers when their sons announce their first girlfriend.

  I gave him a few of the details, and added, “Since team scores are at stake, and many of the top ten teams are among the dead already, I need your signature to re-enter.”

  “Certainly! Tonight, I’d give you a kidney.” He gave me a sloppy hug. “Paul, come here,” he bellowed to a member of the Australian Hicks-Eisner Overdrive team, a driver for last year’s second place winner, the Tasmanian Tornado. “Sign this man’s petition. You owe me.”

  Paul grunted. “Sure. He’s never fired on me, and it will really piss off those stuffed shirts from GEDM.”

  Where had these men been the whole game?

  An impromptu group of volunteers gathered to help me get back in the game. One of the dead players from Canada offered me the use of his Sansui interface, since mine had been seized for evidence. I collected various other pieces of equipment and knowledge from the others. We brainstormed a little about how I could minimize the cost of going back for my pilot, but nobody had any solid advice. I didn’t tell them that one of my cycles had been seriously damaged because word might get to the Living. The woman from Car and Driver took notes of everything so I could send out thank-you cards to everyone by Christmas. I promised her pictures of the whole team for her article, which was a big deal because no one else had pictures of me. I’m still sensitive about the scar.

  Since Sandia would remain off limits till tomorrow morning, I used the most recent printouts of race standings, plus all the updated details people could remember, to build a profile of the remaining drivers.

  1. Hicks-Eisner Overdrive Tasmanian Tornado. A very fast midrange vehicle. He was so far ahead, he’d probably finish before the next session was half over. He could afford to help me because I wasn’t a danger. This was my first yes.

  2. The last remaining Japanese midrange belonged to the Muramatsu corporation, a new company that dealt in everything from transport ships to electric guitars. Their vehicle, the SRV-23, was designed in the old Gran Prix style with space for one pilot and a lot of engine.

  3. GEDM’s midrange survivor, the Tomahawk, conveniently the only uninjured vehicle in the game, but far behind the Japanese. This vehicle was neck-and-neck with the Porsche lightweight to be the leader of the main body of vehicles to reach Munich during the first few game minutes tomorrow. This was my first no vote. There were several impolite adjectives attached to that negative.

  4. The Porsche team seemed reasonable and willing to discuss business. They’d wash my back if I found a way to wash theirs. Their lightweight was greased-lightning but had used all of its heavy weaponry already. I’d count them as a tentative yes. I had plenty of time for horse trading later.

  5. The first place heavyweight from Andiron Enterprises, the Andiron Express. This wasn’t a typical car company; rather, they specialized in freight hauling, buses, trains, and construction vehicles. It wasn’t a tank but it was built like one. It used its plow attachment to get through bad weather as well as to ram slower opponents. They were currently neutral, being more-or-less in their own category now.

  6. My old nemesis Exotech had one midrange vehicle left, code-named X-ray Rainbow. They were my third definite no. I found out why they were so hot for my decloaking technology. They claimed the X-ray was invisible to radar, laser, and normal sight. It was mainly plastic composites, very light but horribly expensive. It maintained some of its invisibility by the odd angles on its surface, and the use of fiber-optic panels and cameras to broadcast an illusion on its exterior of what should be on the road. This was probably the motivation for the Rainbow portion of the name, although it ruined the deadly images conjured by the first half. I’m told the illusion was not unlike the special effects from the movie “Predator 4.” The pilot had egotistically chosen the call name “Frodo”. This prototype hadn’t made a big splash on any charts, too weak to get involved in any combat, and too fragile to run long without a pit stop. They had borrowed repair budgets from the rest of their fleet just to keep this money pit moving. I could think of five tests that would wipe them out without heat-seeking weapons.

  The biggest mystery surrounding the Exotech stealth craft was its current location. From the points accrued each day, we computed how far it had gone in the race to the nearest fifty kilometers. For the last day and a half, its fuel economy had jumped incredibly. I had a suspicion or two that I would investigate later when I had time to plan race strategy.

  7. GEDM’s heavyweight. They were the only other team to have multiple vehicles. That’s the fourth no vote.

  8. BW’s first heavyweight, Thor’s Hammer. This tank was the only one so far not to break down in any way. They gained most of their present standing by racking up five kills, mainly because they had incredible range on their main gun. While stationary, they could use their main propulsion grids to propel tungsten steel rods at outrageous velocities. The initial impact did little more than poke a small hole in the victim’s armor. However, o
nce embedded, each rod had a small secondary explosive intended to blow up inside the hull. Nobody had found out yet what they used for close-range conflicts. Unfortunately, they had strong business ties to GEDM that they couldn’t break. BW wished me luck, but couldn’t go on record voting against the Detroit monolith. Several engineers were willing to talk shop with me, though. They filled my head with more mechanic’s trivia and discussed what it might cost to build a production version of the Ghedra in Germany. Drinking more Bach beer than I thought possible, I finally moved them over to the abstain category.

  9. The Turn-Pica Elite luxury vehicle from my friends at LAS, the vehicle closest to my own projected ranking. They were the second definite yes.

  10. The team that had tried to punch me out in the casino, North Ameri-Car. They had a heavyweight pulling up the rear in dead last, but still deadly—the Hyperion. But with a little charm I might be able to turn the reason for their animosity to my own ends. I had already leaked that the reason for so many “accidents” during the game had been TSM. That and my earlier gesture of the scotch made folks less hostile toward me, but didn’t get me welcomed like a long-lost relative.

  With the abstaining member, that left nine voting.

  I phoned the judges with an update and asked them for a ruling if I could get another person to abstain. With eight voting, by my reckoning, I would need only four yes votes. The man I got was a stone wall. Half meant half. I needed five or I was walking to the loser buffet for breakfast. This wasn’t going to be easy, but at least I had till midnight to work the miracle.

  Antonio said he’d keep twisting arms and give me an update by the eleven o’clock meeting tonight. Then, he switched topics to the banquet tomorrow afternoon. “Every year it’s for a different charity. This year, it’s for the American Indian College Fund. People pay $500 a plate to eat at the same table as a member of a finalist team, and $50 a plate just to be in the same room. So you end up spending half an hour with six or seven reporters; it’s for a good cause.”

  I grimaced. “I don’t like reporters. Isn’t the press conference scheduled for after the last player crosses the finish line?”

  “Officially, yes. But no one likes to wait that long. No one appreciates the reporters, but not many fans can afford the tickets. Tradition says you only have to answer one question and a follow-up per person. You’d be a fool to skip. The event is the biggest free-advertising spot in the convention. The judges award style points for attending, and some of those reporters will vote on certain categories at the end of the race. You can’t lose. If you don’t show up, you run the risk that they will crucify you.” Antonio was awfully persuasive, but I still remained uncommitted.

  “I’m not much for talking to nosy strangers,” I explained.

  Miss Valencia seemed offended. “But you have to! You’ve got to at least make a showing. Bring anyone you like to help fill out your table. Tony’s even going to have me there.”

  I thought about donating $2000 just so I could fill half the eight seats with friendly faces. “Our clothes have been confiscated for an undetermined period. I don’t know.”

  She couldn’t be denied. “You need costumes? I can get you good costumes by then. I have contacts.” It seems that the event did more than just introduce the finalists. To help boost attendance, the banquet also kicked off the mother of all parties. The final party of the convention was a costumed affair which lasted until check-out time the next morning.

  “What kind of costumes?” I asked nervously. I recalled several teams in the past dressing according to the theme cities in the final leg, or to hype this year’s product. I couldn’t imagine dressing in either a German polka outfit or in a giant turtle suit.

  Antonio nudged me. “Egyptian motif. What else? You’ve got to play it up; you’re going to be in the top ten. Everybody expects it. What does your promoter have to say?” I had visions of pro-wrestling get-ups and rivalries staged for the benefit of the cameras.

  “I do it as long as my costume has a mask; I really don’t want anyone to see my face. But I don’t want you to go to any trouble. I have some great clips from Japanese monster movies that I was going to show with Ghedra blasting away at some dinosaur,” I explained. The others seemed less than impressed by my plan. I would have stayed to discuss more of their views on the charity banquet, but just then I felt a little woozy, probably the pain medication.

  I thanked everybody for their help, but told them, “The Bach beer was too much for me, and I have to get some rest.” I stepped downstairs to get some peace and quiet. My FBI tail followed me at a discrete distance. In the elevator, I asked Whitaker if he knew anything about Andiron Enterprises, and he said he’d get back to me on it.

  At the front desk, I grabbed a paper and checked with Mr. Niven for any messages. Mare was still tied up giving testimony and coordinating the sting, but one of her brothers had called to congratulate her for being on TV. It seems she told them at Thanksgiving to watch for me, but hadn’t mentioned her own contribution. Steve was the California paramedic, ex-military. The other two were Boston police officers.

  While at the main desk, I arranged for another suite for the rest of the convention because our current accommodations were swarming with fingerprint teams and roped off with crime tape. The hotel provided rooms on the same floor for free, as well as complimentary overnight kits. I also grabbed a new pullover shirt from the gift shop because my current one smelled of smoke and sweat. Then, I started thinking about what Mare would need when she got finished.

  I arranged for some Epsom Salts and a silk robe to be sent to the new room for Mare. I sent a bellhop to give her the new key and take her order for a temporary wardrobe. It would be nice if we had a team doctor. She might need help and I was hampered by the sling. On the spur of the moment, I dialed up her brother Steve, using Information, and invited him to the last day. He almost hung up on me to tell the rest of Mare’s sizable extended family she was still in the race. I gave him my corporate commuter card number and told him I’d pay if he wanted to fly in. “Wow. Not that I’m complaining, but why the freebie?” he asked. Did everyone in her family think like cops?

  I didn’t want to discuss the kidnapping. “She’ll want to tell you herself. We had a bit of excitement here and it looks like she may swing a promotion out of it. That’s what I hear through the grapevine, anyway.”

  Steve went back into gosh-gee-whiz excitement mode and started planning how he could get someone to work his shift so he could make it here by morning. He did mention just before he hung up how eager he was to meet me. That phrase always makes a guy uneasy when he’s sharing a hotel room with the man’s sister. I went back to making deals for the game, where I had at least a little experience.

  I visited the Porsche suite, and they had been looking for me to do them a favor. They wanted to produce a limited run of cycles just like mine for next year and needed my permission to make it official. I agreed to a 10 percent cut of the take for essentially no work. We shook hands on the deal. Our lawyers would be contacting each other soon so the product announcement could go out by the end of the race tomorrow. Almost as an afterthought, I had them sign my petition. With the easiest three down, I only needed two more signers.

  At almost 6:00, I remembered how hungry I was. While eating dinner with my shadow, he gave me the scoop on Andiron Enterprises. There had been some organized crime influence in the company’s labor union in the recent past. A word in the right ear, and they were more than happy to cooperate with an ongoing Federal investigation. They signed by 7:00 with my promise that no member of our team would attack their vehicle, and that we would speak to their sales representatives first when selecting heavy equipment for our new production plant. Only one signature remained to be garnered before midnight.

  I could barely walk, I was so tired. So I headed to the new suite to freshen up while I had a little breathing space. In the main lobby, a six-and-a-half-foot man in a trench coat caught me by surprise when he shove
d something toward my ribs. “Mr. Hayes, I’m with the Palmeri Syndicate,” he began. We drew stares when my shadow landed atop him, pressing him into the cold marble floor.

  “He’s clean, no weapons,” announced Whitaker.

  “We’re just here to offer Mr. Hayes a lucrative deal,” said the man in the trench coat when he could breathe again.

  Helping him up, I said, “I’ve already given my testimony to the FBI, sir. You can keep your bribe.”

  The man blanched. “I wasn’t trying to... Oh, my.”

  My FBI guard read the business card the man had been trying to put into my pocket when we over-reacted. “He’s with an entertainment syndicate. He (cough) probably wants the rights to you race footage, and maybe a deal for your story.”

  The man nodded.

  I helped brush his coat off and straighten his gear as we stepped into the elevator. My shadow, eager to avoid a lawsuit, explained, “We apologize for the welcome, sir, but Mr. Hayes has had several attempts made on his life by terrorist elements.”

  “They weren’t terrorists,” I began, trying to dampen the rumors.

  “How else do you explain the grenades they used, Mr. Hayes?” said Whitaker.

  “But the surveillance equipment indicates industrial espionage, not assassination as the primary goal of this group,” I countered.

  Our guest was mute with shock. I tried to turn him down gently. “I am under advice from counsel not to discuss my role in these proceedings. The recordings we still have are under a seal of evidence. I’m sorry, but I don’t want to have my personal life sensationalized either. I’m a very private man. Thank you for your interest, however.” I shook his hand as we left him overwhelmed in the elevator. I needed a press agent before things got out of hand.

  In the suite, I found all of our requested amenities, plus four jumpsuits with the team logo embossed on the arms and Snap-On Tools displayed across the back. Mare would have something to wear tomorrow after all. The gifts were accompanied by a brief letter of thanks from the company and a solution to my time problems in recovering a pilot from the border. The fans at this company knew about a little-used “mission of mercy” rule wherein contestants engaged on a humanitarian mission could earn back penalty time at the rate of 30 seconds per minute spent on the mission. They had spent hours with contacts in Europe until they found an organ transplant organization based out of Switzerland that could help. The Swiss organization could meet me at the border with an ambulance containing a human heart, which they would normally send by high-priority courier. I could then transport the heart to the far side of Munich and make up my lost time.