The Scarab (10 page)

After racing for four minutes
through this obstacle course, I began to sweat. It was T minus ten, and my
allies were getting nervous. “Come on, there are all these boats around here,
where are the boat landings?”

“Over there,” Mare exclaimed. “A
private beach!” We both turned hard left without needing to consult. When we
got close enough to make out details, we saw the mistake. “Oh, God. Stairs!”

I did some fast math. “Don’t slow
down! Just nose up and turn left up the coast road and brake as soon as we’re
out.” If we slowed down the momentum wouldn’t carry us over the hill, and we’d
crack open against the rocks. I didn’t tell her, but the sudden deceleration
was even riskier than the jump.

At the last second, she put her arm
around me and squeezed tight. I thought it was so both drones could squeeze up
the same staircase. When I heard the intake of breath, I realized that to her,
this was a real chase.

As soon as we were up, and stopped,
I ran a fifteen-second diagnostic and soothed her nerves. The brake flaps had
worked almost as fast as a parachute. It was the first time I’d used them, but
I didn’t tell Mare this either. “Relax, it’s just a game. We’re safe.”

When the shock wore off a little,
she asked. “How did you know it would work?”

“I saw them do this in a movie with
speed boats. The drones weigh about the same. I figured we could do it, too.
Besides, we’re T minus nine and don’t have time for pussy-footing.”

In a quiet voice, she suggested. “You
don’t have to go back. You can still win with two out of three team components.”

I shook my head. “I gave my word.”

“I know.” I could see her smiling
now out of my unharnessed right eye.

Three minutes later, I hit the
switch to arm our guns. Seeing his cue, the Elite did the same. With my ECM,
the Mirage couldn’t be absolutely certain from which direction the attack was
coming until we hit visual range. Unfortunately, visual was almost a kilometer
away. T minus four, and it all hit the fan. The Mirage had seen us and was
firing its attitude jets to aim at us. “Guns, constant fire,” I ordered. We
managed to pump two or three rounds into his infra-structure and bounce a few
more off the cliff into him before the Mirage reached his firing stance.

Somewhere between 700 and 500
meters, he got radar lock, despite our defenses. That was the second time this
race that someone had done that to me, and it was getting annoying. Where was
the Elite? We exhausted an entire drum of bullets as the Mirage aimed it’s rack
and launched. Jane’s on-line said those rockets cost an arm and a leg. Mare
wanted to veer-off instinctively, but I shouted, “Hold formation, don’t weave.”
We waited for our only remaining ammo drum to cycle into firing position.

Warning lights and buzzers sounded.
The Elite was on screen. If we could all survive a few more seconds, we’d have
victory. The Mirage on-boards swore they scored a direct hit on us, as do all
the replays. What the sports casters failed to notice was that since we weren’t
evading, the computer hit us dead center. Since we had no center, the direct
hit passed through harmlessly. DeClerk Enterprise stealth technology just
earned its first product endorsement on stations worldwide, and its first
sound-byte on the evening news. As the Scarab, I racked up another return from
the grave for my legend.

The Mirage crew was too stunned to
react when both our drones and the Elite opened fired simultaneously. We
obliterated him, and knocked his carcass clean off the cliff side. Jet fuel is
nasty that way. Mare let out a whoop, and tried to clap her hands before I
stopped her. “Cease fire. Brake, brake.”

Our detective burst down the door
in alarm, worried that someone had gotten past him. When he saw Mare jumping up
and down on my lap, giggling, he said “Sorry,” and left again.

“Yes!” We high-fived the Elite by
flashing our headlights and reconnected with our main body in the base camp.
When we formed up the convoy to Monaco, we took the lead. “T minus three, boys
and girls, let’s move.” Mary said, as she resumed her role as navigator
extraordinaire.

I left my sower mine in the road
and encouraged others to do the same as a delaying tactic. The rest of the day’s
leg was anti-climactic. We had a cabin air filtration quality test while
passing through some of the tunnels, but I don’t remember anything else.

By now, so many people were calling
me Scarab that I changed my icon on the strategy map to the one I used back
home. The Scarab pulled into the designated finish line in sixth place for the
day, and the Elite finished a contented seventh. When the statistics came up
for that day’s run, I noticed a new column marked AAPK. Mousing the box, the
expanded title read “Assists and Passive Kills.” They had me down for four of
them. With ESPN coverage, the stats were starting to resemble the NBA more than
a true road race.

Once I looked over all the data one
more time, I powered the interface down for today. Removing my data garb, I
said “Only one more thing left to do, Officer Anselm.

“Get ready for dancing downstairs.
They’re having casino night, and I’m in the mood to celebrate.” They also gave
all teams 500 dollars in chips to gamble with.

The victory hug I gave her turned
into a slow victory kiss.

Before long, we were both panting
hoarsely. It was still too early in our reunion for Mare to go all the way, but
we definitely got reacquainted with one another’s bodies. Even the smell of her
sweat was a turn on. When she finally got down to her underwear, she looked up
at the clock and said, “Oh, dear, we’re late! I wouldn’t want you to miss your
casino night.”

She locked herself in the bathroom
to get ready while I whimpered, and tried to regain the ability to walk.

In honor of our night in Monte Carlo, all of the covering
networks were doing special programs of some kind. The Entertainment Channel
was doing a history on the Cannes Film Festival on the Riviera. MTV was doing a
Bond theme song retrospective. NPR gave an Encyclopedia Britannica report on
the tiny nation. Monte Carlo was two miles long, less than a mile wide, home to
more than 30,000 souls and a world-famous Russian Ballet. While putting on the
tie for a tuxedo, which I rented from the hotel, I was surprised to find out
about the Treaty of Versailles. The treaty affirmed Monaco’s right to exist but
gives the land to France should the King of Monaco ever fail to have a male
heir. This was why the country had rejoiced when the union of Prince Rainier
and Princess Grace produced Prince Albert.

ESPN, imminently focused on the
sport, covered the two local races held annually; the Monaco Grand Prix and the
Monte Carlo Rally. They did relax the rules a bit and allow for a guest
appearance from some old math professor who explained the game of Roulette and
assorted schemes that gamblers used to cheat at casinos in Monte Carlo.

The whole night was a surreal
experience. I felt like Cinderella at the Ball. Everyone here was so rich and
powerful, the glitz was almost blinding. They gave us SimCon name tags at the
door with the DeClerk name in brass on a black background. I kept eyeing Mary
in that sleeveless, black evening gown, and she sized me up in the tuxedo.

First, we tried our luck at the
casino. The room was filled with noises of human extremes, from wailing to
cheering, with a constant patter of lucky phrases in between. I lost twenty
dollars at dice before I could blink and decided to move on. Mare turned out to
be a natural at blackjack. She had our fortune up to almost seven hundred when
I left to get her sloe gin fizz from the bar. A band was setting up on the
parqueted wood floor in the next room.

While waiting in line, I caught a
glimpse of a killer young blonde. Bending over a table to touch up her
lipstick, she was wearing a backless, red dress tight enough to be a swim suit.
She must have seen me in her compact mirror, because she caught me looking,
turned around, and smiled. Embarrassed, I faced the bar and ordered early.

On my way back to the blackjack
table, the blonde bumped into me, giving me as complete a view of her front
side as I’d had of her back. “Interested?” she asked.

“Uh, in what?” I stalled, taking a
swallow of Mare’s drink. She wanted it made with diet cola, so it tasted awful.

“I don’t like big parties,” she
confided. “I’m much better with intimate ones.”

I could see every curve on her
body, and my temperature had to be climbing. “I ... I already have a date for
tonight.”

“She can come, too. I don’t mind,”
the blonde purred.

I took another swallow. People
wrote letters to magazines about encounters like this. “Miss... what did you
say your name was?”

“I’m Bambi. Wanna be Thumper?”

I was starting to get stares from
other men nearby. Actually, she was getting the stares. “Bambi, why me?”

She traced her well-polished nail
up my shirt until she tapped my name tag. A shiver ran up my spine. Nails that
long could be dangerous. “You are the Scarab, aren’t you?” She smiled,
expectantly.

Say yes, my body screamed. Say
anything.

Three days ago, I would have kicked
myself for what I was about to do. “Gosh, I wish I were, miss. But I’m only the
mechanic. The Scarab doesn’t like crowds either.”

She deflated visibly, her whole
manner changing. I was no longer the quarry. “Is he in the company suite right
now, in bed?”

“In bed, but in another room, which
we’ve been sworn to keep secret. He doesn’t like people much.”

She leaned close enough for me to
smell her skin over her perfume. “He’d like me. If you want to try first to
make sure, I’d understand.”

I shook my head, partly for her,
but mainly for me.

“Well, if you’re not into girls,
you could earn an easy hundred by just giving me the room number.”

I emptied Mare’s drink, grasping
for a convincing lie. “I could lose my job.”

She gave a throaty laugh. “Trust
me. You’ll get promoted.”

This woman was unstoppable. I
needed another drink

In my desperation I could only
think of one way to get rid of her. I got a house phone from the bartender and
called the Pensatronics suite. He grunted “What?” after four rings.

Just loudly enough for Bambi to
hear, I said, “Boss, remember you were asking about try-outs for a new model
for the ads? I’ve found the perfect girl for you. She’s eager to audition, but
she’ll need proof that you’re really the Scarab. Give her one of your cards and
I’m sure she’ll take the offer.”

The head of Pensatronics was
practically drooling as he described what he was hoping for. “Whatever you say,
boss. Just don’t forget to send us the numbers you promised for tomorrow’s run.”
As soon as I hung up, I gave her the slug’s room number. I had to force myself
not to watch her walk away.

Mare started losing after I left,
and had just been waiting ever since. “Long line?” she said with a chill in her
voice. Ouch, she was sharp.

I weighed my options from total denial
to complete honesty. Since Mare would never go along with pandering and the
sick deal I just made with Pensatronics, I compromised with “a very persistent
young lady wanted to visit my room.”

“I didn’t think the bartender wore
Jungle Passion.” If Mary admitted to having that much evidence, she had much
more that she was withholding. She probably even watched the whole thing. “What
did you tell her?”

“No. Firmly and repeatedly.”

“You know she was a professional? I
heard in the powder room that someone’s paying bounty of $1000 a head to anyone
who can keep a player up all night. It’s the sort of trick politicians use
before a debate.” Seeing the surprise on my face, she said, “Why did you say
no?”

I heard the sound of a brass
section playing “In the Mood” and had my answer. “Because I had other plans for
the evening—I wanted to take my best friend dancing.”

The fairy tale started again in the
ballroom. We danced for nearly an hour before I got hungry. After one more slow
dance, she started acting kind of funny. She got really calm, and when we went
to the buffet, Mary stayed at our table and wouldn’t take a thing to eat.

“This all looks tremendous. I’ve
never seen so many types of cheesecake, babe. And look at these
chocolate-dipped strawberries! I’d even have some champagne if I weren’t afraid
of the hangover from mixing. You’ve got to have some of this chocolate!” I
said.

“No, I want to be able to fit into
my grandmother’s dress,” she said, almost to herself.

I didn’t catch the clue bus at
first and piled up my plate with seconds. Just then, somebody grabbed me
roughly by the shoulder. Bambi’s pimp or Exotech’s goons, I worried.
Fortunately, it was just a really pissed-off techie with a North Ameri-Car name
tag. “So you’re the wise-ass who rigged the power line test. The amperage
doubled after you messed with it and the thing fried every disk we had attached
to our interface. We lost over fifty weeks worth of research today because of
your joke, Mister, and somebody’s going to pay!”

I was too distracted at the time to
wonder how he had managed an equipment malfunction after he was dead, but I had
heard rumors about other brand new disk drives in the building failing
spontaneously due to what the industry call “infant mortality.” If he hadn’t
bothered to make back ups, that was just too sad. I squinted at the stick-on
name tag beneath the North Ameri-Car logo while he took his first breath.
Balding, but still in fair shape, Frank looked like he might knock out my
teeth, but it would aggravate his ulcers to no end—a definite type A
personality. “I’m sorry, Frank, I’m busy right now. If you’re looking for
donations to keep the old dinosaur you call a company afloat, you can froth at
me tomorrow, and I’ll be more than happy to listen.”

He hauled back a fist, telegraphing
like Western Union. I took the stainless-steel tray of canapés I was holding,
and thrust it against the expected blow. He hit hard enough to break the
handles off the tray, and a number of his fingers. It could have been worse, it
could have been my face. My Dad only taught me one thing about fighting, never
do it when you’re angry.

There were cheese and cracker
treats everywhere, and he was cradling his arm, swearing a blue streak. I
flicked an olive off his lapels, and escorted him over against the swan
ice-sculpture to cool his hand. I told him to stay there, out of trouble, till
I could get him first aid.

As a parting shot, now that I had
his attention, I whispered in his ear, “The power line was fine when I left it.
I’d help you, but I had paint over my windshield at the time and couldn’t see.
Tell the judges to check my log if you don’t believe me.”

I sent a writer from
Car and
Driver
, a woman of oriental extraction, over to tell Mary to meet me back
at the room. She was at the Baccarat table, learning the rules. I’d probably
have to give Ms. Lee an interview before the week was up, but at least she knew
her topic. Ms. Lee was a stringer hired for this event mainly for her
programming experience.

Several people chuckled and shook
my hand on my way out. A clique of executives from the top three car makers
circled their wagons around me. The ties bugged me, and I refused to be chummy.

“Don’t worry. He’s only sore
because he never even got out of Paris,” said one who looked like a model 50’s
TV father.

“A thousand dollars says the last
car they have in the race bites it tomorrow,” said one who looked like a
banker.

“Just because they have a
technician who can’t type?”

“Hell, he only needs one finger for
that!”

“He’s right to worry about the
budget when his company’s helicopter division is closing,” the TV father
confided.

“Yup. I hear TSM is cutting out
their military division, too,” whispered the banker. “Not even going to build
this year’s designs. Trying to cut their losses on that Senate Oversight
fiasco.”

I felt a little guilty, so I tried
to steer the conversation away. “They should be in good company. Exotech’s
already in the hot seat.”

“Ahh, the new wunderkind! Maybe you
can settle an argument for us,” said another whose perfect hair reminded me of
a politician. “Who do you think was the greatest fictional racer of all time. I
say Steve McQueen, he says James Garner in Gran Prix. This Neanderthal here
says Frankenstein from Deathrace 2000.”

“Racer X,” I replied. That started
another debate on Japanese animation, a topic which I knew more about than all
of them combined. Still, I feigned ignorance, pasted a fake smile on my face,
and made my way out. I stayed away from numerous side-bets and big offers that
sounded too much like what you’d hear in Hollywood.

Upon reaching the sanctuary of the
front desk, I drank in the relative quiet while the desk clerk, who looked like
a movie butler, talked on the phone. I was coming down off the adrenaline and
scared that the next attacker might be a professional.

Behind the counter, a facsimile
machine was cranking away.

“What’s that?” I asked, pointing
with my chin.

“Oh, just the latest from the Tokyo exchange. Some of our guests like to keep tabs.” He said it kind of snotty, like a
man who never had a facial hair in his life and thought grease under the nails
was uncouth.

“Hmm. I think my company went on
the exchange today, could you check it out for me?”

“You mean the one you work for?” He
said, sneering.

“No, the one I own.” I pulled a
business card out of my ratty, old, disintegrating wallet, and handed it to
him. With dawning fear, the clerk took the card and traced down DeClerk in the
listing.

“It went up eighteen points,” he
said in reverence.

“Is that good?” I asked, playing
the bumpkin, and holding back the smile. He nodded, dumbly. “Good. Then, I’ll
celebrate. Send a nurse and bottle of your good Scotch to Frank by the ice
sculpture with my compliments.” I took the double-digit chip out of my pocket,
and slapped it on the counter. “I’ll be retiring for the evening if anyone
asks.”

I headed for the elevator, with a
three-mile grin on my face. I couldn’t wait to tell Mary. On the way up, the
nagging clue caught up to me—her Grandmother’s dress, wedding dress! I felt a
warm explosion inside as the implications hit me. With any other woman, at any
other time, that thought would have sent me into a screaming panic. But now,
the prospect settled around me like a comfortable old chair. Lord knows we’d
been dating for long enough, and now that I no longer had the debt looming over
me, it could work. Yes. It felt right.

I plotted how I could get a decent
ring and take her out tomorrow night. I’d get a loan from Nigel, and do it up
right, violins and everything. I practically floated off the elevator.

All in all, it had been a good
second race day.