The Bloodlust: (Volume Three of the Virion Series)

by R. L. M. Sanchez

  “Concerned over the crews or the bikes?” McKenna said.

  “The bike's only as competent as its driver, sir. There used to be a time when the racing vehicle did most of the work, the driver was just in for the ride. Good awful boring that was, but down here? If you can’t build a bike that can perform or if your driver can’t tame the raw power of the engine, then neither belongs on the track.” Racing was a sport McKenna never delved into in his years of peacetime. He was relying on Dill’s expertise as a driver.

  “Speakeasy seems to think you've got quite a knack for this. Are you up for it?” McKenna asked.

  “I had to be good enough to infiltrate Wargame’s gang posing as an illegal racer. Besides, these teams are all green, you can see it,” Dill said as several crews began to give him second glances. “The way they move around the bike, the way they handle the equipment. They don't have any relationship to the bike, don't respect it. It's reassuring to me. I can drive, McKenna, I'm not afraid of the risks.”

  “But one component sets it apart from your time. The warp engine.”

  “You're right. It’s fundamentally similar to a stage burner on a VTOL but, rather than getting a burst of speed, I get an instantaneous warp? Shit. I’ll… deal with it.”

  The two continued searching for paddock eleven and Hugo and their pit crew. However, when they finally found it, all the doors were shut and not a single crew member was present. Dill tried opening the door only to find it locked.

  “What an oddity,” Dill said. McKenna contacted Speakeasy.

  “McKenna, what's going on? You find Hugo yet?” Speakeasy said.

  “Hugo's MIA, and no one's here but us,” McKenna said. Dill peered through a small porthole in the door to see Hugo sitting alone inside, battered and bruised and not moving.

  “McKenna!” Dill shouted. “It’s Hugo.”

  “I'll call you back, Speak,” McKenna said as he rushed to the door. McKenna looked inside. It was definitely Hugo, minus his consciousness and the bike. McKenna pulled out his forensic tool and picked the lock quickly. The two ran in with their weapons trained at any possible threats, but it was only Hugo in the room. Dill knelt beside Hugo to find a strong pulse in him.

  “Hey, Hugo, come out of it, mate!” Dill said. He snapped his fingers in succession, finally breaking Hugo's trance. He was groggy but, ultimately, he was only resting, no doubt from the beating he had received.

  “Who…?” Hugo said.

  “It's Roberts and McKenna, your teammates. What happened, Hugo? You look half-dead!”

  “Not dead… I’m just… regrouping...” Hugo appeared to have nodded off before coming to reality again. “Pinche pendejos! Come in to my garage…?! My new garage…” Hugo grabbed his bruised stomach. He looked to Roberts and McKenna, worried about his state. “Team Martian Greys…” He looked to them and held a thumb up.

  “Who did this to you?” McKenna said. “Where's the bike?” Hugo looked to the corner with a clean silhouette, unstained on the ground from where the bike once was. Only an engine lay in pieces outside it.

  “Rivals. Dogs is all they are.”

  “Another team?” McKenna asked.

  “Someone’s forcing me out. That same someone got spooked by my new engine. My only guess…”

  “What about the bike?” Dill asked, standing by the engine.

  “Scrapped it probably. Left me to gaze at a useless engine, a joke on their part. Poor old Hugo, they say. Even with design, he'll still not amount to anything.” Dill and McKenna felt a dip in their stomachs. Without a bike, they couldn't race and that sacrifice may cost them The Games. They had a commanding lead already; however, that would quickly pass if they sat out of Warp One.

  “I don't see a lot of options here, Dill,” McKenna said.

  “A forfeit?” Dill scoffed. “Not how I wanted to go down. I could’ve done this!”

  “You'd think the Wordkeepers would prevent crap like this. What good are they, exactly?”

  “Who’s to say they’re not behind this?” Dill said as he shook his head.

  “First Kim's card, your bathroom stalker, now this? Someone’s taking us for a ride alright. They did a good job.” McKenna clicked his earpiece again. “Speakeasy, it's McKenna. Someone got to Hugo and the bike. He's fine now, but without the bike we're at a standstill. We'll have to withdrawal.”

  “What?! Not good, not good!”

  “Hasker might be putting other teams up to this to clear himself of involvement. We can’t fight something like that.” Hugo felt a storm of frustration in him. McKenna was worried, but the fact that the other teams were doing the brunt of the dirty work, it was more than fair to strike back.

  “Wait,” Hugo said as he stood up, “there may be a way.” McKenna closed his OPIaA and indulged Hugo. Any idea was worth hearing while they still could.

  “How? We don't have a bloody bike now!” Dill said.

  “I've been making engines since I was nine years, man. Small stuff at first, just tuning and light mods. But it wasn't long before I started designing my own chassis and engines. I was ridiculed for some of them. Too light, they said. Thrust vectors belong on ships, they said. Warp cores too large for a light engine. I had heard it all. Luckily, I was able to still land a job with Rossberg’s crew until I saved enough to run my own garage and team. Now here I am. This was my first chance to show everyone and then Rossberg tried to fuck me over. But I still intend to race.”

  “Hugo, mate, a very touching story and Lord knows I'd like to help, but we can’t do shit without a bike and word has it yours was the fastest built, an edge we could’ve used.”

  “The engine is what's important here, man,” Hugo said as he pointed to the engine.

  “I think you misunderstood my partner,” McKenna said. “Even if your engine is some piece of God-Tech, we still haven't got a bike to mount it on.”

  “Then let's get one,” Hugo said.

  “It's a little late in the game to start pricing chassis,” Dill smirked.

  “Who said anything about buying one? Cabrons took mine, so maybe I'll take theirs.”

  “You're suggesting we steal a bike. From another team?” McKenna said.

  “Team Scorch, they took it. Their driver, Rossberg, he owns a franchise of cat-houses. He's a three-year champion and he loves to smile ear to ear when he's at the top of the winner’s podium. Thinks too highly of himself, says only the best looking racers win. He's a piece of shit. Hardly paid for my work but I didn't have much of a choice back then. He gave me a roof and sometimes armed security.”

  “So, this Rossberg is the one who threw you in the meat grinder?” Dill asked.

  “If he's so confident in himself and his bike, why'd he suddenly find you a threat?” McKenna asked.

  “Look, I don't know, man, but he's the bastard that did it.”

  “Hasker…” McKenna sighed. “So, stealing a bike? Just because he does it doesn't give us the right.” Hugo looked to the ground in disappointment. Speakeasy had said they were cops of sorts and their attitudes showed it.

  “Maybe we can convince him to let us borrow his?” Hugo asked.

  “You're serious?” McKenna said.

  “It's legal if both parties consent and he's not sponsored by a Broker so Hasker can’t do a damn thing.”

  “We're here as contestants, not thugs,” McKenna said. “We don't need to start a war down here, so come with us, Hugo. We'll find you a medic and find the race Herald to withdraw us.” Dill walked over to McKenna and turned his back to Hugo to dampen private words.

  “McKenna, maybe we should hear him out,” Dill said softly. “We can't afford to lose this. We're already knee deep in this shit.”

  “Dill, it’s obvious we've attracted attention here and they want us out. Given this environment, we should be grateful nobody has sent hit squads after us.”

  McKenna continued out the door before feeling a tighter tug on his shoulder. The grasp was forcefully violent. McKenna turned again to Dill
only to find an angered face looking back.

  “McKenna, don't let this slip by you. It'll only be you to blame if we forfeit.”

  McKenna chuckled as he thought about blame and faults. His main cause of thought was Dill and his temper. Ever since they reached The Games, ever since his acceptance of the idea, he was eager to participate. McKenna knew it was out of his character, but he couldn't possibly perceive why.

  “Fine, Dill,” McKenna said. “So, what do you have in mind, Hugo?”

  “Rossberg owns a nightclub right here on the track. You'll find him there.”

  “He's not out here on the track prepping?”

  “Ha, there are a few teams who don't even bother and they're the same ones who usually think a little too highly of themselves. But they also win all of the races.” Dill’s curiosity was aroused when he heard that not all participating teams were present on the track.

  “Who else isn't here on the track?” Dill asked, curious about teams he hadn’t yet seen.

  “I don't keep track of every team's whereabouts during downtime, bro.”

  “Well, if we're going to do this, then let's,” McKenna said as he watched Dill closely. Hugo walked over to a small sink and washed up his face as McKenna and Roberts proceeded out the door.

  8

  THE MANEATER

  The entertainment strip in the lower level satisfied all needs in the downtime between races. Gambling, sex, clubbing, booze, it could all be found just a few hundred meters away. The ManEater was the most revered and talked about club around; it was even well known outside the walls of The Red Sector Games, said to house the best liquor and women in the undercity.

  As McKenna approached the nightclub, his ears began to vibrate from the muffled tunes and bass from within and he was almost blinded by the antique neon light mounted above the club's entrance. A nude woman with a fork was traced in purple and blue neon; it was an easy image to remember, should you forget what you were looking for.

  “Well, Hugo, you're running this show, aren't you?” McKenna said.

  “Yeah, right,” Hugo groaned, still a bit under the weather.

  “Hugo, I convinced my superior to go along with this, maybe show him what you had in mind?” Dill asked.

  “Hell, I don't know. Aren't you guys cops? Don't you normally kick down perp’s doors or something?”

  “Well, as of late, our perps have been kicking down ours,” Dill said.

  “Okay, here's a bargaining chip,” Hugo said. “There's a cash prize for the three podium winners alongside prime points for the team. Just offer him the cash prize in exchange for the Prime Points and the bike.”

  “Well then, why don't we just make him race for us while we're at it?” McKenna said.

  “Not a chance!” Dill interjected. “I won't leave this race in the hands of a criminal. Besides, if we force him, he won't be compliant worth a damn.”

  “Relax, I was being facetious. We’ll be asking a lot of him.”

  The three walked past a couple of guards in uncommon suits for the undercity, bright blue blazers with thin ties. The taste was poor but the stitching and quality was rival to garments in the uppercity. When they reached the door, they were halted by one more guard pressing his hand in Dill’s chest, immediately recognizing them as non-regulars.

  “You’re not a VIP!” the guard grunted.

  “Team Martian Greys,” Dill said as he held up his band. The guard scanned it with his OPIaA followed by McKenna's and Hugo's. The guard saw the scan pass.

  “Okay, go ahead!” The guard opened the door behind him and in they went.

  Electronic synthesizers and bass escaped past the doors as they opened. It was the first few seconds of a new song on the club’s playlist, a remix of a more classic song dating from Old Earth. As the three walked in, they were already being greeted by waitresses fluttering their powerful, makeup-clad, flirtatious eyes. Dill and Hugo couldn’t help but smile back at them.

  “Wish the clubs up top had this kind of service,” Dill said as he stared at one of the waitresses. Only red body paint covered her and she wore a costume devil’s tail.

  A band was playing through holographic projections at the center stage and was encircled by pole dancers. Just a little over a hundred people were in the club, but most people present were part of rival teams, given the date and time.

  McKenna walked over to the bar top and took a seat with the others. A female bartender with a buzz cut and half-tattooed face walked over and didn't look much like the talkative type.

  “Drink?” she asked.

  “Drink for information? Three Kentucky Ryes,” Dill asked. The bartender immediately got to work serving the drinks before the three gentlemen but was confused about the initial offer, herself frowning.

  “I just serve drinks, slick,” she said as she placed the glasses on the bar top.

  “Rossberg, where is he?” Dill asked.

  “Who wants to know?” She frowned.

  “Wargame,” Dill smiled. “We're his lieutenants.” McKenna's eyes widened after hearing Dill's fib.

  “Whatever, get drinks or get lost,” she said before walking to help other patrons.

  “Dill, as much as I love playing charades, that role is one we can’t keep up,” McKenna said. “Wargame's actual people could be here and I'm on their hit list. Take a drink and cool it. We'll just have to fish Rossberg out.” McKenna stood up out of his barstool. “I’m going to ask the bartender you just insulted politely. Just keep an eye out and make sure we have an exit.”

  “An exit?” Dill asked.

  “I have a habit of starting fights in bars, remember?”

  “Vaguely, sir. Just don’t hit the pretty bartender, yeah?”

  “I have manners.” McKenna walked off into the small crowd of people on the dance floor to speak to the bartender and guards before being lost from sight.

  Dill turned around to eyeball a few other teams sitting at tables. He saw Team Gideon's racer being caressed by a couple of dancers, along with another team, Ajax, and their entire team eating in the middle. Dill had been studying the team rosters closely. He leaned toward Hugo.

  “I've seen just about every team we're set to race, with the exception of one. Team Head Hunter, did they withdraw?” Hugo looked at his OPIaA to look at current rosters.

  “No, none of them have to my knowledge,” Hugo said.

  “Hmm, I guess he's not here…” Dill pondered.

  “You've been looking for Team Head Hunter?”

  “No, not in particular. Just… eager to beat ex-champions.”

  “You sure are confident. I hope Speakeasy knows what he's doing,” Hugo said as he took a sip of his drink.

  “And you're awfully calm,” Dill said. “You realize if your engine isn’t what it’s cracked up to be that these guys down here will rip you apart, right?”

  “Trust me, my worries lay with you. I have the utmost faith in my engine. The engine drives packs over fifteen thousand horses and its warp core pushes 1.3 FTL. All while being one hundred percent sustainable.”

  “Sounds like quite the tech. Most drivers are afraid to push the cores, from what I've seen. And what’s to fear? Causing an explosion that'll blow their asses back to Old Earth?”

  “No rules regarding warp usage. Anything you can pull off with the warp core is legal if the engine can take it. And mine can stay passive FTL if it wanted, with it being without a traditional limiter.”

  “The engine doesn't have a limiter? That's what will keep a warp engine’s fifty kiloton explosion contained should it fail!”

  “Whoa, whoa! It's cool, bro! I've tested it several times, in the flesh. I've made my own crisis limiter that will contain any such thing and you'll still have the full capabilities in the core.”

  Dill was impressed at the young Hugo's accomplishments. He didn't seem like the lying type, but it was obvious why Speakeasy grabbed him.

  “Hmm, impressive, kid. Why aren't you working up top with the ENF or on
e of the big aerospace names?”

  Hugo scoffed at the idea, no doubt the idea crossed his mind once before. “Ha, the technology is hush, man. If the Aurorans ever caught wind of it or the Council? That's life imprisonment for breaking the 3rd Law of Sol. Besides, getting out of this hell hole and being accepted up there amongst the Greens and Blues? Harder than it looks. The cash prize would've been nice, but I owe Speakeasy the favor.”

  Dill thought on how Speakeasy wasn’t a typical broker as much as he was a decent human being. But favors went every which way, something Dill was wary of.

  “Good points, my son—”

  Dill dropped his glass as two hands clutched his shoulders. A black bag was quickly thrown over his and Hugo's heads, followed by some quick jabs to the ribs. He tried to fight but he felt a sharp twist of his arms before he felt himself being dragged away. He kept trying to struggle and heard Hugo doing so as well; a hard, blunt object hit his head, sending him into a dream state.

  Speakeasy tried tapping the call button on his OPIaA over and over but couldn’t reach McKenna, Dill, or Hugo. He paced in the lounge as Kimmy and Humphries watched highlights from the Sol-Fate tournament. Ripper kept looking at Speakeasy and his worrying pace.

  “Not good, not good!” Speakeasy said. Kimmy turned around to see just how concerned Speakeasy looked, more so than his normal appearance of constant anxiety.

  “What’s up, Speaky?” Kimmy said.

  “It’s Roberts. McKenna. All of them! They’re not answering!”

  “I’m sure they’re fine. Those guys are a lot tougher than they look. McKenna himself kicked, like, a bunch of Wargame dudes’ asses single handedly.”

  “Not their physical prowess I’m worried about. It’s been an hour since their last radio contact. Q1 qualifying is starting soon! If they don’t qualify, they’ll be stuck at the rear of the pack, no exceptions!”

  “Well, that sucks. Well, even so, can’t Hugo’s engine beat out competition like nothing?”