by Gary Gibson
Dutch pressed a hand against her head and let out a groan. ‘You know, if you’d been straight with me from the start, I never would have had to break that asshole’s finger.’
‘You were too hard on him. Everybody has to race for the first time.’
She scowled at him. ‘Doesn’t mean I should be the one to babysit them.’
Nat stood. ‘We’ve got a couple of hours before the time-trials start.’ He jabbed a finger at her. ‘Remember, we are not going to Teijouan to win the damn race. It’s a retrieval mission, nothing more.’
‘Either way, letting me use the Coupé is the smartest decision you’ve made.’
‘And I hope I don’t live to regret it.’ He glanced towards the door. ‘Get yourself more coffee if you need it. We’ll ‘copter you over to the Fuji Speedway in thirty minutes.’
‘No,’ said Dutch, standing. ‘We’ll drive there. In the Coupé.’
Deep frown-lines formed between Nat’s eyes. ‘We don’t have the time.’
‘I’ve been stuck inside a jail cell for five years. I need all the time behind the wheel I can get. Besides, you know how good I can drive.’
* * *
She drove them onto the Tomei expressway twenty minutes later, Dutch sliding the Coupé past long trains of driverless cars linked to one another by software. Once again, the vibrations from the twin V8’s worked their way up through the leather seating, drumming at her muscles and thighs like a thousand pin-sized Turkish masseurs working in tandem.
Few things, in Dutch’s experience, felt as good as being behind the wheel of a car. The wheels felt like they were glued to the tarmac; now and then she’d catch a glimpse of some round-mouthed face inside a hutch-like pod, there and gone in a blur. She wondered if any of them still remembered what it felt like to take control of your own vehicle—although in truth most had been happy enough to give that privilege up for the sake of zero traffic accidents and safe streets.
She glanced at Nat beside her. ‘Now tell me which you’d rather be in when we run into some pissed-off Spine-back that hasn’t had its breakfast. This, or one of those redneck Halloween specials with the armour-plating and the gun-turrets or whatever.’
‘Fine,’ he admitted with clear reluctance. ‘Maybe you’ve got a point.’
‘Now tell me why I’m racing with only a few days warning.’
‘This thing we’re looking for on Teijouan,’ said Nat, ‘we only discovered existed in the past few weeks. With so little time, we’ve had to think fast and on our feet.’
The traffic loosened up a little, becoming more sparse. She had a sudden flashback to her teenage years when she’d made a living hijacking self-drive pods and reprogramming them to act as automated drug mules for the Mob. ‘So are you going to tell me whatever the hell it is we’re looking for yet?’
‘As Wu already told you, that’s going to wait until after we land on Teijouan.’
She scowled at him. ‘Why the hell not tell me now? Are you saying you don’t trust me?’
‘To be honest, Dutch,’ he said, ‘you haven’t given me any reason why I should.’
* * *
They made it to the Fuji Speedway in even less time than Dutch expected, thanks to Muto’s traffic overrides. It had felt wonderful, but it also, Dutch had to admit, felt too much like cheating.
At Nat’s direction, she pulled up outside a military checkpoint where Nat spoke to a guard. They were waved through, and Dutch followed the signs for the West entrance. Despite her cynicism, she couldn’t help but experience a certain nostalgic glow at seeing the pit buildings after so many years, all in a line next to the racecourse.
She steered the Coupé past the rusting hulk of an anti-aircraft gun mounted on a plinth near the toll booths in memorial to the Battle of Shinjuku. More soldiers directed them onto a road that led to a cordoned-off plaza behind the pit buildings and the grandstand. Cameras flashed, and people came running towards them. She saw broadcast vans, and reporters speaking into cameras.
Dutch pulled over and turned the engine off. People were moving about with brisk purpose everywhere she looked, some in suits, some in overalls, some talking into phones or yelling instructions to each other.
‘Max!’ Nat waved to a young man in mechanic’s overalls as they got out, then patted the roof of the Coupé. ‘Take this to number five.’
‘Sure thing,’ said the kid, sliding into the Coupé and steering it towards the pit building.
Dutch turned the other way to look at the race track, a long strip of grey tarmac that ran parallel to the grandstand before twisting out of sight. ‘What now?’
‘The briefing,’ Nat told her. ‘Then we get to show you off to the press. Any difficult questions, I’ll field them.’
* * *
The race briefing had been scheduled to take place in a long, low-ceilinged room with strip-lighting beneath the grandstand. She glanced at a race roster posted on a wall, although she recognised no more than one or two names.
A few dozen fold-out chairs had been put out in rows facing a low stage, but no more than a dozen were in actual use. Dutch saw the Countess Philippa Graf von König, wearing a yellow-and-black driving suit, her navigator Wilfred Maur beside her in a buttoned-up shirt, jodhpurs and black leather knee-high boots.
König glanced around at Dutch’s entrance and did a double-take. She leaned towards Maur and muttered something. Apart from them, Dutch saw General Hurley, Doktor Elektron, and Dietrich Sokoloff. And if Sokoloff was here, then Lucifer Black was racing, even if, as usual, Black himself remained forever out of sight. The rest were unfamiliar, although a pair of men in priest’s cassocks caught her attention.
She took a seat near the back, ignoring the murmurs and over-the-shoulder glances. Andrew Llordes, a race supervisor she remembered from years before, stepped up to a lectern on the stage and shuffled through some notes.
The Countess whispered something to Maur, their heads close together, before turning around in her seat to address Dutch. ‘I thought you were in prison,’ she asked, her voice dripping with familiar condescension.
Dutch flashed her a tight smile. ‘Not any more.’
‘I assume it wasn’t good behaviour that got you out.’
‘Didn’t they have a riot?’ asked Maur with a sneer. ‘I’m sure I heard mention of a riot.’
‘Dutch got released before the riot broke out,’ said Llordes from behind his lectern. He caught Dutch’s eye. ‘Lucky escape. And welcome back to the race.’
‘Thanks, Andrew,’ Dutch replied.
‘A very lucky escape,’ added Maur, glaring at her.
Doktor Elektron had also turned to look at her. When he caught her eye, he leered from beneath a domino mask, his open mouth exposing blackened teeth.
‘Okay,’ said Llordes, shuffling the papers one last time, ‘let’s get started.’
A satellite image of Teijouan appeared on a screen behind him, much of its centre wreathed in impenetrable cloud and fog. A scale on the map showed the island to be a thousand kilometres in length. In shape it resembled a leaf, broad in the south, but narrowing at its northern tip. Tall mountains ran down its western coast, with equally rugged terrain towards the island’s centre.
‘Weather’s pretty good for this time of year,’ said Llordes, ‘although there’s indications of a typhoon brewing south-east of Japan. It’ll hit the East Coast sometime over the next forty-eight hours, but we’re not expecting it to interfere in any serious way with the race.’ He pointed a remote control at the screen and two red crosses appeared on opposite sides of the island. ‘There are two fuel and supply rendezvous, both in the usual locations. I—’ he paused as Dutch let out a loud yawn. ‘Something you want to say, Dutch?’
‘For Christ’s sake, why do we even need a briefing?’ she asked. ‘We drive up one side and back down the other side, while trying not to get eaten or stomped on. First to cross the finishing line wins. That’s all there is to it.’
‘As much as I hate to hear the Lord’s nam
e taken in vain,’ said one of the two priests, ‘I can’t deny the young lady has a point.’
‘You need to be aware of weather conditions,’ said Llordes, regarding Dutch with a no-bullshit look. ‘Not to mention major Kaiju sightings. You should know this, Dutch. You’re pretty much a veteran around here.’
The picture behind him changed to show something that looked like a cross between an armadillo and a porcupine, and big enough to be at eye-level with anyone standing on top of the buildings surrounding it.
‘A Spine-back,’ Andrew announced. ‘Admiral Linares reports multiple sightings of this specific example close to where the course passes through Takau, so take note.’
‘Any confirmed kills?’ asked a man Dutch didn’t recognise. He was big and beefy with an Australian accent, and wore khakis and a slouch hat.
‘Four that we know of,’ replied Llordes. ‘We think it’s the same Spine-back that took out Beef Rocket.’
‘Man,’ said a kid next to Elektron who couldn’t be out of his teens. ‘I’d like to take that damn beast out myself. I had every one of Rocket’s albums. Still can’t believe he’s gone.’
The kid—who went by the moniker of Kid Atomik, according to the roster Dutch had seen—wore a dark one-piece costume almost as outlandish as Elektron’s own black-and-silver affair. She wondered if the kid had ever read Yellow Puma’s book about his three years as Elektron’s first sidekick; the book had reduced Elektron’s reputation to tatters, but somehow he still managed to find new recruits, each more psychotic and unbalanced than the last. She wondered how long Atomik would last before bailing like all the rest.
The screen changed again, this time showing a blurry video of a thing with multiple heads rearing up on trunk-like rear legs. ‘I’m sure most of you recognise this as a Screecher,’ said Llordes. ‘We last observed this particular one fighting a Venomosaurus in the centre of Taihoku. Screechers are the most lethal Kaiju so far, with a total of twenty-three known kills to date.’ On the screen, the beast lumbered towards another Kaiju, almost as big, with silver-grey skin and a long, lethal-looking barbed tail. ‘And this is a venomosaurus, of course. They’re close behind with a total of twenty confirmed kills.’
‘Confirmed kills?’ asked one of the priests. ‘How many unconfirmed kills are there, young man?’
‘The number of racers who remain unaccounted for outnumber those who are by about three to one, Padre.’
‘May I ask where that footage you showed us came from?’ asked the second priest. ‘My understanding is that most electronics won’t work on Teijouan.’
‘All the cars are required to carry cameras mounted front and back that shoot with physical film stock, since that’s unaffected by the island’s derangement field. And while we’re on the subject, remember that the sponsors require you to keep those cameras rolling as long as possible. The more footage you get, especially if it features encounters with Kaiju, the more money you receive after crossing the finishing line.’
‘And that’s on top of any prize money, right?’ asked the Australian. The roster said his name was Casey Vishnevsky, but the name wasn’t familiar to Dutch.
‘It is,’ Andrew confirmed, pointing the remote control at the screen. ‘All right, let’s move on.’
The screen changed to show another Kaiju loping along a beach past the tumbled ruins of a deserted village. Its tail brushed against a copse of trees, sending them crashing down. It had smooth grey skin like a dolphin, and shark-like fins on its broad back. The focus blurred, then sharpened again, as if taken from a distance. Most likely the footage had been taken from one of the ships that formed a permanent blockade around the island.
‘A Gogoro,’ said Llordes for the benefit of the less experienced drivers. ‘Twelve confirmed kills in total.’ The beast turned towards the ocean, sending up a great spray of water as it swam out from the shore. ‘They swim fast and deep, which apart from proving a challenge for the blockade authorities means they can sometimes crop up unexpectedly at different locations around Teijouan. However, this one’s been sticking to the area around Truku Gorge, so be alert when you reach that part of the course.’
The screen darkened. ‘And that, ladies and gentlemen, is pretty much that. Time trials begin one hour from now. Order of departure is posted in each pit building booth.’ He nodded to them all. ‘And good luck.’
People stood and began milling about. A couple of caterers had set up a trestle table at the back of the room while Llordes talked and loaded it with soft drinks, beer and finger-food. Dutch, famished from a long and sleepless night, piled a paper plate high with turkey sandwiches.
‘Dutch McGuire,’ said one of the priests, coming towards her.
‘Nice to meet you,’ she said, shaking his hand. ‘Mr…?’
‘Iommi,’ said the priest. ‘Padre Antonio Iommi.’ He turned to his companion. ‘And this is my navigator, Padre Ian Kilmister. We’re great fans of yours.’
‘That’s…nice.’ Dutch put her plate down long enough to crack open a beer and swallow most of it down. ‘So…are you real priests?’
Iommi laughed in a good-natured way. ‘Quite real, I assure you.’
Dutch felt like she was a long way from believing that. ‘It seems kind of weird for a priest to be taking part in the Devil’s Run. Given how dangerous it is, and all.’
‘We’re here with the support of the Vatican,’ said Kilmister, his accent English and laden with gravel. ‘Our mission is to exorcise the Kaiju.’
Dutch stopped chewing the chunk of turkey sandwich she’d shoved in her mouth. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Our car is equipped with rocket launchers modified to fire canisters of Holy Water at any beasts we encounter,’ Kilmister explained. ‘It is his Holiness’s belief that the Rift, and the creatures that emerge from it, are of Satanic origin.’
‘You can’t be serious. You’ll get killed out there!’ She looked between them, waiting to see if one of them cracked a smile to let her in on the joke. Instead they gazed back at her with solemn, if polite, expressions.
‘Our fate is with God,’ said Iommi. ‘As is our faith.’
‘Then why even take part?’ asked Dutch. ‘You don’t need to be in a race to—’ to throw bottles of fucking water at Kaiju, she almost said. ‘I mean, there has to be some other way…?’
‘Our initial plan was to fly the Holy Water here aboard drones that could fire it at the beasts,’ said Iommi. ‘The Holy Pontiff, unfortunately, was unaware that the island’s derangement field prevents advanced electronics from functioning within its borders. That leaves us with no choice but to carry out the exorcisms in person.’
‘Right.’ As far as Dutch could see, they’d be lucky to get to the end of their first day on Teijouan without getting torn apart. ‘And of course the only legal way for you to be on Teijouan is if you’re racing.’
Kilmister nodded. ‘Not to mention that the first prize is over five million dollars—more than enough to rebuild the Saint Fabius Claudius Gordianus Fulgentius School for underprivileged children after the terrible earthquake that struck Mozambique two summers ago.’
Shysters, thought Dutch. Con-men. They couldn’t be for real.
‘It’s for the children, you see,’ said Iommi. ‘They suffer so very much. And winning would bring such joy to their hearts…’ he peered at her. ‘I don’t suppose you’re a person of faith, Miss McGuire?’
‘No, I’m not,’ Dutch replied through gritted teeth.
‘Ah, well. Anyway…we wanted to wish you good luck,’ said Iommi. ‘And if we don’t win…’
‘Then it’s God’s will,’ added Padre Kilmister, putting one hand on his co-driver’s shoulder. ‘But we do hope we can win. For the children.’ He bowed to her. ‘Good day.’
‘Assholes,’ a voice muttered from Dutch’s other side once the two priests had moved on to their next target.
Dutch turned to see General Hurley standing on her other side.
‘It’s good to see you again, Fred.�
� She glanced at the two priests, now deep in conversation with the Countess. ‘Those two can’t be for real, can they?’
‘Hard as it is to believe, they are real. Or so I’ve been told.’
‘I thought you’d have retired by now,’ she said.
He grinned. ‘You mean retired again.’ Hurley had spent a few years in command of the UN naval blockade around Teijouan before surprising everyone by taking part in the race himself. ‘You know I couldn’t keep away from the island any more than you.’
She grinned. ‘Well, circumstances forced me to take an extended break.’
Hurley had the grace to wince. ‘I should have thought of that before speaking. But at least you’re out now.’ He frowned. ‘We were all wondering…why such short notice? I didn’t even know you were taking part until I saw you walk into the room.’
‘An insane billionaire kidnapped me and told me if I didn’t race for him, he’d have me thrown from his private jet without a parachute.’
The General looked startled for a moment. ‘Strugatsky?’
‘Wu.’
Hurley sighed and shook his head. ‘They’re both conniving, evil sons of bitches.’ He reached out a hand and Dutch clasped it. ‘Good luck, Dutch.’
‘You too, General.’
‘Press in five minutes,’ Llordes called out, and people started to make their way out of the room. Nat came over and motioned to Dutch to follow him.
‘Stand at the back,’ he told her. ‘Smile, and don’t answer any questions.’
* * *
She found herself in another part of the building, where a table faced towards rows of seated journalists. Elektron and the Countess were already seated at the table, with representatives of their corporate sponsors standing in a gaggle to one side. Nat pushed her in next to the General, who stood ramrod straight at the back. Cameras flashed, and she saw Nat speaking to a member of the Speedway’s security.
The drivers spent the next twenty minutes answering questions. A lot of them were aimed at Dutch, but Nat fielded every last one with practised ease, giving them answers that added up to very little real detail at all.
