First cracked open the cockpit of the simulator and removed the breathing mask.
“I’ve been in here for six hours,” she complained. “Is this really necessary?”
“You were too shallow in your entry vector on that last run by 0.8 degrees,” Fenax said. “So apparently yes, it remains necessary.”
“I rounded up,” First said.
“This isn’t like calculating the tip on a bar tab, First. At the speeds these sling-racers move, being shallow by 0.8 degrees means you missed the target window by thousands of ship lengths. You don’t have enough time or thruster propellant to make that kind of course correction.”
First’s head rolled back against the seat rest. “I thought you said these things were all engine.”
“They are. They’re stripped down to the last molecule to be as light as possible. They’re basically just a seat glued to a miniaturized reactor, drive spike, and a couple of thruster quadrants wrapped in a paper-thin fairing to keep the solar radiation out. But that means their propellant tanks are also tiny, just enough fuel and reactant mass to last the duration of the race course, a thimble of emergency reserve, and not a drop more.”
“So why am I stealing one again?”
“Because they’re custom-built for decadent thrill-seekers and cost five to ten million credits apiece, and this particular one is owned by Loritt’s former boss, who still owes him money. Honestly, I think he’d take a loss to repossess this asset.”
“Ah,” First said. “Now that’s a motivation I understand. But why don’t we just stick you in the cockpit? You’re far and away the most experienced pilot we have.”
Fenax waggled their ganglia. “Because there’s no automation, no interface. It’s just the manual controls and the handful of flight instrumentation you see in the simulator. There’s nothing to plug me into, and I don’t have the hands for stick-and-pedal flying even if I wanted to, which frankly I don’t. Way too primitive. Neither Jrill nor Sheer will fit in the cockpit, and Hashin and Loritt are working another job. So it’s you and me, and you’re flying.”
“All right, all right, I get it.” First closed the cockpit canopy and gave the thumbs-up to start yet another simulation.
The closest Class One Sling Racing made it to Junktion was the Percolete system, almost a month away through high-space, even on the fastest, most expensive commercial liner. The Towed was marginally faster than that, but it was otherwise engaged.
With only First and Fenax aboard, there wasn’t much to do in those weeks except stream shows, work out, and perfect her sling piloting in the simulator, which they’d moved into the cargo bay before departure. Loritt had apparently bought it outright, which would probably come in handy down the road. The workouts weren’t just to pass the time, either. The slings had no counter-grav systems on board, another mass-conserving measure. Pilots felt every g during turns and burns. The simulator had a built-in gravity generator to mimic the effects, but it was capped off at six g’s for safety reasons. Still, First often peeled herself out of the cockpit with fresh bruises from the crash webbing and seat. But at least her ribs had time to heal completely.
Race day bordered on a planetary holiday for almost every system lucky enough to be selected for a stage on the circuit. Local space traffic was suspended for everything except the racers, their chase slips, emergency responders, and the press covering the event. If you hadn’t landed by the day before, you waited it out in a parking orbit.
Where there wasn’t an inhabited body or station, asteroids were diverted from their natural orbits to serve as observation points for every turn, sling, and course adjustment. Sometimes these temporary abodes were paid for by the dominant governmental body of the host system, more often by enterprising individuals who charged outrageous sums for admission to a hastily constructed facility that would be relevant for no more than a single larim of a single orbit before being evacuated and abandoned.
And yet still people paid with gratitude. Some of the wealthiest sling-racer aficionados even chartered private high-space transports between the various observation posts so they could watch every turn, slingshot, and burn of a given race in real time.
Which, as it happened, was how the Goes Where I’m Towed acquired credentials for the event.
“I’m not taxiing one more load of these entitled karking debutants to another warmed-over glot-rock,” Fenax announced on their final final approach to Percolete Prime. “I don’t care what they’re paying per seat. We’re officially closed for business.”
“What you do between now and the rendezvous is your business, Fenax,” First said as she stuffed her racing suit and helmet into her overnight bag. “Just so long as you get this crate in position to crack open a high-space portal and grab me after turn two.”
“Count on it.”
“You haven’t failed me yet.”
“I suppose not. Are you ready?”
First laughed. “To infiltrate an elite group of the galaxy’s best sling-racers based on nothing but bravado and good looks? No, not really.”
“That’s why it’s going to work,” Fenax said.
“How do you figure that?”
“Because it’s so stupid that no one will believe you were attempting it dishonestly.”
First’s shoulders went slack. “I really wish that wasn’t a perfect description of most of our plans. People will catch on. It won’t work forever.”
“Just needs to work today, then we’ll think of something else.” Fenax opened the inner door to the All-Seal. “Good luck.”
First stepped out of a side passage and blended into the small cadre of a few dozen paying aliens the Towed had ferried to the geosynchronous space elevator station above Percolete Prime playing host to the start line of this stage of the Class One tour. First quickly found herself drowned out among the crush of fans and hangers-on. The frenzied pace of the crowd was oddly comforting for her. It felt exactly like the promenade back on Junktion at rush hour.
The common areas were the easy part. Beyond them, where the media and race crews dominated in the handful of spaces on board carved out for them, would be far more difficult to navigate, despite being far less populated. Or perhaps because of. A huge, throbbing crowd offered a degree of anonymity First had grown to appreciate since leaving her parents and PCB behind. You never saw crowds like this on Earth’s colony worlds; there just weren’t enough people. Yet.
First spotted her exit on an overhead sign and peeled away from the crowds. Now, it was game time, but she was prepared. Her badge wasn’t just a standard ticket but press credentials, which granted her access to a much wider range of areas, including the hangars. Provided nobody put it through too much scrutiny …
The hangars were just ahead now, behind a substantial security checkpoint.
“Deep breath,” First admonished herself. “Smile. Make eye contact. Project confidence. You know the drill. Piece of cake.” She fought back the sudden urge to riffle through her bag as the checkpoint drew closer. A knot of fans and enthusiasts crowded just outside the hangars, trying to get a glimpse of the racers or their machines.
First took charge and held her badge up, loudly proclaiming, “Press!” and “Media!” as she pushed through the onlookers, flashing the counterfeit credentials in the faces of particularly immovable patrons. She believed her, they believed, so why wouldn’t the guards?
With some considerable effort, First pushed and shoved herself to the other side of the mob and gazed at the guards on the other side of the barricades with pleading eyes. One of the bigger ones, a Turemok, waved her forward.
“Credentials,” they said in a businesslike tone. First took the lanyard off her neck and handed the badge over. “Outlet?”
“Frequency Forty-Six, Junktion Station,” First said with polished practice. “The Voice for the Void.”
“I didn’t need the tagline,” the guard said. “Open up the bag.”
First shrugged and unzipped her bag, then pulled it open to show the small cache of recording equipment they’d packed as part of her cover story, but the guard’s hands dove past them and deeper into the bag.
“Hey,” First objected. “That’s sensitive recording equipment. Be careful with it or you’re getting the replacement bill.”
The Turemok yanked out her flight suit and helmet. “What’s this, then?”
First drew herself up. A year earlier, she would’ve been terrified of being within a hundred meters of a Turemok, but after butting heads with Jrill for months, the fear had worn off. “It’s my uniform, for the interviews and photo shoots in the pits. Put it down before you tear a hole in it with those clumsy claws.”
The guard glared at her. “Arms out.”
“Oh, come on; I was felt up enough by the crowd on the way in here.”
“Arms. Out,” they repeated. “Please.”
“Well, since you said please.” First held out her arms and worked very hard not to shiver as the guard’s hands passed down her sides, back, and inside her legs. It was professionally done, no lingering in inappropriate places or grabbing of sensitive areas. Still, First was glad she didn’t have a weapon at hand.
“Satisfied?” she asked sweetly.
The guard took one more sideways glance at her credentials, then thrust them back at her chest and waved her through with a grunt. She pointedly didn’t thank him for his time as she repacked her bag. Sure, his paranoia was entirely justified and not actually thorough enough, evidenced by the fact she’d gotten past him, but customer service was still a thing, wasn’t it?
First zipped up her bag and pushed past the checkpoint in a calculated huff. She was a small-market media celebrity, after all, and her ego had been assailed by a flunky. Beyond the checkpoint, the crowd disappeared, replaced by frenetic mechanics scurrying for parts and tools, bloviating sling jockeys of a dozen species trash-talking each other, their fawning attendants of various genders falling on their every word, and the actual press struggling to capture a tenth of the mayhem swirling around them. The air was heavy with the smell of lubricants, cleaning solvents, and hydrazine.
First didn’t care about any of it. She was fixated on a singular purpose: get inside her sling-racer and take legal possession of it. That was her goal. But there were still appearances to maintain, so she dug into her bag, pulled out a small drone camera rig, and activated it.
Four arms with tiny counter-grav units at their corners popped out of the palm-sized unit before it sprang into the air.
“Follow behind me to the left, record everything,” First instructed it, then went looking for her quarry. She didn’t know which berth her sling had been assigned to, and there didn’t seem to be any guide signs. The race organizers weren’t making the job any easier.
“Excuse me,” she asked an Ish in coveralls streaked with black grease and bright red coolant stains. They looked like they were on break. “Can you tell me where Sigmalo Fullok’s sling is?”
They chuffed. “Sticking your claws down the wrong hole if you’re hoping to get an interview with Fullok, little…” Their eyestalks scanned her from head to foot. “Sorry, but what are you, exactly?”
“Human,” First said but was met with a blank stare. “From Earth?”
“Sorry, don’t know that one.”
“Earth. The planet the Assembly almost vaporized five years ago? We blew up the Xecoron, Turemok flagship? Killed the Kumer-Vel of the whole Turemok military?”
“Not clinking any shells. First I’ve heard of it.” The Ish pointed a manipulator appendage deeper into the hangar. “Slip Thirty-Seven. But don’t expect them to throw a party. More likely they throw you out.”
“Why so hostile?” First asked. “I thought these people lived for the attention.”
The Ish crossed their eyestalks. “Not this crew. They’re real secretive. Won’t even lend out tools with the other crews, from what I heard. But you didn’t hear that from me.”
First nodded. “Thanks for the tip.”
“Anytime. You seem like a nice whatever-you-said-you-were.”
“Human!” First called back as she restarted her trot down the flight line. Halfway to Slip Thirty-Seven, she spotted a set of multispecies bathrooms and headed for the door. “No,” she said to the camera drone. “This you don’t film. Stay right there and wait for me.”
First could’ve sworn the drone sagged a little like a scolded puppy, but she ignored it as she ducked through the door and found a stall to change into her flight suit. She stuffed her clothes into the bag along with the decoy recording equipment, all of which would be left behind for lack of space in the cockpit.
She’d expense Loritt for them once she got back. But first, she had to get back.
First emerged in her new uniform with her helmet under her arm and her bag slung over her shoulder, then looked at her camera drone. “Okay, come along.”
It perked right back up and resumed following her. First made it all of twenty meters before running headlong into a sculpted, muscular chest. She bounced off the purple-fabric-clad pectorals and looked up to apologize, but instead found herself staring into the face of a legend.
“You’re…” First swallowed hard, trying to center her thoughts, which were suddenly swimming against industrial lubricant. “You’re…”
“Maximus Tiberius. Captain.” The Greek statue bowed with a flourish of his hands. “And it’s okay. You’re welcome.”
“I … I am?”
“Absolutely,” Maximus said.
“For what, precisely”
“For saving Earth, of course. That’s what you were about to say. Don’t deny it. I’ve seen that look thousands of times over the last few years. Nothing to be embarrassed about.”
“Oh, right. Thank you?” First said, still fighting the current.
“It was nothing, really.” Maximus inspected a cuticle. “The thanks really goes to my crew, who, under my leadership and guidance, found the will to win. Also the nuclear missiles—they helped.”
First’s eyes kept wandering off to the bright red sling sitting in the slip behind him. Its prow was sharp, like a knife cutting through space, while the rest of it was supple curves and flowing lines blending into one another like they’d never quite solidified. Maximus noticed her notice.
“I see you’ve spotted the Rosa di Venezia.” Maximus turned and beamed at the magnificent sling. “She’s the first human-built sling. Handmade by Italian eunuchs.”
First’s nose crinkled. “Why eunuchs?”
“I never asked. Probably makes them more streamlined so they can build faster. Less air resistance. I suppose you’ll be wanting an interview, then?”
“I, ah … a what?”
Maximus pointed at the camera drone. “Interview? With the race pilots? You are a reporter, right?”
“Oh!” First’s brain finally caught up. “Yes, of course.” She stuck out a hand. “Clara Catskill, Frequency Forty-Six, Junktion. The Voice from the Void.”
“Junktion, eh?” Maximus shook her hand a little too firmly. “Had a layover there—and a hangover. And some weird rash thing that Illcarion swore wasn’t contagious…” He paused in thought. “You’re pretty far from home, aren’t you?”
“Junktion is my home now,” First said, not inviting further questions.
“Fair enough. So what do Clara Catskill’s viewers back on Junktion want to know?”
“What brings the hero of Earth all the way out to the Percolete system? That must have been a long haul.”
“I first caught a glimpse of sling racing at an exhibition race in Wolcot. Back when I was still just a lieutenant in the AEU navy, I piloted remote combat drones for a couple of years and was a hot stick. I had quite a bit of leave built up over the years, and the last few were a doozy, so I took a leave of absence, lined up some sponsors, and came out here to shake some hands, kiss some babies, and give the rest of the galaxy a taste of what we earthlings can do.”
First nodded and smiled along, trying to look like the talking bobbleheads she’d seen on the news when she was a kid. “It sounds so exciting.”
“Oh, it is.” Maximus hit her with a weaponized smile that almost twinkled at the corner.
“What’s the best part of sling racing for you?”
“The moment right before the light turns amber; they don’t do green for go out here. When you’re sitting there on top of nothing but a nuclear reactor and a drive cone, sixty thousand horsepower tucked just a few centimeters under your seat, the promise of imminent, explosive action. That moment of anticipation isn’t something you’ll find in any other chair in the galaxy.”
“That was beautiful. What’s the worst part?”
“The catheter. Definitely the catheter.”
“Ha!” First laughed for the camera. “When you’re on the stick, is it true what they say, slow is fast?”
“What? No. Fast is fast. What a ridiculous saying.”
“Are you going to take the checkered flag today?”
“Of course! If you don’t go into battle expecting to win, why are you there?”
“Thank you, Captain Tiberius. I’ll let you get back to your preparations.”
“You’re more than welcome. You know, for a second there with your flight suit, I thought you were a pilot.”
“Oh, no, just getting into the spirit of the thing, you know?”
“Ha! Thank goodness.”
First’s head cocked to the side. “Why do you say that?”
“No offense, but slings are very dangerous. The hot seat isn’t a safe place for a”—Maximus paused and mentally adjusted course—“a younger person like you. You understand, right?”
First simmered. “Oh, I think I understand perfectly.”
“Excellent!” Maximus said, totally oblivious to the change in “Clara’s” disposition. “No hard feelings, then. Enjoy the race. And send me a copy of that clip when it’s out of editing. I’d like to see it.”
“See you at the finish line,” First said, baring her teeth before storming off toward Slip Thirty-Seven. She pulled out her handheld and called the Towed. “Fenax, change of plans. Pickup point will be the far side of the race’s finish line.”
“What?” Fenax sounded as alarmed as she’d ever heard them. “Why there?”
“Because I’m doing the race.”
“Oh, merciful winds below. How will I know which sling to grab?”
“Simple.” Her eyes narrowed. “I’m going to be first.”
“You’re already First.”
“Just do it.” First cut the link and laid eyes on her new ride.