Hover Car Racer (13 page)

The format for the day was known as ‘short-course match-racing’: two cars raced inside a walled-track shaped in a tight figure-8. You won the match-race in one of two ways: first, by lapping your opponent; or second, if neither racer could lap his opponent, by being the first to cross the Start-Finish Line after 100 laps. Since it was a short course - taking about 30 seconds to get around - 100 laps would take about 50 minutes.

‘So,’ Syracuse said. ‘Any questions about tomorrow?’

That took Jason by surprise. It was the first time he could remember Syracuse offering specific advice about an impending race.

‘Sure. What’s the secret to short-course match-racing?’

‘You do get right to the point, don’t you, Mr Chaser,’ Syracuse mused. ‘What’s the secret to match-racing? How about this:
Never give up. Never say die
. No matter how hopeless your situation appears to be, don’t throw in the towel. Some racers go to pieces when something goes wrong and they find their opponent hammering on their tailfin. They just fold and let the other guy by, thus losing the race. Never
ever
do that. Because you don’t know what problems
he’s
got under his bonnet. You might throw in the race two seconds before he was going to pit.’

‘What about pit stops then?’ Sally asked.

‘Gotta be fast in match-racing,’ Syracuse said. ‘When each lap is only 30 seconds long, you can’t afford anything longer than a 15-second stop. Any longer and your opponent will be all over you when you come out. Then you’re only one mistake away from defeat.’

The Bug whispered something to Jason.

Jason said: ‘The Bug wants to know your ideas on
when
to pit. Early? Late? First or always second, like they say in the text books?’

‘The pits are the X-factor in match-racing,’ Syracuse said, ‘because whenever you stop your car, you run the risk of it not starting up again. Many a racer has pulled into the pits in a match-race and never come out again, only to watch helplessly as his rival cruises around the track to an easy victory. That’s why the books advocate pitting second. I agree. It’s also why I wanted you guys to drill pit sessions today.’

He looked over at Sally. ‘Pit action becomes even more crucial the longer a match-race goes on - you might have to make decisions about whether to do a full-service stop or just a mag change. The key is to be out on the track. So long as you’re out there, even if you’re racing on one mag, you can still win.
Never
give up.
Never
say die. But then,’ he turned to Jason, ‘from what I’ve seen from you so far this season, Mr Chaser, I can’t see that being a problem.’

THE GRAND BALLROOM
THE WALDORF HOTEL, HOBART

It looked like something out of a fairy tale.

The theme for the evening was ‘Among the Clouds’, so the entire Grand Ballroom of the Waldorf was filled with 80-foot-high blue sails and fluffy machine-generated clouds. The effect was startling - you felt as if you were dining high in the sky, literally among the clouds.

Jason Chaser entered the great ballroom wearing a hand-me-down tuxedo. Beside him, the Bug and Henry Chaser wore regular suits-and-ties - they didn’t have tuxedos, so they just wore the best outfits they had. Sally McDuff wore a shiny sky-blue dress that brought out the very best in her busty frame. Martha Chaser continued her peculiar behaviour and did not attend, insisting that she had ‘things to do’ back in the caravan.

The ballroom before them was filled with wealthy and famous people wearing the best outfits money could buy. Men in designer dinner suits, women in custom-made Valentinos, dripping with jewels.

Famous racers were spread around the room: over in the corner was the reigning world champion, Alessandro Romba; by the bar, the American Air Force pilot, Carver. And at a table near the stage, talking with King Francis and Xavier Xonora, was the much-reviled French racer, Fabian - the villain of the Pro Circuit; cunning, brilliant and utterly ruthless, and also totally at ease being universally despised by every race fan outside France.

‘Hey! Jason!’

Jason turned and saw Ariel Piper - looking absolutely sensational in a figure-hugging silver gown - coming toward him.

‘My, don’t you clean up well…’ Ariel said, eyeing Jason’s tux. ‘Although not as well as your dashing little navigator here,’ she winked sexily at the Bug, who flushed bright pink.

‘I thought you ran a great race yesterday, Jason,’ she said. ‘Gutsy stuff skipping your last stop.’

‘I had to win,’ Jason said simply.

‘And so do I in the first round tomorrow, buddy,’ Ariel said. ‘What is it they say: There are no friends on the track. I’m not going to cut you any slack tomorrow, Jason. I just wanted you to know that.’

Jason nodded. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be racing as hard as I can, too.’

‘So we’ll still be friends afterward?’ Ariel said, genuinely concerned. And as he saw the look on her face, Jason realised that Ariel Piper had probably lost friends in the past after beating them in hover car races.

He smiled at her. ‘Sure.’ Then he added mischievously: ‘Of course, that’s assuming you’re not too devastated when I beat you.’

Ariel broke out in a wide grin. ‘Oh, you cheeky little man! I’ll see you out on the track!’

And with that she danced off to her table.

Jason and his team went to theirs.

Scott Syracuse was already seated there when they arrived.

‘Hello Jason, Henry, Bug,’ Syracuse said, standing. ‘A tad different from our dinner last night?’

‘Just a bit,’ Henry Chaser said. A simple hard-working man, he was a little intimidated by the wealth and power on show that night. It made him awkward, unsure of how to act in such company. ‘Somehow, I don’t think they’ll be serving takeaway burgers here.’

‘If that is what you want, then that is what we shall have!’ an Italian voice boomed from behind him.
Henry, Jason and the Bug all whirled around.

Standing behind them was an absolute bear of a man dressed in an expensive dinner suit that struggled to contain his enormous belly. His wobbly jowls were covered by a black beard that was impeccably trimmed.

Jason recognised the man instantly, and his jaw involuntarily dropped.

‘Umberto Lombardi,’ Syracuse said, ‘allow me to introduce to you Jason Chaser, his father Henry, and his brother and navigator, the Bug.’

Syracuse turned to Jason. ‘Umberto is an old friend of mine and when we met earlier, I asked him if he would stop by our table later in the evening, but he insisted on joining us for the whole dinner.’

Jason was still gobsmacked.

Umberto Lombardi was the billionaire owner of the Lombardi Racing Team, one of the few privately owned pro racing teams.

Lombardi was an Italian property developer who’d made his fortune with the outrageously successful ‘Venice II’ project. When he’d proposed the idea of
rebuilding
Venice fifty miles to the east of the original city - an exact replica, complete with crystal-clear chlorinated canals - and equipping it with ultra-modern apartments, he had been laughed off as a lunatic. But as the development proceeded and people saw Lombardi’s vision take its wonderful form, the apartments quickly sold out - mainly to playboy race car drivers and the rich and famous of Europe.

Venice II became the hottest address in the world. Venice III quickly followed - where else, but at Venice Beach, California - and then came Venice IV, V and VI.

But Lombardi’s passion was hover car racing, and this larger-than-life fellow had become the pleasant oddity of the racing world. Even when his team came dead last in the championship, he still happily threw money at it. He was known as a finder of new talent - talent which was quickly poached by the big-paying manufacturer teams.

‘You know,’ Lombardi boomed, taking his seat between Jason and Henry Chaser, ‘these gala dinners can be so
stuffy
sometimes. Caviar, truffles, fois gras. Bah! Honestly, sometimes all I want is a good hearty cheeseburger!’ He nudged Jason with his elbow. ‘Don’t worry, my young friend. If the food stinks, we’ll get some pizza delivered. That’ll give these social parasites something to gossip about at their next dinner party.’

Jason smiled. He liked Umberto Lombardi.

It was then that Lombardi - giant loud Umberto Lombardi - saw the Bug sitting on the other side of Jason, eyes wide, almost cowering behind his brother.

‘And who do we have here?’ Lombardi boomed, delighted. ‘My, you are a little fellow to be flying around in an aerial bullet…’

From that moment on, the Gala Dinner went swimmingly.

The night went quickly for Jason.

Umberto Lombardi was the best dinner companion he’d ever encountered. The man talked about racing and building property developments, meeting movie stars and even how he’d been the first person to give Scott Syracuse a start in the pros.

But if nothing else, Jason learned that night that hover car racing wasn’t just done on the track. The
business
of racing was done at dinners like this.

Jean-Pierre LeClerq made a speech, flanked by banners covered with the logos of all the School’s sponsors. And Jason realised what sponsorship was all about - recognition. As LeClerq was doing now in front of some of the most influential people in the world, you always mentioned your sponsors.

After the speeches were over, the diners spread out around the room.

At one point, as Jason left his table to go to the men’s room, he saw Ariel Piper standing at the bar, looking beautiful in her sleek silver dress - but also looking very awkward, seemingly trapped there by a tall guy in his twenties with slicked-back hair and a pointed hawkish nose. The bow tie of his expensive tux was loosened, and he was stroking Ariel’s chin slowly with his index finger.

‘Hey Ariel,’ Jason came over. ‘How’s it going? Hi,’ he said to the man in the tux. It took Jason a moment to realise that he knew who this fellow was - he was Fabian, the infamous French hover car racer.

‘Jason, please - ‘ Ariel said.

‘Beat it, kid,’ Fabian snarled. ‘Can’t you see we’re busy here.’ His French-accented voice was slurred, drunk.
Fabian turned back to Ariel. ‘Like I said, there could be opportunities in the racing world for a girl of your…er, talents. That is, of course,
if
you play your cards right. Consider my offer, and maybe I’ll see you later.’

And with that, he placed something in Ariel’s hand and left.

Jason couldn’t be sure what it was, but it looked like a hotel room cardkey.

Then he looked at Ariel: she was gripping the room key tightly in her fist and staring off after Fabian, as if she was making a big decision. Jason watched as a peculiar series of emotions crossed her face - calculation, revulsion, and
ambition
.

‘Ariel. Are you okay?’ he asked, concerned.

Ariel continued to gaze after Fabian. He had left the dining room now, in the direction of the elevators.

‘Jason,’ she said, still looking away. ‘You’re a nice guy and a good kid. But there are some things about the world you don’t understand yet.’

And gripping the room key, she strode off after Fabian.

Jason could only watch her go.

‘I understand more than you know,’ he said to the empty air behind her.

At 10:30, Jason and the Bug took their leave of Umberto Lombardi and Scott Syracuse.

It was time to get to bed.

They had to race tomorrow.

There was tension in the air as dawn came to Hobart on the day of the Sponsors’ Tournament.

The rising sun glinted off a
gigantic
temporary structure that dominated the city.

It took the shape of a massive figure-8, with a single-walled lane wide enough for two hover cars snaking its way around it. This ‘racelane’ had walls of clear reinforced Plexiglass bounding it on either side and was open to the sky like a rat maze.

One section of the figure-8 cut through the canyons of Hobart’s skyscrapers, while the main body of the track extended out over Storm Bay, where it was surrounded by immense grandstands, floodlight towers and, today, an ESPN television blimp. In fact, today there were TV cameras everywhere, as the tournament was to be broadcast on racing channels around the world.