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  Race to the Finish

  Darklanding: Episode 7

  By Scott Moon and Craig Martelle

  Table of Contents

  Race to the Finish

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Social Media for Craig Martelle

  Author Notes: Scott Moon

  Author Notes: Craig Martelle

  CHAPTER ONE

  Low-Altitude Racing

  A mountain range dominated the northern and western skyline beyond Darklanding and Transport Canyon, where hardworking humans and Ungloks mined exotics from the rugged terrain. Further south, the mountains dwindled into foothills and rolling flatlands that went farther than any human explorer dared adventure. The original survey teams had left that to satellite imagery and poorly-monitored drone expeditions.

  There was also a secret TerroCom base on the other side of the planet doing live fire exercises. Thaddeus closed his eyes and prayed that General Quincy would honor his word.

  On a clear day, visibility was amazing from the edge of the Darklanding mesa. Sheriff Thaddeus Fry kept the town and the spaceport behind him as he enjoyed the view.

  Or tried to enjoy it.

  A cold blue sky faded to the color of slate, and clouds stained by a red and pink sunset slashed above the frontier panorama. It was a scene a good photographer might die for, but what caught Thaddeus's attention was the carnival-like environment he still couldn't believe.

  “These jackwagons are going to do this at night,” he said.

  “My home world…” Mast turned away and coughed into an embroidered handkerchief. “Sorry.”

  “I worry about you, partner. You need to get that checked out.”

  Transport Canyon had changed. Not so long ago, there'd been a single mag-rail train delivering materials from the mine to Darklanding. An ambitious heist had resulted in the primary train careening off the tracks at supersonic speeds. The epic destruction scarred the landscape for kilometers along the old course.

  Shaunte’s effort to rebuild Transport Canyon had paid off. She’d spent the money to have two rails where there had been one, and both were sturdier than their predecessor. In theory, trains could move east and west, passing each other like steel thunderbolts. There were also three way stations, little towns that did their own business in addition to maintenance contracts for the mag-rails. The residents provided security where there had been none. And when there was a sudden spectacle beyond imagination being held in the middle of the scenic desert, they hosted travelers from many worlds.

  "I never thought I'd see low-altitude racing on Ungwilook,” Thaddeus said.

  "That is not muchly what you called it before. I thought it was a LAR. The other word modifiers you used are not known to me. Can you please repeat them and tell me what they mean?” Deputy Mast Jotham asked, standing too close for comfort. His lanky, seven-foot-tall frame seemed to twist in the wind.

  Thaddeus raised his field glasses and searched the landscape. There were bleachers to watch the race, what many people would describe as a temporary stadium with one side cut off to allow a proper view of the course finale. It was SagCon excess on full display when the event was allegedly to boost worker morale on Ungwilook.

  “I muchly desire to know what ‘those LAR sons-of-bitches’ means. Should I add this to my regular vocabulary? Are you a sons-of-bitch also?” Mast asked.

  “I’ve been called worse.” Thad half-listened to his deputy as he considered his dilemma. The race and the gambling were dangerous and illegal, but SagCon wanted it, so Shaunte wanted it. Thad wasn’t sure how he was going to justify it to himself.

  “What about…” Mast began.

  “That’s enough language practice today,” Thad said. “Let’s go down there and see how the other half lives.”

  “And tell them to break it up.” Mast hooked his thumbs into the belt of his jumpsuit and pushed his chest out, imitating Thad’s voice and exaggerated swagger. “Party’s over, you sons-of…”

  “That’s not what I look like.”

  “It is.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “It is. Very muchly so!”

  * * *

  The yoke of the small airship felt good in Thad’s left hand. He adjusted trim with his right, then relaxed. At this altitude, rich sunlight reflected from the short wings. Mountain shadows dark as night approached the land below. Safety lights marked the double-rail line and the towns. Brightest of all, however, was the racetrack and the half-stadium facing the kilometer-wide final stretch. He could make out the holographic jumbo-screens looming above the cheap seats.

  Mast whistled mournfully without opening his mouth as he gripped the armrests of the copilot’s seat. “Are copilots bigly necessary?”

  "No. It's tradition to throw them out when things get rough."

  "Not funny!" Mast reached up and pressed one hand against the ceiling to wedge himself into his seat. A human wouldn't have been able to reach, but his long arms were a wild tangle in the small cockpit.

  Thaddeus gave the control yoke a little extra body language, turning the ship into a tight banking maneuver that spiked his adrenaline and caused Mast to yell in panic. The wings shuddered then relaxed as Thaddeus ended the turn and dove straight for the floor of the canyon, taking all pressure off the wings.

  "You may muchly pull up now. Just put me down any place on the surface and I will walk the rest of the way," Mast said. “P. C. Dickles and Pierre are very wrong. You are a hotshot pilot.”

  Thad flew with one hand as he turned against his safety harness to contemplate his partner. "Are you telling me a mining foreman and a bartender doubt my skill in the air?”

  Mast flinched as a rock spire rushed by the cockpit window. "We are very lowly-low now. It is like we are in the low-altitude race. Shouldn't we fly a little higher and then land very safely at the final racetrack?" He looked through the sleek window above and around him. "Didn't you tell me that most of the race occurs in these canyons and rock gardens? And that they very fastly finish at the track?”

  "Don't change the subject. You were telling me how you have more faith in the crew at the Mother Lode than in me." He yanked the ship to the left, tipping it up on a wing and then leveling out to avoid a canyon within a canyon.

  "Mister Pierre claimed you had flown in an amateur LAR. Mister Dickles said you were a ground pounder and ground pounders didn’t fly well,” Mast said. “Oh, no! Look out!”

  Thaddeus looked out. He saw the lone rock spire and didn't even change his course. His airship overflew it by at least twenty meters. He laughed like a madman, slow and hard.

  A short time later, the sheriff landed at the airstrip behind the stadium, where racers parked their ships before the main event. On the other side of the leveled and paved sand dune was where the rich and famous had arrived on Ungwilook from as far away as the Melborn System. Private transports that were both space and atmosphere-capable lined the VIP lot.

  Thad took a moment to study them, to count them and commit their identification numbers to memory. He ignored the overdressed guards and other attendants who seemed to be earning enormous salaries just to stand around and wait for their masters. Shaking his head, he headed for the stadium entrance. Halfway across the hard-packed sand,
he heard a voice he recognized.

  "Good evening, Sheriff. We meet again!" Thad turned and smiled at SagCon Special Investigator Michael "Sledge" Hammer. The massive, hairy-knuckled brute was as boisterous as ever.

  Thaddeus strode toward him and extended a hand in greeting. "It's good to see you, Sledge.”

  "I bet you never thought you'd say that," Sledge said. “How are you doing, Mast?”

  “Better…now that I am on the ground as an Unglok should be,” Mast answered, his eyes still darting around as if a crash was imminent.

  Sledge nodded and leaned in conspiratorially. “I’m not one to meddle, but isn't this against about fifty flight regulations? Shouldn't all the ships disembark at the spaceport, and then travel by ground transport to the racetrack?"

  "Don't remind me. I liked it better when SagCon was just pillaging the planet of resources. All this morale building is giving me an ulcer," Thaddeus said. "Where is your partner?"

  "You mean your ex-wife? She's taken up with some general, a TerroCom soldier, I think.”

  Thaddeus felt sorry for himself for about five seconds. He hadn't been married to SagCon Special Investigator Penelope Fry-Grigman for long. But during that brief span of time, they had meant the world to each other and fought side-by-side. When he had been in the relationship, he had been all in. He hadn't been surprised when she showed up on Darklanding, despite the place being about as far away from mainstream society as was possible. That was his luck with women. Whatever could cause him the most misery was exactly what would happen in the long run.

  His mistake had been a one-night stand with his ex-wife for old time’s sake. "A general, huh? Good for her,” he said.

  Sledge laughed and patted him on the shoulder with one of his huge hands. “Ahhhh, good old Thaddeus Fry. Nothing touches him.”

  “I feel for the guy. She’s a handful,” Thaddeus said.

  “His name is General Quincy Adams, the guy who runs TerroCom. They’re a postcard perfect couple.”

  Thad motioned for Sledge to walk with him toward the back of the half-stadium. “We’ve met. Now you’re just trying to piss me off.”

  The air in the valley was dry, as it always was on Ungwilook. It smelled of stale dirt.

  They entered through the wide service tunnel. Most of the structure was preassembled and had been bolted together in large blocks. The foundation, and much of the first floor, was concrete and steel. He wondered if they intended to tear it down when they were done or just leave it to fill with weeds, bugs, and wild animals.

  "Impressive. I wonder what type of facility SagCon would build if they planned to stay a while," Sledge said.

  "It is muchly not good to look at.”

  Thaddeus led the way through crowds of miners and transport workers. These were the men and women too poor to afford seats on the lower level or the standing room only positions in front of the stadium bleachers. Hot and dirty, stinking of mining fumes and grease, the spectators looked as excited and happy as anyone Thad had seen on the planet.

  He paused, looking around to make eye contact with several people he knew. The word spread, and he was allowed to pass. Darklanding residents didn't love him, but they respected his record of firm but fair law enforcement.

  "You gonna shut down this illegal racing?" someone asked.

  Thaddeus pretended not to hear. He worked his way to the aluminum staircase and climbed toward the not-so-cheap seats. The higher he went, the more space there was between benches until he arrived at pavilions of comfortable chairs, roving waiters with trays of drinks, and expensive buffet tables. From time to time, there was cheering when the LAR pilots swept out of the canyons and back in as they followed the beacons.

  The actual course was never plotted. Pilots had to find their own way. They had to stay within certain parameters and below certain altitudes. The rules were simple, but they added suspense.

  “Here come the sons-of-bitches now,” Mast said.

  Thaddeus turned toward the racetrack in the canyons beyond. A single LAR ship shot under a red stone archway exposed by centuries of erosion. Everyone seemed to hold their breath as they waited for the rest of the contestants. They came, but it was clear that one ship would be the easy winner.

  Red and white with a wide silver stripe down the side, it maneuvered through the final markers with incredible agility. This was the hardest part of the race for most pilots, even though the danger was not the greatest. A marker struck at this point would blink out and cost points. Earlier in the race, such a mistake would mean smashing into a cliff and exploding.

  Everyone watched as the pilot rocketed around the final obstacles and landed in the winner’s circle. The canopy slid open. The pilot stood and waved his helmet at the crowd.

  “Raymond D. freaking LeClerc,” Sledge said.

  Thad glanced across three bleacher rows to check Shaunte’s reaction and saw a glimmer-eyed school girl in place of the Company Man of SagCon: Darklanding. She fanned herself and glowed with admiration. He climbed the stairs and made his way to her side, aware that Sledge was chuckling at the situation as he and Mast followed.

  “Thaddeus!” Shaunte said. “It’s R. D. LeClerc! I haven’t seen him since we went to private school on the first moon of Melborn.”

  “You went to school with him?” Thad asked.

  “Well. He was a senior, probably wouldn’t remember me. I was the definition of an awkward freshman. He’s a three-time galactic low-altitude race champion. This must be the surprise my father mentioned when he told me to build this raceway,” Shaunte said.

  “Someone has a crush on a LAR pilot,” Sledge stage-whispered as he pretended to watch the other ships fight for second place.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Scumbag

  “He could be dangerous!” Thad whipped his left hand up to emphasize his words as he marched toward the Mother Lode. His long fire coat, stitched back together after several fights and sun-faded from long days on patrol, flared back to reveal his pointed badge and loaded blaster. He yanked his hat down tight. Not to protect it from the gusting wind, but to further vent his frustration.

  “I did not rightly see LeClerc possessed weapons. Except for the guns Shaunte and the other women kept giggling about.” Mast, a native of Ungwilook, matched Thad’s pace easily. “This giggling thing is very strange. Shaunte and the other women also sprayed pheromones into the atmosphere when they pointed at the man. Why would they say he had guns when Mast could not see his guns?”

  “They were talking about his biceps,” Thad muttered as he stopped at the front door of the saloon. “When we go in there, watch him. Don’t let him know we’re watching him, but watch him. He needs to know who’s in charge here.” He planted his fists on his hips like a battlefield commander about to order the attack.

  “Umm, Mast needs clarification.”

  “I told you not to talk about yourself in the third person,” Thad said.

  “Third person?” Mast looked right and then left.

  “I need a new deputy.”

  “You do! I could train him.” Mast bounced on his toes with excitement, but then twisted away to cough violently.

  Thad’s laugh died away as he turned to comfort his friend. “You’re getting worse, Mast.”

  The attack stuttered to a stop. Mast uncurled his long body with tears in his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was reed thin. “Are you now muchly talking about me in the third person?”

  “Let’s pretend I never brought that up. I’m the Sheriff of Darklanding. Not the Grammar Police.”

  “Maybe I could muchly be the Grammar Police!”

  Thad brought his hand down three times as though knighting Deputy Mast Jotham. “There. You’re the Grammar Police.”

  “I muchly accept. And I am happy you are no longer in a wrongly murderous rage.”

  Thad went into the Mother Lode to find the man who had been Shaunte’s high school crush and put him on notice. Mast followed.

  The room was full. Freig
ht trains of exotics had been coming at regular intervals from the mines. Darklanding was becoming a boom town. Pierre did a brisk business at the bar. Serving girls hustled between tables, dodging men and women who grabbed at their backsides. Dixie’s best dancers kicked and stomped shoulder to shoulder on the stage, stylized skirts bouncing and swishing in unison to create a show all their own. The girls laughed and sang. Some were nearly as drunk as the customers but most were only pretending.

  Dixie had rules.

  The auto-piano cranked out music at maximum volume and was barely heard over the ruckus. The young Pierre, no relation to the old Pierre, wrote bets on a huge chalk board that was usually the drink menu. There seemed no question that LeClerc would win the next race, so the questions were only by how much and who would rank second, third, and last.

  “I do not muchly see LeClerc the Jerk,” Mast said.

  “Did you just make a joke?” Thad asked.

  “It is what Dixie called him. She sniffed and pointed her nose in the air when he complimented her woman parts.”

  “Was that at the racetrack?”

  “Yes. Yes, it was. She does not like him but wants to spank him,” Mast said.

  “I am afraid to ask how you know that,” Thad said. “I really hate this guy.”

  “Because he is muchly beautiful and has bicep guns?”

  Thad glared at his deputy. “He’s a punk. One more spoiled rich kid from the power elite. I’d be a pretty damn good LAR pilot if my daddy had bought me a ship when I was twelve and sent me all over the galaxy to practice with the best of the best.”

  “Oh, you are using a word I just learned. You are muchly jealous.”

  “I’m a pragmatist. I work for a living.”

  “Well, he is not muchly here. His daddy must have paid for a room. He is surely sleeping to prepare for his next race,” Mast said.,

  Thad counted the girls in the room. “Nope. He’s upstairs partying like a rock star.”

  Mast patted him on the shoulder. “You should race tomorrow. Then you could be a star of rocks.”

  Thad carefully lifted Mast’s hand and pushed it back. “Don’t do that.”