Chapter One: Sammy Hagar Rides Shotgun

…

Porto Kora. One of the major port cities on the coast of the Maghrib originally thriving on trans-oceanic trade on behalf of Morocco, the port itself almost felt like a ghost town in itself, far removed from the city Asfi in favor of the restored port much closer in geography. This was probably the reason that Porto Kora had been transformed into a racetrack, although the Portuguese-built wharf might have been a contributing factor as well; everyone knew that most of the Maghrib was trying to rid itself of foreign influences for the past seven years. The wharf itself held two lanes wide enough for almost five anti-gravity crafts to squeeze by each other. The right lane, distinguished from the main racing circuit by the braking panels built over the asphalt, lay dark save for the shimmering of summer sun across its rough, glass surface.

The left lane, and by extension the whole track, was a marred mat of light grey bearing the scars and charred debris of race contenders past. Nothing large, of course; a piece of paneling here, an ugly scrap there. The lack of wind allowed the debris to remain as is since the start of the year. And, being summer in Morocco, the chances of rain washing away those bits of broken anti-gravity craft were an absolute zero. To the lone pilot on the course, even with its flaws, it was still the most beautiful course ever.

"One foot on the brake! And one on the gas! Hey!"

The diamond-shaped AGC banked out of the wide turn leading back into the wharf area. It gave an uncertain wobble as the pilot settled it into the center of the track. The black-and-white striping of the start line flew by at over two hundred miles per hour. The craft itself was a blur of darker grey against the asphalt, rushing past the deserted stands with resounding vreeeew that kicked up trash hiding between the seats. It dove under the thirty-meter-high, black display screen, a screen which, a century ago, would have displayed the infamous "Tub Head" mascot of the F7200 Anti-Gravity Racing League. Now, though, it was just a large black spot on the heads-up-display.

The first turn was soft, an easy bank to the right without need for the airbrake. The craft gave a gentle waver as it attempted to settle with the angle of the track. The trees on the hillside to the left became not much more than a green stripe, but the flora on the right was easily distinguishable. It almost felt like swinging in a hammock on a lazy afternoon, allowing the breeze to waft a person to sleep. And the palm trees in this section of the track only added to the feel of a relaxing day. It almost seemed a pity to be trapped inside the cockpit of a vehicle travelling two hundred miles per hour.

"Well, there's too much traffic. I can't pass, no."

But then the second turn arrived, and the pilot jerked the control stick to the left hard. Depressing the left foot pedal extended the thick airbrake, causing the craft to slow. The rear of the craft slid, and the nose pointed into the turn. This would have given any observer a clear view of the craft from one of the many abandoned office buildings it had passed before entering the turn. The craft had a flat, blade-like body about twenty meters long, its nose ending in a flat plate as if the point had been cut off. The body sported black paint along its edges, broken by yellow stripes lining some of the panels across the surface. In the center of the craft was a silver diamond around an angled canopy. The airbrakes sat on either side of the craft past the canopy, one breaking the surface to reveal its metallic interior while maintaining its acute position on a pair of telescoping actuators mounted to the front. A pair of engine nacelles, cupping the rear in a V shape, hung from the back end of the main body on a pair of thick, diagonal struts. The nacelles had a flat, compact look with one end serving as air intake and the other emitting blue thrust light.

"So I tried my best… illegal… move."

The next turn came quick as well, and the pilot pitched the craft back to the right, this time opening the right airbrake. The craft's drift threatened to add another scrape to the already battered steel railing lining the track. The change came at the right time, however, and the craft tore away from the lighthouse on the hill above with no incident.

"A big black and white come and crush my groove! Agaaaaaaaaaaain!"

The pilot saw the weathered billboard ahead and turned the craft left again. The airbrake only rose for a moment to make sure that the craft did not hit the wall, then clapped back into the craft's surface.

"Go on and write me up for one twenty-five!"

The throttle thrown full open, the craft began to gain speed in the small stretch of straight track ahead of it. The pilot wanted this. There was a special jump up ahead, and this time, the jump would be spectacular. It should; having memorized the course over and over again gave the pilot confidence to do something awesome.

"Post my face wanted dead or alive."

Another left turn, an easy one like the turn before.

And there it was. The palm trees, cliffs, and office buildings gave way to a torn, orange banner fluttering above the track. Beyond this, the edges of the track rose into a canyon of steel and concrete.

"Take my license. All that jive."

The track curved upwards, threatening to scratch the underside of the anti-gravity craft if it came too close. The concrete above the steel guard plates changed into the triangular support structures of a bridge. More speed built as the craft approached the end of the bridge.

A bridge that did not connect to the track beyond. Past the archway ahead, the asphalt ended in a sharp dive straight into the channel. It was possible that, at one point, the bridge connected to the other side; the track was built on one of the main trucking routes to Asfi. However, the people who designed the course for the F7200 had seen fit to increase the adrenaline already pumping through a pilot's veins by removing the other end of the bridge.

"I!"

This was it. Even if the pilot cut the engine and slammed the airbrakes on, the lack of traction with the asphalt below would allow the craft to simply continue on up the bridge. In fact, cutting the engine past the halfway point on the bridge was a sure way to swan-dive into the drink. The only consulting fact was that the channel was shallow enough that the AGC would bash against the bottom, ensuring a pilot's quick death rather than being swept out into the Atlantic just to die at the bottom due to failing structural integrity.

"Can't!"

Full power. Nothing to prevent this jump.

"Drive!"

At the last moment, the pilot jerked back on the stick and gave both airbrakes a quick kick. The resulting dip in acceleration caused the craft to pull away from the road just as it reached the apex of the severed bridge.

"Fifty-fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii iiiiiiiiiive!"

The windows in the canopy filled with the blue of the sky above. The tranquility, however, suffered at the wail of rock music playing through the craft's internal stereo. Still, the pilot had waited for this moment, this perfection. A beloved song, the feel of almost flying, the lack of care. Time felt as if it had slowed itself. All sensation of gravity had left, everything in the craft suddenly suspended weightless in the air almost as if it finally achieved complete anti-gravity.

Then came sight of the office building on the other side of the jump. And the exposed rock of the cliff directly in front of the track. The pilot steered into the next turn, hoping to get a start on it as soon as the craft dropped.

BAN! The whole craft jerked when the nose bashed into the asphalt. That was a different sensation; the nose had never pitched down hard like that before. The edge of the track, topped by more triangular framework to prevent hotshot pilots from accelerating over the edge of the track into the breakers below, bounced before the craft.

Then the nose pitched into the ground again. A horrible, grinding sound filled the cockpit as the craft's front end scraped along the ground. The singer's voice disappeared in the tumult of klaxons suddenly sounding left and right. The pilot attempted to jerk the stick, but the craft refused to pitch. This caused the pilot to audibly gulp as the edge of the track sped closer.

Then, in about half a second, the pilot's vision was obscured by flash-expanding foam fired from emergency panels all over the cockpit. Total blackness protected the pilot from the ensuing crash which tossed the craft down the track. The pilot only had one thing on mind as the craft continued to vibrate with its long, record-breaking skid across the old racetrack.

Whoops.