Two months before the first heats were due to start, Stoker came into the mess hall to find it completely packed. Looking around, he spotted Throttle, Modo and Rimfire sitting at a table against the wall. He moved quietly over to join them. Throttle looked up in surprise as he sat down, but said nothing. Modo nodded to him, and drained his mug. Rimfire was talking animatedly to one of the scout teams. On the far wall, Deakin and his crew had set up a huge vid-screen, the silver meta-weave moving slightly, giving the surface a strange wave-like effect.

"Hey. HEY. Shut UP!" Thorn banged his mug on the table a few times for quiet. "All right. Since everyone is so keen on the race, and since so many of you have decided to enter, the race organisers have been kind enough to send me the tapes from the last 14 races." He grinned. "Stoke, you here?"

"Yeah" called Stoker. Many heads turned to look at him.

"Take a good look kiddies, because apparently Uncle Stoker is in 12 of these 14 races. In fact, rumour has it he won those 12. So take notes, you can ask questions later."

"We KNOW that Thorn!" shouted someone, "will you just get on with it?"

The crowd erupted into jeering and catcalls until Thorn signalled Deakin to run the vids.

"13. I was in 13 of them," Stoker thought quietly. He knew Throttle and Modo were watching him, but remained staring at the screen.

Silence fell as the first race flashed up on the screen. Stoker lost himself in the transmission, reliving each curve, each jump, analysing his style as objectively as he could, which he admitted wasn't very objective. He liked the way Hotstuff moved, always smooth, and noted how his technique improved with each race. "We had it all worked out," he thought pensively. "I wonder what went wrong?"

As each race ended, the crowd cheered and shouted his name. He smiled quietly, but his jaw was tense and his shoulder ached. The end of the 12th race was a storm of cheering and shouting, and Thorn raised his hand for silence.

"That, kiddies, is a 17 year-old unbroken record, although the race only went for another two years after this one. But that's what you have to beat." He grinned at the room. "Good luck!"

Then the 13th race began. There were murmurs from the crowd as they saw himself and Hotstuff line up with the rest of the pack. He leaned back against the wall and watched the screen intently. The lights went off and Hotstuff was speeding, no, she was flying along the track, running smooth and straight and clean. Their style was so changed from their first win. They'd known the track backwards, inside and out. He remembered the ease with which they'd outrun most of the pack. He never took the lead until the final straight however, using the speed built in the Funnel to power past whoever was in front of him. It was his signature style, a technique that had given them victory for 12 years in a row.

But not this time.

Stoker watched as he and Hotstuff flew towards the Funnel. There were only 2 riders in front of him, and he knew he could outrun them on a straight ride. Hotstuff had the speed, and the power. The camera angle changed as he went into the Funnel, showing the other riders coming out.

"3...2...1..." he counted mentally.

Hotstuff flew out of the Funnel, accelerating off the slingshot and they charged into the straight. His stomach lurched as he saw now what he hadn't seen that day; the second rider, coming out more slowly, had moved across his path. At the speed Hotstuff was going, there was no chance to avoid. He watched, not breathing, as Hotstuff slammed into the side of the other bike, catapulting the four of them to the side, and straight for a wall. Hotstuff slammed into it first, shattering into a thousand pieces. The other bike hit a millisecond later, exploding into flame. He watched the two bodies, one of them his, as they flew outwards. The other rider impacted with the wall, and even over the screams of the crowd he swore he could hear a sickening thud. And then the miracle; missing the outer edge of the wall by what must have been inches and tumbling across the packed sand until he came to a jerking stop. He breathed again, but it was ragged, and his heart was pounding.

On the screen, sirens wailed and the crowd was screaming; in the mess hall, absolute silence.

Stoker stood and spoke roughly into the silence. "Fun huh, kids? That's what happens when you come off your bike at 220mph." Every eye in the hall was upon him. He went on. "Oh, and in case you're wondering, I didn't get on a bike again for another 18 months. I didn't even walk for 12." He paused and looked around at the sea of astonished faces. "One of us was lucky that day. One of us slammed into a wall and died instantly."

Stoker turned and strode out of the hall. He heard the buzz of excited conversation starting up as he walked up the stairs. Back in his rooms, he went out to his balcony, rested his arms on the sill and put his head in his hands, breathing the cold night air deeply.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid! When the hell did you get responsibility? What right do you have to deprive them of their fun? Let them be young and reckless while they can! Interfering old bastard." The scene had rattled him, and he knew it. There was a cold ball inside him and his hands were shaking. He heard the door open. "Ten to one it's Throttle."

"Stoke?"

"I win."

He stood up. Throttle was holding a large bottle of amber liquid and carrying two glasses. Stoker held out his hand without saying a word and Throttle handed him a glass. He sloshed a liberal amount of alcohol into Stoker's glass, and less into his own.

Stoker gestured to the two battered old armchairs that sat on his balcony and he and Throttle took a seat. Stoker drank deeply, feeling the alcohol burn a fiery path through the cold place in his belly. His breathing calmed and he started to relax. There was silence for a while.

"I didn't think you'd want to see that again," murmured Throttle.

"I've never seen it. At least, not on camera." Stoker grimaced.

Another silence.

"So, how are they taking it?" he said cautiously.

"A fair bit of panic, I guess. There'll be some dropouts tomorrow."

Stoker nodded gloomily.

"Better out than dead," said his conscience.

"Shut up," said Stoker.

Rimfire walked into operations and stopped when he saw Stoker. Stoker looked up.

"Pull out?"

"No."

"Good."

"What'd you say that for! Don't encourage him!"

"Shut up!"

"--," said Rimfire.

"What?"

"I said, I was wondering if you'd, um, give me some pointers." Rimfire looked at Stoker's face. "But, hey, y'know, it's cool if you, um, don't want to talk about it."

"Love to, kid. Grab a vid and come see me tonight."

"Awesome!" Rimfire said and jogged out the door.

When Stoker came home, Rimfire was waiting for him, lying upside down in one of the battered old armchairs on the balcony, looking at the centrefold from the latest Chopper Sand; a delicious picture of a scantily-clad buxom lass lying full length on a fully-dressed chopped hog. Rimfire grinned and waved the picture at him.

"Nice," commented Stoker.

Rimfire dropped the magazine and made some complicated and extravagant hand gestures, indicating what he thought of the girl, or possibly the bike, Stoker wasn't sure. Rimfire rolled off the chair onto his hands in a perfect handstand and flipped to his feet, grabbed the magazine and strolled casually back into Stoker's rooms.

A battered couch sat in the middle of the main room in front of the wall-mounted vidscreen. A small and surprisingly neat kitchen was to his right, with a door on either side; one leading to a primitive shower and the other to Stoker's bedroom. There was a pile of boots in a corner of the main room and some bike parts spread out on old newspapers in another corner. Stoker's winter coat lay draped across a kitchen counter, where it would probably stay until next winter. The whole place smelt of dust, sweat, old leather and grease and Rimfire loved it.

Stoker kicked his boots off and onto the pile, removed his vest and dropped it beside the coat on the counter. He wandered into the kitchen and grabbed some drinks. Stoker returned and tossed Rimfire a can of drink, before flopping down onto the couch and closing his eyes, letting his breath out slowly and trying to relax his cramped shoulders and back. He heard Rimfire flop onto the other end of the couch.

After five minutes, Stoker opened his eyes and sat up. "Bring the vid?"

Rimfire dragged a data disk out of his pocket, walked over and inserted it in the data socket beside the screen.

As the race flashed up, Stoker recognised it as his 12th win. "Good choice." As the first race started, Stoker ran through what he knew and what he had been doing at the time, dredging up all his memories of the track, all the tips and tricks he could remember. He pointed out areas to avoid, how to approach the jumps, where to accelerate and decelerate on the curves. They went through the tape multiple times, until Stoker had told Rimfire everything he knew about the track and the race.

"The rest is just practice kid. Go find a nice bit of hard-pan and see how much you can throw your little lady around. Get used to her, and let her get used to you. Is she finished yet?"

"End of the week," Rimfire said, grinning. "We're painting her tomorrow night."

"Sands, kid, don't paint her until you've done your practice, or she'll look terrible on race day. And you never ask a lady to appear in public looking anything less than perfect."

Rimfire rolled his eyes. "Ok, coach. I'll hold off the paint until later."

"So what's her name?"

Rimfire grinned. "Shuga."

Stoker smiled. "Modo's idea, am I right?"

"Yeah." Rimfire grinned, then frowned as a thought occurred to him. "You're not giving pointers to Vinnie as well, are you?"

Stoker snorted. "Kid, the day Vinnie takes pointers from me, we'll both of us be working for the Plutarkians."

Stoker was enjoying a drink with Throttle and Modo at their pad when they heard Vinnie and Rimfire's bikes pull up. The door opened and a filthy and bloody Rimfire limped in, followed by an equally filthy but not bloody Vinnie, who was grinning like a maniac. Modo leapt to his feet in horror.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," said Rimfire reassuringly at his uncle's concerned expression. "We just had a bit of a disagreement on a curve, that's all."

Modo swung round and glared at Vinnie.

"Hey! It wasn't my fault! He cut me off!"

"It's true, Uncle Modo. I misjudged my speed and his speed and so we came a cropper. Unfortunately I'm the one who found the gravel."

Stoker got the familiar cold gut-feeling he always seemed to get nowadays when one of his kids was in trouble. "Rimfire-"

"Don't start, Stoke, I've heard it already."

Stoker shut up. Rimfire sat down carefully in one of the chairs, wincing. His shirt was torn to ribbons, and his fur was bloody from his right shoulder to his knee. He carefully started removing his boots. Throttle got up and headed for the kitchen, coming back with their medi-kit.

Rimfire grinned up at him. "I'll have a shower first and see what's left. Then Uncle Modo can have fun dousing me in antiseptic and giving me a lecture." Modo opened his mouth to speak but Rimfire threw a boot at him, before moving off to the shower.

"You've got to get him some leathers, Modo," said Stoker as they heard the hiss of the shower. "Otherwise he'll have no skin left by race time." Stoker glared at Vinnie. "And where are yours?"

"Where they always are," smirked Vinnie, unrepentant. "I didn't know the kid was going to wipe me today or I would have worn them."

"That's the whole point Vincent, you never know when you're going to come off."

"I never fall off. Anyhow, you never wear them."

"I wore them when I raced, as you two should have been today," Stoker snapped. He was angry with these blasted cocky kids who thought they were indestructible, although a small voice inside him was quietly pointing out that he'd once thought he was indestructible. He was feeling like a hypocrite and hating it, especially when that little niggling voice inside started prodding him about all the stupid mistakes he'd managed to live through. He stalked into the kitchen and grabbed another drink, taking a long swallow as he walked back into the room.

Vinnie grinned, dropped his helmet and bandoliers and flopped into a chair just as the shower stopped. Naked and damp, Rimfire stepped into the main room, then staggered and grabbed for the wall.

"Whoa!" he said woozily. Modo strode over and grabbed him around the waist, half carrying, half dragging him to the bedroom. There was a thump, a groan from Rimfire and a "Stay there" from Modo. He walked out, grabbed the medi-kit from the table and headed back into the room. They heard him speaking to Rimfire in low tones, and Rimfire answering in a slurred voice. Modo reappeared in the doorway.

"Will ya come and have a look at him, Stoke?" said Modo worriedly. "Ah think he's concussed."

Stoker followed Modo into the bedroom. Rimfire was lying flat on the bed, with a lovely case of road rash on his right side. His eyes were glazed, and he looked pale under the fur. Stoker leaned down and grabbed Rimfire's muzzle, pulling apart the lids of one eye to find a slightly distended pupil.

Rimfire groaned and rolled onto his left side. "I think I'm going to be sick."

"Well, don't sit up," said Stoker. He turned to Modo. "Mildly, maybe, but nothing serious. See how he is in the morning."

Modo nodded and soaked a cloth in antiseptic liquid, pressing it gently against the raw flesh, causing Rimfire to yelp.

Stoker walked out of the bedroom, almost colliding with Throttle, who was walking in.

"Kid ok?"

"Yeah, he's ok. I'm off, see you later."

Throttle looked surprised. "You're not staying? There's a game on later."

"Not today. Got too much work to do."

"Well, come back when you're done and watch the game."

"Can't do it, rookie. If I don't get this done now it'll never get done."

Throttle frowned. "Tell Carbine she works you too hard."

"She works herself too hard, Throttle."

Throttle rolled his eyes. "Too true. If I got to see her for more than five minutes at a time, I'd tell her myself."

"Must be hell on the sex life."

"What sex life?"

Stoker chuckled, powered up Blue and headed back to base. Once out of sight, he turned and headed to Fletch's workshop. Sands, how he hated lying.

Fletch was loading Hotstuff onto a skimmer as Stoker arrived. Hotstuff was a pale grey colour in her new, unpainted faring. Fletch nodded at Stoker and pointed to a box on one of the workbenches. Stoker opened a compartment on Blue and pulled out a paper-wrapped bundle, which he dumped in the box before carrying it out to the skimmer. Blue blipped at him as he walked off.

"Back soon, Beautiful," he said reassuringly. He hopped into the skimmer and closed the door.

Fletch piloted them expertly out to an old, disused quarry. Stoker had checked it out on Blue a few weeks before and it would do for a practice field. It was also well off the patrol routes and away from prying eyes.

Fletch unloaded Hotstuff as Stoker took the parcel out of the box and opened it. The warm, animal smell of new leather hit him. He stripped down and pulled on the red and gold racing leathers. They fitted him like a glove, but were supple, without the usual stiffness of new leather. "Money can buy anything," he thought. He pulled on his old boots and walked over to Hotstuff. Fletch was tinkering, but stopped as Stoker approached.

"Ready?"

"Let's go."

Stoker slipped easily into the saddle, reaching for the clutch and kicking her out of gear. She turned over beautifully on the first start, her motor purring low and sweet, the familiar high-pitched whine of the turbines running in the background. He sat up and slipped on his helmet. Hotstuff was revving the engine, impatient to be off. He laughed.

"Easy girl, you'll get a run. Now let me drive."

She released control to him, and he felt her responsive power in his hands. He kicked her into gear, fed power to the throttle and they were off. She moved as lightly as a bird, responsive to his every command, power rippling through her and into him.

Stoker felt the beginnings of a familiar high as he opened the throttle more and sent her flying into a steep, banked turn. They came out of the turn perfectly and onto a long straight. He drove her to the limits of her speed, watching alternately the road and her readings. She was taking the run effortlessly and he knew then that they were as good a team now as they had been all those years ago.

He tested them both to the limit; jumps, sharp turns, quick acceleration and deceleration, pushing himself as hard as he pushed her. By the time they pulled up next to Fletch, it was late and Stoker was high on adrenalin and speed. He turned off the engine and stood, staggering a bit on the steady ground after the smooth motion of the bike. Fletch started pulling off the side faring while Stoker dropped to the ground and lay flat on his back, watching the evening sky and waiting for the high to subside.

Stoker awoke with a start. It was full dark. He looked around. Fletch had moved Hotstuff inside the skimmer; he could see Fletch working on her under the bright lights. Stoker grabbed his helmet and got to his feet. Every muscle in his body complained and he was exhausted, but it felt good.

Fletch looked up, startled, as he appeared in the doorway. "What time is it?"

Stoker looked at the clock on the control board and swore. "Late. We should have been back hours ago."

Stoker stripped out of the leathers and dragged on his old jeans and shirt as Fletch started to put Hotstuff back together. Piloting the skimmer back, Stoker relived the practice session, examining their moves and deciding where he could have applied more power, less power, earlier, later. He had worked out a routine for the next practice session by the time they reached the base. As he dropped the skimmer easily into its berth, Fletch finished putting Hotstuff back together, and wheeled her down the ramp and into the workshop. Stoker shut down the skimmer's control boards and carried Fletch's toolbox outside, dumping it on a workbench.

"See you tomorrow," he said, but Fletch was pulling off Hotstuff's faring again and muttering to himself, and Stoker knew he wasn't going to be missed. He smiled, mounted Blue and rode back to base.

Stoker opened the door to Carbine's office. Deep in thought over the practice session, he didn't notice the two figures sprawled across the desk.

"Hey!"

Stoker woke out of his reverie and then grinned at the two half-naked figures.

Carbine flopped back onto the desk, slapping a hand to her forehead. "Typical," she muttered.

"Don't you two have beds?" Stoker teased.

Throttle grinned at him.

"Are you here for a reason?" snapped Carbine.

"Just grabbing some more work," said Stoker, grinning widely. He picked up the files he had been working on that morning and beat a hasty retreat. He paused in the doorway. "You know, positions like that are really bad for the back."

Carbine grabbed a paperweight and flung it at him. Stoker closed the door hurriedly, chuckling to himself.