...
Chapter 13: The Long Distance of Murder
Race day.
Weather control systems ensured the south central Mute City microclimate played nice, manufacturing calm skies and low wind speeds.
Secured within the high, hardened walls of the staging area, behind five-factor security doors, each of the three entrances clogged with phalanxes of armored guards hefting military grade hardware, F-Zero racers prepared themselves for action. A pilot could be a slob or a depraved lunatic or an uncaring animal on their own damn time. Not today. This moment was special. Now had come the hour when a pilot ran all final inspections on their machine. Slack off on maintenance by a single iota, neglect thy vehicle by one degree, and it meant not only losing a means to earning a living—the forces of physics would demand one's life in retribution for such gross carelessness. Surviving a Grand Prix crash had a freakishly tiny probability for survival.
So. Triple-check every system. Every circuit, hose, rocket nozzle, magnet, drive, gear, and millimeter of armor. Nothing shorted out or blocked or unresponsive. Pilots came to F-Zero with many different philosophies and temperaments and priorities, yet each hovercar in its cradle gleamed like a polished gem. The engines purred as the computers ran them through their gears, confirming nothing knocked or sputtered. G-diffusers had to clear no less than fifty safety benchmarks.
When the work was done, each pilot stood guard against tampering and other forms of treachery. Most pilots did everything themselves. They were reluctant to trust anyone with their hyper-sonic baby, even a robotic assistant. Each hand added to the process multiplied the complexity of the situation, increased the odds for mistakes and sabotage. At home automated rigs did all the heavy lifting for maintenance and repair. On race day, pit crews were a thing of the distant past.
Pilots hopped in and out of their vehicles, too psyched to sit still. They checked display screens and paced out nervous energy. Took last minute restroom breaks. Perhaps a few said their prayers.
Amid the tumult of hype, a spot of somber vibes. At its center stood five pilots, the air around them more tense with held energy than the moments before a sky-rending Mute City cluster-storm.
Falcon waited, facing the entrance ramp, stern of mien, yellow scarf blowing in the hot exhaust smoke which swirled in serpentine coils over fueling cars and crackling plasma dynamos. At his back twenty cars waited in their docks. This muster of ace pilots comprised Falcon's brigade, James', and ten lone wolves. Another ten docks waited empty.
James McCloud had drummed up a small coalition of his own, with Mr. EAD, John Tanaka, Kate Alen, and Billy. At the moment James had concluded a rousing speech. He stepped back, making a smart salute, surrendering the spotlight to the boisterous android EAD, who led the brigade in a dance of team spirit. It seemed to involve singing arms side-to-side and taking random steps forward. EAD's rich, tinny laughter bounced off the walls. Billy was the only one digging it, thrashing through each move with an ape's unabashed ecstasy.
The ten independents holding out against the brigade debacle included Silver Neelson, hunched shivering over his cane with a wily glint in his eyes, looking to finally win one even if it killed him. Silver had no need for fads, being a true original. There was Dr. Clash, always short on money for his various research projects, Octoman, in rude health and ready to prove his success in the qualifiers was no fluke, and Leon, the lupine pilot who was a good egg once you got to know him, but he wouldn't join James McCloud in anything. If James discovered the Comet of Eternal Youth and offered Leon a cup of its meltwater, Leon would slap it back into James' face. Whatever reasons the other pilots had for standing against the prevailing trend, they kept their mouths welded shut.
If the grueling slog of training and recruitment exacted a toll on Alucard, his noble features and flawless poise betrayed no exhaustion. The skin around those sharp eyes did not puff or sink. Wrinkles had no purchase on those plains of unblemished flesh. He watched the frantic scramble around him without comment, lips set in a pensive line.
In a bid to increase his partner's chances for survival, Falcon had loaned the Blue Thunder to Alucard, a sleek prototype he'd not driven as often as he'd have liked to. The forward spoilers and rocket nose gave it a distinct profile that would catch eyes and glide through the atmosphere like a stiletto thrust into gelatin. Great handling and acceptable armor.
"The best defense is steering around obstacles. Some pilots follow Pico's example. They grow addicted to bashing their way to victory. Don't be those pilots. They rarely last long," Falcon had impressed on the demi-pire.
Captain Falcon had momentarily brought the whole pre-race party to a halt when he drifted into the staging area behind the wheel of the Neo Blue Falcon, a next-generation build of the Blue Falcon mk. 3, design and construction funded by Grand Prix prize money. A sleek raptor bill form, it's main visual difference from the previous iteration of the Blue Falcon was the jet turbines relocated from their internal housing beside the cockpit to straddling the top of the machine. An additional center fin increased aerodynamic stability. There were more subtle yet important differences from older models hidden under the hood, but all Falcon gave away to Dai Goroh and the press critters was a terse explanation of some of its more detectable qualities.
Dai Goroh squirmed on the seat of his Silver Rat, thumbs flitting over the screen of his fake-wood paneled smart deck. Filled with the restlessness of youth, he had pestered everyone present with questions about when would Dracula arrive and when would the race start. Receiving no answers he'd blown a raspberry and settled in for a long wait.
Dr. Stewart was last to finish preparing his machine, the Golden Fox. An heirloom from his late, great father, he babied the machine in excess even by the standards of hyper paranoid F-Zero pilots. The doctor used the remaining time to pack a first-aid, second-aid, and omega-aid kit into the cockpit, just in case he needed to reattach limbs or contain a pandemic out on the track.
Stewart wasn't the only one loading up. After running a bare minimum of checks on the Goose, Pico bolted in a gun rack and mounted several firearms and swords into his machine. He swaggered about, a marksman's laser rifle slung over his shell and a brace of daggers across his chest. Other pilots had been looking his way the whole time and Pico was enjoying seeing and being seen. Perhaps he wouldn't enjoy the attention so much if he could read their thoughts. No longer turtled up behind a store counter, Pico's soft, wagging beer belly was exposed for all to see.
Packing weapons wasn't against the old regulations, unless one used them while the race was in progress. The practice was an unpopular one since every extra gram was just that much more weight against the machine's top speed. Pico expected a fight, on the track or off of it.
Alucard twisted his loaner helmet back and forth, lifted it clear and reseated it. "Tsk. This armor needs proper fitting."
"Make do," said Falcon. Considering they were now lovers, he knew he should be warmer towards his partner. Pre-race pressure effected him this way. A hurricane of electricity raged within, pushing out all other concerns, leaving his mind a solid block. And on that block was carved a single word: Yes!
Only this time, the block mind had a crack in it. In the crack a darkness festered, and its name was Shadow Lord.
Alucard grunted, struggling to keep the crested white helmet straight on his fine boned head. Too large for him. Falcon had tried padding it out.
The plan had been to call in several favors to forge Alucard a fake license on short notice. Two days ago, an official license arrived by an official F-Zero Execution Project courier (not vampirized to their great relief). Issued to number 25, Blood Falcon's number. Complements of the committee. Another reminder from Dracula on who called the shots in this circus.
The space for the pilot's name had been left purposefully blank. Certain that the Federation Police might object to one of their own participating in the Grand Prix without explicit orders to do so, Falcon had completed the registration with a nom de guerre.
"What is my ridiculous alias again?"
"Famicom," Falcon answered. "It's an old tradition. Pilots who don't wish to be identified for a race assume the identity."
Assuming the identity also required donning a disguise. In addition to the helmet, Falcon had picked out grieves, spiny vambraces, a glitzy rainbow sash, and a cream cape sparkling with silver sequins. It took all of Falcon's willpower not to crack a smile at the sight of the dour Alucard affecting his customary air of goth majesty with all his blacks and silvers replaced by bright parti-colors and sparkling whites. The tall, pale stranger drew a lot of stares from the other pilots.
"I think it is a fine outfit," said an approaching middle-aged woman. Grace flowed through her every move, her face hidden behind a winged mask. A cybernetic hawk perched on her shoulder. Her outfit was flamboyant enough to beat Alucard's and Falcon's costumes and still have attitude to spare.
Alucard bowed. "I'm flattered, Lady…?"
She smirked. "Mrs. Arrow will do. It's good to see fresh talent in the race. And I sense you have a special reason for competing. All the best mystery pilots do."
"You see me clear. Might I ask what your reason is for risking the Grand Prix?" Alucard bent to kiss her proffered glove.
"The same as it ever was." She lifted her arms up, striking a dramatic pose, flourishing her hands. "I am here to deliver justice and win a big pile of credits. Any more elaboration must wait until after the race. Dinner, perhaps?"
"I'm honored. But to my regret I have other commitments this evening."
Her smirk turned rueful. The hawk shrilled a sad note. Her gaze flicked to Captain Falcon. "Ah. Well, if time frees up, the invitation remains open. And I'd be delighted if you were to bring along your… friends, as well."
Alucard bowed again, low. "I will remember. And thank you."
Mrs. Arrow moved on, winding her way towards her machine, the narrow framed Queen Meteor.
"Do you know her?" Alucard asked Falcon.
He nodded. "Making friends already. Mrs. Arrow is one of the good ones. You can trust her, probably. Off the track. On the track, she'll run you down like all the rest. It's the F-Zero way."
"Would she consider joining us?"
Falcon shook his head. "She knows we're in a brigade together. If she wanted in, she would've said so. Ever since the race claimed her husband she hasn't been the same."
As if the shared remembrance of tragedy and loss had summoned them, the grumble of an oncoming fleet of F-Zero machines in cruise gear boomed up the entrance ramp. Like a flock of black swans they floated in and neatly glided into their docks. Through the shaded windshields he could glimpse the silhouettes of Don Genie and Zoda. The brigade of Dracula had arrived, short two machines.
A strange, indescribable noise followed in their wake. No pilot or F-Zero staffer had ever heard anything like it. "Heralds of Tepes," Alucard whispered.
The swarming noise became a cloud of black bats of unusual size skirling their way into the staging area. They dimmed the lighting with the whirling canopy of their long, leathery wings. Pilots ducked for cover under cars and behind crates, some running from the building as the guards hugged the floor, heads rocking back and forth, searching for threats, bleating over their radios.
And like a howling autumn wind, the bats left by means undetectable, their gibbering song fading swiftly.
When Falcon looked down from the ceiling, the two empty docks were occupied.
The Black Sun had dawned.
No blocky hearse like what Dracula piloted at the qualifiers, the Sun was a whole other beast. The overall motif was of an outstretched claw, each talon a jet intake. Under its titanium hide five engines growled with inestimable power, their rocket spouts crafted into the howling maws of demons. Its polished black armor gleamed like an enameled ebony coffin. From the dark luster of the paint emerged lush highlights of imperial purple, and in some deeper layer still a red glare emanated. Baroque designs and murals swam through the baleful glow, traveling from the sword point nose to the tip of the bat wing fins. A skull upon a serpent's body ornamented the hood, sculpted from a lustrous red alloy. It seemed to move as one watched it, as if it were still slithering up the hood for a face-first view of the road ahead.
"Well, that certainly looks… expensive," drawled Dr. Stewart.
Dai Goroh scoffed. "Naw, that's a Death Day parade float, not a real man's car." He spat in the Black Sun's direction, but his eyes did not waiver from the majesty of its dismal gloss.
Pico drooled, eyes hooded with lust, breath panting moistly through his nasal slits. "Perrrfection. Don't think I can bear to smash it." He noticed Falcon watching. "Worry not, softback. I'm a soldier. I'll do what's necessary."
Whatever feelings and observations his father's arrival inspired in Alucard, the son of Dracula kept them private. Standing still, he watched impassive through the visor of his ridiculous helmet, like a man forced to watch idiot relatives embarrass themselves in public.
Behind Falcon someone was shouting. In the confusion following the bat colony's trespass, a news mutant had exploited a gap in security coverage at the side door. It rolled forward with inhuman haste on fleshy tank treads composed of many pseudopods. Biomechanical recording devices grew within its body like bones, or swung like pendulous antennae from its huge head. The logo of its parent news network scrolled through its skin, a living cattle brand created by chromatophore and iridophore cells. News mutants displayed the heraldry of their media corporation owners their whole lives.
It charged Captain Falcon's position at first, then broke hard right, homing in on Dracula.
"Shadow Lord, sir! Ganon News Network would like to ask you a few questions," it bellowed from all four of its lung sacs.
"Stay back, you fool." Alucard took a step forward to save the day and slammed to a halt against Falcon's arm baring the way.
"It would only roll over you," he explained. "When it comes to the news, the subject's consent is not required. Besides, these things are weaponized to defend themselves. Watch."
The news mutant chugged onwards towards the Black Sun, barking questions, camera organs straining forward. The cockpit hatch remained closed. Dracula had not yet emerged.
Undaunted, the mutant reached out and rapped the windshield. "We're very curious as to your plans for the priz-EEEEE!" It flailed and flashed red and black warnings all along its body as a dozen pale arms shot out from the shadow beneath the Black Sun and hooked their yellow talons into its psuedopod clusters. Thin the arms were, and jointed with many elbows, their horrid skin splotched with blue decay. The mutant reared back to tear free, but the talons held firm. Demonstrating terrible strength, the arms pulled the heavy news mutant down and dragged it screaming under the Black Sun. Its bulk vanished into the narrow space without raising the machine. Its shrieks cut off as the head passed into the shadow. The stench of badly decayed flesh wafted across the staging area and was gone.
The mutant would never be heard from again. No backups of its recordings, from the time it entered the building to its disappearance, were ever found.
Alucard stepped back, the disapproval in his silence a heavy bar laid across Falcon's shoulders.
"Guess I should've let you try," said Falcon. He didn't sound sorry. He wasn't sorry.
Dai Goroh's eyes looked fit to roll out of his skull. The doctor stared on in sick fascination as Pico grunted, swaying his terrapin head and muttering under his breath.
Another machine rested in the dock beside the Sun. The White Cat, painted white and lavender and streaked gray with hard use. Jody's machine. No need to bother with infrared mode or any other spectrum settings. Federation designed and built, the White Cat was well shielded against probing. Nothing for it then but to walk over and say hello.
He took two steps forward. Alucard's cool hand squeezed his shoulder. Falcon patted it, gently pried him off. "Trust me."
Falcon crossed the no man's land between the rows of cars. He did not look back, but could feel every eye in the room upon him. No one shouted for him to turn back. No one ran out to stop him.
Close in, Jody's silhouette became visible through the windshield. Falcon knocked. The hatch released, rose with a hiss.
There she was. Whole, if a bit pale. Not so much reclining as draped over her seat, she stared straight ahead. Beyond her usual ace combat pilot aloofness, she had ascended to the austerity of ice.
"Hey, Jody."
"Captain." Her gaze remained fixed on the middle distance.
"Am I to understand you're still set on running with the leech and his merry crew?"
Her head slumped forward. If not for the sensitive, context-smart audio pickups in the helmet, he might not have heard her too quiet voice. "Looks like you got your wish, Capt'n. I've returned to the race."
Falcon had expected bad news. Expected to hear things which would upset him. But there it was, old words spat back into his face. Felt, then, the cold, floating sensation of the wheel gone dead in his hands, the Blue Falcon out of his control and drifting towards destruction, a sensation familiar from his nightmares.
Some part her, maybe all of her, was still in there. The same memories, but was it the same woman? If Jody was still in there, and she was a vampire, what did that mean?
"Yeah. But not by your own choice. How much control does he have over you, Jody? How much do I have to hurt him to make him let you go?"
Dripping languor, she reached up, palm rasping over her long neck as she massaged it. "It's not that simple. I know what he's doing to me. And I don't feel like stopping it. Can't see a reason to stop it. Beyond that… he's told you what you need to do, if I have to live how you want me to."
Hauling on the throttle, tearing the wheel off its column. The buttons, the clutch, they do nothing. Flooding with useless anger, Falcon forgot himself just long enough to bitch.
"When I dared you to collar him first, this isn't what I had in mind."
"Good luck," Jody murmured. The windshield hatch began to lower. Falcon grabbed the edge and pried it back open, its motors whining.
"Jody. Come over to my side. Or call it in for today. They'll give you a bye. I'll make sure they will. You don't have to do this."
At no time throughout this exchange had her eyes flicked in his direction. "You first. Maybe tonight's the night you run out of laters."
Forcing his jaw to unclench, Falcon bit out each syllable. "Don't advice me, I won't advice you."
The hand of Dracula closed over his forearm, squeezed. One instant, Falcon had stood alone. The next, the vampire was there. No door opened, no rush of displaced air, no sound of boot sole on the floor. There, as if he'd always been there. Dracula dug the nails in, pulled with a terrible strength. But the arm of Falcon would not be moved.
"Impressive," said Dracula, sounding as if he meant it. "Yet futile. I believe the lady has made her intentions plain."
He tried again. "Jody." She would not look up.
Dracula laughed. "You embarrass yourself. And don't forget, we have an agreement." He leaned in close, the next words just for Falcon. "We both know the secret source of your strength won't allow you the dishonor of breaking your word." He let go, and Falcon released the hatch, allowing it to seal closed.
"Now, if it was me who powered you…" Dracula turned Falcon to face his car. Something in his voice crawled into the tunnels of Falcon's ears, like parasites eager to burrow there.
The sepulchral light of the Black Sun illuminated new possibilities. They poured into Falcon's brain through the holes of his eyes. Images that swayed and beckoned.
Doubts crowded in. Had the vampiric versions of Goroh and Blood Falcon changed fundamentally from their old selves? If anything, they had become truer, purer, closer to an ideal version of themselves. Dracula held out his hand, palm open in invitation. His lips parted, as if he would say more, yet he hesitated, having just discovered the blade of a longsword thrust through his forearm.
"You challenged us to a race, father," growled Alucard.
Shadow Lord smirked, and pulled his arm off the blade. "More than a mere race. F-Max, F-Zero... After today the event will earn a new name. A new name for a new era. I've come to change the game."
Falcon jumped up onto the hood of the nearby Black Bull and roared. "No one came here for speeches. You got something to say, then you say it out on the track. Out there we speak in velocity and crunching metal. You wanna talk big, you earn the right. The hard way. You want to change the game? You don't know the game, Vlad. You'll never know F-ZERO until you face us out there. All else is pissing against the wind, and brother, I am the wind."
He stormed back across the no man's land, Alucard his trailing shadow. No one had applauded. No thumbs up or hell yeahs. All the other pilots had found something in their machines to keep them busy.
Dr. Stewart was chatting up Carmilla. He stooped over, peering into the eye holes of her iron mask, tutting over the trickle of blood always dribbling from one socket or the other. "Try swabbing with this twice a day, morning and evening. Here, let us exchange contact information. I very much think we need to monitor your condition closely. Perhaps a follow up appointment tomorrow night?"
"Only… if you pay for dinner," Carmilla cooed. "A late dinner." She clasped the hand with which he offered the medicated swabs between her own. Her fingers were webbed, delicate, and tipped with long talons.
"But of course. I know some rather choice holes-in-the-wall that would offer us the privacy we need to discuss further treatment." Perfectly smooth. Age hadn't slowed his game. Falcon hoped it hadn't slowed his driving either. He pried the good doctor away before Carmilla could reveal what lay behind her mask, pulling Stewart back to the Golden Fox.
"Don't get distracted. We got a race to win before you take on any new clients."
Dr. Stewart nodded, frowning. "About the decontamination we discussed earlier… Have arrangements been made for the HQ?"
"Don't worry. An old acquaintance of mine is on it. Made sure he has the stuff you told me to give him. It'll be—"
Horns bleated, lights flashed in several wavelengths, and tremors pulsed through the floor in a coded series. It was the final warning before the race began, the signal to load up and move out. Pilots began donning their helmets and jumping into their machines. All chatter and people watching ceased.
Falcon looked over his small brigade. Half hard bitten old hands, half mouth-breathing babies. He swallowed hard on the Dracula given doubts rising like acid indigestion in the back of his throat. They would win, if he had to personally carry each one of them over the finish line himself.
"You guys better buckle your chinstraps. This is where the fun starts."