AN: I apologize in advance for any deleted spaces between words. I keep expecting them to fix it that particular flaw in the system, but no luck yet.
Gambling wasn't legal on New Mecca. However, it was perfectly legal anywhere off planet, including on the orbiting moons. The Bijou, located on moon Delta, had contracted out to Riddick's firm for an update of their security system. He and his supervisor, Ronnie, made the trip that day on the lunar shuttle to look over the casino's original blueprints and brainstorm suggestions. Mostly they went in person to get a feel for the place.
Ronnie liked the lunar races, so they stayed late that afternoon to watch one in the stadium seated viewing room. Outside, in the inhospitable environment, speed racers whipped around the huge track marked on the bare moon surface in tapered point tubes barely big enough for a man to sit down in. The engines on the racers developed so much thrust, the grandstand shook every time a wave of them passed by.
"Let me tell ya, Rick, there is nothing like this. Sitting back, not having to listen to your wife nag at ya for going to a casino... Hey, look, the guy I bet on just took the lead. He's looking pretty sharp for a semi-pro. Did you see those moves he put on? Slingshot himself right around that other guy."
Riddick nodded, the barest sparks of interest striking him. Ronnie was a decent guy, so the least he could do was feign interest for his sake. "Yeah, real sharp. What's the driver's name?"
His boss took out a mini-vid from the breast pocket inside his designer suit, and requested the roster from the casino's network. "Ah, here it is. Number 17, Dallas Conte."
The hair on the back of Riddick's neck stood on end. Conte. Now there was a name he hadn't heard in a long time.
"Ever heard of him before?" Riddick asked, making sure to sound nonchalant.
"Na, he must be a newbie. Probably just a kid. Some of these guys are hardly over the legal limit. He's got talent though. It must be my lucky day; I only picked him because I liked his number. Damn shame I didn't put more down on him."
Riddick watched the racers cross the finish line, reassuring himself that the name must be a coincidence. Dominic Conte, Jack's one time sweetheart and the man who used Riddick as bait during an assassination, died fifteen years ago in police custody. Besides, it was a big universe. Conte couldn't be that uncommon a name.
Ron got up. "Come on, Ricky. We've got an all-access pass for the day. Let's go meet those guys, see if we find any security problems, eh?"
Riddick slowly got to his feet, following with reluctance. On the one hand, he wanted to clear up the mystery of the racer's identity. On the other, a small part of him screamed that he should run the other way.
There wasn't much fanfare in the hanger dock. A few other drivers congratulated Conte, the winner, in passing and a few scowled at him. Riddick kept his face a mask of pure nothing. He didn't want to look out of sorts if this turned out to be what he feared.
"Hey, Conte," Ron called as they approached.
Conte wore a jumper in blue and white racing colors. The military grade boots he wore betrayed his amateur racing status--the pros all had entirely fireproof clothing, and a thinner sole in their boots for maximum control during shifting. When Ron called out to him, the young man didn't look up at first. He continued taking off his gloves and safety gear, stowing it in compartments on the racer he'd probably rented from the casino.
"Hey, Conte, nice driving out there," Ron congratulated, smacking the kid on the back.
Conte turned, pulling off his headgear and revealing short, thick blond hair that seemed to stand straight up on its own. He wore thin racing shades, but Riddick immediately recognized the features of Dominic Conte. Only—younger.
So many years had passed. Dom and Jack were the same age. By then Dominic should've look like a guy in his thirties, not a sixteen-year-old kid. Even if the man had done nothing but travel in cryo sleep, his age process couldn't reverse.
Then again, maybe Rick's memory made the guy out to be bigger and badder than the reality. He remembered Dom towering over him, but this kid stood at eye-level.
After another second of confusion the boy smiled at the compliment, appearing shy, modest. "Thanks. It's my first race here, so it's probably beginner's luck. None of these guys have seen my style before. I'm not exactly from around here."
"So, what's your real name?" Riddick asked, not surprised when the kid jumped at the question. The smile quickly returned, but not quick enough. The kid definitely didn't have the control of a professional--he wasn't used to hiding his identity. No matter how much Riddick hated the man, he recognized talent when he saw it. Dominic Conte was one smooth SOB. When he spoke lies, they rang true. This kid didn't have that going for him at all.
"I usually go by Dallas D, but they said I needed a last name to enter the races here. I wrote down Conte off the top of my head. I did a paper in high school on this guy once named Dominic Conte. He had a real badass reputation when he was my age. The name's bad luck though. Conte kicked it when he was only eighteen, and I'd like to live to race a little longer than that," Dallas said, his features easing into a comfort zone of truthfulness.
Ron chuckled. "Yeah, well it ain't bad luck for me. I won two hundred bucks off you today, kid. Why Dallas D? What's the 'D' stand for?"
Dallas chuckled. "My dog's name is D. I thought it sounded good. Pretty stupid, huh?"
"Excuse me, I need to speak with the winner."
Another body slipped past him, and Riddick moved aside for a short, well built guy in his twenties dressed in street clothes. "You Dallas?" the newcomer inquired.
"Yeah, that's me," the kid responded, no recognition apparent in his body language.
"Excellent. My name's Chris Lee, and I need you to come with me so we can get a sample from you. I apologize for any inconvenience, but you've been selected for random testing."
A laugh started then died in Dallas' throat. He briefly looked at both Riddick and Ron in disbelief. "Are you serious? I didn't think they tested for doping in racing. Definitely not in the amateurs," the kid said, reaching to push his shades higher on his nose--a subconscious and yet deliberate act. The back of Riddick's mind tugged at him, trying to force him to piece together an increasingly alarming puzzle. What did Dallas D have to hide?
Maybe he's just on drugs... Riddick almost scoffed at the thought. Right, like life ever turned out so simple.
Chris shrugged. "Hey, I know, man. I couldn't believe it either. Usually I just do file work, but since they started this new program they just haven't had time to hire enough runners. We'll just get this done quick and then you can go celebrate. If you'll just step this way, a medical professional is waiting to administer the test..."
Before either of them knew it, the race winner had gotten whisked off at a clipped pace by the business-like young man.
Riddick glanced after them more than once, wondering what exactly had struck him oddest about Chris-the-paper-pusher. The guy dressed like Cam. Earth-tone cargos, a baggy, well-worn sweatshirt. His skin was paler than average for New Mecca. Still, Chris could've fit in on any college campus on the planet.
So why the fuck do I got such a bad feeling about him?
Maybe because Chris-the-paper-pusher didn't carry himself like a paper pusher. The guy wasn't real tall, yet he subtly projected himself like he had the biggest pair in the room. The average person might not even notice, but to a guy who spent a lot of time in slam, that sort of thing screamed for notice.
There were only two places Riddick knew of where a guy that young learned that sort of confidence.
The military, and prison.
"I'll be right back," he said to Ron, heading after the two boys once they'd gained a fair head start.