Hover Car Racer Part 40

'I think I'll race with Team Lombardi.'

The media scrum erupted - with shouted questions and flash photos, but Jason was done.

He just stepped back into his pit bay, ignoring them, ending the press conference. He looked at his team: the diminutive Bug, the smiling Sally McDuff, and the serious Scott Syracuse.

'Well, people,' he said. 'I don't think I believe it yet myself. But in two days' time, we're gonna be racing in the New York Masters.'

Thirty minutes later, the media throng had departed, having got their story, and Jason found himself standing in his pit bay, alone, tidying up after the race.

But then, across the way from him, he saw Xavier, also alone, also packing up his gear.

For some reason that he didn't understand, Jason went over to him.

'Good race today, Xavier,' he said.

Xavier didn't even acknowledge Jason's presence, just kept packing.

'Okay, then...' Jason turned to go.

'By any reckoning, I'm a better racer than you are,' Xavier's voice said from behind him.

Jason turned back.

Xavier was glaring at him now, his eyes icy. 'All year it's been apparent. My speed tolerances are better. My cornering. My pa.s.sing. My crew. In every facet of racing, I am better than you are. Which is why I cannot understand how on earth you beat me today. I should be racing in the Masters.'

Jason just stared back at him, held his ground. 'You know why I beat you today, Xavier?'

'Why?'

'Because of everything you just said. You are better than me. You have heaps more natural talent than I do. But I work harder than you do. That's why I won. And that's why you've been scared of me all year - that's why you sent Dido to distract me, that's why you sent her to get information on me. And that's why, Prince Xavier, if we ever meet again on a racetrack, I'll beat you there too. Have a nice life.'

And with that, Jason turned his back on Xavier and walked away.

CHAPTER SIX.

NEW YORK CITY, USA (WEDNESDAY) PARADE DAY.

The floats worked their way down Fifth Avenue, bearing on their backs the sixteen racers who would compete in the Masters.

All of New York had come out to see them. The streets of the city were lined with over 10 million people, waving and throwing streamers. Ticker-tape fell from the upper heights of the skysc.r.a.pers, mingling with the ever-present confetti snow.

Jason, Sally and the Bug stood atop a gigantic papiermache float - built in the shape and colours of the Argonaut - waving to the cheering crowds.

On the other floats, Jason saw some familiar faces. Alessandro Romba.

La Bomba Romba. The current world champion and, this year, the winner in Sydney, London and Italy: if he won the Masters this week, he'd become the first racer ever to win the Golden Grand Slam, all four Grand Slam races in a single calendar year.

And on another float: Fabian.

The nasty Frenchman whom Jason had humiliated in the exhibition race in Italy.

Etienne Trouveau - Fabian's equally villainous teammate; the man who had taken out Jason's tailfin so ruthlessly in Italy.

And the two US Air Force pilot-racers, Angus Carver and Dwayne Lewicki - the crowd gave them a huge cheer.

At one point during the parade, Jason made eye-contact with Fabian.

The Frenchman smiled at him, and then formed his fingers into a gun and - his smile vanis.h.i.+ng - pulled the trigger.

While Jason and the others were out on Fifth Avenue, the Argonaut - the tough little Argonaut - sat in a Team Lombardi pit bay on Sixth Avenue being overhauled.

Umberto Lombardi may not have been able to give Jason a brand-new race-ready car to compete in the Masters, but he could give the Argonaut a bit of an upgrade: some brand-new compressed-air thrusters and a crate-load of the best magneto drives money could buy - a full set of Ferrari XP-7s.

No longer was the Argonaut a hodge-podge of wildly different parts - now, internally at least, it was the complete package.

Externally, however, Lombardi didn't change a thing. The only thing he got his workmen to do on the outside of the car was give the Argonaut a complete repainting and polis.h.i.+ng - not in the colours of Team Lombardi, but in its own original colours: blue, white and silver.

When it came out of the garage later that afternoon - when Jason and the others had returned from the parade - the Argonaut positively sparkled. It was ready to race.

Throughout the rest of the day, Jason and his team stayed away from all the formal race functions - dinners, sponsors' events, drinks parties.

Having seen how vacuous those things were both in Italy and at Race School, Jason, Sally and the Bug just didn't care for them.

They just stayed at the official practice track out on Long Island Sound - putting the new-and-improved Argonaut through its paces - before returning to Jason's cousins' house in New Jersey late in the afternoon.

That evening, the entire extended Chaser family, the McDuff clan, Ariel Piper and Scott Syracuse sat around the dinner table, discussing tactics.

'The important thing is the elimination system,' Syracuse said. 'Over the course of the four races, a leaderboard is used. Like at Race School, you get 10 points for winning, down to 1 point for coming 10th - and a flat zero points if you DNF. At the end of each race, the last four racers on the leaderboard get eliminated. So: in Race 1, 16 racers compete; in Race 2, 12; in Race 3, 8, and in the final race, only 4.

'As such, the first race is simple,' he said. 'If you come in one of the last four, you're out. If you survive the first race, then elimination depends on where everyone finishes in the subsequent races.'

'And don't forget the Bradbury Principle,' Henry Chaser, ever the armchair expert, said. His eyes twinkled as he said it.

'Yes, Dad,' Jason sighed, shaking his head.

'Hey look!' one of his cousins yelled from in front of the TV. 'You can bet on Jason!'

Everyone turned to see that the TV news was reporting on the gambling odds being offered for the Masters. A representative from the main internet gambling company, InterBet, was summarising the available odds.

Jason was a rank outsider to win the Masters - his odds were the highest of any racer: 1500-to-1.

But what surprised Jason was the amount of different betting options that were available to the keen gambler: You could bet on Jason making it through Race 1 (100-to-1).

You could bet on him making it to Race 4 (575-to-1).

But then there were the more complex bets.

Jason coming in the Top 3 overall.

Jason coming in the Top 5 overall.

Jason placing in the Top 3 in any race (naturally the odds for Race 1 were shorter than those for, say, Race 3, since he'd have to avoid eliminations to get to Race 3).

Jason placing in the Top 5 in any race.

Jason was a little overwhelmed by it all. He'd always loved racing, but he'd never taken an interest in the gambling side of it.

'Hmmm. I'm not much of a gambler,' Martha Chaser said tentatively, 'but I might just put a dollar on you to win the whole thing. I could buy myself one of those fancy new sewing machines. Mmmm.'

After a time, dinner broke up, and Jason and the Bug went to their bedroom. They wanted a good night's sleep before tomorrow's racing.

Before he climbed into bed, though, Jason had a thought - and he went online, checking something... something about the gambling odds on him in Italy.

Hmmm, he thought, gazing at the screen, before flicking it off.

Then his parents came in, wished him and the Bug good night, switched the lights off, and left.

Jason lay in the dark for a long time - long after the Bug had fallen silent - staring at the ceiling. Then he rolled over to go to sleep.

As he did so, someone came into the bedroom behind him and sat down on the floor between his bed and the Bug's.

It was their father, Henry Chaser.

'Boys,' he whispered, a.s.suming they were asleep. 'I just wanted you both to know something. I am so very proud of you - not for reaching the Masters, but just for being who you are and conducting yourselves as you have. Tomorrow, win or lose, it doesn't matter, I still love you both. You just do your best and enjoy the experience. I hope you have the time of your lives.'

Henry sniffed back some tears.

Then he stood up quickly and left the room.

Jason smiled in his bed.

He didn't know it, but across from him, in the other bed, the Bug was also wide awake and listening.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

NEW YORK CITY, USA (THURSDAY).

RACE 1: THE LIBERTY SUPERSPRINT.

LAP: 1 OF 40.

Lightning speed.

Blurring skysc.r.a.per canyons.

Slow-falling confetti.

Roaring crowds.

And absolutely brutal racing.

Race 1 of the New York Masters introduced Jason to a whole new level of hover car racing.

This wasn't just fast.

It was desperate. You did everything you could to stay out of the bottom four...and stay alive.

The course for the Liberty Supersprint wasn't dissimilar to the course Jason had raced in the Challenger Race - except that this track never left Manhattan Island, save for the downward run to the treacherous Liberty's Elbow.

But this course was tight, sharp, a never-ending series of right-angled turns up and down Manhattan Island - as a driver, you never got a chance to rest your mind. If you lost your concentration for a second, you'd find yourself missing a turn and skidding out over the demag lights or into a Dead Zone.

In short, Race 1 was murder on mag drives - which was very deliberate. It made taking Liberty's Elbow even harder.

On the first corner of the race, Etienne Trouveau made a barely-concealed swipe at Jason's tailfin.

But Jason - wiser from his similar experience at Race School and loving the extra speed of his new-and-improved Argonaut - had expected it and he evaded the move with skill.

Welcome back to the big leagues , was the message. Twisting, turning, banking, racing.

Sixteen racers, but only twelve could progress to Race 2. Fabian shot to the lead - Closely pursued by La Bomba Romba - Jason slotted into 14th place, racing hard, yet within range of elimination.

But he liked this course. It suited the light-and-nimble Argonaut. The never-ending sequence of short straights

and 90-degree turns suited the smaller cars - in the city, there wasn't a single street-section long enough for the