It’s been a few months since I posted on the blog. Like everyone else I’m exhausted and terrified by the current state of the world.
Many friends have noted my favorite bike helmet design. When I inform them of it’s origin in my Sci Fi novel Stay Airtight they look kind of confused so as a nice distraction I present an edited excerpt to explain it. It takes place in Pahrump Nevada in the future when we have contact with aliens and I'm hired to be a co pilot for the Jova Sergei in air race. Enjoy.
Oh let’s hope this year is better than last year. Please.
From Stay Airtight
The Big Race
I have to get some gear so I head over to a shop that caters to racers. One doesn't climb into a high powered ship and race over hundreds of square kilometers without some preparation. The place is crammed with military surplus, aviation and space gear of every style and quality. I find a dark blue flight suit that I can easily alter to my short height and a brown leather bombardier jacket that instantly becomes a favorite.
I have to pay for this equipment out of pocket and I'm aghast at the prices. Most of the helmets are out of my range but I finally see an early Terran Defense trainer that fits my tiny head. It's black and gold with red accents and a side mount for a light. It's taken a beating over the years but it's functional and I'll take function over pretty any day.
While the Jova delegation is feted at the UN and hash out relations, Sergei and crew arrive in with the flyer--and she's a beauty. The sleek metallic silver ship resembles a delta wing fighter on steroids with a rooster's comb on top. It's not designed for a short woman either and getting into it is a chore, thank God for the hand holds and a runner board.
" I have made an adjustment to your seat, I hope you approve," Sergei informs me. The side by side cockpit is a tight fit for a Jova but the co-pilot seat is roomy for a human. I open the door to discover what looks exactly like a child's car seat.
"Oh thanks," I say, my ego utterly deflated. I get in and find it comfortable and functional with a lever that slides the seat forward so I can easily reach the controls. I give it a thumbs up and Sergei is pleased. I notice a small wire lock around the gattan* control on the dash.
"Just a reminder," Sergei say with considerable regret. Honestly, why these guys think it's manly to push themselves to the point of blacking out from gee forces is beyond me.
"Not like that's going to stop anyone," I'm not impressed with the restraint and give it a small flick.
I adjust to the seat as we do a dry run through the course. I spot obstacles, give directions and coordinates along the way as my job as navigator requires.
*the gattan is the artificial gravity function banned from the race because it’s considered an advantage.
Everyone takes a keen interest in the aliens and their ships. They openly gape at the oversized Arn and the media swarms in whenever Sergei or Korya the mechanic, do some fine tuning on the ship. I'm pretty much ignored as the obligatory human sidekick when I show up for our timed run. I show Sergei my helmet and he inspects it with approval then pulls a stylus out of his jumpsuit pocket.
"May I?" he asks.
I have no idea what he intends to do but give him a go ahead. He quickly writes in bold red ink some Jova script on either side of the top center ridge and hands it to me.
"What does it say?"
"Courage is taking the first step," He says with dramatic flair.
"Ooh I like it," I gush.
The race is divided into three stages. A solo to determine qualifiers, two semi final elimination rounds, then a three lap finale with the top three plus a runner up. We ace the timed run, as Sergei is quite the speed demon and we easily qualify. As we arrive for the part two semi final and walk pass the line of testosterone powered ships, I spot a familiar face among our competitors and stop in my tracks.
"What the hell," I exclaim with irritation.
"What?" Sergei nearly runs into me from behind.
" I can't believe it. It's Mason of all people," I groan. He's shaved his head and acquired a deep tan but still has the arrogant swagger. He sees me and quickly glances away like a kid who cheated his way into a contest. I give him a sour look and shake my head. So this is why he skipped out on Mark's Station. Sergei is not the only alien in this race, Mason is the pilot for a doughy Cassarian.
"Is he good?" Sergei asks.
"From what I've heard, yeah, but he's reckless," I can't decide if that's dangerous or gives us an edge.
There are six flyers in this round. Aside from Sergei and Mason, there is a Saudi prince in glossy green top of the line McKinley Radical that is barely legal, a Russian in a candy apple red that looks like a heavily modified MIG. Two aces from France with white flyers have a personal rivalry as they regard each other with Gallic disdain.
The course covers 380 kilometers in a big circle through the Nevada desert, crosses into New Sonoma, turns east into the "Star Wars" canyon, across Death Valley then back to Pahrump over an endless landscape of sagebrush, sand and bone dry brown dirt broken occasionally by motorcycle and ATV tracks.
Everyone climbs aboard their ships for the pre flight check. Sergei is already secure, wearing a dull silver helmet adorned with his clan crest in purple. As I put on my helmet and strap into the three point harness, I can hear the Saudi next to us yelling at his navigator through the open door.
The start horn blares and there is a thunderous roar as engines fire up. Unlike regular jets these are capable of almost vertical lift and they leap into the sky like a flock of birds.
The race starts off fast as everyone wants the lead. By the time we pass the second flag and turn north at Rabbit Hole, Sergei, French number one and Mason are ahead. We ascend sharply as we pass Cosco Peak then plunge down--thank God I had a light breakfast-- and turn back east.
Rainbow Canyon, nicknamed "The Jedi Transition" has been a favorite training spot of jet pilots for decades. "Five and a half miles, five hundred feet at five hundred knots" goes the saying. We scream by an overlook where people gather to watch and photograph the action. I don't give a cursory wave to the onlookers as I'm busy being terrified by Mason coming in close behind us. He climbs sharply as we exit the canyon.
"What is he doing?" Sergei did not expect this.
"He's looking for an opening from above," I yell into the mic.
Sergei nods and does the opposite, practically hugging the flat desert, flying in a sinuous pattern as we head to the finish line ninety kilometers away. The others jockey to keep their position but I know Mason is up to something and sure enough, he drops out of the sky like a bird of prey and two others are forced apart. Sergei, Mason and French number one come in win, place and show. The others are mighty pissed at Mason's pushy tactics. Man, these aces play for high stakes that's for sure. The Saudi lodges a challenge, not a surprise, as he is always complaining.
The next day, I report to the hanger where Brusha is being prepped for the final. Sergei has adopted our custom of naming the ship and I'm amused with his honoring my boss and his coba.
The final round will be us, Mason, Julien the French guy, who is actually very nice, and runner up Sandra, a wicked good retired US Air Force pilot, in a cobalt blue lightweight Gossamer.
Before the big race, the contestants are trotted out and stand behind a safety barrier for a carefully orchestrated meet and greet of the press, VIPS, and donors. Everyone wants to meet the aliens but Tartalas the Cassarian is visibly uncomfortable with our gravity, speaks terrible AIL and spits a lot in a guttural voice. The media prefers Sergei with his courtly manners, handsome features and blond hair contrasted against his sepia complexion. Sergei watches curiously as Julien flirts with the ladies.
I tire of answering the same old questions: No, I'm not the pilot just the navigator, I guess they think Sergei is a stand in like Tartalas. No, I haven't been brain washed by the aliens, I'm here of my own free will. No, I've never had sex with an alien but thanks for asking a totally inappropriate question in public. Sandra handles the equally sexist questions with aplomb but I really want to hit them with a rock.
Done with the presentation, we head to the racers when I hear a familiar voice. I turn to see Jesus (my tour guide) approach and he hands me a medal on a silver chain.
"Via con Dios, senora," he says, clasping my hand.
" Amen amigo, gracias." I run to catch up with Sergei.
"You know him?" he asks casually.
"Oh yeah Jesus is a friend of mine," I say for my own amusement.
This is it, the race we have spent months preparing for. The competition is collective rather than solo in a high speed dance where every movement, every tilt of the wings and maneuver is potentially fatal.
We climb aboard and go through the pre flight check. I'm already sweating under my helmet while Sergei is cool as usual. He puts a large hand on his breast and offers up a prayer to the Three Powers. He is not the religious type so the gesture surprises me.
"It's a custom, for good luck," he explains with a grin, as he puts on his gloves. I check to make sure the medal is in the arm pocket just below the Defense League patch sewn on my jumpsuit.
The start horn sounds and within seconds we are airborne and head west over the mountains. Sandra the top gun, proves to be a fierce competitor as she quickly takes the lead by the end of lap one. Mason follows close behind her as we pass the second gate leaving Sergei and Julien in a dead run for third place. I fret and resist urging Sergei to pull ahead. He knows what he's doing as we climb to the high point and pass the other two before a steep dive on the last leg.
At the start of lap three, Sergei leads with Sandra, followed by Mason. Julien is having trouble of some kind and drops back as we head to the canyon-- Sergei scares the shit out of me making fast, tight turns along the narrow canyon as we play cat and mouse with Sandra. Mason is a creature of habit as he climbs above like last time.
I relax a bit as we break out to the wide open flats on the homestretch, in the lead. Sandra keeps pace but I'm sure we have this. I forgot about Mason until he swoops down and tries to separate the distance between us but Sandra doesn’t budge. I glance through the canopy to see the underside of his ship just above us.
Damn it, all this open desert and he is trying to squeeze in as close as possible. Sergei doesn't budge either so Mason shifts position and the three of us speed in a line to the finish.
When people are impatient they do stupid or dangerous things. Mason is both and tries to shake the two of us off by hedging in again but by gust of wind, misjudgment or sheer arrogance comes in too close and clips Sandra's wing causing her to veer dangerously. In an attempt to regain control she bumps into us and Sergei struggles to stay even. Mason speeds away from the impending disaster as our flyers plunge toward the ground two kilometers below. I stare paralyzed in terror as the ground rushes up and realize we are dead.
The force of the dive pushes me into my seat until there is a sudden lurch and I'm at one gee. I turn to see Sergei has ripped the lock off the gattan to capture Sandra in the gravity field. It's not designed to handle the mass of another ship but the lightweight Gossamer does not pull us down any faster than we are already falling. I brace for the inevitable crash as we are about to lawn dart into the desert.
"Disengage the gattan on my command," Sergei coolly commands. I put my hand on the control as we level out several meters from the ground. Sandra follows and we brace for a hard landing.
"Now," he barks, I immediately yank off the control. The comfortable one gee is replaced by a jerk as the two crafts separate from the influence. Sandra's ship trips and tumbles across the desert floor in huge clouds of dust. We bounces twice a few hundred meters away, slide sideways a few more before coming to a shuddering stop. Silence.
I have never heaved so hard in my life as I slowly realize we are still alive. I slow my breathing and feel my way back to awareness.
The sound of Julien's ship roaring overhead wakens me from my stupor. I turn to see Sergei sitting still, staring ahead until he too is brought back by the sound.
"Well, there goes the race," he sighs, throwing up his hands in casual defeat. I quickly unbuckle my restraints, fling open the door, lean out and promptly throw up. And there goes my lunch.
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