Alien Velocity Read Online Free Page B
Author: Robert Appleton
never stop.
* * *
He felt a delicate shimmy when the outermost racer uncoupled from the giant arm. One at a time, over the next few minutes, each RAM-racer would be set free along its own orbital track. Onboard navigators were accurate to within half a millimetre per lap of the earth. There would be no danger of vehicles crossing lanes, or collisions. All the runner had to worry about was his own stamina, and in the unlikely event of a stray object wandering onto the racing lane, the autopilot would use the half dozen thrusters located around the vehicle’s exterior to dodge it.
Seven or eight shimmies later, the voice on the com-link announced, “ Bluebird, RAM booster to ignite in ten, nine, eight…” Charlie touched his toes then rose to take a deep breath. The butterflies roused at “four, three, two, one…commence.”
His ears popped when the artificial gravity spiked, holding him in place in an invisible vise as the rear booster drove the Bluebird forward. He glimpsed the young lad’s orange runner ahead to his right but instantly turned away. The gravity’s grip loosened and, for a few moments, he felt as light and soft as an eiderdown pillow.
“Right, here we go.” His first step almost lost him his balance. Crouching low to steady himself, he thumped the cyclic conveyer with an angry fist, but quickly apologised by kissing the ends of his fingers and touching the same spot. No need to test providence so early. Within two dozen strides he had his rhythm—that veteran metronomic timing newscasts often joked was more accurate than the British Admiralty clock in Greenwich. No more than a steady warm-up, his early pace would probably put him near the back of the field after his first orbit but no one ever won a race in the virgin lap.
On the other hand, it might be best not to dawdle. How fast were some of these new guys? He hated letting anything invade his private keep, but the simple fact remained that Charlie was thirty-three. His physical peak was behind him, and whatever cute aphorism he might trot out for the public, being over the hill was never an advantage. Not in RAM-running.
But thirty-three wasn’t that old. He was still the fastest in this field. He was Charlie Thorpe-Campbell, for chrissakes.
The thud, thud of his trainers on the cyclic conveyer overpowered the whir and crackle of the RAM propeller at the rear. Like his running, the propulsion system was both simple and formidable. The track’s motion rotated the rear propeller, infusing each blade or shaft with psammeticum energy. Like the wheel of a tramp steamer through water, these in turn would churn the localised antimatter created by a Pei-McMillan field just behind the propeller. Psammeticum being rare, and also the only energy to remain constant across the matter-antimatter barrier, it was an incredibly expensive engine to operate. Fortunate then, that RAM-running, in terms of popularity, superseded every sport in human history. It wasn’t just the runners’ celebrity status or the extraterrestrial nature of the race, or even the mind-boggling speeds. The real excitement existed in seeing mankind and technology push the envelope further than ever before. RAM-running operated at the limits of man’s endurance. No question. These were the fastest humans who had ever lived. Some said if Hermes were to descend from Mount Olympus and challenge the world to a foot race, he would go by the name of Charlie Thorpe-Campbell. It was that thrill of watching gods race their chariots, and betting on the outcome, that had kept the sport in the heavens for decades. No matter what happened elsewhere, there would always be RAM-running.
* * *
Charlie scratched an itch on his forearm as the computer announced, “Lap one—fifteenth position.” He could check his lap time and the virtual map of his competitors’ positions on the monitor, but he preferred not to. Not at this early stage. Pacing was the key, the transference of energy…from
* * *
He felt a delicate shimmy when the outermost racer uncoupled from the giant arm. One at a time, over the next few minutes, each RAM-racer would be set free along its own orbital track. Onboard navigators were accurate to within half a millimetre per lap of the earth. There would be no danger of vehicles crossing lanes, or collisions. All the runner had to worry about was his own stamina, and in the unlikely event of a stray object wandering onto the racing lane, the autopilot would use the half dozen thrusters located around the vehicle’s exterior to dodge it.
Seven or eight shimmies later, the voice on the com-link announced, “ Bluebird, RAM booster to ignite in ten, nine, eight…” Charlie touched his toes then rose to take a deep breath. The butterflies roused at “four, three, two, one…commence.”
His ears popped when the artificial gravity spiked, holding him in place in an invisible vise as the rear booster drove the Bluebird forward. He glimpsed the young lad’s orange runner ahead to his right but instantly turned away. The gravity’s grip loosened and, for a few moments, he felt as light and soft as an eiderdown pillow.
“Right, here we go.” His first step almost lost him his balance. Crouching low to steady himself, he thumped the cyclic conveyer with an angry fist, but quickly apologised by kissing the ends of his fingers and touching the same spot. No need to test providence so early. Within two dozen strides he had his rhythm—that veteran metronomic timing newscasts often joked was more accurate than the British Admiralty clock in Greenwich. No more than a steady warm-up, his early pace would probably put him near the back of the field after his first orbit but no one ever won a race in the virgin lap.
On the other hand, it might be best not to dawdle. How fast were some of these new guys? He hated letting anything invade his private keep, but the simple fact remained that Charlie was thirty-three. His physical peak was behind him, and whatever cute aphorism he might trot out for the public, being over the hill was never an advantage. Not in RAM-running.
But thirty-three wasn’t that old. He was still the fastest in this field. He was Charlie Thorpe-Campbell, for chrissakes.
The thud, thud of his trainers on the cyclic conveyer overpowered the whir and crackle of the RAM propeller at the rear. Like his running, the propulsion system was both simple and formidable. The track’s motion rotated the rear propeller, infusing each blade or shaft with psammeticum energy. Like the wheel of a tramp steamer through water, these in turn would churn the localised antimatter created by a Pei-McMillan field just behind the propeller. Psammeticum being rare, and also the only energy to remain constant across the matter-antimatter barrier, it was an incredibly expensive engine to operate. Fortunate then, that RAM-running, in terms of popularity, superseded every sport in human history. It wasn’t just the runners’ celebrity status or the extraterrestrial nature of the race, or even the mind-boggling speeds. The real excitement existed in seeing mankind and technology push the envelope further than ever before. RAM-running operated at the limits of man’s endurance. No question. These were the fastest humans who had ever lived. Some said if Hermes were to descend from Mount Olympus and challenge the world to a foot race, he would go by the name of Charlie Thorpe-Campbell. It was that thrill of watching gods race their chariots, and betting on the outcome, that had kept the sport in the heavens for decades. No matter what happened elsewhere, there would always be RAM-running.
* * *
Charlie scratched an itch on his forearm as the computer announced, “Lap one—fifteenth position.” He could check his lap time and the virtual map of his competitors’ positions on the monitor, but he preferred not to. Not at this early stage. Pacing was the key, the transference of energy…from
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