Advanced Tactical Software Solutions Building, Denver, Colorado

Nico ‘Basher’ Battaglia leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. His gaze looked across the city, seeing none of the buildings and roads while he contemplated the AADA document he’d just read. It held the details of their new brainchild, a road rally titled 'Dead Man's Run.' Part of him, the old part he thought he’d buried, fumed at the implications it represented. The new part of him reveled at the opportunity it presented.

His compact frame and thick brown hair were that of a young man, muscular and lean, courtesy of his Gold Cross account. The gray eyes told a different story, courtesy of the experience gained from over a decade of autoduelling. The years spent in the autoduel circuit burned away any naivete he’d ever had and replaced it with cold, hard calculation. It was ironic his nickname was ‘Basher’ when in fact the bashing was merely the final step in his calculations. It happened after he’d taken the measure of his opponents, learned their strengths and weaknesses, and used that all knowledge to his advantage so that their cars were so much wreckage littering the arena.

Abruptly, he stood and paced to the window. Before he could decide whether to take advantage of this opportunity, he needed to address his anger. I told those algae-brained idiots in the AADA years ago they needed something to rejuvenate the sport of autoduelling. I tried to convince them it was getting old and stale, and that we were going to continue to lose audience shares to other sports.

The memories of those long-ago arguments circled round and round in his head, until he resolutely locked them down. There would be time enough later to address them. For now, he needed to convince one person in particular to support him in sponsoring a team for the Dead Man's Run.

More calm now, he picked up his tablet and walked out of his office. Stopping by his executive assistant’s desk, he asked, "Ms. Thorpe, where is my daughter right now?"

She checked the list of calendars on-screen and pointed at one. "The main simulation lab, Mr. Battaglia. I believe they’re running through the latest targeting software update."

Nodding his thanks, he set off for the lab. Advanced Tactical Software Solutions wasn’t a large company, with less than a hundred employees taking up three floors of the high-rise in a part of town called the Denver Technological Center. The ATSS was his new passion, built from his accumulated winnings and the 'severance package' from the AADA board. That kind of money allowed him to put together the kind of company that could take the lead in advanced targeting software. He'd hired young and hungry programmers and leveraged the hell out of his contacts in and out of the industry. After a decade, their reputation for superior targeting software was second to none, and both state and federal militaries plied them with contract after contract. And yet, the AADA and therefore the autoduelling world refused to deal with him, ignoring the software that could change the whole industry.

A large sign at the door to the lab noted that no entry was allowed when the light was on, indicated by the large rotating red light over the door. He used his keycard to unlock the door anyway, although in consideration of any ongoing test he carefully closed the door, making very little sound.

A mockup of a vehicle sat in the middle of the room, with various pieces of equipment strapped to it and wires running back to multiple computers. The entire wall in front of the dummy vehicle was set up like a projection display, and it was currently showing a digitized representation of an arena.

Hmm, Armadillo Arena, I think. I never competed there very much. Still, I recognize the layout. The image on the screen shifted, the mockup turning in place. The floor underneath was a turntable, allowing a three-sixty view on just one wall. A targeting reticle was tracking on a computer-generated vehicle while the car slewed around a turn. The reticle moved closer and closer to the target, until it was directly over the rear bumper. Then the reticle vanished for a half a second, reappearing above the hood and to the left. A female voice inside the mockup cursed loudly, and the simulation paused.

"Dammit, Jack. It hiccupped again." Her aggrieved tone made him smile. When she got angry like that, all vestiges of her mother disappeared, leaving behind what she'd gotten from him. Kayla’s head popped out of the driver’s window, her expression one of extreme annoyance. She wasn’t wearing a helmet, and her chestnut brown hair was thick and lush unlike her father’s. Despite his top of the line Gold Cross insurance, cloning only copied the existing genes, and there was nothing they could do about his receding hairline.

The man at the computer console was watching the screen while lines of code scrolled by. "I know, I know. I’m running it down now. Give me a few…," his voice trailed off as he slowed the scrolling code to read it more carefully.

"You know, Kayla, we have test engineers for this. You’re overseeing the whole project, not just the gunnery system." Her father walked over to the car, shaking his head.

She rotated over onto her back, reached up with two hands, and pulled herself out of the car through the window. Giving her father a kiss on the cheek, she shrugged. "Why should they get to have all the fun? Besides, Tasha and Scott disagreed on the reason for the glitch, so I had to get in there and break the tie."

"Well, please take a break. I need your eyes on something." He held up his tablet.

Flipping her hair back out of her face, Kayla took the tablet and tapped on the screen. Her eyes rapidly scanned across the screen.

"So… Dead Man’s Run. A race? No, not just a race. A road rally." She looked up at him. "What’s going on, Dad? Where did you get this?"

"This is the AADA pre-release, sent to every company that either sponsors an autoduellist or supplies equipment. Some old friends of mine made sure I got a copy, since I'm persona non grata over there. This gives everyone a few days to get their responses ready. After that, it’s going to the networks for public release. What do you think?"

She leaned back against a console, scrolling through the message. "It says there are multiple cities around the country fielding racers, including Denver. They compete in three consecutive legs, all ending in Sturgis." She looked up. "Why Sturgis?"

He shrugged. "Used to be an annual motorcycle meet there. Before the Blights and everything. Now it’s just wild country. Apparently, it still holds some nostalgia, since there’s a fair-sized cycle gang that operates around there."

She went back to reading. "There’ll be a final event at Sturgis, and then…" Her voice trailed off and her eyes went wide. "A ten-million-dollar final prize? Are they for real?"

"What they are is desperate. Just like I said, all those years ago. Instead of listening to me, they stripped me of my titles and forced me out. Made me retire from autoduelling for challenging the status quo. They didn’t want to listen then, and now they’re acting like they’ve discovered the greatest thing since sliced algae bread."

His daughter frowned, her own memories of her father's disgrace resurfacing. "So why now? Why are they doing this cross-country road rally for a bunch of money that ends in a long-forgotten town?"

Leaning on the console next to his daughter, he sighed. "Autoduelling viewership keeps dropping. My friend in the Denver AADA office let slip that attendance has dropped fifty-five percent in the last three years. The board members want something new to keep selling tickets and streaming subscriptions. Apparently, their flailing attempt to grab audience attention have led to this."

Handing the tablet back to him, she asked, "What did you want from me, then? Am I supposed to figure out if this is a good idea? Cause right now, I have no idea."

He smiled. "No. What I need from you is a car design. Something that can make it from Denver to Sturgis over whatever route they decide on."

"Wait. What? A car? You’re going to compete in this thing?" She pushed off from her leaning position and started stalking across the floor. "Are you insane? You haven't competed in any kind of real combat in over ten years. And when you did, all your fights were in an arena, not on the open road."

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"Hey, there was that one time in Texas–"

She cut him off. "One time! And it was a friendly duel. What are you thinking? Why would you even need to compete in this thing. You’ve built all this," and she waved her arms, encompassing the whole building. "You don’t need to prove anything. You certainly don't need the money. And you very definitely don't owe them anything after the way they treated you."

He stepped forward and put his hands on her shoulders gently, his voice growing eager and animated. "First, I need to prove they were wrong in forcing me out of autoduelling. Winning this Dead Man’s Run will be a poke in the eye of every single AADA exec and toady who thought I was crazy for saying the emperor had no clothes. I told them a decade ago that attendance would keep dropping. That people were tired of all the safety rules and the stylized violence. Do you know that BLUD membership has grown thirty percent over the same time? They’ve started filming their own duels on the road, with car mounted and drone cameras. Kayla, these underground videos are going viral in a big way. They’re starting to get more views than the playbacks of lower division duels."

Getting himself back under control, he released her shoulders and waved one hand at the mockup. "Second, I promise you, I won’t be driving. You’re right, I’m out of practice and there’s not enough time for me to get back up to where I used to be. No, we’ll have to find a crew for this, from the pool of existing autoduellists. Third. We need to grow our business base. Government contracts are fine, but they limit us in what we can develop and how much profit we’re allowed to make. To really grow, we need better access to the public markets. This could be our opportunity to show the world what we can do. What you can do, Kayla."

She turned to look at the projected screen, frozen with the image of the target car. "The government contracts have always been a safe bet. Constrained requirement sets, endless rounds of testing to work out the bugs, and long-term sustainment contracts. What if… what if our software isn’t good enough for the commercial market? What if nobody buys it from us?"

"They will if we win." He turned her to face the screen. "And that’s the key to the car design, Kayla. Put together something that showcases our strengths. We can't use anything we've sold to the governments, but we have stuff they haven't seen yet. Let's show them just how good our code is. So, what do you say? Can you come up with a design we can use to win this rally?"

Inhaling deeply, his daughter looked over at the mockup, and then gave a short nod. "It’ll mean time away from testing the code, Dad."

He waved a hand in Jack’s direction. "Like I said, we have testers for a reason. We hired some pretty good ones, too. They can handle it while you’re doing this for me."

"Where are you going to find a crew?"

He smiled. "Eric will do that. I’m going to talk to him next. He’ll find us the right set of people that can use our car to its fullest. He’ll need some specs from you to narrow the field, though."

She turned and sat down at the computer console. "Guess I’d better get cracking on the design, then."

"That’s my girl." Nico leaned down to kiss her forehead before he left the lab.

***

Eric Williamson was tall, lean, and his brown hair was habitually tied back in a ponytail. It was only when he was riding his motorcycle that he let it loose. The ATSS Director of Field Operations, he frequently traveled to the locations where they were doing software installs and training on the new capabilities. Right now, he was in Little Rock, Arkansas. He was also not happy, and his frown filled the small screen on the tablet.

"So, I have to drop everything I’m doing and find a crew to compete for you? What the hell, Nico?"

"We have to get ahead of the competition. This release is going to every company that sponsors a team already. We have a small window of time before everybody and their brother will be trying to field a team. Only the major corporations will be able to field a car that qualifies, and they’ll be trolling for crews. We need to set our hook first."

Despite the small image on his tablet screen, it was enough to show Eric’s continued displeasure. "First off, what the hell’s with all the fishing references? You’ve never fished a day in your damned life. Second, why are we competing in this thing anyway?"

Nico went through the reasons he gave Kayla, with more emphasis on the business expansion portion. He knew he was hitting the right points, because by the time he was done, Eric was looking frustrated but no longer frowning.

"Dammit. Fine. I’ll cut this trip short and get back there so I can work on this. I’ll need to interview these drivers and gunners, too. Can’t tell everything from a profile and video coverage." He paused, giving his boss a quizzical look. "You realize this kind of event isn’t like anything you adrenaline junkies have ever done before, right? Autoduellists are used to driving and shooting for ten, twenty minutes, tops. Now they’ll be stuck in a car for hours at a time, with only intermittent combat. Patience and endurance will be critical factors."

"So, find us racers with those qualities, Eric. I know you can do it."

***

Lakewood, Colorado

Gabriel Santos walked around his car, running his hand over the new image painted on the hood of his personal car. His own design, it was a white-robed angel, face hidden within the ink-black depths of its cowl, pointed a massive pistol at the viewer. The opening for the barrel was nearly as big as his hand.

"Magnificent!" He turned to look at the body shop owner. "Turk, your boy has outdone himself."

The other man smiled slightly. "I'm surprised it's not blurry. You should have seen his hands shake when I told him he was going to do a job for the Angels of Boom. Isn't that right, Sean?"

A young man in his early twenties stepped out from the office, hands clasped in front of him. "It--It was my pleasure, Mr. Santos."

The driver smiled and walked over to shake the young mechanic’s hand. "Great job kid! You got a real eye for this kind of work. Hey, you want some pit-level tickets to my next event?" He reached into an inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a business card. "Call my manager. He'll set you up."

Young Sean held the card like it was made of gold. Angel motioned to the office with a slight head gesture. Turk preceded him into the office and the autoduellist closed the door behind him. The shop owner motioned to a chair while he pulled out a key and unlocked the lowermost desk drawer. The data cube he pulled out went into the desktop computer, and the monitor lit with a logo of a grinning skull and playing cards, with the words, ‘Dead Man’s Run’ in big letters across the top of the image.

"Watch this and thank me later for pushing your name up to Martin Graumann Industries. They're interested in sponsoring you for one of the Denver teams."

The video wasn't very long, and when it was over Angel looked over at the other man. "What's the catch?"

"No catch. Other than you have to win. MGI is a huge backer for this event. They're in tight with the AADA. And they want you to represent them. I got the unspoken sense that they were… highly interested in ensuring one of their teams made it to Sturgis."

Gabe frowned and his fists balled. "I don't need their damned help to win."

Turk pursed his lips and shrugged. "Everyone needs a little help every now and again. Of course, it's not like you can do anything about it. Just accept that fate will fall your way when you need it to."

"Maybe they should find someone else who needs their help."

"Did I fail to mention the pot is ten million dollars? And your portion is one million of that. Plus, their sponsorship during the rally and after. You'll have the MGI publicity team working the social media accounts big time." Turk leaned back in his chair, eyes bright while he watched Gabe struggle with the amount. The small man's fists relaxed slowly, and an avaricious grin spread over his lips.

***

Broomfield, Colorado

Classical music issued forth from the wall-mounted speakers, which were artfully integrated into the wood paneling. The elderly man sitting at the workbench in the center of the room hummed softly with the tune, his eyes focused on his work. A large magnifying glass, mounted on an articulating arm gave him a clear view of the Napoleonic soldier clamped in a stand on the table. Using a very fine brush, he added the detailing to the uniform, occasionally looking at the book on the stand next to the bench. It was open to a full-color illustration of the soldier, in his historical regalia. A display table against the wall held the serried ranks of completed figurines.

The phone rang, a soft warbling that cut across the timeless melody without clashing with it. He stopped humming and carefully laid the brush down on a stand. With the same unhurried movements, he picked up a remote to pause the music, then spun his chair around to the desk behind him. Picking up the phone, he slowly asked, "Yes?"

"Sir. The AADA is going to make a major announcement in a few days about some kind of race across the country. I don’t know all the details yet, but they ran it through the governor’s office. His staff is setting up a lot of meetings to get ready. Given the emphasis they're putting on this, I thought you ought to know."

"Very good, Blake. I've been waiting for this news. Keep your ears open and let me know when you find out more." He pressed the disconnect button and turned to the quiescent computer. Tapping a key to wake it, he opened the email program and started a new message. He typed 'Leadership' in the "To" field, and the software dutifully filled in the distribution list. In the "Subject" field he simply put, ‘Muster’ and tomorrow’s date.

The body of the email he left blank. Those in the distribution list knew where and what time to come; all they required was a date. It was essential for the Colorado members of Big League Unlimited Dueling to keep a low profile after the war with the AADA. Still, a muster call from a founding member would always be obeyed.

Looking up at the far wall, he smiled at a picture of a young man. He was sitting on the hood of a heavily armed car, driving gloves in hand and a huge smile on his face. A narrow black ribbon crossed over the top right corner, and a patch lay on the bottom left. It showed the BLUD symbol; a yellow circle, with a broad red border and a red stripe running diagonally across the center, from upper left to lower right.

"We have our opportunity, Chance. Those AADA racers will learn to fear BLUD once again." Turning back to his workbench, he restarted the music and picked up his paintbrush.