The story:

Wrapping his huge arm around my shoulder, Pops steered me towards the grid where the other racers were well into their final checks. I surreptitiously turned my head to shoot Amanda a sympathetic glance and saw her skulking away towards the paddock. After that dressing-down, who could blame her for wanting to sit out? I sighed inwardly. If Pops had his way there wouldn’t be any new racers entering the sport! Oh sure, he means well. But ever since...
Well, ever since Sunnydowns ‘61 he’s just fallen into this habit of being overly protective. “Cheer up,” I thought in her direction. “I’m his own son and look how long I had to wait.”

In the final moments before zero hour the track had really come alive. The electricity pouring off the crowd was making it harder and harder for me to keep up my brooding. I took a final look at the postage stamp and shoved it into my pocket. Racer X, Trixie, they were right -- as long as Sparky was okay, it could wait. Pops, Trixie, and a handful of interns were all huddled around the Mach Five at the pole position slot. I paused to gently caress the scarlet circle on the door. Then, placing a hand on the rim I lightly vaulted into the driver’s seat. There was a ripple of applause from the nearby fans.
Alright, alright -- I do kind of like the attention.

All activity respectfully came to a stop when Pops launched into his traditional pep talk. Except for me. I really didn’t need to listen to the words anymore. The rhythm, the tone of his deep voice as it fluctuated from sandpaper-gruff to tender -- that itself was enough to psyche me up. Instead I went through a quick last-minute inspection of the Five’s gauges and made sure my restraints were secure. As Pops finished up I hastily downed a couple of salt pills for good measure. They were a little hard on my stomach, but if I had a choice between sweating off ten pounds or twenty pounds every race I drove, I’d take the former any day.

Surveying the grid, I took stock of the competition. There were the respected veterans: Guts Buster, Jim Charger, Street Smartin, all of whom I got to know personally at the terrifying Fire Festival Race in Kapetapeck. The factory teams were also well-represented: Frankie Cusack of River City Automotive; Red Ryder in his Crimson-5, a giantkiller of a machine thanks to Pops’ engineering pals at the Baboom Motor Company. There were even a few foreign entries; Keung “Runaround” Su was probably the best known out of all of them.

If anything, I noted, the Seahorse Plains Grand Prix was dominated by mavericks. They were the drivers without teams or steady sponsors, drivers who took the majority of their purses from events of borderline legality. Free agent Joe Asakura was one of them. As usual he was hunkered down in his battle-scarred G-2, glowering at the spectators from behind that feather he always stuck in his mouth. Gross.

Conspicuously absent from the grid were the Twins. But even without Skull Duggery and Zoomer Slick I knew I wasn’t going to have it easy. (Not that there’s such a thing as an easy race!) Once the roster had been released, Pops had quickly pointed out a number of entrants who had recently been fired from factories that had given us an awful lot of grief in the past. There were at least three ex-Rival Motors members: I recognized Houghton Totten at the helm of the Cannibal; Dickens Devlin in his deadly Cottonmouth; and Gill Dark, piloting the Rhino King. Blackie Hart and Guy A. Gear had recently fallen from grace with the Fortherbird Motor Company. And occupying the slot next to me was Blitz Strafe, formerly of the Alpha Team. Of course the company hadn’t allowed him to take their car with him, so once again he was back at the wheel of his gleaming black Schwartzbruder. Admittedly it _was_ a notch above Alpha’s standard garbage...

I snuck a sideways glance at Strafe, who was busy spitting orders into his mike. Now and then his eyes would dart to the other ex-factorymen lined up on the grid. He had been Alpha’s number three man, right after the Twins. Why would they let him go so casually, I wondered? Strafe halted his tirade as he became aware of being watched. His upper lip curled back as I offered him a friendly wave, and then he responded with a gesture of his own that, I believe, is valid grounds for arrest in some countries. What a relief Spritle wasn’t here to see that. Otherwise he’d be copying it around the house for days afterwards.

The five-minute warning echoed, signaling the crews to clear the track.

“Here we go,” muttered Pops, tugging down on his cap. “Good luck, my boy.” Our gazes met for a split-second, then he turned on his heel and thundered after our crew, “All right, stop dragging your heels and look alive!”

I felt a playful tug at my scarf. Trixie was leaning over the driver’s door, smiling at me. “Be careful, Speed,” she murmured.

“I always am. Geez, stop being such a girl!” I added. And then jumped half out of my seat as I felt a sharp, petulant pinch on my thigh.

“Hmph!” Mortally offended, Trixie headed for the Go Team’s pit. After a few steps, she turned and winked back at me.

Five...
four...
three...
two...
one...

START!

I let out the clutch, and the Mach Five torpedoed out onto the speedway.

Fighting the urge to rule the lead, I held back and let the drivers sort themselves out. By the end of Lap 1, I was ready to start drafting my way up the press.

“1 minute, 40.7 seconds!” Pops recited into my headset. “Keep it up, Speed! That’s the -- WHAT IN BLUE BLAZES?!”

Wincing at the noise, I jerked my head back and gaped in a mixture of disbelief and amusement at what I saw out of the corner of my eye. Rocketing
up through the cluster of cars and towards the race leaders, was...

“AMANDA?!” I yelled.

She had commandeered one of Pops’ specials, a Chaser V-8 model. Even at this distance you could see the determination boiling off of her like heat haze over a desert road in summer. Believe me when I say the word “zeal” was coined to describe people like her. I laughed and shook my head.
First Rex, then me, and now Amanda... How many more times was this going to happen under Pops’ watch?

My admiration burst under the realization that she was gaining ground. _Fast._
The Chaser wasn’t quite the powerhouse that the Mach Five was, but it was still better than any of the other cars on the track. Flooring the pedal, I resumed my climb up the slip-stream ladder.

By Lap 85, the domino effect of several ugly shunts had helped to thin the pack out considerably. Joe was one of the first to go -- probably choked on that feather of his and ended up totally pranging himself against Totten and Rex Dart in Car No. 49. Strafe was ahead of me by six seconds, putting him in the lead. I can’t say much for his car or his technique, but the one thing he had the Go Team beat on was his pit crew. Without Sparky we were... Well, we weren’t crippled, but we weren’t having such an easy time, either.

Leaning into the wind, I watched the Mach Five’s trident front eat up the space between us. I was preparing to pass him on the outside when, without warning, his tail lights loomed up in my windshield. Criminy -- he was decelerating! I cried out and wrenched the wheel sideways, but not before Strafe managed to clip the Five’s left headlight.

“Hey!” I yelled, shaking a fist at him. “What’s the big idea?! You want another pile-up out here?! _Uh!_”

The breath was knocked out of me as my body lurched forward. Whipping around, I saw the fanged grille of the Cottonmouth pressed up against the rear of the Five, fenders practically locked. Then a duo of shockwaves crashed into my sides. Opening my eyes, the red glare of the Schwartzbruder’s tail lights greeted me once again. A quick glance from side to side told me I was being flanked Gill Dark and Blackie Hart, who were jeering derisively in my direction.

I was completely boxed in.

With a flick of the wrist I reflexively activated the Deflector. If they were going to stoop this low, God knows what else they had in store for me. Forcing myself to calm down so as not to deplete the limited oxygen supply, I tried to gather my thoughts. But Strafe wasn’t about let me recoup and reduced his speed slightly. I grunted as I was banged back into the upholstery yet again. As I brought my hand down on the steering column to steady myself, my fingers brushed against the circle of letters. I froze, mind working furiously. The solution to all my problems lay right in front of me... Or did they?

I hesitated, nervously drumming on the surfaces of the buttons. Hard as it is for purists and officials to believe, the Mach Five’s gadgets aren’t really meant to give me an unfair advantage over other racers. Pops devised each one for the sole purpose of protecting the driver. That’s why they were collectively known as the “Safety Seven.” Not once had I ever employed them on the speedway, and the idea of setting a precedent didn’t exactly send thrills down my spine.

I was getting frantic. Only ten more laps to go and the Seahorse Plains Grand Prix would be over. Amanda had long since blazed past me, lost in her own zone. I scraped the sweat from my face and flinched in dismay at a crimson spot on my glove. At first I thought my nose was bleeding from the stress, but upon closer examination I realized that it was the mysterious postage stamp. My only link to the identity of the man who had made Sparky wake up in cold sweats at midnight, every night for two years of his life. I had forfeited a priceless opportunity to restore my best friend’s lost memories because the whole team was depending on me, and now here I was, God knows how many laps behind the race leader, all because these creeps who couldn’t even run with the slimiest motor companies were intent on turning a professional grand prix into their own private little cat-and-mouse game. A burning wave of anger surged through me and I twisted round to shoot a red-eyed glare at Dickens Devlin. From his seat in the Cottonmouth, he sneered at me through his stained teeth and made as if to ram the Mach Five again.

Without thinking twice I brutally stabbed down on the “G” button. A shrill metallic cry pierced the air and the Homing Robot exploded from the Mach Five’s hood. I waited for the click of the control center panel, then reached down and toggled the joystick. Shimmering in the rays of the sun, the Robot banked sharply and hurtled back towards the Five. One eye riveted on the rearview mirror, I maneuvered the Gizmo Bird straight for Devlin’s pasty unprotected face.

I hadn’t anticipated his reaction, though. Devlin didn’t merely flinch and slow down -- he screamed dramatically and flung his arms up. Through the rearview mirror I watched the Cottonmouth spiral madly away into the distance until it slammed into the protective barriers lining the circuit. A limp figure pitched headfirst out of the wreckage and onto the asphalt. I had won my freedom.

Reversing, I slid out from the three-car pincer and made for the outside. The Mach Five shuddered as I kicked it into fifth and advanced on Strafe and his cohorts. They were fishtailing all over the course in their desperate attempts to pin me against the embankments. Studying their movements for a second, I then plotted the line of penetration out and effortlessly ribboned through them. I didn’t even look back when I heard the sound of screeching tires and chrome scraping itself to powder across the asphalt.

The deafening cheers of the crowd welcomed me as the Mach Five slid home across the finish line. When I looked up at the boards, I was pleasantly surprised. Even with Strafe and his dirty tricks I had managed to place fourth, right behind the Chaser, Cusack’s ‘Stang, and the Phoenix. Amanda’s disqualification was a given, so that would bump me up to third. Well, it wasn’t the twenty grand the team was aiming for, but at least the important bills would get paid.

Meanwhile, Strafe, Hart, and Dark had finally limped into the goal area. I clenched my fists and briefly contemplated rushing over to bludgeon some sense into them. It wouldn’t work, of course, but at least I’d feel better. But they had already started on themselves, falling on each other like wolves, each blaming another for their combined failure. The last of my anger drained away as an enclave of race officials stalked rigidly towards them. I shook my head in disgust. Whatever they got served them right.

I ran over to the Chaser where Trixie and the rest of the Go Team were observing poor Pops nearly tearing himself in two. He didn’t know whether to strangle Amanda on the spot or praise her driving. “What in Sam Hill were you doing, pulling that crazy stunt?!” he bellowed. “Are you even aware of the penalties they’ll lob at you for crashing a grand prix competition?! You... You... You CRAZY KID, YOU!!”

I had to hand it to her. She didn’t even blink in the face of a Force 10 Pops Racer Hurricane. Still, it was probably in her best interest to divert his attention. I was just about to call to him when he grabbed me with a massive arm and roughly tousled my hair.

“Speed! Speed, are you alright? Those miserable hoodlums didn’t even see the black flags all over the circuit. I ought to ram their heads straight down into the tarmac so they can--”

“Calm down, Pops. I’m fine. Everything’s groovy. How’s Sparky?”

“He’s resting at the general hospital. We’ll swing by once the cleanup’s finished. So don’t take too long with the press!”

“Yessir.”

Pops stood silently for a moment and then let me go. “I’m glad you weren’t hurt, my boy,” he murmured. Then his skin darkened back towards lividity. Pops was a regular chameleon. “As for YOU, Emrys,” he scowled. “As for you... I’ll see you on the practice track tomorrow!” Then he spun around and stomped off toward the pit.

Chuckling, I scratched the back of my head and stared at her feet. “Pretty nice lines,” I said, and yelped as a distinctively Trixie-ish elbow jabbed me in the ribs. “On the track, I mean,” I quickly amended. “Real clean, and with a one-lap lag, even. Too bad you weren’t registered.”

Amanda stared down her nose at me, but her eyes were empty of malice. “Yeah, too bad for me,” she sniffed nonchalantly. “But how nice for you, ‘cos the truth is I just outraced your professional little behind, kid.”

“Huh! Strafe and the others made it easy for you! I’d like to hear you say that after three hundred laps on the short track!”

“You’re on, Racer!”

“Oh, look!” Trixie broke in, squeezing my hand. “Here come the official results!”

The three of us dutifully straightened as the chairman mounted the podium and leaned towards the microphone. “We will now announce the final standings of the Seahorse Plains Grand Prix. Suffice it to say that the events witnessed this particular year are utterly unique in the history of the race.”

There were a few whoops and “yeah’s!” from the audience. The chairman patiently waited for them to die down. Then his expression hardened and he turned to face the participants. “It is with great regret that I must precede the names of the winners with this announcement. The following racers have been disqualified for gross infractions of regulations and unsportsmanlike conduct. No. 3 -- Amanda Emrys.”

Amanda shrugged. A smattering of cheers rose from the stands at the pronouncement, but I was relieved to hear the boos outnumbering them. She had run a solid race, and we both knew it.

The chairman cleared his throat and resumed. “No. 4 -- Blitz Strafe. No. 31 -- Dickens Devlin. No. 72 -- Blackie Hart. No. 85 -- Gill Dark. And...” There was a cold pause. “And Driver No. 5 -- Speed Racer. These drivers shall immediately report to the officials’ chambers for sanctioning.”

There was a stunned silence. I could taste the remainder of the salt pills coming up through my saliva and I put my head down as the circuit around me blurred and began to white out the edges of my vision.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” I croaked.

I was beginning to wonder if Ajaners was ever going to run out of bullets when I heard a horn blaring somewhere in front of me. There was a civilian car coming towards me in the other lane. At that point, I realized that I was stuck between a rock and a very hard place, and reached towards my glove-compartment. Of course, I suddenly ran over a huge, New York style pot-hole. That screwed the Shooting Star up completely. I went flying across the highway, nearly ramming into the civilian car which somehow managed to squeeze past me (not without flipping me the bird). I felt the Shooting Star shudder as I started edging onto the grass. I couldn't move the car fast enough, and I knew that it was only a matter of time before Ajaners got off a well-aimed shot. There was an unmistakable 'ping' as a bullet hit the roof of the Shooting Star. I spun the wheel, pulling the car back onto the pavement. Aparently, I wasn't fast enough, because I heard a bunch of bullets hit the Shooting Star, leaving a line of dings on the hood. I tried to reach for the glove-compartment again, this time getting my hand on it. I punched in the needed code in the panelling, and pulled out a gun. It wasn't anything fancy, just a normal semi-automatic. The kind that cops use sometimes. At that moment, I felt a seering pain in my left shoulder and jerked myself upright in my seat so that I had better control over the Shooting Star. I couldn't spare the time to check my shoulder out, but through the incredible pain, I could feel blood trickling down the back as well as the front which probably meant that the bullet had gone through at least fairly cleanly. I gritted my teeth and held onto the wheel with my left hand, using the right one to aim and fire the gun. The recoil sent me back into the seat, jerking my left arm so that the Shooting Star swerved across the highway again. I banged into the side of the door with my injured shoulder, and it was all I could do not to black out from the pain. I forced my arms to straighten out the wheel. At least I had taken out Ajaners' gun, although I was sure that he had many other weapons.

I waited for him to try something else. Meanwhile, in the temporaty lull, I pulled a roll of first aid bandage out of my glove-compartment and wrapped it around my shoulder as best I could. The problem is, you need tape of clips or something to get a bandage onto your shoulder and most of it ended up around my neck and upper arm. A number of explatives later, I had managed to staunch the blood flow, and was beginning to wonder why Ajaners wasn't doing anything. I didn't have long to wonder as I heard the unmistakable sound of helicopter blades. Over the trees next to the highway, a gray, dangerous looking chopper came into view. Then another, and another, and another. I was being tailed four helicopters which could have passed for military issue if they weren't gray. Interpol had seemed to be under the impression that Ajaners was operating alone. Apparently not. He deffinitely had help. Either that, or a lot of money to pay people off. The copters were flying in close formation above me, and the first fired a stream of bullets in front of me, forcing me back so that Ajaners could get away. Then, each of the copters fired a small rocket to either side of the Shooting Star. I had no chance of getting away. Ignoring my shoulder, which was starting to throb again, I leapt out of my car. The air around me exploded as the rockets made contact with the pavement. Then, suddenly, the brightness dissapeared and was replaced by pure darkness...

If looks could kill, we'd all probably be attending Amanda's funeral instead of being at the racetrack. If not Speed's - although I think he doesn't mean it. He just says things without thinking, which usually come out the wrong way. But Amanda...I can tell by the way she looks at Speed. The way when she's scanning a scene, her gaze lingers. I don't mind that much - but if she acted upon her gazes, went any further, it'd be Wham, bam, good-bye, Amand!

Speed stood up, and just about fell back over. "I'd better go see what's going on" he stated, but his I'm-perfectly-all-right image wasn't exactly well put on. I could tell easily that he was way upset by the incident. But anyway, I went along with him. When we got to the officials' place (box? t'is in Nascar..ooh, and did anyone see Bodine vs. Restart Man? Big trouble..), Amanda was ruffling some big-shot feathers. I didn't bother tuning in to what she was saying, but from the look on her face, she was getting agitated. And from the look on the spotter's face, he wasn't going to be moved.

I wasn't even totally sure what all the fuss was about. Sure, Speed had used the robot, but were the officials blind or something? He had no other option - he could have been badly hurt. As it was, he probably had several bruises and maybe some other injuries in addition. The official talking to Amanda turned his gaze on Speed, who brushed my hand off his shoulder. I couldn't tell if it was because of the official, or because of Amanda.

"So, Mr. Racer, what do you have to say for yourself?"
The official didn't look at all sympathetic. (picture Bill France - scar-y!)
Speed shifted uneasily under his gaze, and I looked at Amanda questioningly.
She made a face, and a subtle 'thumbs down' signal. Inwardly, I groaned.
"Well...sir.." Speed started, "I know I used a feature of my car - not built specifically for racing - that I shouldn't have..but I had no choice."
The official raised an eyebrow.
"No choice?" he echoed, sounding suspicious.
"Well, didn't you see the way I was being boxed in? I could have been hurt.." Speed was trying to stand up taller, but the offical was still at least a foot above him. And broader.
"So instead, number five -" I'd noticed how regularly around races they referred to drivers by their numbers. Number three, twenty-four.. "You decided to possibly endanger the life of another racer on the track." Speed looked slightly stumped by that. Amanda decided to help out.
"Look, no-one was hurt by *Speed's* actions, were they? I'd say they were helped."
Speed shot her a grateful glance - (was it *just* a grateful glance?) which I complemented by a warning glance of my own to Speed.

The official refused to be moved on the matter...

Read Part One
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