Chapter 34 – Racetrack.
--/Day 10 10:51 Hours/--
--/Level 4-161 Racetrack Alpha Flight Deck/--
Neutral 3 had two racetracks, Alpha and Gamma. Alpha was the larger of the two, stretching out from the flight decks on 4-161 and then going outside of the station, hugging the hull in a chaotic, twisting and entirely dangerous. Gamma, just under half the length of Alpha, was similar, but contained within the Main Shell Interior, as opposed to Alpha, on the Exterior. It was not unknown for pilots to die of fatal crashes, pressure difficulties, dehydration or space sickness while on these tracks. It was all part of the fun, as most people saw it.
Farn skipped down the steps to the flight deck. He was actually anxious to get going, an ‘on-edge' feeling that flying something fast always brought up in him. He was wearing, as usual, his dark golden brown flightsuit, but this time it had an extra sense of purpose about it. He'd checked over his pod a few times earlier when he'd signed up, but he wanted to look over it one last time before the race started, it wasn't his own kit after all and he always needed to know that he was flying top-notch equipment. He began to whistle.
The details of The Hit that Davan had gone over with him last night, however, seemed never far from his active thoughts. He had to admit, the plan had balls the size of moons, and his part seemed the least risky of all. It promised big money at the end of it, but Farn having some inside knowledge of the Worker's Union as he did, he felt them unlikely to pay up the full amount, but right now? Every little helped with the problems he was in. He stepped out onto the flight deck, seeing the other eleven amateur pilots that had signed up.
"Hi, you'd be... Farn, right?" The technical pit crewman with the clipboard standing at the base of the stairs asked. He looked up hopefully.
"Yeah, that's me." Farn said, reaching out with his right hand. Almost surprised, the pit crewman shook it briefly. Then pointed with his clipboard.
"That's your flyer up here sir, in Slip 7." Farn saw it, and the two of them began walking towards it. "I haven't seen you down here before, sir," the crewman continued, "do you have much flight experience?" He asked.
"I have enough." Farn said, winking at the crewman, who smiled and nodded. There was a call from down the flight deck somewhere and the crewman turned and ran towards it. Farn continued on to his flyer, which had been christened, apparently by Sorrell himself, as the Turriss. Farn was pretty sure that Turriss was a native Lorast word meaning ‘useless', but that's pretty much why Farn had picked it. In a small way, it would be shoving two fingers at Sorrell. As he walked up and down the length of it, checking it for signs of wear, he got the strange feeling he was being watched. He looked up to the observation dome above him. There was a flicker of movement and someone moved away from the window. Farn frowned. Jarek.
--/+0 minutes 0 seconds/--
--/ Level 3-006 Nethrek Embassy Security Office/--
Grissom had been stood around for some time, waiting for Centurion Jursk to return.