Dark Ages

“Auspicious start to the takeover, innit, killing a guy?” He was back at full-strength Cockney.

“Indeed, Governor.” The assistant was mummifying the bruised knuckles in bandages.

“Forget that!” Rilli shook his hand until the gauze unfurled. “Let’s begin. Deploy!” He marched down the ramp, yanking his car keys out of his pocket, and hit the master unlock button on his remote. The cargo containers chirped electronically, and their locking bolts shot open with hundreds of angry metallic snaps. The walls on the front and sides fell flat, while the back wall stayed up and held in place the top of the container.

Revealed inside each container was a very dangerous racing car, its engine coming to life as the crates opened. The cars looked at first glance to be the latest, state-of- the-art models, like the ones Rilli drove to victory time and again the previous season. In Bahrain and San Marino. In Hungary and Italy. In Belgium and China and Japan and Brazil and in every other bleeding grand prix race of the season last year except bleeding Spain.

These cars had a few extras not to be found on the average twenty-first-century grand prix machine. Offensive hardware.

“Let’s ride,” he called excitedly, and because it sounded like a good line. He jumped into the McGaren-Yhuihobi Special and stepped on the gas pedal. The machine rumbled like a waking carnivore.

The gasoline-powered McGaren-Yhuihobi Special was the prototype of the Grand Prix-Type Offensive Attack Race Car, designed for more reliability, better street performance and greater flexibility in offensive maneuvers. Still, they had the aggressive power and handling of a true grand prix racer.

Assembly of a full two dozen such vehicles, with their special accessories and custom cargo containers, hadn’t been cheap. But then, that’s why professional racing had sponsors.

Bernie Saward was practically crooning on the telephone. “It’s happening, Mr. Hammerstone. Michele Rilli’s promotions coordinator just called me from his offices in Paris. Sir Rilli is on the ground—he’s in Africa!”

“Africa?” Hammerstone repeated groggily. He’d been dozing in his desk chair in his spacious top-floor office. “What the hell for in Africa?”

“Ayounde. They actually have a consuming economy in Ayounde. Doesn’t matter—what matters is that the surprise grand prix is about to begin.”

Bemie Saward was meeting the members of the board of directors at the door of the conference hall, beaming and greeting each one of them like the happy bride just after the ceremony. The directors were slow to respond—it was three o’clock in the morning in Connecticut. None of them wanted to miss the big Ayounde Grand Prix—with their corporate logos plastered on the cowlings of half the cars in the event.

The large plasma screen at one end of the boardroom table was showing CNN, but it was muted. CNN was running a segment on the latest film box-office results.

“Check it out,” sang Bernie Saward, and he clicked the sound on as a pair of big oblong shapes appeared on the television, transforming each into the broad grins of two happy youngsters holding their gigantic soft-serve ice-cream cones.

“Mine’s dipped in pure milk chocolate!” exclaimed the girl.

“Mine’s sprinkled with sprinkles!” cried the boy.

“Thanks, Milkie Queen!” they shouted together, and the camera pulled back as the animated, well-endowed Milkie Queen waved back to her ecstatic young customers from the walk-up window at a neighborhood Milkie Queen stand.

“Good work,” Bernie Saward said. “How did you get us on the same night as the Ayounde Grand Prix?”

“Easy, Mr. Saward. I bought time on every news network on every overnight this week. Cut us some great bargains, too, I don’t mind saying. And about an hour from now, our viewership is gonna go through the roof.”

There was a murmur of excitement. “You’re sure this is going to happen?” asked the ever morose vice president of accounting.

“It is happening, within the hour,” Saward assured him.

“You sure it’ll get coverage?” asked the guest director from an Oklahoma cattle conglomerate.

“With Michele Rilli’s name behind it, it will get huge coverage.”

The cattleman’s doubt reflected on his face. “I’m trusting you on that. Never heard of this Mr. Michele.”

“He’s the biggest star in the world of grand prix racing,” Saward said impatiently.

“Which don’t hold a candle to NASCAR,” the cattle executive grumbled.

“Outside the U.S., people care about grand prix,” Saward said in a firm voice to settle the argument. “Milkie Queen must penetrate Europe if she’s going to keep growing.”

“And Milkie Queen Must Enlarge, gentlemen. Remember our mantra.” He thrust a hand at the banner that hung like some Roman drapery over the wall, above the screen. “Milkie Queen Must Enlarge.”