Salvation

Callum laughed and went to make himself some tea. The pills had squashed his hangover now, and he’d had too much coffee already. His crew chatted away happily behind him. The richest man who’d ever been, their boss, knew they existed and was pleased with their work. So how big is the bonus, do you think?

He sank back into a settee facing the glass wall into the M & C, giving the news streams a proper look this time and getting Apollo to summarize potential problems. It seemed the world of toxicity troubles wasn’t too dangerous today.

When he thought back to the meeting, it still seemed slightly surreal. I could have mentioned Savi, told Ainsley we’d got married. He would have congratulated me. That way there’d have been no way Security could have kicked up about it, not with him approving. Except…he’d see me as a troublemaker. Probably blow my chances of getting fast-tracked to the top.

Why doesn’t she just fucking call?

Dokal sat down beside him. “Congratulations.”

“Cheers.”

“I mean it. Ainsley does that to about three people a year.”

“Huh? He said he sees a hundred a week just like me.”

“Who’d have thought it?” She smiled softly. “Someone like that not telling the whole truth.”

“Wow!”

“Well, don’t forget us when you’re lording it over Connexion’s whole northern hemisphere operations in twenty years’ time.”

Callum turned to look at her, wondering just how far her corporate loyalty went. They’d always got on well, but…she was ambitious. And now she knew he was a favorite, she might be agreeable to some mutual backscratching. I only need some advice. “We’re at Donnington this weekend. Come along if you’ve got a spare hour. Be good to see you there again.”

Her smile was endearing; he didn’t get to see it very often. “Thanks, Cal. Is Savi going? I liked her.”

“Hands off, she’s my girlfriend.”

“Well, try and use your brain for once. She’s a keeper.”

He knew he was blushing, and he didn’t care. “Yeah, I figured that.”

—

Callum made it past the Craner Curves and throttled back into Old Hairpin. He leaned into it, and the Ducati 999 followed the track like it was a rail. You beautiful machine, you. Through Starkey’s Bridge, and he opened the throttle again. The twin-cylinder engine roared like a small rocket. The instrument panel blurred as the bike accelerated hard. He wasn’t wearing screen lenses. This was all about authenticity. He didn’t need precise readings; he felt the bike.

Slowing to take the bastard sharp McLeans turn, he was slicing close to the patch of crumbling tarmac and slowed another fraction, weaving wide. A Kawasaki ZX-17B shot past him, followed by an Aprilia RSV4 1000. “Shit!” he screamed into his helmet mic. He throttled up hard—too much for the turn and had to brake, losing even more ground.

“Shit! Shit! Shit!”

“What’s up, Cal?” Alana asked in his headphones.

“Overtaken,” he called out in frustration.

He gunned the throttle again and charged at Coppice for the turn into the long Dunlop Straight. Open the Ducati full and revel in the sheer power as the landscape stretched out into streaks of color on both sides. Focus spot was the track and the screaming bikes ahead. But they were throttled up full, and just as fast. He wasn’t going to catch them.

Four laps left. He did okay, didn’t slip any farther down the field. But his edge was gone, and he knew it.

Nine days now, and nothing. Something’s happened to her. This is serious. How bad is student radicalism these days? How violent do they get?

A checkered flag was waving on the gantry overhead. Ninth place; there were only fifteen bikes in the race. He took the slow lap around to the exit and drove through the paddock. The support vehicles parked in long lines down the tarmac lanes were even more antique than the Ducati. Spectators enjoyed them almost as much as they did the bikes. People were wandering along, wrapped against the cold February air, gawping at the old camper buses and engineering caravans, parents pointing out shapes and company badges to semi-interested children.

Callum’s team had an old Mercedes Sprinter van converted to a mobile workshop for the Ducati. It was parked down at the far end of the paddock, opposite the Redgate turn. Colin and Henry had set up an awning beside it, covering their collapsible chairs. A barbeque stood just outside, where Henry was turning the sausages.