Arcana 99: Stage One

Of course, I had heard of the Grenfell-Maxwell Marathon. Everyone with an ear to hear knew of the newly legendary event. Its advertising campaigns had been constant and obnoxious, and the race's host produced as much press as the affair itself. Mr. Grenfell came onto the world stage in March of 1950 with a sail of millions at his back. Nothing was known of the man except for his origin from the Asian portion of the Commonwealth, and that he and his wealth had one desire: to witness a race around the planet.

Shortly after his debut, every radio, television set, and Movietone reel spoke of Grenfell's financially suicidal plan. The man offered fifty-thousand dollars for the first-place winner of each stage of the race and half the previous for the next four placements; furthermore, he promised one-thousand dollars for everyone else who even crosses the line.

In a Meet the Press interview, Mr. Grenfell addressed concerns of whether any participants in the race would want to compete after the first leg, especially since he kept the route of all subsequent stages of the race a secret.

"You see," He said, "On top of the chance of earning upwards of one million dollars through stage prizes alone, I am offering a further incentive for completing the entire race," He paused for a moment, an obvious ploy to make the next sound bite easier to isolate, "The first three people to finish the race will each receive the greatest reward imaginable, a wish."

I needed to hear no more after that. Within the hour I had exchanged my airline ticket for a first-class voucher aboard the MS Vulcania. On May twenty-ninth, 1954, the ship departed Naples, and it arrived in New York fourteen days later. From there, I had almost twelve days to reach the Utah salt flats.

I took my time. No use in wasting my energy to reach the starting line. I arrived at the flats on June twenty-fourth at 4 A.M, eight hours before the race began. I paid the fifty-dollar entrance fee, rolled my bike to my allotted position, and waited. By eleven, every spot around me was filled with other competitors, and every inch of the salt flat was covered with countless people and vehicles.

To my left was famed pilot Jacqueline Santos-Dumont and her custom-built plane, a faithful recreation of the ill-fated Martin M-130. Equipped with more powerful engines and wheels for ground landings, the pilot and her plane were the competitors favored to win.

In front of me was a woman on horseback. Upon seeing her I couldn't help but laugh. The first leg of the race was an almost 4,000-kilometer journey through deserts and jungles. It would take any automobile days to complete whereas a horse would take weeks at the very least if it didn't injure itself along the way. A race official approached the woman, presumably to explain to her that there was no way a horse could win.

I tore my eyes away to continue observing those around me. To my right was a large semi-truck whose driver was conversing with a young woman. I couldn't hear their words over the countless others around me. I was, however, able to read the driver's lips. He spoke French.

Behind me was a destitute jalopy that looked an hour away from becoming a Texan lawn ornament. The four people in the vehicle were all yelling obscenities at the other racers around them. The Frenchmen in the truck ignored the insults and Mrs. Dumont didn't even leave her plane.

Right, the plane.

If I ever wanted to stand a chance in this race, Dumont needed to lose. I had spent the last seven hours observing the plane and checking for weak points. The easiest ones to hit were the fuel lines connecting the two starboard engines of Dumont's vessel. I repositioned my bike to get a better view of them and pantomimed the movements to ensure they were even possible given my position and condition.

First, reach into the holster on my belt. Next, draw while hiding the pistol from the Frenchman's truck (the people behind me seemed too oblivious to worry about). Then, aim and fire at the line as soon as the race begins. The engines around me will mask the gunshot. I held my left arm up and aimed it at the plane. It was barely three meters away; one, maybe two shots were all that would be needed.

"Sir," a voice interrupted my thoughts, and I quickly rested my arm on my bike's handlebars, "where is your partner?"

Partner?

I must have said that thought out loud because the woman sighed and continued, "Yes. 'Partner,' as in the partner every participating team is required to have."

TEAM!?

I knew that I had not spoken that thought, but the woman gave another sigh, this time much more exasperated, "Did anyone actually read the damn ad?"

There was more information than "Race at the Bonneville Salt Flats on June 24, winner gets a wish"?

"To ease the liability of the race away from Mr. Grenfell and Mr. Maxwell, and for the safety of our competitors, you are required to have a two-person team at the least throughout the entire event."

My hopes of salvation shattered before my eyes. I didn't have time to ask any of my contacts to join me, and it was unlikely they would even respond. While there was certainly another person who failed to notice the rule, there were hundreds of thousands of people here, finding them would be near impossible. Joining another team was off the table as well, I would just be a cut in their pay.

Maybe those guys behind me would be dumb enough to agree.

I looked back at them. Despite the heat, they were wearing thick dusters and one was wearing a poncho on top of his duster. The one in the poncho sat behind the wheel and downed an entire bottle of alcohol while the others repeatedly kicked the hood of their vehicle.

Nevermind.

"Luckily for you, I just met another competitor who failed to read the rules," I smiled as my hopes reassembled themselves, "I just need you to sign your name as being a part of their team before the race begins."

It didn't matter who my new teammate was. It could be the stupid jockey for all I cared. A chance at success, no matter how small, was infinitely better than not trying. I leaped to my feet and reached for the paper with my right-

Right.

I reached for the paper with my left arm and slowly wrote my name down. It was barely legible given my lack of practice, but it was good enough for the official, "Thank you," she said, handing me a piece of paper, "Your teammate is directly in front of you, and please read the damn rules before the race starts."

I looked at the piece of paper she had given me. The top of it read, "Ruling Code of Operations for the Grenfell-Maxwell Marathon."

Ruling Code of Operations? What kind of nonce phrase is that?

The rest of the paper was an ordinary rule book that went as follows:

To enter the race, one needs to be in a team of at least two people.

Teams do not have to be together throughout the entirety of the race, but every member of a team must cross the finish line together or they will be disqualified.

Every team that crosses the finish line of a stage will receive a cash prize for each member that crosses the line (amounts on back).

The first three teams to cross the final stage line will receive a set number of wishes (this amount is independent of team size).

Note that this course will be perilous and accidental deaths may occur as a result.

If any members of your team perish during a stage their body(ies) must be brought over the stage finish and handed to Grenfell-Maxwell official race investigators to determine the cause of death. If the cause is proven to be truly accidental, then the team is awarded the money they would have received if each member was alive and is then allowed to continue. If the cause of death is foul play, the suspect will be removed from the race and placed into the custody of local authorities.

If every member of a team but one dies, then the sole surviving member must either a) forfeit the race or b) join another team.

In the event of the loss of an entire team in one stage, monetary compensation will be sent to next-of-kin.

Participation in the Grenfell-Maxwell Marathon requires a $50 USD entry fee. This fee is used to ensure that each team is registered and accounted for in the event of their untimely demise.

Just how dangerous is this race supposed to be? Half the rules are about death!

The remainder of the paper contained simple rules of "don't commit crimes in the places the race goes through." What was perhaps most interesting was that it only made one mention of cheating, "There is no such thing as cheating in this race. Victory cannot be achieved through speed alone; strategy and observation will be required as well. The only ways to be disqualified are: 1) be jailed by local governments for proven crimes. 2) Fail to provide bodies of dead team members at the stage finish line. 3) Compete without at least one teammate."

No such thing as cheating? Well, Mrs. Demont, it appears that you've lost this race.

After reading the paper I placed it into the rear storage case of my bike. It was almost 11:50; time to meet my teammate. The woman said they were the competitor right in front of me which makes them. . .

I watched helplessly as my dreams shattered once again and a single metaphorical tear flowed down my cheek and pushed my real one a little further down.

I know I said I didn't care if it was the jockey, but that was before I knew it was the jockey.

I reluctantly walked towards her and introduced myself. She stopped brushing her horse, looked at me, and held out her right hand, "I'm Etteilla Laveau."

"France?" I asked, holding out my left hand.

She looked at my outstretched arm, then her own, then me. We shook our left hands, "Actually I'm from Australia. The French name is just a. . . thing. You?"

"Greece."

"Huh, I thought that name was Italian." She glanced at the sky and mounted her horse, "We've got two minutes left, get on."

I glanced at my watch, 11:58, and pointed to my bike "I was going to say the same thing."

She laughed, loudly, "I'm sure you'll be fine now, but once we get to anywhere even remotely remote, your bike'll run out of fuel and become dead weight."

I had reached my motorcycle and put on my helmet when I replied to her, "If you said that about any other bike, I'd agree with you, but mine is different. Your horse on the other hand. . . It may not need gas, but a horse just can't compete with a machine, no matter how good the rider is."

She turned away from me as the clock struck 11:59, "If you said that about any other horse, I'd agree with you, but we are different." I sighed.

After I take out Dumont, I'll keep ahead of Etteilla. When night comes and her horse is a hundred miles behind me it'll be obvious that she needs to ditch it. Then I just need to bring the horse to Clint and have him build me a sidecar. After that, it would just be trying to make up for lost time.

I ran through my plan of action one more time. I had reached the final step when the ground darkened. I looked up. Above me was a massive grey oval causing a micro-eclipse where I was sitting, a zeppelin.

I guess Dumont's not the only threat. Where did they even-

My thoughts were interrupted by a deafening noise. It came from an old air-raid siren that had been moved to the salt flats, "Greetings!" A static-filled voice clawed its way out of the siren and echoed throughout the air, "The Grenfell-Maxwell Marathon will begin shortly, so get ready! After this announcement, we will fire a gun to signal the start of the race. From there you will all head South towards the finish line in Flores, Guatemala. Once you arrive the next leg of the race will be revealed. So, get ready to, as the Romans would say, Somnia Circum Mundum!" The silence following the race's pseudo-Latin slogan was strange, anxious. Everyone knew it was temporary, but every second it lasted was a second we weren't getting closer to victory. Even the fools behind me stopped drinking and shouting as they too waited. Finally, a gunshot came out of the siren. No, not a gunshot, a cannon. A cannon that became a meteoric impact as the tide of vehicles screamed to life.

I waited a moment for the Frenchman's truck to begin crawling ahead, it never did. I glanced at the idiots behind me, their car hadn't even started.

Good god, how bad are these people?

The engines on Dumont's plane whirred to life; she was preparing to lift off even as hundreds of cars weaved around her.

That's why everyone thinks she'll win.

I quickly reached into my holster, pulled out my pistol, and fired. The first shot was a close miss, the second barely touched the line, the third fully cut through.

This would be much easier if I held the gun with two hands.

As I watched the black gold leak from the wing, I holstered my gun and weaved through the throng of people. I glanced back to see if I had passed the jockey, but I couldn't find her through the dust kicked up by the other racers. I pulled my transistor radio out of the storage case behind me. I tuned it to the race announcements station, put the earpiece in, and placed the radio into my pocket.

"I'm certain I'd say that we are off to a great start if I could see anything." The announcer laughed at his own joke far more than he should have, "The dust picked up by our eager racers has made everything but that great marvel of German engineering, the Graf Zeppelin, completely invisible. The zeppelin appears to be moving at a leisurely pace, no doubt because of winds brought by the people below." I pushed past another wave of people. My motorcycle's engine was barely trying but considering the whole "cheating is fine" rule, it was best to not reveal its true capabilities this early, "Any minute now we should be seeing Jacqueline Santos-Dumont and her plane Fizz Vin. We interviewed her about this name early today and she said 'I was greatly inspired by the trans-continental flight of the Vin Fizz when I was younger, but unlike the original Fizz, I am not going to crash and rebuild. I'm just going to soar.' What an inspiration she is. Now, we have a few more interviews recorded in case this dust cloud stays up for a while longer, so let's move onto our interview with Mr. Kober and his. . ." The announcer's voice trailed off.

Hopefully, it's good news like "Everyone but me is disqualified."

"Someone's broken ahead! A racer has launched far ahead of the pack! Almost a mile now! Who is it! Who is it!" He was silent for a moment, "It's competitor 230545, Etteilla Laveau! The horseman Etteilla Laveau has broken ahead!"

"Laveau?" I muttered, "No way," I glanced at my speedometer, it read 60mph. Horses couldn't run 50. I gunned the engine and sped past the frontline of the crowd. The last wave of dust whipped past my head and left behind a clear sky. Ahead of me was a single figure streaking across the flat land. That person was two miles away, but even from that distance, it was plain to see. She was on a horse.

"How! How! H-how?" The announcer's enthusiasm quickly faded as the realization set in, "Just, just what is that horse!"

Wrong. The horse is just a horse, but her. . .

She is Etteilla Laveau, and this race is where she makes her greatest mistake.