Racers

Hank412 turned to his buddy Phil38b and croaked,

"You ready to do this thing?"

The voice emulator left his words flat and tinny, but there was still an undercurrent of excitement.

"Damn straight!"

They'd been prepping for this race for weeks. Crowds were flying in from all over the system to watch the annual desert crossing run and they both knew that on top of the trillions of credits changing hands through marketing and advertising and merchandising, even more was moving through the vast GambleNet.

Hank (as he liked his friends to call him) was a noob this year. First time on the circuit, he'd broken a couple of records on his way up through the ranks and he had been pleased to find that the wagercomps were giving him good odds. He'd formed a strange friendship with Phil38b, who'd put in thousands of miles, probably on this course alone. Phil showed him the ropes, even took him out for a tour of the course, pointing out various pitfalls and blind valleys.

A klaxon sounded, summoning the racers.

As they moved towards the starting line Hank joked to Phil in a muttered digital voice,

"You know what I hate? Sand. I hate freaking sand."

Phil laughed, more at the repetition than the joke. That one was a staple in the race circuit.

Hank and Phil lined up into their slots, nervous energy beginning to build. The announcer began to work the crowd up into a frenzy of excitement. Horns blared and onlookers shouted. And the count began.

Just before the green light flashed Phil turned to Hank and griped,

"You ever think this would be a lot easier without these stupid mannequins on our backs?"