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Racers compete to see who can fly the greatest distance in a limited time, looping between a set number of stations in the order of their choosing.
Competitors who are daring enough to fly without shields may play their single-use "Win it or bin it" joker card to earn valuable extra minutes on the course.
Prizes, in the form of free paintjobs will be offered in six categories, which means five entrants can win without even having to beat CMDR Alot!
New to racing?
Please refer to the following instructional video, generously commissioned by long-time race fans (and sponsors) Anthony and Enoch Lonnegan:
[video=youtube;6Pk5rjMu11Q]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6Pk5rjMu11Q[/video] |
[size=+2]BACKSTORY[/size]
Do you need some roleplay motivation to go racing? Or do you just like looking at pictures of robot kangaroos? Either way you need only expand the spoiler tag to get satisfaction.
Shouted conversation, laughter, clinking glasses and the low hum of a robot's power unit filled the air, drowning out the sound of the bar door opening. So it was that the entrance of a tall man in a white suit went unobserved by most in the room. He headed purposefully toward the bar and was still in the process of clambering on to an empty stool by the time the bartender appeared in front of him.
"Your drink, sir?" the robot's metallic voice asked, in what its designers no doubt thought would approximate a polite tone.
"My name's Hector LeMans," the man started to introduce himself.
"Your drink, sir?"
For a moment LeMans was taken aback by this kangaroo-shaped chrome automaton which had interrupted him so cordially. Recovering quickly, he pulled a credit wallet from his jacket pocket and presented it to the droid.
"Pearl Whiskey, double, on the rocks." A whirr from the bartender's motor as it scanned the wallet then turned to collect a tumbler. "As I was saying my name is Hector LeMans, director of station entertainment at Kanwar Horizons in the Turbo system. My card." Protocol demanded that he hold out the business card but LeMans knew the droid wouldn't take it, so he carried on talking. "I'm looking for a representative from the Buckyball Racing Club."
"I am not aware of anyone here fitting that description, sir." By now the drink was poured and the tumbler placed in front of LeMans. The droid would hover for a second or two then move away. He had to talk fast.
"Tell them I'm organising a race."
"If the person you are looking for should arrive," gesturing in the direction of an empty booth at the far side of the room, "I'll send him or her to your table, sir." More whirring and humming as the robot's servo motors engaged to move the droid back from the bar and rotated to face another client.
"It's an endurance race. Something new for the Club." No response from the bartender, by now moving away.
"Run as many laps as you can in an hour. Greatest distance wins."
"I'm offering prizes!"
The metallic marsupial stopped in its tracks, paused for what seemed like an eternity but could only have been a split second, then once again turned to face LeMans. A cluster of LED lights, in the part of its head where a real kangaroo's mouth would be, flashed in cadence as it spoke.
"Hector LeMans, Turbo Kanwar Horizons station entertainment director. My apologies sir, I misheard you. You are seeking the Buckyball Racing Club. Naturally you have come to the right place."
The droid pointed to a door by the side of the bar which opened as it spoke. "Through that door, sir. Commander furrycat will see you presently." LeMans rose from his stool and downed his drink. The bartender was already pouring another. "On the house, sir."
On the other side of the door LeMans found a dimly-lit office with a desk, across which a man was leaning with an outstretched hand. "I'm furrycat," he said, "and you must be..."
"Hector LeMans," the two men said in unison as they shook hands.
"Please, take a seat. I see Buckybot has your drinks order covered." LeMans nodded. "Now," furrycat continued, "I understand you want to organise a race."
"Something like that, something like that. You see I'm director of station entertainment over at Kanwar Horizons in the Turbo system."
"Suitable place for racing."
"Haha, yes, it would be. Though what I have in mind is more of an air show and ship exhibition event. You know the sort of thing." The Commander raised an eyebrow in a way which could imply either that he didn't know the sort of thing or even if he did wouldn't be averse to a quick recap of the sort of thing. "Various ships docked at the station for people to have a look at. A sychronised flying squad doing a flyby. Ships looping round the station so you can see them out of whichever window you're near. Kids love it."
"Sounds like wholesome family entertainment."
"It is, it is. And may I thank you for saying so. The thing is, and you didn't hear this from me,"
"Of course not."
"The whole health and safety aspect really puts a damper on these events, you know? They punters will never admit it but they come to these shows hoping to see collisions, crashes, ships running into each other or the side of the station,"
"Firey deaths. Huge insurance claims. Twisted hunks of broken metal floating above the landing pads."
"Precisely! I knew you'd understand. Did you know that Federal regulations specify a minimum clearance between ships of fifteen hundred metres?"
"No, I didn't know that. The Feds can be such killjoys."
"And only then for licensed aerobatic pilots."
"The synchronised fliers. Federation trained I expect."
"Exactly. For everyone else it's three kilometres. Imagine trying to sell thrills and spills to a crowd when ships are running out of weapons range from each other."
LeMans shrugged and sat back in his chair. Across the desk, furrycat stroked his chin and affected a sympathetic demeanour.
"I have to admit, Mr LeMans, that it would be a hard sell."
"Now let us suppose your fine organisation were, hypothetically, running a race in the vicinity at the same time."
"Hypothetically."
"Suddenly people are looking at ships smashing into pads, flying on the flashing red side, colliding with system authority vessels. Much more carnage. Much more destruction."
"Altogether more exciting."
A broad grin from LeMans. "It'd be a marketing dream. People would pay handsomely for that kind of publicity."
Both men fell silent. Commander furrycat interlocked the fingers of his hands and laid them on the desk in front of him. Looking LeMans in the eye, he continued the conversation: "Quite handsomely, I'd imagine."
LeMans cleared his throat and leant forward slightly. "Needless to say," he began, "it would be inappropriate for senior administration personnel on a Federation space station to endorse, and certainly not sponsor, illegal racing."
The Commander opened then closed his hands in a gesture of acknowledgement.
"In fact if anyone ever asked me about it publically I'd have no choice but to condemn such behaviour outright."
"Public relations is a necessary skill for someone in your position." The observation was met with a nod from LeMans.
"I'd think, however, that with the varied demographic profile of people attending these events you'd have a very good chance - a very good chance - of finding, for instance, a paint shop owner or other race fan who'd be willing to offer up a reward of some kind for the winners."
Another moment of silence, as though the interlocutors were performing some quick tortuous mental arithmetic to calculate the exact likelihood of that happening.
"And when would this varied demographic you speak of be in attendance?"
Hector LeMans permitted himself a small smile. "The air show runs from January 25th until February 12th."
At this, furrycat stood and offered his hand once again. "It's been a pleasure talking to you, Mr LeMans." Another handshake.
"Likewise, but I can see you're a busy man."
LeMans straightened his tie and turned to face the door. Meanwhile Commander furrycat was operating an intercom on the corner of his desk, into which he now spoke: "Buckybot, please see that Mr LeMans has his glass refilled. No need to trouble him with a bill. And please contact Commander Drakhyr. Tell him to clear his calendar for a week from January 25th."
"Your drink, sir?" the robot's metallic voice asked, in what its designers no doubt thought would approximate a polite tone.
"My name's Hector LeMans," the man started to introduce himself.
"Your drink, sir?"
For a moment LeMans was taken aback by this kangaroo-shaped chrome automaton which had interrupted him so cordially. Recovering quickly, he pulled a credit wallet from his jacket pocket and presented it to the droid.
"Pearl Whiskey, double, on the rocks." A whirr from the bartender's motor as it scanned the wallet then turned to collect a tumbler. "As I was saying my name is Hector LeMans, director of station entertainment at Kanwar Horizons in the Turbo system. My card." Protocol demanded that he hold out the business card but LeMans knew the droid wouldn't take it, so he carried on talking. "I'm looking for a representative from the Buckyball Racing Club."
"I am not aware of anyone here fitting that description, sir." By now the drink was poured and the tumbler placed in front of LeMans. The droid would hover for a second or two then move away. He had to talk fast.
"Tell them I'm organising a race."
"If the person you are looking for should arrive," gesturing in the direction of an empty booth at the far side of the room, "I'll send him or her to your table, sir." More whirring and humming as the robot's servo motors engaged to move the droid back from the bar and rotated to face another client.
"It's an endurance race. Something new for the Club." No response from the bartender, by now moving away.
"Run as many laps as you can in an hour. Greatest distance wins."
"I'm offering prizes!"
The metallic marsupial stopped in its tracks, paused for what seemed like an eternity but could only have been a split second, then once again turned to face LeMans. A cluster of LED lights, in the part of its head where a real kangaroo's mouth would be, flashed in cadence as it spoke.
"Hector LeMans, Turbo Kanwar Horizons station entertainment director. My apologies sir, I misheard you. You are seeking the Buckyball Racing Club. Naturally you have come to the right place."
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The droid pointed to a door by the side of the bar which opened as it spoke. "Through that door, sir. Commander furrycat will see you presently." LeMans rose from his stool and downed his drink. The bartender was already pouring another. "On the house, sir."
On the other side of the door LeMans found a dimly-lit office with a desk, across which a man was leaning with an outstretched hand. "I'm furrycat," he said, "and you must be..."
"Hector LeMans," the two men said in unison as they shook hands.
"Please, take a seat. I see Buckybot has your drinks order covered." LeMans nodded. "Now," furrycat continued, "I understand you want to organise a race."
"Something like that, something like that. You see I'm director of station entertainment over at Kanwar Horizons in the Turbo system."
"Suitable place for racing."
"Haha, yes, it would be. Though what I have in mind is more of an air show and ship exhibition event. You know the sort of thing." The Commander raised an eyebrow in a way which could imply either that he didn't know the sort of thing or even if he did wouldn't be averse to a quick recap of the sort of thing. "Various ships docked at the station for people to have a look at. A sychronised flying squad doing a flyby. Ships looping round the station so you can see them out of whichever window you're near. Kids love it."
"Sounds like wholesome family entertainment."
"It is, it is. And may I thank you for saying so. The thing is, and you didn't hear this from me,"
"Of course not."
"The whole health and safety aspect really puts a damper on these events, you know? They punters will never admit it but they come to these shows hoping to see collisions, crashes, ships running into each other or the side of the station,"
"Firey deaths. Huge insurance claims. Twisted hunks of broken metal floating above the landing pads."
"Precisely! I knew you'd understand. Did you know that Federal regulations specify a minimum clearance between ships of fifteen hundred metres?"
"No, I didn't know that. The Feds can be such killjoys."
"And only then for licensed aerobatic pilots."
"The synchronised fliers. Federation trained I expect."
"Exactly. For everyone else it's three kilometres. Imagine trying to sell thrills and spills to a crowd when ships are running out of weapons range from each other."
LeMans shrugged and sat back in his chair. Across the desk, furrycat stroked his chin and affected a sympathetic demeanour.
"I have to admit, Mr LeMans, that it would be a hard sell."
"Now let us suppose your fine organisation were, hypothetically, running a race in the vicinity at the same time."
"Hypothetically."
"Suddenly people are looking at ships smashing into pads, flying on the flashing red side, colliding with system authority vessels. Much more carnage. Much more destruction."
"Altogether more exciting."
A broad grin from LeMans. "It'd be a marketing dream. People would pay handsomely for that kind of publicity."
Both men fell silent. Commander furrycat interlocked the fingers of his hands and laid them on the desk in front of him. Looking LeMans in the eye, he continued the conversation: "Quite handsomely, I'd imagine."
LeMans cleared his throat and leant forward slightly. "Needless to say," he began, "it would be inappropriate for senior administration personnel on a Federation space station to endorse, and certainly not sponsor, illegal racing."
The Commander opened then closed his hands in a gesture of acknowledgement.
"In fact if anyone ever asked me about it publically I'd have no choice but to condemn such behaviour outright."
"Public relations is a necessary skill for someone in your position." The observation was met with a nod from LeMans.
"I'd think, however, that with the varied demographic profile of people attending these events you'd have a very good chance - a very good chance - of finding, for instance, a paint shop owner or other race fan who'd be willing to offer up a reward of some kind for the winners."
Another moment of silence, as though the interlocutors were performing some quick tortuous mental arithmetic to calculate the exact likelihood of that happening.
"And when would this varied demographic you speak of be in attendance?"
Hector LeMans permitted himself a small smile. "The air show runs from January 25th until February 12th."
At this, furrycat stood and offered his hand once again. "It's been a pleasure talking to you, Mr LeMans." Another handshake.
"Likewise, but I can see you're a busy man."
LeMans straightened his tie and turned to face the door. Meanwhile Commander furrycat was operating an intercom on the corner of his desk, into which he now spoke: "Buckybot, please see that Mr LeMans has his glass refilled. No need to trouble him with a bill. And please contact Commander Drakhyr. Tell him to clear his calendar for a week from January 25th."
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[size=+2]CLASSIFICATION[/size]
This is the abbreviated classification, showing each competitor's best entry per ship type. See the full classification below for every entry in the race, along with the classification key.
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