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In this post-scarcity economy, gold is not valueless. It’s actually quite
useful. It has a number of applications in electronics, aerospace
engineering, and even medicine. It’s used for all sorts of mundane things.
And that’s because, in this day and age, destroying entire planets only to
extract their raw material is on its way to becoming a matter of it being
Tuesday.
Many treasure hunts end with a cache of precious metals and jewels. They’re
not usually quite this extensive, but they signal the end of the challenge.
The accomplishment of that challenge is the real prize. Hunters usually
don’t even take the treasure, but leave it for the next batch, or if they
do, they take only a small trinket to remind them of the good memories. No
one needs this much, except major engineering operations. The disappointing
part, however, is not the letdown of the prize itself, but that the hunt
might be over. They went through a lot, but they still expected more.
They tie the boat off, and step out. They begin to walk around on the cave
floor between the piles and piles of goblets, coins, bars, crowns, and other
accessories. They’re going to spread out to look for clues. There has to be
something, whether this is the end or not. Every hunt tells you when you’re
done in no uncertain terms. It’s never simply implied. They don’t need
fanfare, just undeniable proof.
“Don’t touch anything,” Minotaur warns. “It’s sometimes a literal booby
trap, and sometimes a curse to teach of the dangers of greed, or whatever.”
“We might need to dig,” Jolanda points out. “A clue might be under the
gold.”
“You’re right,” Minotaur admits. “Just don’t take anything.”
“Should we look for something special?” Elise asks them. “Like the only blue
gemstone, or something anachronistic or out of place?”
“That’s a good idea,” Mino agrees. “Most everything is probably a
distraction. The important thing will be simple or not valuable to the
pirates we’re pretending to be.”
“Something out of place,” Zelda begins, “like this?” She’s standing beside
what initially appeared to be the cave wall. But she’s opening it like a
door. It’s heavy, so she and Miracle hold it open for everyone to walk
through single-file.
They’re now standing in another locker room. The lights are flickering on
for them. Their names are on their respective lockers again. Colley is the
first to open his.
“What is that?” Rage asks. “What is that for?”
Jolanda is frowning. “Racing. That’s a racer’s uniform, including the
helmet.”
“Why do you look so upset?” Rage questions. “This is right up your alley.”
“Because I know I’m gonna win, and I might have to hurt you to do it.”
“I don’t understand,” Elise says. “Don’t listen to Hrockas when he says only
one person can win. We don’t have to follow his rules all throughout. We’re
in charge here.” She said it, but she doesn’t mean it. They’re really not.
She’s just trying to be positive.
“This is a headless racing uniform,” Jolanda begins to clarify. “It’s a
niche race that kind of went obsolete. The helmet gives it away. You see,
they didn’t just suddenly come up with mind-transference and uploading
technology. It was a grind. There was a time when updates were periodic,
rather than continuous. It was metaphysically scary. But not as scary as
this. No updates, but a local chip implanted in your head. You see, unless
you’re an octopus, the head is the only place where your brains are stored.
And it’s a lot easier to protect that above all else.
“Some astronauts were given these kinds of helmets. If something went
wrong—if all else failed—your spinal column is severed, and your head is
preserved. You lose consciousness, so someone has to retrieve you, and give
you a new body. This tech came out of the private sector, so while they had
government contracts, they also had private ones. This gave rise to the
deadliest format of racecar driving. The ancillary tech wasn’t that
reliable. Racers occasionally died because sometimes, their heads were
destroyed as well, because of-freaking-course they were. Or sometimes the
reintegration process simply didn’t work. They signed waivers, but it was a
dark time in our history. Now, with consciousness streaming, the races can
technically be deadlier, but reliably temporary.”
“This,” Zelda says. “This is why Hrockas gave us an out. It wasn’t all the
storms.”
“Can’t we all pile into a car together?” Elise reasons. “Even compact cars
can fit seven if you’re creative and willing to get really familiar with
each other’s bodies.”
“The cars are too small. You wouldn’t be able to fit two people,”
Jolanda clarifies.
“Now, let’s all calm down,” Rage tells them when she notices everyone
growing more stressed out about this. “All we see are the uniforms and
helmets. We have no idea what’s waiting for us on the other side of those
doors. We might have a choice of challenges. Those helmets might just be
manufactured to look like decappers. Let’s first get changed, but
keep the helmets off, and go outside. Sound okay?”
The seven of them gladly remove their tattered, disgusting tunics, shower
down, and suit up. They walk through the set of doors beyond the showers
holding their helmets. They expected to find seven cars waiting for them,
but there are instead two dozen. It’s tempting to believe that they will
have their pick of the litter, but they know they’re not that lucky. They’re
going to be racing against some other team, or other individuals. This
obviously raises the stakes. Now it’s plausible that none of them will win.
Jolanda is the best driver in their group, but she’s not invulnerable.
What’s interesting about it is that seven cars are sitting separately from
the other 17, so they don’t know what that’s about. While they’re examining
the vehicles, and debating whether they should get in, or try something
else, seven zombie ghosts appear before them. It’s the same ones from the
sea before, and they know that, because they grew to be quite familiar with
their distinctive looks, despite them all being undead. They’re on the other
side of the cars, and end up walking straight through them as they approach
the humans. They move much less menacingly than they did before. Once they
are a couple of meters from the hunters, they stand there and wait.
“Oh,” Rage finally says. “I think we’re each meant to choose one. That
happens on the regular hunts all the time. They don’t expect you to
magically know how to complete a task. If it’s a skill, an expert will train
you on it. I think they’re our driving instructors.”
“Them?” Miracle questions. “They don’t exactly look the part.”
“Maybe they’re shortstaffed,” Zelda jokes. She steps forward, and points at
one.
The ghost reaches out and pantomimes taking her hand. As he’s leading her to
a car, he growls but more in a grumpy way, rather than violent. The
one-footed captain isn’t here, which would have been awkward since they seem
to have personalities now.
Rage sighs and gives the other line of cars the side-eye. “I suppose we have
no choice if we want to keep going. Pick your partner. The competition may
be pretty fierce. We won’t know until we learn, and hopefully there’s no
time limit, because we practiced driving, but we didn’t train for this.”
