Tel Aviv. The crowd roared, bathed in halogen white by the arclights, and broadcast across the globe from the network blimps drifting above the track.
The pit crew buckled Kyle Dorne into the seat, and Brace the crew chief was saying something to him at the same time a network drone shoved a mic into his face, asking about "the biggest race of his career." He heard neither Brace nor the drone. Dorne's mind was on the steering wheel and the car two places ahead of him. That car had the pole position. It should have been his.
Yellow lights in his heads-up display turned to green, but he knew the car's reactor was at full capacity by the way it vibrated around him. He never needed the instruments or the implants or the four-million-dollar sponsored neural reflex webs that the other drivers carried in their spines. He needed neither the synthetic adrenaline nor the enhanced subdermal chassis.
He just knew. He knew when the turns came. He knew what the other drivers would do. He knew when t