There were two things that Howie Tex loved: long drives, and the track.

He would drive his antique Porsche across the whole of the flats to race, joked the Mechaniks, and then he’d bet himself from here ‘till tomorrow. Then they’d put their heads down and get back to work, because if the racers were princes, then Howie Tex was a sultan.

Time was, Flesh dogs were bred especially for the circuit, and the idle rich would come down to watch, bet and drink.  Back in the early thirties, the tides changed as the ‘bot craze overtook the Elites. Racing was already the next big thing, and how better to jump the trend then with the most expensive, cutting edge tech? No conflict over doping, no rights activists, none of the mess of the kennels... all the sleek, shiny chrome of a new age.

Howie loved his ‘bots, and he loved the thrill of the money they brought in. He knew the dogs his Mechaniks designed were the fastest, and no one could hack past their programming. He rested on his laurels in his sparkling oval mansion, basking in the indisputable facts of wealth and an Elite reputation. There would be challengers, sure. Howie would mow them down- and love it.                                     

“Who are those two anyway?” asks the first woman, reclining on plush gold cushions. “I don't remember seeing them on the guest list.”

“Well, I don’t like her,” pronounces the second, adjusting the delicate ruffles of her skirt. “That outfit is so shiny you can’t look at it.”

“Honey, that dress is an Avenir. You were singing its praises just last week.”

“It’s hideous,” she maintains with a sniff. “Don’t you think so Jemma?”

The third woman ignores the question, stretching luxuriously and rising from her chaise lounge. “Well, I am going to go talk to them. I want to know where they’re from. They must have connections to be invited here.”

She saunters over to the bar, maneuvering around men and women decked out in sparkles, neons and stripes. En route, she catches her boyfriend by the arm, and he snags a stray glass before trailing behind her, to where the duo in question sit; a well-muscled man in a spiked jacket, and a woman with hair like white gold.

“Hi,” she says, sliding behind the hovering glass countertop. “I’m Jemma. I think your dress is just stunning.”

“Oh, how lovely you are!” the other woman cooes, from where she lounges across the counter. “I’m Jaylee, and this is Brock.” The man in the spiky jacket, Brock, nods to Jemma, running a hand over his slicked back hair. “Heya.”

“Is this your man?” Inquires Jaylee.
“Oh, this is my Seven. He’s been dying to meet you two.”
“Call me Sev,” he amends, with a sideways glance at his girlfriend. “All the racers do.”
“Oh, you race?” says Brock, all polite interest.
“Yeah, I race.” Sev leans forward, his barrel chest giving an almost aggressive impression. “My dog came right behind Howie’s last year- I’ve got a crack programmer in my corner.”

“Funny,” muses Brock, “That’s just what brought me and Jaylee to these parts. We wanted to drop by anyway and visit Jaylee’s uncle, but when heard we there were some thrilling matches in the summer- well, Jaylee said she couldn’t miss it.”

“Isn’t that Howie Tex something?” Jaylee says suddenly, sitting up. “There was a special on the tele-cast. I heard-” here she lowers her voice a bit, and her audience leans forward unconsciously- “ that Tex’s dogs are undefeated, but what I think about him-” Brock interrupts her with a smirk, murmuring something under his breath.

“Oh my god, Brock, no,” Jaylee laughs, “Flesh animals are rank. Don’t you ever put those two in the same sentence.” Her voice rises and dips with that aggressive lilt that is so trendy among certain women- the uppermost of the elite. Brock leans in to speak low in her ear, and she squeals, pushing him away “Ew, don’t! You’re so mean!” Still laughing, she extends a delicately tattooed arm to a harassed looking barkeep, draping herself over Sev to do so. “Tell him Des, tell him what you said earlier- about the race?”
“Erm,” says the barkeep, caught out, “well, I was just saying, to my colleague, that is...”
“Spit it out,” says Sev sharply, “Whatcha say to her?”
“No, I was telling-” he gulps. “I said that Tex is past his prime. He’s practically stopped racing, must be thinking it himself.” 
“There!” says Jaylee triumphantly. “Isn’t that just what I’ve been saying, Brock? Rumour is, our Howie Tex is getting old. We could totally take him.”

Jemma titters, then looks alarmed as Sev chokes on his expensive synth vodka, sputtering out, “You can’t be serious!” Jaylee smiles back serenely. All across the counter, the party guests are sitting up and listening.

“It’s true,” rumbles Brock. “I heard that in the last race, his ‘bot got jammered up- and good.”
“Well yeah,” says Jemma, on the edge of hostile. “That’s true, I was there. Maybe Tex is losing his touch. But you two?”
“Where do you think you’ll even find a programmer,” demands a man in a pink vest from across the counter, “or the Mechanik parts, for that matter?”
“We know some people,” says Brock, “I don’t see why we can’t give it a shot.”

Delighted, Jaylee throws her arms around his neck.

_______________________

The circuit is a remnant from a bygone time, when the hills were not yet baked brown, and a great salt lake stretched between them. Now, the atmosphere is hotter, the lake is gone, and every few weeks a hell of a party goes down on the salt flats left in it’s place.

This particular summer day, the betters and racers are gearing up for an explosive match. A rumour has started going around that Howie Tex is retiring, and three different dogs have been readied to take him on one last time. Among them is a sleek blue ‘bot that no one has ever seen before, and there is more than the usual tension in the whispers and dirty looks directed from each team to the other. As is the custom, everyone is dressed according to the color of their teams dog. For once, Tex’s cherry red is not the dominant shade.

Jemma is dressed entirely in green, from her tiny sequined dress to her glossy nails. The emerald on her lips is set all the brighter against her dark skin. She smirks at Brock from over Sev’s shoulder, blowing him a kiss. “For luck,” she explains. “So blue bot’s tech doesn’t fizz out before the race even starts.”

“I hope not,” agrees Brock, “I put a lot of work into that programming, and Jay is the best Mechanik I know.”

“Oh, stop, B. You’ll make me blush.”
“You’re the Mechanik?” Jemma squeaks, appalled at the thought.
Sev squints at Jaylee. “Who did you say your uncle was again?”

At that moment, the last starting horn rings out. All conversation is forgotten as a women dressed in nothing but feathers saunters out in front of the starting line. All eyes are on her as she sets the streamlined lure down, where it hovers just above the ground. The dogs toss their heads and shake out limbs, stretching with faint whirrs of machinery. As one, they take position at the starting line. A cool breeze is kicking up, stirring dresses and tailcoats. When the starting pistol is raised, the collective intake of breath is almost audible.

At the firing of the blank the lure takes off with a blinding flash of silver. The dogs explode into motion, tearing past the crowd. Almost immediately a roar goes up as the yellow ‘bot smashes into the ground and stays there, sparking and twitching.  Red is already in the lead, but blue and green are right on its tail. The light off their metallic skin flares as they round the first corner, turning back around the gathered crowd.

As is the nature of high-speed racing, what happens next is so fast that most of the gathered viewers don’t catch all of it. Minutely, green veers to the side, clipping blue on the shoulder, in a clearly illegal move. Blue staggers, but green has overshot, and stumbles as it tries to speed up. Then blue dog does what it has been programmed to do when confronted with an obstacle, something no racing ‘bot has done before: it leaps. Then it’s gaining, creeping up on red, and the crowd is roaring as it puts on an extra burst of speed with only meters to spare. With the brilliant flash of a high speed camera, the two dogs shoot across the finish line, nose to nose.

A hush falls. Moments pass. Then the cry of the referee- “Blue was ahead! Blue wins!”
The sounds of cheers and outrage explode into deafening chaos. Brock leaps in the air, pumping his fist, and Jaylee grabs his arm and drags him through the crowd.

                                                              _______________________

Across the sea of people, Howie Tex himself is looking decidedly shell-shocked, deaf to the pleas for his attention from Dacrius, the bet-taker. “I don’t believe it,” he mutters, deathly still.
“Mr. Tex-”
“She wouldn’t... she couldn’t. She and her programmer, they must have hacked me!”
“Mr. Tex, just listen a minute! I looked over the dogs, and I talked to the racers, and they said that blue belongs to a Jaylee and Brock, but that they've disappeared-”

Howie’s face has been slowly purpling as Dacrius speaks, and now it reaches a startling eggplant.

“Jaylee? She’s calling herself Jaylee!? Why that arrogant, ungrateful...! ” his rant dissolves into expletives, and he rounds on Dacrius. “You!” he snarls, “You must have known she would try to hack me!”

“But that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you!” Dacrius says. “They won fair and square! No hacks, all legal tech. But the funds- the funds are gone. All the winnings, all the bets placed- they’ve been diverted, God knows where.”

Howie gives a remarkable impression of a startled fish.  “They... they what?” Dacrius gestures helplessly, trying and failing to think of something something conciliatory. “What is there to say,” he says finally, dropping heavily onto Howie's plush couch. “Your niece has always been smarter than you gave her credit for.”

    _______________________

Out in the desert, far away from the Elites, two cousins relax on the hood of an antique porsche, marvelling at the stars. “I wish we hadn’t skipped town quite so fast,” says the woman, her natural accent settled back into place, “if only to see their faces when they realize that all that shine is just so much tinfoil.”

The other snorts, amused.  “Not to uncle Howie it isn’t.” They grin and elbow each other, almost childish. If there’s one thing that puts thrill in their lives, it’s the satisfaction of a plan, a plan like any genius machine- flashy, well-oiled and masterfully played.