The collision was spectacular. There was a loud whummf as a bright spark flared between Neb Neb and Spleed's bongos, which had swung directly over Brooboo Seep's sub, and an explosion of bubbles spilled outward in all directions. The blast pushed down on Brooboo's bongo, tearing at his sub's rotating fins and causing him to swerve, but Brooboo held his course.
Neb Neb and Spleed were less fortunate. Spleed's forward diving plane had been sheared off; Neb Neb's starboard buoyancy tank had ruptured, and both subs were spinning toward the jagged cliffs of the underwater mountain. As Brooboo vanished into the tunnel's dark orifice, Neb Neb and Spleed punched their respective ejectors, and both pilots -- still contained within their hydrostatic cockpit bubbles -- were catapulted, seats and all, away from their subs. A split second later, their bongos crashed into the mountain, spraying debris across the lake floor.
The two ejected bubbles carried their occupants up from the depths, rising with a current that flowed past the side of the mountain. The bubbles were close enough that Neb Neb and Spleed could see each other, and they exchanged knowing glances. Having crashed in previous competitions, they could easily anticipate what would happen next. They would have to face their sponsors, who would no doubt be angered at the loss of the expensive bongos. Then there would be the outcries from the sport's critics. Dubbed by bongo racers as "fun-boggers," these were the clean-up squads and safety consultants, conservation groups and concerned parents, all of whom would be relieved and delighted were bongo racing abolished.
Despite these concerns, both Neb Neb and Spleed took certain comfort in one additional bit of knowledge: They were famous. By the next Otoh Gunga Challenge, some race enthusiasts would have to consult a datapad to recall that Brooboo Seep had claimed the last trophy, but nobody would forget the incredible crash and the two Gungans who had survived it.
Neb Neb and Spleed's hydrostatic spheres broke the water's surface, and the Gungans squinted at the brightness of the daylit sky. They deactivated the upper half of their spheres, leaving each of them sitting in a transparent saucer. Although neither had won the race, both had survived, which was reason enough to perform their post-race ritual. As they were rocking with the waves in their floating hemispheres, the ritual's degree of difficulty was increased greatly, but both believed that to forego the ritual would almost certainly bring bad luck.
Neb Neb and Spleed faced each other, nodded once, then spoke simultaneously: "Mayda bubbles always bees behind yous." Then they cocked back their necks, hawked, and spat high into the air. With some satisfaction, they watched the twin gobs of saliva arc over the water and collide with a stomach-churning splat. Their aim was true and their good luck was intact.
Or so they thought.
* * *
"Yousa revoken uss-ens bongo licenses?!" exclaimed Spleed, who stood beside Neb Neb in the Otoh Gunga office of the bongo race commissioner, Cova Burmooze. Hearing the words "revoken" and "licenses" in the same sentence, Neb Neb looked like he was about to fall ill. It was bad enough that Cova didn't believe a word they'd said about Squidfella Quiglee. It was even worse that Squidfella's bongo had been found empty in the crevice, and that no one had seen him since the race. Even worse was the fact that Neb Neb and Spleed were widely suspected of having killed Squidfella in the crevice. But now, having their licenses revoked ... well, that was the very worst indeed.
"Da Rep Council," Cova informed the devastated pair, "also suggest-ed yousa showdabe thrown inda lock-up place until wesa know Squidfella Quiglee isa live, boot Boss Nass say dare gotta be mure evidence. Still, a lotta Gungans isa callen youse deep spoilers, un a lotta elders isa pitty irate wit yousa for boomin yousa bongos into da mountain."
"Dey wowdabe mure heppy if wesa got pasted?" Neb Neb asked with genuine concern, unphased by Cova's remark about "deep spoilers." Neb Neb and Spleed had heard that one before.
Cova shrugged. "Da elders say da moutain is sacred."
"Sacred?!" Spleed sputtered. "Wesa broken no rules! Wesa no da ones dat putta tunnel through dat mountain! Since when is dare no crashen law in an official bongo race?"
Cova ignored Neb Neb's remarks. "Yousa duey crash-ed at da wrongo time. Da Rep Council gotta complaints about bongo racen. Some sayen too noisy, some sayen too messy, some sayen possible maxibad gamblin and corruption--"
"Gamblin and corruption?!" echoed the racers.
"Dat's right," Cova said, and his fixed gaze carried a hint of casual suspicion. "Dare's some sayen dat you duey throwen da races un crashen ... on purpose."
The accusation hit Spleed and Neb Neb like a blast of hot air. Eyes wide and earlobes tensed, Spleed protested, "Yousa tink sumbotty payen uss-ens to crash? Den yousa tell me whosa dat sumbotty is, causen mesa wanten to see dem clams!"
Before the race commissioner could respond, Neb Neb held out his hands, palms exposed. "Lookee, Cova," he said.
"Wesa got nutten to hide. Yousa wanna investigate uss-ens? Do it!"
Cova drummed his thick fingers on the top of his desk. "Yousa tellen mesa dat yousa always rilly racen to win?"
"Absolootly!" Neb Neb answered without hesitation. "Wesa nebber competen to lose!"
"So all-n yous crashes ... ?"
"Axadentes happen," said Spleed.
Apparently skeptical, Cova said, "Axadentes, huh? What if some say both-n yous no lucky un clumsy?"
