‘Racers!’ yelled the announcer. Harkins could only hear faintly through the cockpit hood. Everyone else had their cockpits open, but Harkins had sealed himself in the first chance he got. It felt safer that way. He frowned and tried to concentrate on the muffled words.
‘As we’re coming up to the start of the race, it’s time to remind you of the rules!’ he called. He was a stocky man with a shaved head and a roll of fat where his neck should have been, as if he’d been crushed at some point in his life and never quite sprung back into shape. ‘You’ve all been given maps detailing the network of gorgesworuo; in the race area. You’ll also see that there are four markers numbered one to four. You must pass through these gorges, in order. We’ll have observers watching you, so no cheating. As long as you do that, feel free to pick your own route. There will be two laps. Are we clear?’
Harkins glanced down at the map fixed to his dash. He’d done his best to memorise it, but it refused to stick in his head, sliding off the surface of his mind. He was too agitated to retain any new information.
What if I go the wrong way? What if I forget? What if I There was a loud rapping on the hood of his cockpit. He jumped violently enough to bang his skull against the headrest of his seat. Readjusting his battered leather pilot’s cap, which had fallen over his eyes, he looked for the source of the sound.
Silo. The Murthian’s dark, narrow face gazed in at him from the other side of the windglass.
‘The aerium tanks!’ Harkins cried. ‘They don’t sound right when I vent air through them!’
Silo’s face disappeared. Harkins sat back in his seat, recovering from this new shock. He feverishly hoped that Silo found whatever was wrong. He hoped it was something terminal.
Nervously, he surveyed the other pilots. To his left was an enormously fat man in an Oddsen Blackbird, the craft gleaming silver, its back curved and its wings thin and sharp. He looked like he’d been poured into his cockpit and congealed there. To his right was a brutish-looking Yort in a black Gordinson Airbat. His hair and beard were a tangle of matted locks and braids, his face was tattooed in blue patterns, and there was a curved bone driven through the bridge of his nose. He caught Harkins’ eye and Harkins looked away quickly.
Further down the line was the man who was supposed to be his competition. Gidley Sleen. Harkins couldn’t see him now, but he could see the nose of the Besterfield Nimbus he flew: sleek, fast, built like a dart. They all had the advantage over him in speed, but the Firecrow was a great all-rounder, and it was far more manoeuvrable than these racer models.
Still, he really didn’t think he had a chance of winning.
‘Your altimeters should all read five-seven-seven!’ the announcer continued. ‘Anyone going above six hundred will be disqualified. We have spotters in the air; their decision is final. Stay in the gorges and you won’t get penalised.’
Harkins checked his altimeter was right. He didn’t want to get disqualified.
Wait a minute. Who cares if you’re disqualified? You’ll be lucky to survive!
The thought almost made him bolt. He strapped himself in, to make it more diffi it› cult to disgrace himself with his cowardice.
‘Last rule! Very important!’ the announcer said. ‘No one is allowed to fire weapons until your second lap. Your second lap!’
‘ Weapons? ’ Harkins shrieked, scrambling for the eject button on his seat belt. ‘Nobody said anything about weapons!’
‘Weapons?’ said Frey in his ear.
‘The announcer… I mean… Weapons!… He said we can use weapons on the final lap! What kind of race is this?’
‘Weapons are good, Harkins. You’re the only one flying a combat craft. Those lightweight racers will come apart if you so much as graze ’em with your guns.’
‘But… I… did you know about this?’ he demanded.
‘No. That son of a bitch Crickslint neglected to mention it,’ said the Cap’n, angrily. ‘Look, you’ll just have to do your best. Shoot down anyone faster than you.’
‘You want me to kill people just to win a race?’
‘Harkins, they’re going to try and kill you.’
Harkins squeaked. This was getting worse and worse.
Jez’s voice cut in. She was wearing an earcuff too. ‘He shouldn’t have to do this, Cap’n.’ Her voice flooded him with gladness.
‘It’s not my fault they’re using weapons,’ Frey protested.
‘Harkins!’ She was addressing him now. ‘It’s too dangerous. We can find another way to get the relic.’
‘Hey! Who’s in command here?’ Frey said indignantly.
‘Cap’n, you can’t possibly let him take a risk like this on his own.’
There was silence. Harkins listened intently. Finally, a defeated groan from the Cap’n. ‘Alright,’ he said. ‘I s’pose. Harkins?’
‘I want to, Cap’n,’ said Harkins.
Frey’s voice was puzzled. He thought he’d misheard. ‘You what?’
‘I’ll do it,’ Harkins said.
It was Jez’s kindness that made him say it. Jez, always looking out for him, who’d persuaded the Cap’n to let him quit because she wanted to keep him safe. Perversely, it made him all the more determined. He’d show her he was brave. He’d make her notice him.
The one thing, the only thing he was good at was flying. And the Cap’n needed him. The Cap’n was in trouble. The Cap’n who’d let him fly this Firecrow in the first place, who’d rescued him from the misery of a land-bound life after he was discharged from the Navy as a shattered wreck.
‘I won’t let you down,’ he said. He could have been talking to either of them.
‘Racers ready!’ the announcer yelled.
Silo knocked on the hood again, and this time Harkins didn’t jump. ‘Try it now,’ the Murthian rumbled.
He blasted air through aerium tanks to purge them. The pitch was just right. He grinned a brown-toothed grin. ‘Silo, you’re… you’re a genius! What was it?’
‘Somethin’ blockin’ the vent,’ said Silo, his face expressionless.
‘Hover!’ called the announcer.
‘Gotta go, Silo. Thanks!’ he called. Silo dropped away and he engaged the aerium engines. The tanks filled with ultralight gas and the Firecrow lifted off. He vented a little to equalise the weight and came to a hover five metres off the ground. The other racers were strung out on a loose line to either side of him, hanging in the air.
‘Harkins,’ said the Cap’n. ‘I want you to know I appreciate this.’
‘You come back, alright?’ said Jez, worried. Her concern warmed him.
‘Good luck,’ Pinn chipped in grudgingly on his own earcuff. Then, after a moment, he added: ‘You bastard.’
Harkins pulled his flight-goggles down over his eyes and adjusted them. He was scared to death, but then, he was used to that.
Ready as I’ll ever be.
‘Three… two… one…’ the announcer counted.
Harkins experienced a brief moment of sheer horror, when the utter foolishness of what he was about to do suddenly revealed itself in full splendour, and all his noble thoughts of bravery, self-sacrifice and heroism became ridiculous.
‘ Go! ’ ghtd the ae
Then he hit the thrusters, and the moment was forgotten in the thrill of acceleration.
The racers skimmed across the flat earth of the plain, the line breaking up as the faster craft pulled ahead. Around them, in the distance, the grass and rock were broken by gullies and valleys and the grey swathes of streams and rivers, making their way to the softer, broken land to the west, where the Rushes began. Harkins’ eyes were fixed on the cliff edge up ahead. That would be their entry into the maze.
They plunged over the precipice in a dizzying tumble. The gorge was deep and wide, its sides shaggy with greenery, descending to a misty torrent at its base. Black and white pennants were hung along its length, with the number ‘1’ printed on each: the first marker. One, in the centre, was larger and bore a pattern of crosses: the start and finish line.
The blood rushed to Harkins’ head as he dived, then back out as he banked and levelled, angling himself up the gorge. The other flyers were distressingly close, swooping across his flight path, and for a few seconds everything was chaos as the pilots picked their racing lines.