Neon Sands Trilogy Boxset: The Neon Series Season One

by Adam J. Smith

  Chapters

  The Liberty Trials

  Leora

  Rohen

  Elissa

  Joe

  Race

  Kirillion

  Town

  Calix

  Quintessa

  Crank

  Stranger

  Whisper

  Awakening

  Southside

  Deforest

  Pool

  Perfume

  Morning

  Disruption

  Judgement

  Edict

  Conditioning

  Tattoo

  Routine

  Unite

  Alarm

  Panic

  Knives

  Hope

  The Liberty Trials

  L

  eora

  The sunlight reflected from the grey metallic surface of the hoverbike and into her eyes, though her goggles dammed the worst of the glare. Her ponytail, whipped free of the goggle-strap, shot back like an arrow as the air zipped past. Throttle maxed, wrist straining from the forward twist of the handle, her leather-gloved thumb hovered over the boost ignition.

  She glanced down – a red band circled her uncovered wrist from continual sun exposure – and assessed her thumb position. This was no time for a mistake. She had fallen behind, left in the dust as Quintessa would say. And what Deo would say… well, he’d have been disappointed, watching the race monitor as the others forged ahead, his lover left choking in a wake of swirling dirt, forced to manoeuvre wide just so she could see. He’d be disappointed… she could see his resigned, down-turned mouth and the straight pursing of his lips afterwards, of fortitude, of better luck next time. He’d kiss her, on the forehead instead of the mouth, pull Cleo and Sal into a side embrace and they’d hug it out. Better luck next time.

  Cleo and Sal – for a moment the route disappeared, the garish sunlight became a canvas for their faces; the light itself haloing their small, perfect heads, and their small, perfect everything; eyes bright, smiles glistening. Countenances of hope. Looking upon their mother with innocent stares: you’re going to win and we’re going to be free! There was no question about it. No doubt in their minds. Despite Deo’s Now-now’s and crossed fingers. A child’s expectations knows no limit, and Cleo and Sal had a long way to fall should she fail.

  She couldn’t fail. Not again.

  The third attempt is your last.

  Doing this for you, she thought, as their faces cleared and were replaced with the onrushing incline of the Fool’s Pass. Cleo, daddy’s girl that you are, as though with your name we bonded you more closely than nature. And Sal, too young to understand anything and yet there was that look you gave; those melting eyes filming over as I turned for one last goodbye.

  She thought about stopping then. Fool’s Pass: named so for a reason, after all. Suicide, in essence. She didn’t want to die. Didn’t want to never see her family again. Didn’t want her girls to grow up without their mother, or Deo to lose his partner. He would survive, but be broken for a while, maybe never to be fixed, even in the bed of another woman.

  She didn’t want this to be it.

  But she was good. She knew she was. She knew she could do this. It wasn’t arrogance or over-confidence. She was light, and Feather – the hoverbike – wasn’t called Feather because of the sail-spines sticking out of her side. No – she was a nimble little thing. Under boost, Feather was fast.

  Under boost, Feather could fly.

  The others: Rohen, Sa, Gentle Joe, Lynk, Hallwell, Elissa, Mercy, Rassler, (and more she couldn’t remember the names of), were now winding ahead through the canyons, intermittent boosts pushing them along (if indeed they had any boost left after the starting line exodus). Twisting down there, she thought, as the walls of the canyon grew ever taller around them.

  Down there.

  The incline steepened. The point of no return had vanished long ago – while she had been deliberating, her body had kept moving forward. Ahead with the plan. Ahead with fate, and all things already decided long ago. What will be, will be, and all that and more. Not really down to me, she figured. I go where Feather takes me.

  She hunkered lower on the hoverbike, left hand pressing flat to the surface as though to feel the metal on her skin through the gloves. Feather purred, confidently. Vibrations of reassurance spoke to her fingertips. We can do this.

  Left and right the plains had vanished; there were edges to the ground now, that fell from her position, that were ever soaring cliff faces on the other side of the drop. No longer was she flying across patchwork tundra. The land beneath was sandstone rock and crumbled easily, and behind her the hoverbike left the slightest of indentations, as though a stream had once ran here. And there were other shadows of trails beside her, ghosts running the pass with her. She wasn’t the first and wouldn’t be the last and one day, her ghost would accompany another daredevil with a streak of insanity, or else desperation. A bit of both perhaps. So long as it wasn’t her literal ghost, she thought, resting her thumb on the boost button.

  All race that button had called her, willing her, as she watched the others pull away. Now she could feel it vibrating through her gloved thumb.

  The first of the jumps approached. She was afraid she’d miss it, but that turned out to be impossible; where the end fell away was a river of shadow whose depth would only be gauged as she soared over, daring to look down. At the shallow-most point, where the gap was tightest, an artificial ramp had been carved from the sandstone, cutting down into it to create a dip, before curving back up again.

  Here we go.

  She pushed the boost. Feather roared.

  Above, she knew the monitoring drone would be filming her every move. How many times had she watched this jump? How many times had the rider failed and fallen to their death? How many times had Deo gripped her hand as they watched another hoverbike make it – only to land sideways, crushing legs and breaking ribs?

  Poor Deo.

  The ramp neared.

  Make the girls look away.

  Breathless (her lungs and pounding heart were somewhere back down the incline) she raised her bum into the air and slackened her knees, head down, ponytail pirouetting, thumb depressed and hand turned fully on the throttle. This was it. Feather at full, uphill thrust.

  Down. Into the dip.

  Up. Over the ramp.

  Her stomach dropped.

  She straightened her legs and back, standing tall to brace for any impact that may come. Feather’s nose aimed towards an horizon of ever-increasing cliff-faces; she could see over it – just – and then sky. To the side of the nose was the cliff-face that she would unceremoniously crash into should Feather not make it. But she must make it. Feather was fast. Faster than most. And others had made it.

  Right?

  Her heart returned. Definitely there now. Exploding with doubt from her chest. Thump-thump-thump.

  No time for doubt now, Leora, she could hear her father say. Don’t tell me I’ve raised you only to have you smash to bits in this stupid race.

  You can’t put this on me, she heard her mother say. I died when she was four.

  I don’t blame you, her father said. I should have been there for you. Like I should have been there for Leora.

  I’m right here, thought Leora. What is this? I’m about to live or die and all you two can do is argue? Why are you even here?

  Then suddenly the impending cliff faces vanished, replaced by ground, rising ground, rising ground. “Fuuuuck,” she shouted, holding as tightly as possible to the handlebars, releasing the boost and bending her knees. Don’t lock your arms, she thought. Last thing you want is a dislocated shoulder. But don’t headbutt the dash either.

  I’m going to make it.

  Famous last words, she heard Rohen say.

  Fuck you. I’m coming for you.

  Feather landed, underside touching ground, but only for a second. Just a scratch, nothing Deo can’t erase. And skidded forward
s while sliding sideways in a cloud of sandstone dust.

  Leora ceased the throttle and braced one leg on the ground, shaking. She could feel the sweat of her palms all clammy on the inside of her gloves. Sweat running down her neck. Where glove didn’t quite meet jacket arm, her wrist gleamed. Her mother’s bracelet peeked out from the cuff.

  Your mother loved you very much, her father said. She died fighting for a better future for both of us.

  She looked up into the eye of the hovering drone and made an ‘okay’ gesture with her hand. Would Deo have turned away? Were the girls glued to the screen? She wished she could knock the drone from the sky but she had nothing to throw, and besides, they’d only send another one, making sure to keep it out of her reach. She watched it rise and turn ahead, giving a glimpse of the jumps to come to all those eager viewers. Each one of them willing her death.

  All but three.

  “For you,” she said, breath caught up, swinging Feather’s rear around in an arc and firing ahead.

  Roh

  en

  As he entered Demon’s Canyon he ordered the modified solar sails to deploy. His boost was depleted. At the starting line he had gone off like a rocket, weaving to and fro, head ducked, body leaning left and right as he slingshot from one hoverbike to the next. By the time his boost was empty he had exchanged first place with Elissa at least three times, catching each others’ wake and using it as an added boost. The final time, he was able to swing out from her rear and shoot ahead. Her boost had also gone by then.

  He looked behind him as the shadows from the cliffs fell upon them. They were all there, fighting for the slipstream, leapfrogging positions only to fall back again. Only good driving now would keep him ahead.

  Behind his legs, the arms for the sail extended, stopping short of their original length and extending smaller branches from that. Too much drag at full stretch. And every little saving counted. Even out on the plains, with the full force of the sun relentlessly bearing down, or reflecting blindly from the tundra, where the sails would get full benefit of the solar radiation, it was too damaging to deploy them. Riders had tried this tactic in the past – and failed – they may recharge their boost quicker, but by then they were usually too far behind to catch up.

  Unless they risked Fool’s Pass.

  Here, now, in the comparative coolness and definitely dimmer canyon, with the twists and turns it encompassed, it was safe enough to recharge. Good strategy. And a good rider could even use the drag to his benefit, drifting around the corners without braking.

  He had learned a lot over the last two years. After failing in his first attempt, he hadn’t bothered applying for four straight trials, instead watching, and studying, and tinkering with his hoverbike. Learning the best strategy from past winners. Breaking and repairing the solar sail arms, resetting them like broken limbs and testing them out on the plains against 100-mile-an-hour facing-winds to ensure they wouldn’t snap, that the air glided over them as smoothly as possible.

  Relying on the memories of the eldest to recount how past races had gone, since there were no recordings to rewatch. Wondering how they hadn’t just killed themselves the moment their opportunity was up. Some of them hadn’t even entered the trials – they had been happy to spend their life cowering from the sun and taking turns at the shitting hole. Pissing into the wind.

  There was Georg though. That sad, small man. Rohen had seen himself in Georg – a walking advertisement of apathy. Two legs that shuffled and a mouth that tried to open but had very little to say, and cataract eyes that looked out but saw nothing, because there was nothing to see that hadn’t been seen before. The matriarchs talked of depression as though it was a singular disease, but on the plains it was an epidemic: not merely an affliction but a way of life. And Georg was the grand master, cowering in robes from the moment the sun appeared from the top of the sand mountain, to the moment it vanished across the other side of the sky.

  “Drafting and timing,” Georg had said. “Ain’t been a winner that hasn’t mastered the art of the slipstream.” Nothing new, thought Rohen. Not quite the insight he had been hoping for.

  The first corner in the canyon was almost a U-turn: a tight squeeze, where up above the Fool’s Pass was at its narrowest, and where the sun spent only five minutes each day. Hit the apex, you could have said, thought Rohen of Georg, remembering how Georg’s head would fall limply forward; hearing his gentle snoring as drool strung down and pooled on the ground.

  Rohen swerved right and then swung back in to the left to catch the apex of the turn. It was tight, so he had to brake, but he left it as late as possible and was thankful for the drag of the sails. Each corner would need to be perfect. Get it right and he could even extend his lead as the others behind jostled for position into the bends. Leave them to fight it out, he thought.

  Focus.

  So why was he thinking about Georg now? Kill-me Georg (he’d nicknamed him), so lethargic – so oppressed – he couldn’t even lift his stooped head when he croaked out his request.

  The boost-meter flashed on the dash – up 1%.

  “Just kill me, whatever-your-name-is,” wobbled the bald, grey-tufted Georg. “No more trials. No more sun. No more blood-lettings. No more empty dreams.” Rohen had leaned in and strained his ears to hear the creaking whispers of the old man, barely seeing the half-lidded eyes slowly closing and opening. He asked him to speak again – to speak up, old man – and at that Georg lifted his head and forced his eyes to stay open. White and filmy. Only when Rohen moved his own head did he sense Georg’s eyes had caught his, as though he had been invisible in his stillness. “I’m drained. Have been for a long time. End it for me.”

  Rohen wiped at the glass of his goggles; here and there were boulders of varying size – some he could see over, some were sight-blocking – and he needed clear vision.

  Not white, his heart stammered. My eyes aren’t white.

  He wiped again. Somehow they had become foggier instead of cleaner, but a third wipe – with the felted back of his left hand, the right pushing hard at the throttle – swiped the last of the collected dirt. He dodged left as the carcass of an old hoverbike, scrunched like paper, came suddenly into view. Whoever had crashed it was long decomposed, but wreckages remained as a reminder of the dangers of the Trials. They could do with the salvage, in all honesty; repurposed or even mended – but the city forbade it. The city ensured there was always a hoverbike at the ready – not so much everything else.

  Only, as Rohen swerved by and glanced down at the wreck, it was no longer the glinting ball of tattered metal, but the skeletal corpse of Georg the suicidal. White eyes propped open by bony fingers, lids prised awake in a binocular stare that seemed to follow Rohen, glaring mockingly. The fingers stretched further, widening the stare, until the eyes themselves popped out.

  Elissa’s hoverbike broke the illusion as it narrowly avoided the crashsite. The moment before Rohen looked ahead again, he noticed that all was normal once more, with the dirt flying in Elissa’s wake settling on the twisted metal.

  His mouth was dry and the more he swallowed, and then tried to swallow, the worse it became. He wanted to stop and pull the headgear from his face and take great, deep breaths; to quell his racing heartbeat and stop his hands from sweating beneath his gloves. He could feel his grip on the throttle lessen. Strength in his wrist seemed to be slacking – the more he twisted forward, the weaker he felt.

  He could hear Elissa, the gentle thrumming, bearing down on his right, and was that someone else on his left?

  An alley of boulders emerged ahead and he saw his chance: he turned sharply to the right and pressed the boost button for all of three seconds – but it was enough. He lurched forward, and in doing so, felt the slap of the wind in his face. And in that sudden jolt, his survival instinct kicked in and his grip on both handlebars tightened. Once more there was strength in his locked wrists, and he hunkered down, pulling his elbows in and leaning forward to maximise the leverage on
the throttle.

  He left the ghost of Georg behind, or so he thought. The legend of Demon Canyon was true, it seemed: you had to chase more than just the other riders – you also had to escape your past. The darker your demons, the more challenging the ride.

  As he rounded the largest boulder so far, those white eyes were once more waiting for him, framed by the bony hands holding an invisible pair of binoculars; this time standing gaunt and bedraggled in rags against a rock-face. Almost casually, as though Georg had just ended a gentle, amiable saunter.

  “Fuck off, demon. Fuck off, old man.”

  The eyes popped out once more.

  “It’s what you wanted,” growled Rohen, speeding past.

  He looked at his thumb hovering over the boost button – he’d already wasted 1%, when really he should be saving it for the plains – and tried to resist the urge to push down. It would be inefficient, in fits and starts. Not worth it, he tried to convince himself. But he had to get out of here.

  It was a clear run to the next corner now, and he could sense the others behind, not gaining, but there, ever-present. Like his thumbs, he chuckled. His hovering thumb that had got plenty of practice pushing at things recently.

  Georg, who claimed to have been drained dry, had certainly felt hollow as Rohen placed his fingers to Georg’s temple, and lifted. With tilted head, Rohen studied the old man’s face, looked through the old man’s eyes and knew he wouldn’t allow himself to turn into this. Like so many of the others. A genetic implosion. There were no mirrors in the orphanage, and though his brethren could fool themselves into imagining that his singular face had some semblance of uniqueness in it, one glance into a hoverbike’s surface, or reflection in a pane of glass, was all it took to shatter the illusion.