by Taven Moore
Still, Hank had a plan for the Roc. It wasn’t a great plan, but his head felt clearer since sleeping the night before. He’d raced Moze before and he knew her style.
He would win this.
The starter climbed to the top of the garlanded start and finish line.
Hank’s hands caressed the Miraj’s panel surface before closing around the control sticks. “Come on, girl. Let’s show them why the Harris Hawk ships were outlawed, what do you say?”
The Miraj’s engine purred.
The starter lifted an alchemist gun to the sky. An inaudible bang, then the gun blasted a brilliant network of firework shot upward, peppering the early morning sky with vivid fountains of color.
The other ships leaped forward like eager greyhounds. Hank grinned, pushing both control sticks forward. The Miraj’s engines roared . . .
And the ship did not move.
Hank’s heart skipped and he pulled back, then pushed forward again.
“HACKWRENCH!” he yelled, watching his slender opponents slip around a corner of Loggerhead and disappear from sight.
The flat, mechanical translation of “I’m working on it! Just a minute, just a minute” in no way matched the panicked shrieking Hank heard from beneath the console.
“We don’t have a minute!”
“Now! Go, go!”
Hank pushed the controls forward and the Miraj leaped like a horse from the starting gate. He rounded the first corner too fast, taking the turn at a wide angle that set his breakfast spinning in his stomach. Something in the console banged, and the “EXPLETIVE DELETED” from Hackwrench’s craft told him the bang had probably been the shonfra.
Just past the curve, a column of black smoke rose from below.
“Hang on!” he shouted, pulling the ship sharply around the smoke. Could be just smoke, could be something more insidious. It wasn’t worth blazing through it to find out.
They were on a straightaway now, on the near, long side of the island. Two more columns of smoke joined the first. With more warning, Hank was able to avoid them easily. He glanced down at one as he passed, grimly noting that the plume rose from the shattered corpse of one of the faster ships.
Moze’s work, then. Some kind of explosive alchemist bomb, though it would have to be pretty accurate to hit a Merganser at speed.
Hank leaned on the Miraj, squeezing some more speed out of her. The other ships had an impressive lead on him. Right now, that meant he had a relatively clean straightaway to himself and he needed to close that distance fast.
Hackwrench crawled out from beneath the console and stood next to Hank’s elbow, watching the smoke plumes. He chittered, pointing to racers nose-down in the ocean water below. “That ship there. And that one. They have no smoke, yet they’re not moving. What kind of weapon does that?”
Hank shook his head. “I don’t know, but whatever it is, it came from Moze. I don’t think it’s pleasant.”
The Miraj purred beneath Hank’s hands. It felt good to have her all together again. “Come on, darlin’. You can’t let those second-rate racers get the best of us, eh?” The buildings on Loggerhead’s back blurred as the Miraj picked up even more speed.
The second turn was near. A new plume of smoke appeared on the opposite side of the curve. He was catching up to the other ships, and then the real fun would begin.
“Shouldn’t you slow down for this curve?” asked Hackwrench.
“Not if I want to win this race,” asked Hank.
“Yes, but the turn—”
“I let you fix the ships. Now you let me fly them,” growled Hank.
The edge of the curve approached. Hank continued to press for more speed. The Miraj was heating up, but not too hot. The real danger was in the curve itself. If they tried to take the turn at this speed, they’d end up shooting so far off course that they’d be even farther behind. Of course, the same was true if they slowed down. The Miraj took a while to get up to full speed. She was a distance runner. If he slowed her down now, he didn’t have a hope of winning.
Two options, neither of them good.
Hank grinned. That’s why he loved the Miraj. There was always a third option.
“Hank!”
Just as they approached the corner, Hank flicked the switch to operate their one remaining grappling hook. The tiny Sparhawk spat out the hook, which bit deeply into the building on the Loggerhead’s curve and sank in.
The Miraj swung from that focal point like a ball on a string, keeping its speed as it slingshotted around the corner. Metal groaned as the Miraj protested and Hank whispered encouragement, “Come on, darlin’ just a little bit more . . . ” At the last possible moment, Hank flipped the switch to cut the cord.
Freed from its fulcrum, the Miraj zoomed down the opposite side of the island, no speed lost.
Hank whooped. “There’s my girl!”
The other racers were only a few ship lengths ahead of him now.
It was the final leg of the race, and as long as nothing else went wrong, he had a good chance of winning.
7. The Finish Line
Hank slowed the Miraj, watching his competition closely rather than blazing past them. Only three speeders and Moze’s bulky Roc remained. The three ships lagged behind the Roc, leaping forward before easing back, as if the pilots were having a difficult time keeping their crafts restrained.
One Merganser, painted a spritely blue and gold, leaped a little too far forward, passing the Roc’s nose.
Moze’s Roc spat out a globe of milky liquid. “What is that?” Hackwrench asked, hopping forward and cocking his head to the side.
Together, they watched the globe shatter against the Merganser, splashing its contents across the ship’s backside. A few sparks traced dangerous arcs around the little blue and gold ship, then it completely shut down, toppling to the waters below in a slow-motion free-fall nosedive. The only thing that kept it from plummeting like a paperweight was the still-coupled starshard, but without the ship running, there was nothing to direct the ship.
Hackwrench’s tail curled around to his belly and both sets of hands combed through the mess of a tuft at the tip of it. He chittered slowly, his craft translating at very un-shonfra-like speeds.
“He shorted out all the spark on the ship. Overloaded. But how? That shouldn’t be possible. What was that weapon? That globe. No. The liquid. The liquid was the key. It looked milky. It looked like . . . ” Hackwrench sat up straight, his tail thumping behind him. When he chittered again, it was at normal speed. “Don’t let one of those globes hit the ship, Hank.”
“Yeah. I wasn’t exactly planning on it,” growled Hank. He glanced at the downed craft as they passed it. “I don’t suppose you know what they are?”
Hackwrench nodded. “It looks like used ship fluid, infused with spark. The milky liquid has already been altered by contact with the starshard. Infuse it with spark and it would kill any cogsmithing device it touches.”
“How do you know that?” asked Hank.
Hackwrench shrugged, a odd, rippling gesture from a creature with two sets of shoulders. “It’s what I would do,” he explained.
Ahead of them, the two remaining ships, both Pintails, made a break for it. Clearly, they were hoping to split Moze’s forces, keep her from being able to shoot them both down.
The Pintail on the left fell to another one of those globes. The Pintail on the right did not fare so well. The Roc lobbed an alchemist bomb at it from close quarters. The little ship never stood a chance. The bomb exploded, sending the ship to the ocean and a column of black smoke to the sky.
The final quarter of the race, and only Hank and Moze remained. Hank had no defenses (assuming standard Miraj defenses could have done anything against that new bomb anyway) and now had not even a single grappling hook for weaponry. Moze had the lead and if she could shoot Pintails out of the sky, the combined size of the Miraj in full formation would be child’s play for her to hit.
Hank eased back on the controls. If
he stayed behind her, she couldn’t attack. Of course, if he stayed behind her, he wouldn’t win the race.
A flash of green, and a different shonfra buzzed in, landing next to Hackwrench and chattering animatedly.
Hackwrench’s ship obligingly translated. “Hackwrench, we got the coolant and the Hawk coupling fixed but then the oil pan snapped and we need you to come take a look at it. I know you said not to bother you in here, but I think the engine might explode. Soon. Ish.”
Hank’s eyes widened. “Hackwrench, I thought I told you not to use Klim’s shonfra—”
Hackwrench turned on him, chittering angrily as he hopped into his craft. “I know what you told me, and I know what you needed. You think I could get all five ships in working shape by myself with less than one night to work on it? I promised I would get your ships working, and I kept that promise. You worry about winning this race. You can yell at me for making sure you could even start it after it’s all over.”
With that, Hackwrench twisted something in the cockpit of his craft and it lifted off the console. The green shonfra flew out and Hackwrench in his little ship followed.
Hank gritted his teeth, but said nothing. Hackwrench had a point, but he didn’t have to like it. He needed a plan, and fast. He eased the Miraj into position, behind and slightly above Moze’s Roc. All he had to do was stay behind the Roc until just before the finish line, then punch the engines and zoom past.
Moze lobbed an alchemist bomb at him, but her firing was aimed ahead of her ship. He had plenty of time to slide out of the way and let the bomb sail harmlessly past his ship. He grinned and twisted the control sticks, sending the Miraj into a little wiggle to let Moze know he was amused at the pot shot.
They were nearing the finish line now. Hank’s hands tightened on the control sticks. Just a little bit further, and he’d—
Suddenly, Moze’s ship sprouted a thick cloud of black smoke. At the speeds they were moving, Hank’s viewport was obscured almost immediately. He banked to steer clear of the smokescreen—if Moze thought she’d lose him that easily, she wasn’t as good as he thought she was.
The smoke thinned, then cleared. The brightly colored bunting of the finish line stretched ahead of him, just a few ship-lengths off—and Moze’s Roc was nowhere to be seen.
Hank swiveled the viewscreen, cursing as he spun the rear view. He had time to see Moze’s Roc give a little wiggle before the first milky sphere spat out at him. He jerked the Miraj’s sticks forward, sending her into a dive. The sphere passed above him, skimming closer to the ship’s nose than he cared to admit.
Moze had figured out the same thing he had. If she waited for him to get in front of her, he might be able to win the race. If she popped a smokescreen and then pulled up, letting him pass underneath, she’d still have time to pick him off and saunter across the finish line, the last ship in the race.
A second sphere shot at him and he banked to the left before he noticed the third sphere already shooting out. He couldn’t avoid both of them.
Just before the third sphere shattered against the Miraj’s hull, a red warning light flickered to life on the edge of his console. One of the Thrusthawks had disengaged from the nest? Had the Miraj been damaged?
Hackwrench’s chittering filtered through the comm system, followed by the flat, mechanical translation of his craft. “Don’t worry, Hank. I’ve got this one.”
The first waves of spark shocked through the Miraj’s system as Moze’s weapon hit. Pain shot from the controls into his hands and vibrated through his bones, clacking his teeth together and lighting up every nerve with a hard, painful jolt. The Miraj went dark, all of the lights and screens blacking out as the ship sailed in a graceful, powerless arc to the waters below.
Just before Hank passed out, he saw the shonfra-piloted Thrusthawk sail across his viewscreen and over the finish line, an easy ship length in front of the bulky Roc.
Hackwrench had won the race.
8. A Deal’s a Deal
“Come now, Bricktop. His ship didn’t cross the finish line. A piece of his ship did, and you call that a win?” Moze scowled, Xerxes mirroring her sour expression from his perch on her shoulder.
Bricktop bit the end of his cigar, grinning. “A piece of his ship piloted by a member of his crew,” he pointed out.
Hank leaned against the outer wall of Bricktop’s storage unit. “Don’t be sore, Moze. You remember the Armaethean race where you crossed the finish line ahead of me in free fall, in the useless, flaming cockpit of a ship in pieces? The judges ruled that even a useless ship was still a ship and you went home with the prize that day.”
Moze’s frown lightened a little at the memory. “Fine.” She glared at him. “Don’t think this is over, though. I’ll get you next time, McCoy.”
Hank’s smile grew. “You’re welcome to try.”
Xerxes chittered from Moze’s shoulder, Moze’s cogsmith gauntlet translating. “Ship was broken. Useless. No way you fix in time.” The little yellow shonfra peered suspiciously at him. “No way to fly, no way to win.”
Hank looked to Hackwrench, hovering in his little craft off to his left. “Sometimes you just have to trust your crew,” he answered. “When they’re really good at their jobs, they come up with solutions that you might not think will work. Sometimes you have to learn when to defer to their judgment.” Hackwrench looked surprised at the implied apology, his ship dipping a little before he corrected it.
Hank nodded to Hackwrench, a gesture of respect. The blue shonfra had gone behind his back to use Klim’s crew to fix his ship. Even if he hadn’t been so worried about Bones, he probably wouldn’t have listened when Hackwrench suggested it, and he’d still have been wrong. The little shonfra could easily have been killed, taking that Thrusthawk alone. A single alchemist bomb from Moze’s Roc would have taken him out. Apologies weren’t Hank’s style, but he had more respect for his newest crewmember now. He wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss his ideas.
“What I want to know,” said Moze, “is what Bricktop could possibly have offered you to get you back in the racing game. When you got out, everyone was sure it was for good.”
Hank’s grin faded. “I’m still out, Moze.”
Bricktop snorted, dropping a load of ash from the end of his cigar. “After that? You’re a racing pilot, McCoy. It’s in your blood. You’re never out.”
Hank shook his head. “I’d like to finish our deal now and get out of Loggerhead,” he said, rather than argue the point.
“Fine, fine. You keep your fixed ships and the parts you used to fix them. Your first mate should be arriving shortly. I called ahead to have one of my men bring him from the house. As soon as he gets here, your crew,” he looked at Hackwrench’s tiny ship and chortled, “can take whatever they can carry from my warehouse. I’m a man of my word.”
Hank stepped forward, pulling a sheaf of papers from his pocket. “While we’re waiting, I’ve also got these, if you’d be so kind as to honor them.”
Bricktop picked up the papers and laughed so hard his dropped his cigar. “Your crew and your ship on the line, and you still managed to place a bet?”
Hank grinned. “The odds were good, and I always bet on myself.”
Bricktop scoffed. “The odds were terrible!”
“Exactly. That’s quite a profit.” Smugly, Hank crossed his arms, “and those same terrible odds means that a lot of folks betting on that race lost money to the bookies. And we all know who runs Loggerhead’s bookies.”
“Fine, fine.” Bricktop reached into his pocket, pulling out another cigar and a bulging wallet. “Next time, you fly under my colors, though,” he added, handing over a chunk of the printed notes. Hank accepted them and slipped them into the inside pocket of his coat.
A skeletally thin figure wearing a loose trench coat and a floppy hat rounded the corner, followed by a muscled bodyguard who struggled to keep pace. A knot of worry in Hank’s chest loosed. “Bones!” he shouted. “Took you long enough to get here. Di
d you watch the race?”
“No,” Bones replied, moving to stand beside Hank. “It would be illogical to watch a race whose outcome I could not affect.” Hank’s smile fell. He’d been hoping, at least a little, that Bones might have enjoyed watching him race, just like he . . . well, it didn’t matter. Time. They just needed time.
“No, I spent the time investigating Bricktop’s collection of rare artifacts. It really was impressive.”
Bricktop swelled up. “Well, thank you! It’s nice to have it appreciated. We don’t get many folks round these parts interested in that sort of thing.”
“I found it fascinating,” said Bones.
Hank scowled. “Glad the two of you made friends.”
Bricktop smiled. “My invitation to stay still holds, Bones. I’ve never met a ticker quite like you. Never even heard of one, in point of fact.”
“Thank you, Bricktop, but I am content in my position on the Miraj.”
Content, thought Hank. It was a start.
“Where did you say you picked him up?” Bricktop asked Hank, his eyes a little too bright.
“I didn’t,” answered Hank, voice low. He cleared his throat, then smiled a bright, false smile. “Well, it looks like we’re all here. Let’s have a look at that warehouse, shall we?”
“Hmm,” was all Bricktop said, but he turned and unlocked the door, using no fewer than three keys to accomplish the task. “Can’t be too careful,” he added as the third lock clicked open.
They walked through the door and Bricktop flipped a switch on the inside. After a moment, a series of gaslamps on the walls and hanging from the ceiling flickered to life, illuminating the black market racer’s stash.
The warehouse was enormous. Far larger than it had appeared from the outside, with multiple levels digging deep into Loggerhead’s back. The bottom levels appeared to hold the largest things. Some of the twisted ship wreckage he saw looked very familiar—they were probably some of the Pintails or Mergansers that had been damaged in the race. Hank could see a few cogwork suits moving among the machinery, piloted by shonfra cogsmiths working to modify or fix the crafts in time for the next race.