Stone Rider

by David Hofmeyr

  “You’re not worth a damn,” Adam says.

  Kane rolls his head to the side and looks up at Adam. He blinks and spits blood. “Took you a while to figure,” he croaks.

  Adam turns on his heels and marches into the afternoon gloom of the Bykemonger Station.

  He wipes out everything but one line of thought: to fetch his Longthorn and his riding gear, to find some place to sleep…and then to race.

  Twilight. Adam rides through Blackwater’s Inner Circle. His gray riding suit is fitted with an inbuilt back brace and basic protection for the vitals. He chose the suit instead of a full exoskeleton with maximum protection. The downside of too much gear is restricted movement, especially with the older suits, and weight. Frank told him to stay light. As light as possible.

  Lightness gives him speed and maneuverability.

  Even his chrome helmet is lightweight. It fits him well, close to the skull, complete with a gold-tinted visor that shnicks up into the helmet at the touch of a button. He’s wearing it now to remain anonymous. Just another Rider cruising the streets.

  Adam finds an old abandoned building, worn down by the wind. There are many to choose from. Giant, multistory, concrete estate blocks. They used to be teeming with people, filled with the trappings of their messy lives. But not anymore. That was long ago, before those with enough money or connections packed up and left for Sky-Base.

  Adam pushes open the door and enters a soulless, wretched space, filled with booming echoes and the scurrying sound of rats. He leaves the Longthorn near the entrance, knowing theft is unlikely. But he keeps her in the shadows anyway, away from prying eyes. He doesn’t want his bolt-hole advertised.

  Adam picks his way through rubble and debris: a plastic doll with one eye, fallen plaster and chunks of cement like boulders. He pinches his nose to mask a smell of mold and rot.

  The entire ground floor is gutted and all the windows are boarded up, nailed shut. He creaks up a musty staircase and finds a room where the floorboards haven’t been busted through. He uncovers his mouth and inhales. The same smell of damp and smoke, but less rank than the ground floor. It will have to do. He’s tired and strung out and he needs a rest.

  Adam stands and surveys his new crib. The room’s been ransacked, but the windows, what’s left of them, aren’t boarded. The only piece of furniture is a three-legged chair with stuffing coming from huge rips in the sagging seat covering. Over at the shattered window is a grate filled with a pile of black logs and gray ash. Adam makes his way over and looks at the remains. Someone built a fire in this room. A sharp smell of smoke claws at the back of his throat. He crouches, holds his palm over the burnt ash.

  Some time not long ago. Maybe a day.

  He stands quickly and moves to the wall—in the shadows—presses his back to the crumbling structure. Adam freezes and he listens. It’s cold and dark. The emptiness is frightening. No sound, bar the moaning wind.

  He waits. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Listens for the telltale sounds of feet. He’s accustomed to waiting and being quiet. He goes into a kind of trance—similar to the zone he gets into when riding. He stares into the middle distance and uses his peripheral vision to bring every aspect of the room into sharp focus. His heart thumps and his ears stay alert to every creak.

  At last, he nods to himself, satisfied. He sighs and pushes himself away from the wall.

  —

  This is where he bunks, right in the middle of the squalor, on the dusty floorboards, on his newly issued bedroll. Adam is cold and his skin is covered in layers of grit. He pulls his heatkeeper to his chin, shuffles to get comfortable and then he lies there, wide awake, listening to the sound of a moaning wind and the twittering of roaches burrowing through the ash.

  He thinks of the oak tree. And the bones in the ground.

  He thinks of Kane and he thinks of Levi and he thinks of Frank.

  Sleep eludes him.

  It’s going to be a long night. Filled with endless head-noise and stones flying. The last night before the Race. The night before his new life.

  His belly is full of butterflies and not much else, and his eyes are wide in the dark. He stares up at sepia water stains charting the ceiling like ancient maps. His breath comes in clouds.

  He tries not to think of anything. Tries to keep his head clear.

  He hears a scuttling sound over the floorboards and he’s up in a flash, on his elbows, peering through the dark. A hairless rat. Corner of his eye. Big and pink and ugly as sin. It freezes under the broken window, lit by shards of moonlight. It watches him, twitching. Then it scurries away, hugging the wall. It turns at right angles in the corner of the room and it’s out the door and gone.

  Adam shivers, draws the heatkeeper round him and sinks his head back.

  Then he sees them. Two eyes, white and bright, staring down at him through a crack in the floorboards above.

  “HEY!” he screams, leaping to his feet. He throws off his heatkeeper and runs to the door. The floorboards slam above him. A door bangs and the stairs drum with feet.

  Adam throws the door closed and its bolts rip right out of the wall, tearing up chunks of the rotting door frame. The door falls outwards with a whoosh and it smashes down with a loud, echoing BANG! A cloud of dust and splinters balloons up and Adam coughs and staggers back. His heart hammers and his ears buzz.

  Think, Adam!

  The entire door is gone. Adam has nothing between him and the stairs now.

  The drumming feet are loud and he blinks in the half-dark, eyes frantic. Something lands with a thump outside in the corridor. He picks up the three-legged chair and holds it before him, waiting. He holds it by the legs first and then changes his mind and switches to the seat back, like a cat tamer.

  Feet, outside the door, scraping through the debris.

  “WHO ARE YOU?” Adam calls, hearing a falter in his voice.

  Nothing. Complete silence. There’s only darkness and shadow. Adam can hear himself breathe.

  Then a high-pitched voice from the dark corridor. “Who are you?”

  Adam backs into the shadows. “I’m not answering if you don’t show yourself.”

  Feet shuffle and a figure emerges from the gloom. A small boy, shrouded in dark, eyes shining. In his hand, the unmistakable flash of a knife, reflecting the moonlight.

  “Get your own damn place,” the boy spits.

  He’s no more than thirteen. Shaved head, like every Rider before the Race. Freckles. Pale skin. Blue eyes that glitter as he whips the knife from one hand to the other. A skill perfected, no doubt, to instill fear in his enemy. It works too.

  “You can handle that knife,” Adam says, eyeing him.

  “Ain’t done me wrong yet,” the boy says, making an obvious show of looking mean.

  Adam puts the chair down. He dusts the seat back with his hand.

  “Well. I know you won’t use it. On account of the Laws.”

  The boy says nothing, still clutching the knife. His fingernails are chewed to the quick.

  “You’re aware of the Laws, right?” Adam says.

  “Yeah, I know ’em. But I don’t go in for rules much.”

  “Nope. Reckon you don’t.”

  The boy looks at him, uncertain for a moment, conflicted, and then he gives a slight shake of his head and pockets the knife.

  Adam smiles. “Name’s Adam. Be pleased if you’d let me sleep here before the Race. Got no other place. Not anymore.”

  The boy stands his ground. “Nathaniel Skye. Call me Nate.”

  “Nate. Sorry about the door.”

  The boy shrugs and his big moon-eyes stare at Adam.

  Outside a gust of wind throws the branches of a tree against a ground-floor boarded window and Nate turns, as though expecting a new enemy to come barging into the room.

  Adam looks at the Plug under Nate’s left ear. “You’re riding tomorrow.”

  Nate stares back at him. “That’s right.”

  “How many summers have you seen?”
>
  “Twelve.”

  “Twelve! You’re nothin but a grommet.”

  Nate shrugs.

  “They won’t let you take the knife,” Adam says.

  Nate’s hand moves to his pocket. “Pa gave it to me. Before he died. He was a Rider too, back in the day. He said I might need it. Might need to sink it to the hilt.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “Callin Pa crazy?”

  “No. What I mean is, if the Colonel finds out…you’ll get Unplugged!”

  Nate shakes his head.

  Adam looks at him. “You know what that means, right?”

  “Sure. Madness. Maybe even death.”

  “And that don’t bother you?”

  No answer.

  “And what about them other Riders? If they see the knife…well, they won’t like it.”

  “Pa said never mind the Riders. There’s other things out there much worse’n Riders. Things you never wanna meet. It’s for them you keep the knife.”

  “What kinds of things?”

  “Bandits, wolves…all kinds. Maybe even Nakoda.”

  Adam’s heard of them. He doesn’t know anyone who hasn’t. When he was little, Frank kept him awake with wild stories about devils and demons…and Nakoda, eaters of human flesh. But Frank had never seen them either. Not once.

  “They say the Nakoda are worse’n bandits,” Nate says. “If the desert don’t kill you, they say the Nakoda will.”

  Adam looks at him. “They’re cannibals, I heard.”

  “That’s a fact. Nakoda warriors’ll eat your heart. They’ll rip it from your chest.”

  Adam shakes his head and tips his chin at the grate. “You lit that fire?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Well. What say we light another and keep the cold out?”

  —

  Adam and young Nate share the dusty room. They lie awake and listen to each other breathe and cough in the close, smoke-filled air. They stare at the glowing embers and stifle the ache of abandonment. Adam thinks of the nights he and Frank stayed up talking, until the fire turned to glowing embers and then to ash.

  Adam looks at Nate and feels a conflicting sense of responsibility. He shifts on his hard bed and panics about not sleeping and being too tired for the Race, and the more he worries, the more difficult it becomes to fall asleep. He knows he has to be strong tomorrow, able to handle whatever the day throws at him.

  Adam lifts a hand to the back of his skull and plays his fingers over the cold, exposed metal.

  “How’d you get the money,” he asks Nate. “For the entry?”

  Nate doesn’t look at him. They both lie on their backs, staring at the ceiling. “When Pa died, he left everything he had to my older sister and me.”

  “Sister?”

  “She lives in Providence. That’s where I’m from. I hate the place. I’m never going back.”

  “What about your sister?”

  “You don’t know my sister. She doesn’t need help from me. I’m gonna race. I’m gonna win. And I’m gonna get to Sky-Base.”

  Adam rolls onto his shoulder. “You’re not afraid?”

  “I’m afraid of nothin,” Nate hisses.

  Adam doesn’t ask any more questions about Nate’s kin. He knows not to ask questions when the answers aren’t worth finding out. Nate’s just a boy. He should be home with his ma and his pa. He should be safely tucked into bed. He should be dreaming. But he isn’t. He’s here.

  “Why?” Nate whispers.

  “Why what?”

  “Why’d you wanna know if I’m afraid?”

  “No reason. Just asking, is all.”

  Silence. Breathing. The moaning wind.

  “You ever ride in one of ’em?” Nate asks.

  “Nope.”

  “Figure it’ll be hell?”

  Adam shrugs. “It’ll be fine, I guess.”

  Once again, he feels the weight of his lie fill the room.

  “Wanna know a secret?” Nate asks. “It’s about the knife.”

  “Yeah? What about it?”

  “I’m not worried about ’em seein it. It’s ceramic. Nothin will pick it up.”

  Adam nods. “I like your style, Nate.”

  Nate smiles, teeth white in the dark. Then the smile disappears. “Pa told me…he said don’t make friends with them other Riders.”

  “Yeah? Why’d he tell you that?”

  “Because they ain’t gonna be around long.”

  Drums throb and the morning sun slants down on the grim procession. The Riders come two abreast through the dry canyon track, lit gold by the hanging dust, bedecked in flaring sun goggles and visored helmets. Beautiful and terrible in all their gear.

  Some, like Adam, are dressed in light body armor only, with no more than knee pads and elbow pads, maybe a back plate to help eliminate the spinal column twisting when they crunch into the ground. Others parade in full exoskeleton suits, with webbing stitched into hard pads covering vitals—shin, thigh, knee, back, chest, shoulder. Some Riders have their bykes fitted with sharp spikes and all manner of barbed, medieval contraptions.

  Adam knows—despite the way they look—the Riders’ stomachs will be in their boots.

  Like his.

  He contemplates the days ahead. The tired legs. The aching bones.

  The stones. The crashes. The kills.

  He sees a kid staring left and right. Sweat streams from him. He looks terrified, set to bolt. Like he’s made the biggest mistake of his life. He can still leave, if he wants. It’s not too late. They haven’t been scanned, so the Race contract isn’t binding. Not yet.

  But the kid doesn’t break the line. Adam looks away.

  Up above, the Watchers float. Adam counts twelve airships and estimates about one hundred to two hundred Watchers per ship. All told, maybe two thousand Watchers.

  They come from Sky-Base to leer at the action. To get their kicks. To watch kids die in the sun. They place bets impassively, picking Riders they deem worthy.

  Referees—hand selected by the Colonel from Blackwater townsfolk—roam through the ranks of Riders with their digital tablets, making notes and calling up odds to the Watchers.

  GRUBs patrol the start line, stiff-legged, in visored helmets and black metal casings. Nobody is dumb enough to take on the GRUBs. You can’t fight a fusion shooter gripped in a hand of steel. And besides, if you fight the GRUBs, you fight the Colonel.

  Adam glances up at silhouette figures on the canyon ridges. Townsfolk, watching. Maybe Sadie’s up there somewhere, looking down on him and all the Riders and the bykes she helped build. He bangs his helmet with a fist to shake her from his head.

  Adam isn’t sure where he is in the pack. Somewhere near the front. Closer to the middle, perhaps. There are too many Riders to be certain. He remembers looking down at the cluster of Riders in summers gone, up at the top of the canyon with Pa and Frank. Frank was animated, pointing out the Riders he knew. He was full of bounce back then. Pa didn’t used to say much. He just stared down with his jaw tense.

  It’s hot inside the canyon, even now, a little after dawn. The Riders keep their heads low and say nothing, bowed to silence by the heat. They listen to the drums roll and the shouts rise.

  Adam glances across at the Rider on the Sunblazer byke alongside him. Nate, with his fingernails bitten to the quick. An orphan kid living a life of fugitive solitude. Like so many others. Like animals, left to scrounge and forage. At Nate’s belt, he spies the knife handle. Nate sees his glance and gives him a sheepish grin. He points up the line.

  A horse-mounted figure stands on the sawn-off redwood tree stump. The rising heat waves play tricks on Adam, elongating and bending the figure.

  Colonel Mordecai Aesop Blood.

  He sits astride a gray pony—the only one in Blackwater. Adam watches it toss its head. It goes by the name of Bone. Supposedly, the Colonel bought it from horse traders in the Badland, but no one really knows where it’s from. It stamps about atop the massive tree stum
p, standing erect, nostrils flaring, turning its head. Sensing the Riders. The Colonel, by contrast, is expressionless in his silver-mirrored sunglasses.

  There are stories about the Colonel. How he shot a kid who refused to shake his hand before a Race. How he sells kids to the Slavers. How he kicked his own brother out of Blackwater, banished him to the Badland.

  Adam can’t be sure if any of it is true. He knows only what everyone does. The Colonel is all-powerful. He rides a horse called Bone. He carries a fabled pistol. And you do not, under any circumstances, defy the Colonel…or you will quickly become dead.

  He feels a sudden impulse to turn and flee. To ride away and never stop riding. He clenches his fists and pushes fearful thoughts away.

  Frank is all he had. And Frank is gone. It’s race or nothing.

  “Used to be in the army, back in the day,” Nate hisses. He leans over in his seat, keeping his blue eyes on the Colonel as he speaks. “It’s how he got the title. Recruited by Sky-Base when they had that trouble over in Providence. That core mine strike.”

  Adam shrugs, pretending not to care.

  Colonel Blood leans on the pommel of his saddle and he looks at the assembled Riders, who come to a clattering standstill in front of him. He squints up the canyon walls, glares at the referees and the blank-faced GRUBs, and nods in deference to the Watchers, up in their airships. The cries die down and the Riders look up at the Colonel and wait. Bone skitters and shakes its neck.

  “He was a big deal in the army,” Nate whispers, as if this were some new revelation for Adam, some dark secret of the world. “Turns out he was good at killing.”

  The drums come to a rumbling stop, until the only sound is the snapping of the flags.

  The Colonel’s voice, when he speaks, is dry and rasping. The curving canyon wall behind him provides a natural amphitheater, throwing out his voice, sending it up the canyon, traveling to all the Riders. Setting a chill in their blood.

  “Riders,” he says, eyeing them all and holding one arm aloft. “You are about to embark on a journey. A rite of passage. These canyon walls have seen many before you come and go. They’ve seen the strong and they’ve seen the weak. They’ve seen them stand tall. And they’ve seen them fall.” Here he pauses and Adam finds himself wanting to laugh. From hysteria more than anything else, but also because of the melodramatic manner of the man, his turn of phrase, the style of speech, calculated to instill simultaneous fear and adrenaline.