Chapter Three

Skeet slowly pushed his speeder bike to the starting zone. His head pounded from the loud music blaring from the huge speakers lining the run up to the racetrack, belting out advertisements and race fixtures. All around him the stands were packed with thousands of species from all round the galaxy, here to witness the prowess of repulsorlift racers who wanted to prove to them all they had what it took.

He had slept little over last few hours. The last of his money had gone on the renting of the pen for his speeder. It was a small grubby hole cut into the rock crammed with service tables and a small toolbox. He had slept on the floor, turning over a long trolley and using it as a makeshift bed. The klaxon call for the racers to approach the starting line had awoken him.

Skeet was not sure what to do. Brey Yard, the man who had guided him to the racetrack, had shown him to the pen area and then bid him good luck, taking off to the more expensive garage space for rent on the other side of the track. The attendant, a stuffy droid on tracks and multiple appendages, had roughly told him that when he heard the klaxon in his area he should just go to the start line and wait for instructions.

This is just great, he had thought.

He approached the start line and saw eight racers lined up ready to go, all in repulsorlift vehicles similar to the common landspeeders he had seen on Tatooine. They revved engines and gesticulated at one another. Only two of the racers were obviously human.

Lights flashed once like a lightning strike and the racers were off.

The crowd erupted into cheers as the speeders leaped down the opening straight, jockeying for position. Skeet watched them rub bumpers and cut each other off before disappearing around the first corner.

“You here to race?” said a tall human with multiple communication sets strewn about his body, making him look like a messy bundle of wires. Several comm mikes curled from one huge headset around to his mouth. He had a rough beard covered in the crumbs of his last meal.

“Yeah,” Skeet said. “Looks like a landspeeder race, though.”

“Bike races are in a little while. I’ll need to take a look at your bike and decide which class to race you in.”

“Yeah, sure.” Skeet stepped back, unsure whether this man was a race official or just a conman. When he saw several other men dressed in the same outlandish gear doing the same thing to other bikes, he relaxed.

His gaze fell on a bike he recognised, and he looked up to see Brey Yard giving him thumbs up. He gave the man a tired smile and a small wave.

“Been classed yet?” Brey shouted over the noise.

“I don’t even know what that means!” Skeet answered.

“Your bike’s speed, modifications and weight are judged by these guys and then you’re given a race class. The better the bike, the higher the class. Makes things a little more even.”

“And in this case,” said the bearded man, handing Skeet a small yellow card with several numbers stamped on it, “you’re a class three. Over there. Next!”

Skeet looked at the card and pushed his bike to where the man had pointed. It had the class of his vehicle printed on it and a race time. He looked at the huge hovering chronometer above the stands. He had half an hour.

“Same as me, huh?” Brey Yard sidled up next to him and activated the magnetic anchor on his bike. He leaned against the seat. “Class three. I was hoping for higher, but hey. Looks like we’re in different races, though.” He shrugged.

“How much will I win?”

Brey laughed hard, drawing the attention of several others around him.

“Win? Hah! You’re pretty damn confident, aren’t you? Let me put it this way... If you outrun all the seasoned racers in your first race and actually cross the line first, you’ll get three thousand. You get an extra thousand with every class you go higher.”

Skeet nodded.

“I’ve got nothing to lose. I’m out of credits.”

The speeders had completed their first lap and screamed past the roaring crowd, making further conversation almost impossible. Skeet noticed there were only five left. He turned to look at Brey.

“It’s rough out there!” Brey shouted.

“Do they pod race here?” Skeet asked, casting a probing stare over the assembled racing vehicles. He could see landspeeders, speeder bikes and racing swoops but none of the twin engine, chariot-like cradles that denoted the exceptional racing style.

“No way,” Brey replied, watching the landspeeders nosing each other for position at the bends. One slammed into the side of another and went careering into the impact wall. The driver ducked his head as the repulsor emitters shorted out and the vehicle slid across the bumpy ground to come to a smoking halt. “Pods out there? The track’s way too windy and narrow. They used to race once but Retsam banned it after one too many fatal crashes. Besides, not everyone can handle a pod and he wanted to make it as accessible as possible to all racers.”

“Whose Retsam? A race organiser?”

Brey smiled at his young friend and pointed up at a large balcony above the finishing straight.

“See that prime viewing box up there? The man with the half-metal jaw?”

It was difficult to see through the dust the racing landspeeders had kicked up but Skeet could just about see a tall, grey-haired man standing in the box with several other beings watching the race. He could see that the left half of the man’s jaw was metal with several wires running from the cheek to the artificial plate. He was smiling as a scaly being with a head covered in horns said something to him after the crash the crowd had gone wild for.

“I see him,” Skeet said.

“Well, that’s Emag Retsam. He’s the governor of Racer City. One of the best racers on the circuit, until a crash tore half his face off. Good man.”

Skeet was only half-listening.

The governor of the city had unexpectedly turned his gaze in his direction and settled his eyes on his. They locked stares.

Skeet could feel something stirring inside him. There was something about this man, this Emag Retsam, that made his spine tingle and his attention focused, as if he was the only man in his vicinity. From the look the governor gave him, a kind of narrow-eyed suspicious look, he knew he felt the same way. He didn’t quite understand it. He knew.

“I said you’re up, Skeet.”

“Huh?”

Skeet looked around, shocked from his thoughts. Brey was looking at him quizzically.

“I said your up. Landspeeder race is over. You’re running in a few minutes, get up there.”

“Right, right.”

Brey watched Skeet with more than a little confusion as he mounted his bike and slowly drove it to the startline. He looked up at the governor’s box himself to see Emag watching the young racer intently.

Skeet was stopped at the entrance to the track by a burly alien with a long face and small piercing eyes.

“Throwpack,” it said, and handed him a harness with a large button on the centrepiece.

“What’s this?” Skeet asked.

“Throwpack. Strap it on over your shoulders and around your waist so that the big button is in the centre of your chest. You get any difficulties out there at high speed, you hit the button and let go of your speeder. The pack will lift you clear of any accidents. Just a short repulsor burst.”

Skeet looked at the bulky contraption with unease.

“I’ve never worn...”

“It’s a requirement. They all got to do it. Wear it or don’t race.”

With more than a little reluctance, Skeet took the harness and allowed the alien to help him on with it. It felt the same way as it looked, heavy and cumbersome. He squirmed under the straps and manoeuvred his bike to the starting line.

“Single lap class three race!” an announcer roared over the public address system. “Flight ceiling one meter! All betting now ceases!”

There were eight other bike racers on the line, all sporting different models of vehicle and all wearing the same bulky harness. An insect-like Rodian; a wide-eyed, blue skinned Duros; a warty Weequay; a large built dark-skinned human. These and other beings revved their engines and awaited the signal to start. Skeet forced himself to breathe easily and took hold of his steering arms tightly.

Then he felt that sensation again. A tingling at the back of his neck, as if a cold wind had blown down the back of his racing leathers on a hot day. He turned slightly and looked up at the viewing box.

Straight into the eyes of the governor, who was staring at him again. Now he was closer, Skeet could see a look of shock on the man’s face. What was his...

A flash of light.

The race had begun.

Skeet, shocked and stunned by the sudden start, leaned forward and pushed down both his accelerator pedals. The bike lurched forward so violently that he nearly lost grip of the steering arms and instinctively backed off the pedals. The other bikes were already halfway down the starting straight, with Skeet only a few meters off the starting line. The engine spluttered, and he heard the crowd laughing, hooting and cackling with delight at the young man’s misfortune.

He narrowed his concentration, visualising the track and nothing more, and bought to the forefront of his mind what the bike was capable of. He then leaned right down and hit the accelerator pedals again.

The crowd’s mocking howls suddenly turned to shocked shrieks as the bike screamed down the track just as the other racers were turning into their first corner. Several race officials, thinking that Skeet was suffering engine trouble and wanting to get him off the track, had walked over to his bike to help him out. They dove out of the way as the speeder seemed to snap out of its reverie and flew off to catch up with the other bikes.

The first corner was a ninety-degree right. He slammed on the braking thrusters and tilted the steering vanes to get maximum cornering. The bike leaned over as he took the corner without losing much speed. The crowd roared at the young man’s determination.

He could see the other racers turning into a left-hand bend, and he added more thrust to catch up. The engine whined loudly, so loud that it was the only sound he could hear. The cool valley air flowed over his back as he leaned down to cut wind resistance. He gritted his teeth.

He suddenly remembered he had forgotten to put on his racing goggles. This thought crossed his mind as he lifted his head to turn his bike into the next corner and the dust from the preceding racers stung his eyes.

Stupid! Stupid! He screamed inwardly. It’s that man in the box putting me off!

He lowered his head and flicked a switch on his left steering arm. A thin plasteel screen lifted up from the forward fuselage and he tucked his head under it to minimise the dust flow.

They had now entered a long curving bend that angled off to the right. Walkways with cheering spectators crossed over the canyon, and as the racers passed under these bridges the crowd ran from one side to the other to watch the action go by.

At the lead of the race the warty Weequay tried to nudge in front of an older human racer wearing garish colours. The human gunned his engine, trying to remain on the inside of the bending track to maintain his position and maybe even take the lead. The Weequay suddenly braked as the bend became sharper, and the human’s bike slammed into the back of it. The steering vanes of the vehicle shattered and flew back into his face, causing him to duck and brake himself. The ruined vanes dug into the engine of the Weequay’s bike, blowing something important and causing thick black smoke to spew from the rear. As the ruined bikes started to lose control, the human slammed his hand onto his chestpiece and let go of the speeder.

He was catapulted high into the air as his vehicle lost power and ploughed into the ground. It flipped end over end, sparks and small explosions emanating from all over it as it bounced and flipped down the track. Smoke and debris was strewn across the track, and he looked down hopelessly at his pride and joy as the power pack gave out and his bike exploded all over the place. He slapped a hand over his distraught face as he was carried away by the throwpack.

The Weequay, rapidly losing power and afraid of causing any more damage to his bike, cut all thrust and steered the vehicle into an escape lane at the side of the track and wearily slowed to a halt.

The crowd went wild.

Skeet watched as the bikers ahead started weaving all over the track and wondered why. His wondering ceased as a plume of smoke and fire spread out ahead of him and he swung his bike around the carnage. With the large gap between him and the leaders, he was able to judge the danger with time to spare and blasted through the smoke with very little loss of speed. As the race entered a left turn he had caught up with the rear vehicles.

A right turn, then another left, and the racers were bunched together with Skeet riding the tailender’s slipstream. The tailender, the insect-like Rodian, spared a quick glance over his shoulder to check Skeet’s position. His huge compound eyes were covered in thick domed goggles, and Skeet saw his shoulders shake, as he seemed to prepare himself for a manoeuvre.

At the end of a long straight the track bent into a long one-hundred-and-eighty-degree right turn, and as they approached it Skeet suddenly knew he had to brake and go into the turn wide. As he did so, the reason why he should take such an action unknown to him, the Rodian leaned his bike over and slowed dramatically, turning into the turn on the inside and hoping to cut the young man off. He slowed too much so that he could take the inner line, and Skeet shot around him on the outside of the bend, his momentum bringing him up behind the leading four racers.

What a stroke of luck! Skeet thought.

As the bend straightened, Skeet allowed a quick look behind him and saw the Rodian was at a safe distance. He swung over to the outside of the next left hand bend and tucked in behind the next bike in his way. The dark skinned human glanced over, suprised to see a bike this close to him, and came out of the bend accelerating. A long straight stretched out ahead of them. Skeet looked at his speed readout and saw he was just touching three hundred kilometres and hour. Even at this speed the lead bikes were outpacing him.

He tried to remember the layout of the track from the printed reference flimsy he had found in his speeder pen. If he recalled correctly, the track went into some tight s-bends and then the finishing straight. He checked the speed readout and the engine tolerance meter. The bike screamed in protest at the punishment Skeet was putting it through, but he forced more power and leaned down as flat as he could get. His eyes stung and tears streamed back over his face.

The lead bikes had slowed and were turning into the first right turn, but Skeet did not let up the pressure; if he lost this race he would be out of credits and would not get another chance. He had nothing to lose.

The outside of the track sloped upwards, but the other racers did not take advantage of this slope to aid their cornering and just tried to navigate the first bend as best as they could. Speeder bikes, unlike landspeeders, did not handle very well on an angled track, and it was best to battle it out on the finishing straight.

Skeet, however, gripped his steering arms tighter, gritted his teeth, and swung up the embankment with power still pumping into his thrusters.

The dark-skinned human yowled with suprised delight as Skeet passed him on the outside of the first bend, tilted almost at ninety degrees as he used the sweeping corner to slingshot him around the bend. The racer pumped his fist in the air at Skeet with a wide grin and obvious respect for the risky manoeuvre. Skeet did the same on the second left-hand bend, overtaking a brown skinned alien with thick tusks that jutted from his lower jaw. The alien grunted his shock as the young racer passed him on the outside of the bend. Skeet ducked down and powered into the next bend.

The right turn brought him up behind the second place racer, and as they entered another sharp left turn they both rode up the embankment. The bikes wailed, steering vanes strained, nerves were stretched as the bikes flew side-by-side around the track, down the next short straight and into the next right hand turn. Skeet knew there was only one more left turn before the finishing straight and the leader, the Duros, would be hard to catch.

The human second place racer came into the left turn high and wide up the slope, but Skeet gunned his engine and came in tight, cutting in front of the human and causing him to slow dramatically. As they exited the turn Skeet gunned his engine and virtually jumped the sloped corner onto the flat track.

“Yeeehaaah!” Skeet’s exultation was evident as he pushed all power into the thrusters, ignoring the engine tolerance warning light and the high-pitched scream from the power converters. The Duros ahead had slowed to take the last bend and was now accelerating hard, but Skeet had come out of the corner with such speed he was already on his tail.

The bikes sidled up alongside one another. The Duros swung away slightly to allow more space between the bikes so the final straight would be easier for both of them.

The spectators were almost delirious with delight. They waved banners and anything else to hand. The ‘droid holo-camera couldn’t keep up with the two racers and it’s images being cast onto the giant holographic projectors were blurred and distorted. The assembled beings ran to the edges of their stands, stood on their seats to see the two racers approach the finish line. They roared and screamed and howled and hooted and cheered...

The bikes approached the finishing line, the thin beam of light denoting the end of the race stretched out across the track and both racers focused on it with intent. Both vehicles were going faster than their design specifications. Their designers would have fainted dead away if they could see what these two determined racers were doing to them.

Closer.

Skeet added more thrust and heard something give.

Closer.

The Duros’s hands were gripped around the steering arms so tightly his knuckles threatened to burst through the skin.

Closer.

The beam!

They crossed!

Braked!

Each bike slued sideways as they hit their brakes; dust kicking up and legs outstretched to catch the bike if it tipped. Engine power died, thrusters cut off, steering vanes tilted up to aid braking.

As one they looked up at the results hologram, each one certain they had been the winner. The Duros roughly pulled off his racing goggles and jumped off his bike, staring at the image.

Skeet wiped his eyes, the dust blinding him and the tears only causing more discomfort.

He climbed off his speeder as officials and spectators alike ran out onto the track to congratulate the racers on a superb race.

As Skeet’s vision cleared he looked up at the hologram as the other bikes passed the finish line.

The results had been transmitted and the crowd went wild.

He’d won!

He threw his arms into the air and roared as the crowd surrounded him, waving limbs and patting his racing clothes. The officials tried to break up the impromptu celebration, calling for the spectators to return to their seats and get off the track. The Duros was also swamped, beings calling his name as they congratulated him, not on a win but a race well run. Skeet pushed his way through the throng to reach the alien and thrust out his hand.

The Duros gripped it tightly, a crushing grip Skeet did not feel. The blue-skinned alien made a face Skeet recognised as a smile.

“Gutsiest racing I ever saw,” the Duros said with obvious respect. “Well done.” His voice was low and wavering, a combination of his natural speech and the dying excitement after the race.

“I’ve never had it so hard,” Skeet laughed. “I was sure you had me.”

The two racers were shouting over the crowd’s noise, and as they were ushered with their bikes to the trackside the public address system beeped twice.

“Race winner Skeet Jonas!”

The crowd roared again.

Skeet suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder and he turned to look at Brey Yard, whose face was a mixture of elation and shock.

“Are you freckin’ crazy?” He shouted. “Nobody takes the s-bends on the slope with a bike!”

Skeet laughed and grabbed his new friend by the shoulders.

“I won, Bay! I won!”

“My name’s Brey, you freckin’ idiot!”

“Whatever! I did it! My first race here and I did it!”

The Duros stepped up beside the two men and looked at Skeet up and down with his large eyes.

“That was your first race? I don’t believe you.”

Skeet was almost skipping with delight.

“I blasted down canyons trial racing on Tatooine for years, and here I am, first race at Raca City, and I win! Wooh!” He spun around on one heel.

With a loud laugh Brey grabbed Skeet by the shoulder and sat him down. Skeet breathed hard, his chest tight with excitement. Brey turned to the Duros.

“Bad luck, Driss,” he said.

“What?” Skeet looked up at the alien with shock. “You’re Driss Cotta?”

The speeder champion gave the young man a mock bow.

“I am.”

“Damn, you were one of my heroes when I was a kid!”

“Obviously getting past it, now...”

“No way!” Skeet jumped to his feet. “It was an honour racing against you! Can today get any better?”

“When you pick up your three thousand prize money it will,” Brey smirked and turned back to the Duros. “I guess this means your not getting into the Ten Thousand?”

Driss shook his head and tutted.

“Oh, no, Brey, I’ve already got my pass. I’m just here to sharpen up my skills before the big one.”

“You’re lucky. Mine’s paid for but I’ve got to win at least two races here before I’m given it. There’s no way I’m missing out on that.”

Skeet looked at the two with confusion, obviously completely in the dark about their conversation.

“What are you talking about? What’s the ten thousand?”

Brey began to speak, but Driss cut him off.

“We can’t tell you, Skeet. Remember the rules, Brey? It’s private.”

“C’mon, I want to know,” Skeet pleaded, imagining the ten thousand to be a referral to the prize money.

“Sorry, Skeet.” Brey shrugged and looked over at the public holograph. “Hey, I’m racing. Wish me luck!” And with that he hopped over to his own bike and headed for the track.

Skeet watched him go.

“Driss, tell me. It’s sounds ominous.”

The Duros shook his head and mounted his bike, starting the engine and flicking it to an idle.

“I’m sorry, Skeet, we’ve said too much. Didn’t mean to entice you like that. Just be assured it’s better you don’t know.”

Skeet watched him go, too.

He was left alone, with the excitement of the win and the confusion over the other two’s veiled references to something he obviously was not allowed knowledge of. It was obviously a race, but what kind? It sounded quite... mysterious.

He stood and patted dust from his racing suit and clumsily removed the throwpack. He then wondered where to go to collect his winnings.

Again. That sensation again. That shiver, that sense of uneasiness. He turned and looked up at the viewing box, instinctively knowing that was the source of his discomfort.

Emag Retsam was staring at him already, his dark eyes seemed to burrow into his mind. He held the gaze and then noticed, and felt, the emotion on the governor’s face.

He was sad.