Chapter Four

“Race winner Brey Yard!”

Skeet leaped the track barrier to get to his friend who was standing waving at the crowd, a huge grin on his face. The spectators were waving flags and banners, chanting Brey’s name as he pushed his bike to the trackside.

“That was fantastic!” Skeet shouted over the din. “Well run!”

Brey looked down at the huge scratch and dent down the left-hand side of his speeder bike.

“Almost lost it when that damn Sullustian ran into me. Thought he’d knocked out my thrust.” As if on cue a large recovery vehicle hovered into view with the remains of a wrecked speeder in its underbelly claws - and a depressed Sullustian sat on the edge of it’s flat top. “You collect your winnings?”

“Sure did, Bay.”

“Look, friend, if your going to get anywhere in this galaxy you’ve got to remember to get people’s names right. My name’s Brey. Bee-arr-ee-why. Brey. Got it?”

“Got it good, Bay.” Brey looked at Skeet with exasperation, but Skeet missed the glare. “Are we going out to celebrate, or what?”

With a small kick to its flanks Brey indicated the damage to the speeder.

“Not me. I’m running in the late night winner’s race. I’m going to get this thing fixed. Have you been told about the race?”

Skeet sighed heavily and threw up his arms in resignation.

“What is it about this place? Every time I think I know everything about it something new crops up. What’s this winners race?”

“Eight races today, eight winners. Four landspeeders, four bikes. Bit of a free-for-all actually. Unlimited flight ceiling, as long as you stay in the confines of the track area and don’t go above the indicated level. Single lap. Interested?”

“Do I have a choice? Sounds like it’s expected of me to take part.”

Brey began to push his bike to the garage area.

“It’s not expected. But if you want to miss out on the chance to win five thousand, be my guest.”

“Alright, I’m in.”

The first thing Skeet did with some of his winnings was rent decent garage space, a few cubicles down from Brey. It was three times the size of the pen he had originally rented, and although ridiculously expensive it did have everything he’d need to maintain his bike. Power generators, energy converters, powered tools, plasma torches; every scratch, dent and technical hitch could be corrected in here. As he settled the speeder into a magnetic cradle and deactivated the repulsor emitters, he felt a tingle.

The sensation ran from the base of his spine to the back of his neck. He turned to look at the entrance that was open, allowing a fine rain to enter the doorway. The weather had become gloomy and wet, but this did not deter devoted racer fans from remaining in the stands awaiting the final race of the day. Personal weather covers and damp rejection fields were put on and they waited patiently like an expectant army. Replays of the day’s races were transmitted for all to see, the huge holograms slightly distorted by the falling rain.

All the winner’s race competitors had been given an hour and a half to prepare, so Skeet had put the time to good use by getting himself a decent meal and a hot drink. Now he had the rest of the time to make sure the bike was okay.

He rubbed the back of his neck as he looked at the entrance. What was wrong with him? Since he had seen the governor in his box looking at him he had been aware of the strange sensation, as if someone or something was standing over his shoulder. He always felt the need to turn round.

“Excushe me, shir.”

Skeet stood from the bike to look over at the voice. The being in the doorway was short, with a long ridged nose and long furry ears. Long dextrous fingers twiddled with a cable coming from a toolbag in his hand.

“What can I do for you?” Skeet enquired, standing up from the speeder’s exposed engine unit and wiping his hands on a dirty towel.

“I shaw you rashe today. Impreshive. I’m looking for work.” The huge disc-like eyes of the alien blinked rapidly.

Skeet sighed.

“You’re a Tuffutian, aren’t you?”

“Yesh, shir. My name ish Kirrich.”

“Well, Kirrich, I’m not really looking for any help.”

The alien shrugged and stepped out of the rain into the garage. His fur was damp and the smell reminded Skeet of wet bantha hide.

“We Tuffutiansh are well known for our technical shkill, shir. I could help out, for a reashonable prishe.”

“How much?”

“Twenty a day.”

Seems reasonable, Skeet thought.

“Okay, lets see what you can do.”

The Tuffutian approached the vehicle and placed the toolbag on the floor next to it. Taking a pair of electrospecs from a pocket and placing them on his nose, he stuck his face into the engine unit and began to inspect.

Skeet sat back, feeling slightly uneasy at someone else poking around inside the vehicle. Brey had told him that there were all sorts of mechanics and technicians wandering the city looking for odd jobs; he had also warned him that other racers employed these types to tinker with their opponent’s speeders and ruin their chances.

Kirrich took something from his toolbag and activated it. A small drill-like item came out of the end and started whirring. He placed it in and, without looking down at the bag to see where the next tool he required was, procured another item and started using the two in unison.

There were a few moments of silence until the Tuffutian spoke.

“Are you having trouble with an incorrect reading on your tolerance meter?”

“Actually, yes, it always warns me when I don’t need warning.”

“I’ve adjushted power flow to maximum tolerance levelsh and compenshated for converter pressure. The warning light should only come on when it really needsh to, now.”

With a nod Skeet walked over and looked into the engine unit. The technician was doing things he would never have thought of.

“Are you partishipating in the winnersh rashe?” Kirrich wanted to know. He spoke whilst plasma welding two wires together.

“Yes, I am. By the way, I’m...”

“I know, Shkeet Jonash. I’ve put a bet on you to win.”

“Oh, yeah? How much?”

Kirrich closed the engine unit and sealed the panel. He placed the tools back in the bag and faced Skeet, hand outstretched, palm up.

“Twenty creditsh.”

Four landspeeders, four speeder bikes.

The eight vehicles lined up along the starting line, their riders standing around them and doing last minute tinkering. Engines revved and service ‘droids buzzed around with tools and equipment.

Brey listened to Skeet’s engine as he revved it twice for him, head cocked to listen to the sound with a professional ear.

“Sounds like a good power flow. How much did he charge you for that?”

Skeet had told Brey about the Tuffutian technician and how he had helped him with the preparations.

“Twenty credits. He did a couple of other things, too, so I gave him something extra.”

“Good price. Using him again?”

“Yeah, he seems like a good sort. I’m letting him work on it tonight for tomorrow’s races.”

Brey mounted his speeder and started it up. The engine whined to life. Skeet did the same, frowning as the throwpack around his torso rubbed his skin. The rain was coming down harder now, but the organisers were reluctant to postpone the race. A lot of spectators had sat in this weather to watch the run.

All the vehicles were faced the other way down the track for this race, all the riders heading down the track in the opposite direction. Skeet watched light beams stretched above the track at what he guessed to be about forty meters high. This was the height limit they could go. Any higher and they would be disqualified. Skeet and Kirrich had adjusted the repulsor emitters accordingly.

“Good luck, Bay,” Skeet called to his friend. Brey looked over at him as he was about to don his goggles.

“It’s Brey, you freckin’ idiot. How many times must I tell you?” He laughed as Skeet did. “Good luck to you, too. Word of warning, though; I’m out to win.”

Skeet was more than a little suprised at Brey’s narrow stare and serious tone.

“You seem very determined. Why is it so important?”

“Trust me, I need this one to get into...” he stopped, realising that he may, once again, have said a little too much in front of his young friend.

Skeet was annoyed.

“Into what? This Ten Thousand thing? Look, why won’t you just tell me what it is?”

“Sorry, Skeet. It’s a private thing. Can’t say.”

With a shake of his head and loud tut, Skeet donned his racing goggles and started his engine.

The speeders were spaced out landspeeder then bike, landspeeder then bike and so on. Skeet looked over at the rest of the racers and one bike in particular caught his eye.

An Aratech Windrider sat just to his left, the alien piloting it was tall with muscles like knotted cable. A lizard-like face, complete with slitted eyes and a flap of skin running over the crown to the base of the neck, twitched and moved continuously. The reason why this bike caught Skeet’s attention was the steering vanes at the front. They had been filed and sharpened, turning the delicate planes of metal into deadly serrated knives. Skeet had no doubt that if this alien hit another speeder he would tear through the fuselage like a blade through a bugno steak. The alien noticed Skeet’s gaze and smiled at him cruelly.

Great, Skeet thought. Some winner’s race this’ll be.

With a curious stare Skeet looked up at the governor’s box, but there was no sign of the man up there. Just a few beings of his entourage taking refuge from the rain by sitting at the back of the box. He frowned and wiped the water from his goggles.

The night time sky was gloomy and overcast, the light from the two moons casting glows through the cloud to denote their position. An official raised his hand and the riders got ready.

Engines revved. The spectators stared whooping, a low menacing sound that built in pitch as the start of the race approached. When they reached the highest note they could, some beings screaming maniacally, the light flashed and the race was started.

The crowd roared its delight as the speeders accelerated away.

The first casualty of the race had hardly got away when something in his engine compartment blew and his landspeeder spun into the wall. The huge furry wookie pilot screamed in outrage as his vehicle crumpled against the barrier.

All the other speeders got a good start and took positions, the landspeeders staying close to the ground but the bikes rising high into the air for more space. Although the bikes were lighter and more manoeuvrable, the landspeeders were larger and could generate more power. The race was going to be quite equal between the vehicles.

Skeet, suddenly realising that they were heading in the opposite direction along the racetrack, slammed on his braking thrusters to take the s-bends he had originally ended his first race on. He powered into the corner, dropping down to take position behind a landspeeder and another bike. None of the other racers were going to take any chances this early in the race and all decided to take the first corners carefully.

Skeet deftly manoeuvred his bike around each of the corners, maintaining his position near the back of the pack and waiting for an opening. As they exited the tight corners and into a straight, he applied more power and the bike shot forward. With a quick glance at the engine tolerance meter he saw he was still well within limits and the warning light had not activated. He smiled.

He pulled back on his steering arms and lifted the bike higher to get more space. Brey was tailing the lizard racer at the head of the race, trying to pass under his opponent to take the lead. The lizard saw his move and dropped, almost taking off the nose of Brey’s speeder with his rear engine compartment. Skeet was sure he heard him laugh over the howling of the wind.

Rain splashed across his goggles and he angrily wiped the water away. They all turned into the next right corner with ease, one of the tailend racers improving his position in his landspeeder by taking the corner tight and nudging against a bike, almost sending them both into the rock wall. The biker reared up and Skeet had to swing up and left to avoid the speeder. The racer, realising his angle of ascent was too great, tried to push the nose down but it was too late; his head passed through one of flight ceiling light beams and a horn wailed. Disqualified. With obvious anger and frustration he slapped his seat, cut power and shook his fist at the landspeeder that had forced him up. The landspeeder pilot waved back happily.

The next long turn was to the right and all the racers tried to maintain their speed as they leaned into the corner. Skeet was suddenly aware of a landspeeder who had raised high to gain more space. It was the same landspeeder who had forced out the other biker. Obviously trying the same manoeuvre, the pilot tried to box Skeet against the wall.

I don’t think so, Skeet thought, looking at the landspeeder and then up at the light beams. The vehicle was pressing close as they entered the straight.

With a twist of the steering arms Skeet cut power to the emitters and hauled his whole body to one side. The bike, now devoid of repulsor power, immediately began to drop but Skeet had already turned it away from his opponent. He barrel-rolled across and away from the landspeeder as it’s pilot tried one last attempt to hit him. As soon as he was out of harms way, Skeet re-activated the repulsors and the bike stopped it’s fall, power resumed to the thrusters and he shot away.

The landspeeder pilot, intent on hitting the bike before it got away, crashed into the wall, one of it’s engines being sheared right off by the impact. The speeder flipped into the air and straight through the light beams.

A horn sounded. Disqualified.

The pilot managed to regain control of the speeder with its final engine and slowed, taking the crippled vehicle down to ground level. He stood in his seat and roared with anger at Skeet.

Skeet gave him a little wave and a smile, powering into the next right hand bend.

The remaining five vehicles entered the final series of bends. At the head of the pack was Brey Yard, with the lizard right behind him. Brey could see the serrated steering vanes of his tailer and it was all he could do to remain out of harms way. The lizard thrusted forward every time he managed to get into Brey’s slipstream.

The two final landspeeders were having a battle of their own, the two pilots slamming into each other as they jostled for position. Skeet, at the back now after his altercation with the other racer, applied more thrust and tried to gain. The landspeeders were badly damaged and their continuous collisions were slowing them down.

As the vehicles separated, Skeet shot between them. He almost had his tail clipped off as they connected again. He left them to their private squabble and came up behind the lizard tailing Brey.

A right turn then left, then right, then a short left... Skeet remained in the lizard’s slipstream, knowing that its attention was on Brey ahead. He grimaced at the steering vanes on the front of the speeder. Was this man some kind of maniac?

The long left turn came up faster than Skeet had expected, and he could just see the spectators lining the walkways through the wet gloom. Amazingly, the height restriction light beams were above the crowd.

Are they mad? Skeet shouted inwardly, seeing the spectators leaning over the railings and waving at the racers as they passed underneath them. As he looked back ahead he almost balked.

Brey had slammed his brakes on to put off his pursuer, causing the lizard to break high and right.

Straight into Skeet’s flight path.

The speeder bike screamed as Skeet wrenched back on the arms, trying to dodge the wildly fishtailing vehicle. The walkway loomed out of the darkness, and Skeet lifted it up and over as the other racer went down and under. Spectators dove for cover as Skeet passed overhead, getting a little too close to the action than they liked. Skeet, seeing the light beams right above, ducked his head to avoid them and nosed down as they came out of the next right-hand bend, not quite sure if he touched them or not. The horn never sounded. He was safe.

The lizard was obviously angry at Brey’s manoeuvre and he gunned his engine, heading down at the leader at an angle.

Skeet saw the racetrack’s light glinting off the sharp steering vanes, and his eyes widened as he saw what the racer was going to do. Brey’s braking manoeuvre had slowed him and he was obviously finding it difficult to get the speed back up. The lizard, taking advantage of his momentary problem, was heading straight at him at full throttle.

Skeet could see that he wasn’t aiming for Brey’s bike.

Slamming his feet down on both accelerator pedals, Skeet leaned in and let the natural fall of the bike gain him speed. He aimed for the point between the two leaders, hoping to get his bike in the way of the deadly blades. As they came out of the last left-hand corner and into the finishing straight, Skeet’s last burst of power threw him between the two vehicles.

Brey saw the move and ducked instinctively. The blades of the lizard’s bike slammed into Skeet’s front end, slicing through the metal and several important systems. They continued to travel along, almost severing the vanes of Skeet’s vehicle but still buckling them badly.

The finish line was in sight.

Brey added more power and sped off. Something snapped on the lizards bike and the whole front steering assembly shattered, the blades spinning off and digging into the walls and the ground. With no way to control his speeder, the lizard slammed his hand onto his breastplate and allowed the throwpack to carry him away.

Skeet’s bike, badly damaged, managed to pull away from the carnage and dropped towards the ground. The crowd and race officials alike screamed at him to eject.

“Throwpack! Throwpack!”

As he approached the ground, the other wrecked speeder coming down almost on top of him, he managed to regain control and some power and slipped forward out of the way of the descending carnage. His vanes wobbled as they helped him level out and sparks flew from their systems. The lizards’ speeder hit the ground and exploded, Skeet racing away from the fiery plume and over the finish line. He cut power almost immediately and leaped from his smoking bike.

Brey had already crossed the line, pushing away from the back patting and hand shaking crowd to get to his friend. His face was red and orange from the exertion and the burning speeder on the track.

“Are you alright?” he shouted, grabbing Skeet’s arms and looking him up and down, checking for any evidence of injury.

“No, I’m not!” Skeet shouted back. Brey could see no obvious sign of injury and checked him over again.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

Skeet looked at him despairingly.

“My freckin’ bikes totalled!”

“You were warned, Omik. You’re out of here! Next transport!”

The race official stood up to the tall lizard, his eyes locked onto his. The lizard stared back, his face curling into a snarl. He hissed and made to say something, but the official beat him to it.

“That wasn’t a race, it was attempted murder! Your lucky we don’t put you down here and now! You’re banned, mister! Get your stuff together and get out of Raca City!”

The lizard looked at the assembled crowd as they murmured agreement. His eyes settled on several constables pushing through the throng, and he reconsidered his thoughts about tearing the man apart and headed for the exit.

As he passed Skeet and Brey he gave them a stare filled with hatred. He looked at Skeet directly and held his gaze the longest. Then he pointed at him with one long claw and left the racetrack.

Skeet shook his head.

“Crazy.”

“You said it,” Brey replied, watching the lizard walking away. He then turned to Skeet as his friend stared at his bike with obvious desperation.

“Don’t worry about it, Skeet. It’s repairable. I’ll pay for it.”

“Why...?”

“You saved my life out there tonight. If you hadn’t dived in I’d be so much sliced biker. You risked a lot. I owe you, more than just a bike repair.”

“I wasn’t going to let him do it. We’re racers, not butchers. You deserved to win that race.”

Brey put a hand on his shoulder, smiling his warm enigmatic smile. “Let’s take your wreck to Kirrich and leave it with him for the night. We’ve got more important things to do.”

“Like what?”

Brey held up the credit chip he had just won.

“Get blind steaming drunk.”