Sagitta Page 2

  “You’d have better luck racing against lawnmowers,” said the stranger. “They’re your car’s next of kin.” He poked his greasy head under the dash. “I suppose you can’t afford a real car. Too bad. Just don’t expect any help when your relic gets a flat.”

  Can’t afford? Morgan laughed. “Since you’re obviously new here, let me give you a bit of free advice. Don’t blab about what you don’t know. It just makes you look stupid.”

  “You’re the one that looks stupid. What is that anyway, a space suit? This isn’t the moon, kid. You and the lunar lander must have taken a wrong turn.”

  Morgan snapped the access panel closed. Cool out, this greaser’s not worth it. Yet, he couldn’t help but notice how close the guy’s face was. He tensed his leg. A boot to the head will shut you up.

  “What’s the matter?” said the stranger. “Cactus got your tongue?”

  Morgan glowered at him. What kind of stupid line was that? “Just because my car uses wheels doesn’t mean it can’t dust you out here.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Traction. You know, grip! Floaters don’t track through sandy corners, because sand isn’t engineered to provide stability with repulsor fields. There isn’t enough shear stability. You probably think your advanced off-road emitter controllers make up the difference, but it’s just not the same. My tires dig in and bite the earth. It’s basic physics, and I’m going to trounce you with it.” He waved his hand, indicating the double-wide line of cars in front of them. “Just ask any of them, they can tell you.”

  It was true. Thanks to the Scorpion and his physics extension courses, Morgan could finally show everyone he didn’t need the latest technology to do something well. My car doesn’t need a handicap to win this race, and neither do I.

  “Whatever kid,” said the stranger, slapping the Scorpion’s hood. “After I’ve whooped you, I’ll beam you the number of my uncle’s bank. You’ll be wanting a new ride when you finish last, and Uncle Tony will lend money to anyone.” He paused, looking up. “Ahh, so she shows up after all.”

  “Don’t let him get to you,” said a girl’s voice from outside. “Victor does that to everyone.”

  Morgan sighed and slid out from under the dash, being careful not to bump his head on the bottom of the gull-wing door as he stood. Didn’t these people realize the race was about to start? He spun around, intent on telling them both to get lost. The words never made it to his mouth.

  L. Fowler had finally arrived.

  She was wearing a carbon gray racing jumpsuit that seemed well used. It fit her loosely, but not too loosely. The sleeves were scuffed and darkened by grease. She works on her own car. Her blond hair flowed in waves down to her shoulders. It too was streaked in places with grease and dirt.

  “I’m Liz,” said the girl, extending a slender hand.

  “Ma—Morgan,” he stammered.

  She cocked her head, her hand still extended.

  I am an idiot. He jerked his hand out and shook hers.

  Her skin was soft, but her grip confident. Unlike you, sneered the voice in his head. The last time he’d touched a girl had been in sixth grade, at his friend Greg’s birthday party. He remembered it vividly. You pretended to hug Jessica Brown, but then put a worm down her shirt. You had guts as a kid at least. What the heck happened?

  Liz cleared her throat. Something tugged at his hand and he looked down. Let go, you idiot! Let go! He relaxed his grip and did his best to look casual.

  Victor was watching them. Liz seemed to realize this too. “It’s a cool car,” she said, sneering at Victor. “What are you doing here?”

  Victor shrugged. “Came to see you.”

  “Well, I don’t want to see you.”

  They glared at each other for a moment. Victor opened his mouth, but then an announcement rang over the loudspeaker. “All spectators please clear the staging area. All drivers report to their cars.”

  Victor frowned. “After, then.” He turned and walked between the row of race cars towards the starting line. Liz watched him go, looking miffed.

  Morgan was watching Liz. She doesn’t have any tech! But then he noticed it. It was fine workmanship, subtly done. Her green eyes sparkled as they flicked from Victor back to Morgan, then to the Scorpion. Tiny implants around the insides of her irises projected a photonic overlay of information directly into her eyes. She’s looking something up.

  “A Saturn Scorpion,” she said. “Cool, I didn’t know these were a thing. Does it really handle better on dirt?”

  “What? Uh, yeah,” he said, as she turned her eyes back to him. His heart was trying to blast out of his chest.

  “Cool. How’s it work?”

  “Um…the tires dig in, keeps it from sliding. The problem with floaters is their repulsion fields. They don’t work as well with loose sand. They get off track in the corners.”

  Liz regarded the Scorpion skeptically. “Well, it is different.” Her eyes flicked over Morgan’s face, searching, the way they always do. He felt himself starting to blush and fought the urge to look away. Here it comes.

  But then she said, “You’re different too. I like that.”

  “Thanks,” he muttered. Was she being serious? Maybe she’s not like the others. His brow furrowed as he remembered the taunts and insults that had plagued him growing up. Vanilla! Freak! What’s wrong with you? Worse was the look on people’s faces when they met him for the first time: the way their eyes played over his features, searching and not finding. Vanilla. Bible thumper. Loser. He could see their thoughts plain as day.

  But Liz said she likes different.

  His watch beeped out a warning, carrying with it an air of finality. He glanced down. “Race starts in five minutes.”

  Liz blinked. “Wow, an actual watch. You are full of surprises.”

  Morgan looked at his wrist watch. It was a big ugly thing, but it covered the scar well enough. “Yeah,” he said. “I guess.”

  “Well, good luck then,” she said. She flashed him a smile, turned, and walked off.

  Morgan watched her go. She has a nice walk. It took a strong effort of will to look away. Breathe man, just breathe. There you go.

  He regarded his car. The Scorpion mocked him silently. He kicked a tire. “Shut up.” He stooped to get in, but stopped partway. He hadn’t even seen what Liz drove.

  She was standing next to a coral-blue POD 1000. A small crowd of teenaged guys surrounded her. Morgan wiped sweat from his brow, glaring at a kid who was quite obviously not looking at Liz’s face as she chatted with the group.

  Resting on an antigravity cushion of only two inches, her car was a greyhound amongst wolves. Its teardrop doors melted seamlessly into the flowing body, which, as its name implied, resembled a pod. Small hydraulic stabilizer fins extended from the car’s sides, each widening just enough to contain a narrow strip of laser signals at the rear. The car’s control thrusters were hidden beneath variable-geometry flaps, and a low-profile spoiler arced around an almost nonexistent trunk.

  Liz opened a small hatch and began tinkering with something inside. The POD lifted slightly higher off the ground.

  Alright, enough of the spectacle. Morgan turned back to his own car and grinned.

  He had ordered the Scorpion from an obscure company from Tennessee that specialized in antique internal combustion vehicles. He’d spent two years converting it into a formidable desert race car. It had been a long process, with a good deal of the work taking place before he even had his driver’s license. But the results had been worth it.

  Where Liz’s POD had grace, the Scorpion had determination. It was an all-wheel-drive two-seater with an elongated nose and short rear hatch. Morgan had cut away the fenders to provide clearance for the enormous knobby tires, which extended about a foot away from the rest of the vehicle and were mounted on black rims. Oversized suspension arms sprung by progressive coils and damped by dual-reservoir shocks provided eight inches of ground clearance.

  The body was made of
dark carbon fiber composite, pitted from countless hours of racing. Red electric bolts coursed along under the dusty clear coat. There were no windows. Two recessed slits in the hood marked the air intakes, and the two doors folded up like bird wings to grant entrance into the compact interior. An array of minuscule laser headlights ran under the curved front grill. Twin half-moon signal arrays accented the rear bumper, just above the dusty chrome exhaust tips.

  His mom’s father called these things dune buggies.

  Morgan knelt and scooped up some sand. He ground it between his fingers. The Sonoran desert was no stranger. The other drivers didn’t know it like he did. They floated over it without a second thought.

  Beep Beep Beep.

  He clicked his watch, silencing the two minute warning. An announcement over the track PA system sent Liz’s admirers running back towards the stands.

  He drew a breath, held it, and exhaled. He was second in this season’s rankings next to Craig Marston. If he won today, he’d be at the top of the leader board.

  His eyes lingered on Liz as she slipped into her POD. I need to win this race!

  Chapter 2

  Morgan slipped into the Scorpion and pulled the doors down. They locked shut with a solid click. He flipped a toggle, and the gray carbon interior melted away. He looked around, then dimmed the projectors by ten percent to compensate for the sun’s glare. He grabbed the holographic rearview mirror and adjusted it.

  “Welcome to the Blairsford Speedbowl!” crackled a voice through the ancient bullhorn speakers. The crowd cheered and whistled. Marc Lutstone, the track’s owner, gave them a few seconds before continuing. “The first event today is the Division-A Youth Thunder Series: a single lap on the full course. In order of starting position…” Lutstone began rattling off the names of the drivers and their positions. It was the standard group of local teenagers. Until today, Morgan had been the newest racer on the track.

  “And now we have Victor Marris, a visitor from Tucson joining us for the first time. Victor is seventeen years old. Welcome Victor.”

  There was a spattering of applause and shouts. Morgan grimaced.

  “Also joining us for the first time is Elizabeth Fowler. Liz is sixteen, and she’s just moved here with her father from Tucson. She competed for the first time this year in SCCA Solo and took third place in the Tucson club, C-Stock class. She’s raced karts with her dad since she was six years old. Don’t let the fact that she only just got her driver’s license fool you: this young lady can drive. How about a welcome?”

  This time the audience roared. Some idiots whistled a cat-call.

  So she’s my age, and she just moved here. Is this for real? Is she going to be in my grade when school starts back up? Morgan’s pulse quickened. Maybe the universe didn’t hate him. Don’t kid yourself. She’s way too hot for you, and you’re a chicken. His face flushed, and he pushed the thoughts aside.

  Lutstone cleared his throat. “I have one more announcement. Today, our young racers are being joined by a special guest. If I can direct your attention to the pit lane, you will see a gorgeous blue Porsche 927. The driver of this car will be revealed after the race. For now, suffice it to say that he is a generous sponsor of our youth racing event, and he’ll be racing alongside.”

  What the heck? They hadn’t been told about this. He craned his neck, but he couldn’t see around the cars in front of him. A 927 would be unstoppable if they were racing on gravpack pavement. In the desert he wasn’t so sure. He frowned. The three new drivers in one day, one of them some sort of mystery sponsor. There were too many variables today, too many unknowns.

  “Alright, you all know what time it is,” said Lutstone. “Competitors, start your engines!”

  Morgan tapped the ignition. The starter cranked twice and the Scorpion roared to life. I’d like to hear a floater make this much noise.

  His holographic display showed the track layout. The cars were represented as sixteen colored dots, arranged in groups of four. The starting position was random, but, nobody ever argued with Morgan when he offered to trade. His car was the black dot in the rear of the pack, situated between Liz’s blue dot and Ralph Lawson’s yellow one.

  He energized his restraining field. In front, the rows of floaters wobbled on their repulsion fields, the humming of their force emitters barely audible over the Scorpion’s throbbing exhaust. Morgan revved the engine, eying the two identical Kingston Mark IV’s that would be his first victims.

  A timer icon appeared above the steering wheel. He tapped it. Once everyone acknowledged the signal the countdown would start.

  The clock beeped. Nine…Eight…Seven.

  His boot caressed the accelerator.

  Six…five…four.

  He gripped the wheel tighter, feathering the throttle.

  Three…two…ONE!

  He clicked the trigger shifter into first gear and hit the gas. The rotary engine roared and the steering wheel danced as the tires fought for grip. The other cars surged ahead. Liz’s car was a blue flash in his peripheral vision—her acceleration aided by thrust boosters.

  The Scorpion slid sideways, all four tires spewing sand. Traction warnings flashed, and his arms shuddered as he controlled the slide. Got to give em a show! After a few seconds of fun, he let off the gas just enough for the tires to get a grip.

  The other cars were way ahead, but their booster rockets would soon be depleted. He’d catch them in the first turn, as always.

  Brake lights flashed up ahead. He aimed right at them and buried the gas pedal into the floor. The speedometer flashed 120 in glowing crimson numerals.

  The collision alarm blared. He locked his eyes on the tail lights of the nearest car. It was the Porsche. He grit his teeth as the RPMs on the tachometer flashed red. The engine bellowed like a raging bull. He opened his mouth and let loose a warrior’s cry.

  “Yeeeahhhhh!”

  As the pack of cars entered the turn, their repulsion fields began kicking the loose sand out to the side. Their RCS thrusters fired, but it wasn’t enough, and the pack slid to the outside.

  Morgan tapped the brakes and cranked the wheel to the left. The Scorpion slid into the corner, but not as wide as the pack. He feathered the throttle, controlling the oversteer.

  “Eat some of this,” he whooped as he slipped around the Porsche on the inside. He passed the Frampton brothers’ Kingston Mark IVs, and then shot past Ralph Lawson’s Honda CZX.

  Craig Marston was in front of him as he exited the turn, driving his usual Proton ZS-2 hatchback. Morgan risked a quick glance at the track model. Gauntlet Stretch was approaching.

  The Stretch was a narrow section of track littered with rocks. Craig’s car surged upward as its repulsors extended their field for extra ground clearance. Since the Stretch had been designed to give floaters a rough ride, its rocks were more like small boulders. Morgan bit his lip. Gauntlet Stretch was a place where his car’s intimate contact with the ground was not so pleasant.

  Sparks flew as Craig’s car crashed down on a knife-edged boulder. Morgan cut the wheel to the right, and the rock narrowly missed his tires. His body pressed against the restraining field as an even larger rock lifted his passenger side wheels off the ground. When the car stabilized, the track’s force wall was terribly close. He clenched his jaw and adjusted his course.

  The Scorpion shuddered over the gravel and pot-holes, the shocks emitting tortured hydraulic shrieks. Suddenly, Craig swerved to the left so violently that his car nicked the force wall. Why had he done that?

  “Ahh!” screamed Morgan. A car up ahead had spun out, and it was heading straight at him! He jerked the wheel, following Craig, then gasped as the rear end broke loose. He fought the slide, feathering the throttle, and whipped the back end in line just in time to clear the stricken car. That was close!

  A horn sounded, followed by a whip-crack as something made contact, jostling him into the restraining field surrounding his driver’s seat. He looked at the rearview mirror. The once-beautiful
Porsche was sporting a crumpled bumper and a broken headlight. Morgan grimaced. That’s at least forty grand of damage.

  The racers in front were bunching up at the turn at the end of Gauntlet Stretch. Morgan didn’t slow; he had to catch them here! He risked a look at the rearview mirror. The Porsche was only inches away. Who was the driver? Lutstone had said he was a track sponsor. It must be some rich kid. Someone like me. The thought made him uncomfortable.

  Craig entered the turn too tightly. His fender grazed the force wall and tore off. Morgan downshifted, slowing to dodge the debris and get in position for the turn. He was entering it too wide. He eased into the throttle, but the loose terrain refused to cooperate. He flipped a switch.

  The roof flaps deployed with a pneumatic hiss, increasing the downforce. Morgan slid sideways into the restraining field as the tires dug in. “Take that,” he yelled, as the g-forces squashed him. The passenger side tires lifted off the ground, and he carved into the corner on two wheels with the translucent blue force wall only inches from his face.

  He held on, balancing on two wheels long enough to exit the corner. Yes, I’m through! The Scorpion slammed back down with a thump.

  Craig had passed two racers and was tearing off down the straightaway. Now, the car in front of the Scorpion was a blue POD. His pulse quickened as Liz’s brake lights flashed twice. Was it a greeting? He flashed the high-beams.

  Does she like me?

  She was accelerating hard. Morgan put the pedal to the floor and grinned as the engine roared, devouring raw hydrogen. He caressed the trigger shifters, the tachometer in his peripheral vision, his eyes locked on Liz’s car.

  The turbo hissed as he executed a perfect upshift at nine thousand RPMs. Liz was still pulling away. He shifted again. Come on, come on! At one hundred and fifty miles per hour, he was nearing his car’s maximum speed. I’m not going to catch that thing on the straight.

  The seconds grew longer as Liz’s lead expanded. Morgan glanced at the holographic track model. Craig was already through the next turn. The blue Porsche was still behind, but gaining. With the pedal to the floor, there was nothing else he could do but wait for the turn.