“He’s my best friend. I trust him with my life. Of course he would never stand up for me, but that’s because he’s in a wheelchair. Oh, and before you even start, that’s his joke. Address the angry letters to him.”

  The bedroom was dark except for the glow of screens. Wally Donner was playing Secrets of the Scar on one monitor. On another, he had his hacking interface for the city’s traffic system and a map showing Jett’s position. On a third he had his leg schematics pulled up. He figured if he left them open long enough he’d eventually start working on them again.

  He was also trying to pay attention to his phone conversation.

  “So that’s the gist of it. I’ll be racing once a month for the foreseeable future until we figure something else out for real. At least we’ll have a steady income.”

  “That’s cool,” said Wally absently as, in the game, he finished defending his caravan from Scar bandits.

  “Focus, Wall,” Jett said sufferingly. “I just got done telling you why it’s not cool, but that I don’t have a choice for now.”

  “Oh, right. So you want me to give you an edge for the race?” He frowned at one of the windows on his hacking monitor. Someone at the GPD had detected his presence on the traffic net, so he quickly switched to a different VPN and a different compromised account.

  “No, actually. Keep an eye out, but I don’t want you to intervene unless the other racers try something sketchy or the cops get involved. I figure I owe Squid a clean race.”

  “If you say so.”

  “If all goes well I’ll talk to you in an hour. Is Drexler on our case?”

  There was a sudden pounding on the main apartment door. Wally hunched over reflexively. “No,” he croaked.

  “Well if he starts, tell him I’ll be back in two hours, maybe three. I don’t know how much ass Squid will want me to kiss after the race. Tell Drexler that as soon as I get back I’ll sloppily shove the cash through his freaking door slot like the filthy slut I am.”

  “Uh, sounds good. Ok let me know how it goes.”

  “Wally, are you su–”

  Wally hung up, gripped his wheelchair, and moved out into the living room. The door was still rattling, and Wally gritted his teeth.

  “Who is it?” Wally tried, as if he didn’t know.

  “Donner, you piece of shit!” their landlord, Silas Drexler greeted him. Wally could practically feel air puffing through the crack in the door as the large man put his lips right up against it. “Is your deadbeat roommate back yet?”

  “Uh, no. He says he can’t leave yet because he’s doing so well and making so much extra money to definitely help us get caught up.”

  “That had better be the reason! When am I getting paid?”

  “He says he’ll… insert some neatly wrapped bills in your slot. The slot on your office door. When he gets back. You’ll have it by morning.”

  “That is not what I said! I said tonight!”

  Wally took a few deep breaths, psyching himself up for a rare moment of genuine assertion. It all came out at once. “If-you’d-prefer-you-can-kick-us-out-now-and-not-get-paid!”

  There was a long pause as Wally calmed his breathing.

  Drexler hummed, as if weighing the options. Apparently this was a genuine dilemma for him. Finally he growled, “I will get up at the crack of dawn tomorrow. If I open my office door and I don’t see my money already waiting for me…”

  “This will also be the last time we’re late!” Wally blurted out. “Jett has something figured out! We’ll have the back rent paid back in no time and we’ll be on time from now on! You’ll see!”

  Another pause. “Looking forward to it.”

  Wally breathed out a sigh of relief as the landlord stomped off. Wheeling back into his room, he glanced around. What to do now? It would be almost an hour before Jett’s race.

  His eyes fell on what could have been a pair of robot legs propped against the wall, except that they were partially opened and had straps and buckles along the inside. They were wearable. There were tools and notes scattered on the floor around them. Why had he paused that project? Even Jett—who probably knew Wally better than most of his own family—had been flabbergasted.

  “These could make you walk again and you’re just letting them sit there?!”

  “I just don’t feel like working on them right now.”

  Of course, he was being a perfectionist. He hadn’t told Jett this, but functionally they were ready to make him walk weeks ago. But he wanted more. They were badass cyborg legs, after all, and they looked very cool even if he said so himself. Why should he stop at walking, or even running? In fact, it would really only take another hour or two…

  Heck with it. Wheeling over to his workbench, he swept a pile of detritus off. A few minutes later he had the legs laid out in front of him, tools organized and at the ready. He needed to cut some metal, so he pulled out his heavily modified multitool tablet.

  He tapped on the “Laser” app.

  The staging area for the racers was an old employee locker room. Most of the lockers around the edge of the room were gutted, doors missing, though some of the competitors still used the clothes hooks inside to organize and clean their equipment. I sat in a warped metal folding chair in one corner, rocking on the uneven legs, bandana back in place, trying to look appropriately cool and aloof. But to be honest, I was sulking.

  As grateful as I was to Squid, it was obvious I’d strained our Relationship. Twice today—twice so far, there were still a few hours left—I had disappointed men who had given me opportunities. My incompetence had even cost both of them money.

  I was so frustrated I was tempted to just burn the bridge and be done with it. It would happen eventually anyway, right? Even Squid wouldn’t put up with my crap forever. Forty-eight hours? Come on. He knew I’d never have the discipline to stick to that. So part of me thought, I’ll just win the race, pocket the money, and leave. Never speak to the man again. It would be a shitty thing to do, but it would be the last shitty thing I’d do to him. He’d finally be rid of me.

  Only, Wally didn’t deserve to sit and watch me waste away. Damn it! I’d have to drive him away first, but that would be tough. No screw-up I’d made had worked so far.

  A passing skid podder gave me a nasty look, which I happily returned. I didn’t have a nice bottle whiskey peace offering for this crowd. That really sucked, because my fellow racers were probably even more pissed to see me back on the lineup than Squid’s VIPs. A skid engineer also passed, growling at me like a dog. He had made a circuit of the room purely for that reason, as far as I could tell.

  There are three broad categories of skid equipment. More than half of the racers here used skid pods, a pair of handheld boosters that could be aimed and throttled separately. They’re relatively inexpensive and work great for maneuverability and tricks, but they lack raw speed. Then there are skid engines, like ‘roided out pods connected by a broad bar in front. They’re the gold standard for speed, but steering has to be slow and deliberate, so they suffer on courses with tight corners or many obstacles.

  The stick is the best of both worlds, not to brag. Its single large drive is more powerful than the smaller dual engines of most pod setups, but its profile is lower than an engine, and it can be reoriented quickly for fast maneuvering. The problem is, sticks are way more unwieldy than the other types and require a ton of skill to use.

  Thus, the stereotypes. Podders are cheap and lame. Engineers are dumb boring meatheads. And stickers? Stickers are completely batshit. I would know.

  I was one of only three stickers in the room. The second was a woman with a green mohawk–Roxanne was her name, I think–who gripped her heavily dented stick like a talisman and constantly muttered to herself, eyes darting back and forth. I hoped it was an act, but if so she had cinematic dedication. She acted like a psych ward escapee right up until the race started. Then she would snap into uncanny focus during the race. Afterwards, it was back to clutching and muttering. She really helped the sticker image.

  The third I didn’t notice at first, because the room was crowded and she was sitting cross-legged on the floor. When I saw her, my jaw dropped. She couldn’t possibly be a day over fourteen. Dressed colorfully, her blue hair tied up in ridiculously cutesy double buns, she looked like something that had crawled out of the Little Lady’s School of Saccharine Kawaii A-Pop Vomit, changed out of her sailor’s uniform, and obliviously wandered into this seedy neighborhood. She wore an oversized pair of headphones with flashing pink lights, and she bobbed her head in an annoying-mesmerizing way—left, left, right, right—while cheerfully mouthing along to her music.

  Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

  What the actual hell, Squid?

  She glanced at me for a moment, as if sensing me noticing her, then went back to head bobbing like a moron.

  She also had a skidstick in her lap.

  It was one of the smallest sticks I’d ever seen. Bullet Train, propped against the wall behind me, was one of the longer models out there, but the average length was around the height of the user’s shoulders.

  This stick wasn’t even a yard long. It was chunky for its length, shaped like a long skinny shipping box, and it had two distinct grips instead of a single central handle. I grabbed Bullet Train, stood, and moseyed toward her. As I did, I noticed a small but distinct seam in the center of the stick, and my eyes bulged.

  A hybrid? There was no way.

  Hybrids were the latest and greatest. Well, if I may be allowed my biases, they were the latest. A stick that could actually split into a pair of pods. Together they would have the power of a stick. Separated they would have the maneuverability of pods. And they could be switched while moving. I had to admit, it was a slick concept.

  They were also expensive as hell. My stick was certainly worth something. In fact I sometimes felt guilty holding onto it while Wally and I nearly starved, but it was also too heavily modded with salvaged parts to easily sell. The little beauty sitting in this child’s lap practically had price tag residue still stuck to it. Thousands of GCreds, if I were to guess. It might take several first place finishes to recoup its sale price, if that was the goal. How had this teeny-bopper wandered in here with that small fortune? Did she really know how to use it? Why had Squid allowed this?

  She continued to bob her head in that way that was somehow both endearing and rage-inducing, but she looked at me again as I stood over her. I hunkered down. “Hey there,” I said. “Hi.”

  She stopped bobbing. She tapped the side of her headphones, and they stopped flashing. She stared at me intently.

  “Hey,” I repeated. “People call me Red. I haven’t seen you around here before.” I indicated Bullet Train, which I held upright like a walking stick. “We stickers have to stick together, you know? Pun slightly intended.”

  She frowned at me. I scooted back a little, bumping into another racer behind me, who cursed. I held my hand up placatingly. “Easy. Really, I’m just saying hi. Hey, um. Is that a hybrid? I’ve never actually seen one in person before. Pretty neat.”

  Pretty neat? Ok, grandpa.

  She began a series of motions, one after another, almost as if she were trying to imitate a robot, as her brow furrowed further. She grabbed her skidstick. She placed it against the wall behind her back. She crossed her arms. She hunched her shoulders. She stuck her bottom lip out in a pout. She uncrossed her legs. She pushed herself backwards with her feet. She drew her feet back in. Then she glowered at me between her bent knees, like a toddler being fed broccoli.

  “Ok, never mind,” I said. My head felt strange. I thought back to Squid touching the side of his head when he talked about this girl. What the hell was going on? “If you don’t want to talk that’s fine. I’ll leave you alone, but let me know if you need anything.” I thought for a moment, then tried scooting forward slightly. “I just wanted to make sure–”

  I heard shuffling all around me. All conversation in the room ceased. I could feel a strange tension in the locker room. Every eye was on me, and the racers closest to me had leaned in with an air of malice. Roxanne was still muttering to herself, though even she leaned slightly toward me. Which, given the way she was facing, meant she leaned sideways.

  I stood up and backed away. “I was just saying hi. Sheesh.”

  Apparently this girl didn’t need much looking out for? Maybe she’d charmed the room before I got here and these other lowlifes were already feeling protective of her. The girl’s music was playing and her head was bobbing again, but she kept staring at me, quizzical now. My head felt funny again, and suddenly I was back in my rickety chair. I didn’t remember returning to it. Everyone else had gone back to what they were doing before as if nothing had happened. I looked back over at the corner, and the girl was gone.

  Weird. What was that about?

  “Hey. Red.”

  I could easily have closed my eyes and envisioned a cheesy comedy movie bully at the sound of that numbskull voice. This should be good.

  “Hello, Troy,” I said with mock cheerfulness as I looked up at what served for his face. His forehead and chin were so oversized it looked like his actual facial features had been scaled down by fifty percent. “Wasn’t it? I’m still kind of new here. Oh, but I’ve got good news. I’m not really supposed to be spilling this yet, but you’re going to be seeing a lot more of me.”

  He sneered. Oh wait, wasn’t I supposed to be watching it?

  “So, Troy, my buddy, my favorite coworker, what can I do for you?”

  “You racing again, Red?”

  “Well, I’m sitting here? Plus I feel like I already answered that, in so many words? But yes.”

  “This asshole.” Troy turned and addressed the room. “He comes in here, outta nowhere, no warning, and he kicks all of our asses. Why?”

  I’d come in fourth and then second, thank you. I’d held myself back, aiming for a gradual reveal. Tonight would be the first time I’d actually try to win.

  “Look,” I said, getting to my feet. “Maybe we can discuss this after the race. I’ll buy you a drink, Troy. I know a good whiskey.”

  I tried to read the room. Several of the racers were staring daggers at me, but I could tell Troy wasn’t exactly the most popular among them either. If he was looking for a fight this could go either way.

  “You’re a ringer, Red, is what I’m sayin’. Lanahan is makin’ asses of us all.”

  “Nah, come on. Squid just owed me a favor. I apologize for the way this looked, but you all know how he is about favors. And you all know how he feels about helping people. Right?” I glanced around, and multiple racers didn’t meet my gaze. As I thought, and as Squid had hinted when I first raced, I wasn’t the only work in progress here. Squid had a real soft spot for troubled kids. Some of these racers had probably been in very dark places when he scooped them up. Good. Hopefully they remembered that.

  “Whatever,” spat Troy. “As I see it, now you owe me a favor, little man.” I was only a few inches shorter than him, though he had bulk for days. “You took my spot last race. If you hadn’t showed up with no warning, I’d’ve taken second, maybe even first.”

  “That’s not really how racing works? But like I said, if I’m really gonna owe you something, let’s have it be a drink.”

  “Another thing.” Troy held up a finger. “You’re pretty infamous out on the streets, aren’t ya Red?”

  Wow. He knew what “infamous” meant.

  “I might have a certain reputation, yeah,” I said carefully.

  “There’s a reward out for this guy, you know,” Troy said to the other racers. “I hear it’s bigger than the first place purse for this race.”

  Uh oh. “I don’t know what you’re planning, bud, but I’d rethink it if I were you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s a dick move and no one here will ever trust you again.” I quickly snapped my runeband on and moved Bullet Train into a two-handed, staff-like grip. “Plus, if you’re thinking of bringing me in, it won’t be as easy as you think.”

  “Is that so?” Troy hefted his own sizable engine to his shoulder. Sheesh, and people joke that stickers are overcompensating for something. “Because I heard something else interesting when I learned about the reward. They’re saying you’re one of the most wanted non-violent blue collar criminals in the whole city. Non-violent.”

  He knew what “non-violent” meant too. I slightly revised my opinion of him.

  I raised my stick to a ready position, looking around nervously. There were a lot of people here. A few of them had picked up their skid equipment, but none of them matched Troy’s enthusiasm. A scrap in here would definitely ruin the evening. I just hoped if things went south Squid would see it wasn’t my fault.

  Ok yeah, so maybe I wasn’t ready to burn bridges with the old man quite yet. Funny how facing a more comfortable, familiar problem—like a bully twice my size—could give me such clarity.

  As Troy casually held his skid engine, I noticed the runeband glowing on his wrist. Three might. Might down the line. I swallowed. That was often called the Berserker Build, and it was one of the few rune builds that had side effects. Increased aggression. If this was a new development it went a long way toward explaining why Troy was “extra unhinged.”

  Troy saw me looking at the band, gave me a wicked grin, and cracked his neck. Then he threw a hook at me. I rolled my head to the side. The punch painfully clipped my ear and rattled my jaw. The other racers scattered to the sides of the room, yelling and cursing. Troy grabbed his engine with both hands, poised to bring it down on my head.

  Skidding is actually three different sports, though there are events that blend them. One, the obvious and most famous one, is the skid race. Another is skid tricking. Think skateboard halfpipes, bowls, and rails, only rocket powered and without that pesky skateboard getting in the way. Finally, there’s skid brawling, which is pretty self explanatory. Whether done at high speed or up close and personal, getting whacked by a stick, pod, or especially an oversized club of an engine is a painful experience. That’s if you’re wearing the protective clothing—veritable suits of armor—required by the pro circuits.

  I didn’t even have my helmet on. But I did have my stick.

  I caught the swing on Bullet Train’s shaft, metal scraping. My knees nearly buckled trying to stop the heavy engine backed by triple might runes, but I managed to keep my footing. I lashed out with my right foot, kicking Troy in the knee. He yelled and staggered backward. I straightened and brought my stick around. It crashed into the engine, knocking it upward and back, and I followed up with the butt of the stick, right to his chest, staggering him.

  I whipped Bullet Train around threateningly, letting the stick whistle through the air, but the others in the room gave me a wide berth. When no one stepped up to defend Troy’s honor I advanced on him. He was already back on his feet, breathing heavily. His eyes were unfocused as he lunged.

  Despite Troy’s rage-fueled attacks, the following brawl was pathetically one-sided. Even though I had to limit my motion to avoid hitting one of the other racers, I easily dodged, blocked, and countered each attack. Troy was even more brutish than the average engineer, swinging his engine wildly and without any thought to whether he was overcommitting to an attack, or even if the swing was accurate. I powered Bullet Train on so I could perform a boosted strike if needed, but I focused on quick jabs to Troy’s arms, legs, and torso.

  “I’m ‘non-violent,’” I snarled, “because I’m not stupid enough to hit a cop!” I knocked Troy off his feet with a sweep of the stick, then stood over him, poised to thrust right at his chest. “It doesn’t mean I can’t brawl, moron! Now give up before things get ugly!” I tapped one of the throttles threateningly. Bullet Train’s whine grew louder, and it lurched like a mad dog I was barely holding back. Any idiot knew not to test their luck in this situation. A boosted strike to an unprotected body could crack bones or rupture organs.

  Troy, unfortunately, wasn’t just any idiot. He let his engine clang to the floor and rolled to one side. The other racers scrambled to get out of his path. I scoffed, more disappointed than anything as I followed. He was actually going to make me do it, wasn’t he? He was going to make me put a dude in the hospital. On my birthday, no less.

  He snatched a bag off the floor—it must have been his—as he rolled past and got back to his feet. What fresh hell was this?

  “Ok, that’s it!” I yelled as he reached into the bag. “I warned you!”

  I raised Bullet Train and prepared to bring it down in a skull-crushing blow.

  Then I saw the gun.