Ithix Province, Forever Plains. Somewhere in the canyons.
Two flying machines streak towards a distant pylon, trailing exhaust, vying for position.

I tightened my grip on Maggie’s control levers and applied steady pressure to her foot throttle. My craft answered with a shudder, gave a slight thrum of her red sail fins, a sensual hum in her Arquonite frame. The blue, predatory-looking Corvid class hovercraft directly to my right gunned its pyromite thrusters and dipped its port wingblade, nearly rubbing the smooth canyon wall while edging ahead of my smaller craft.

I’d give my competition her due. She knew the dance.

I couldn’t see most of her face through the hose-tethered race mask and goggles, but the Corvid pilot’s slim sylvan shoulders seemed to bounce a little when she passed. There was no real way to know, but I decided she was laughing at me. It made my plan to shoot her that much easier.

She edged away from the wall, her thruster glow dwindling as her smoke trails snaked across Maggie’s painted nose and wings. I flipped the switch of the mid firing lever, felt the eager hum of my heavy energy cannon cycle up, lined up my shot. At this range I couldn’t miss. The canyon was narrowing ahead, leaving my target very little wiggle room. “This one’s payback,” I whispered, finger tightening on the trigger.

As if in answer, a deep voice boomed over the crystal comm, “DON’T take that shot son.”

I hesitated. Don’t ask me why. It was a commanding voice, and he called me son!

I recognized the gold racer in the modified Imperial Stormchaser. He must have been pouring on the powder to come up on me so fast. For a brief moment I worried he’d ram me. Though I didn’t fire, I kept a bead on my target as his sail brakes flared briefly. He slid into my wake.

The canyon looked like it was going to stay narrow for at least a little while longer. The other racers were so far behind I couldn’t see them. I figured I could hold off on the shot while I sussed out what Golden Boy was up to. I was straight and to the point, “Why not?”

Goldy’s reply was equally brief, if oddly formal, “Because I will shoot thee in turn.”

I thought his argument was interesting. He sounded like a lord or a knight. Also interesting, but my trigger finger was still itchy. I thought about Maggie’s already damaged stern armor, tried to remember what kind of forward weapons the Stormchaser had. Brimstone rockets I think. Maybe a slicer turret for short range work, which we were currently at. Still, I knew Maggie could take either one, probably, but perhaps there was a better way.

I waggled my blades, shimmying left then right a little, like I was nervous. Not a particularly difficult ruse under the circumstances. “And you’re what, her brave protector? Teamwork’s against the rules Goldie.” This was for the race mods, who occasionally tuned into set chatter. Though my opponent hadn’t broken a rule, I wanted him nervous. I eyed the sloping west wall of the canyon, engaged the crimson lenses on my hologoggles as he replied.

“Worry not my young friend, she will be taken care of in due course, but the pleasure will be mine, not thine.”

This guy was either blooded, or pretending to be. His ‘thee’s’ and thine’s’ were already getting on my nerves, which I admit may have been a bit more exposed than usual, but he was talking, not firing, which was all to the good.

The arcane charms in my eyewear whirred, spun, clicked, showing me the wall of the canyon in crisp detail. Tiny runes scrawled across the top of my lenses, telling me I had exactly eighty-seven wheels to a widening of the wash. The west slope was slowly lessening to an engageable angle. “That’s not very sporting of thee good sir. Let me soften the lass up at least.” Yeah, so my noble talk ain’t very pretty. Timing was my goal, not social etiquette. Besides, I think he got the jab.

When he replied, it was with more heat than I had predicted, though his words remained civil. “Mock your betters at thy peril young fool. Race or not, there are consequences to attacking our kind.”

Subtle heat and anger. This guy was no pretender to nobility. What’s more, he just so much as said Miss Blue racer, who I had come to admire and dislike in equal measure, was blue blooded as well. A detail to work out later. There was imminent threat in his statement. I could feel a rocket coming as punctuation.

My goggles read twenty-four wheels and closing. The west wall was just flickering from red to yellow in my lenses. It would have to do. I took one last look in the mirrors. A slight adjustment put me back on the Corvid’s tail. In the moment before Goldie’s rocket fired I pulled my own trigger, which caused a powerful red ray of elemental energy to streak forward and slice through the blue racer’s dorsal wing and into her fuselage.

As the beamcannon strike blossomed satisfactorily in orange fire, Maggie had already cut to port and climbed the wall with her usual dancer’s grace. Where she was a moment ago, the gold racer’s rocket streaked by, narrowly missing the blue racer before detonating on the ground just ahead of her.

Yet a moment later Maggie left the wall altogether. her rune-engraved lift plates sighed as they sailed clear of the ground, launched us high into the air, nearly over the top of the Corvid, which had jerked violently under the double onslaught of ray and rocket.

The moment stretched out. I took it all in.

Maggie’s sigh turned to a growl as the lift plates strained under the landing, but she managed it well. The sweet sound of overlapping curses: one deep, one feminine, was the music to which we did a slip jig, adding a bit of thruster to widen our gap in the likewise widening canyon.

I checked the mirrors again, knowing full well I’d just earned some noble anger, happy to see a bit of distance between us. Watching the two craft settle into chase mode, I couldn’t help but notice Sir Goldie didn’t seem immediately interested in attacking his fair lady. I guessed Maggie and I had earned the top spot on his dance card.

I knew I should have left it there, but I’ve been told by the ladies at Rooster’s Tavern, knowing something isn’t wise, and doing it anyways, is one of my strongest charms, so my next comment really wasn’t all that shocking to those who know me. Before giving my full attention to the sector ahead, I triggered the crystal set one more time. “That was some real peasant class flying for all thy boastful threats and jibes Sir Golden Britches.”

I was mid-smile, feeling fine when I saw the shape descend from the sky behind my opponents. Even before I registered what it was, the smile had vanished along with my good mood. “Gods of darkest whispering night...” The quiet words slipped out while I still had the comm triggered. I could just make out my two opponent’s helmeted heads as they swiveled backward.

The creature’s wings were nearly too wide for the canyon. It’s long, sinuous neck hung low in front while it’s tail whipped behind. Even from this distance I could feel its presence like a soul-stealing shadow. The Traveller’s luck was with me for a moment as I made the tactically unsound decision to throttle forward while I continued to look backward.

But then again, dragons tend to have that effect on a racer.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Racetown. One day earlier.

As I made my way carefully through the cramped, dirty streets, past the hawkers selling race trinkets, the food vendors selling spicy meat pies and the musicians screeling their plains-pipes and sawing their fiddles like a noisy blanket over the whole mess, I asked myself for the twenty-second time why I was doing this? True, I hadn’t been thriving in the courier service - obvious over-qualification in piloting skills aside. I couldn’t stand the Tower Boss for one, and Imperial regulations kept me from “adjusting” my pony to maximize efficiency in any meaningful way, but I had been down this particular path before. It ended poorly the first time.

The Races were bad for me, plain and simple.

Yet I looked up to find myself under the ICRA banner, snapping smartly in the hot wind. Two newer model fixer-cogs flanked the entrance to the admissions tent, shiny and solid in their gold trimmed plating. I took a moment to contemplate my appearance in the polished reflection of one of their barrel like torsos.

Thin, of average height, with a wiry frame. I’d never been mistaken for physically imposing. My piloting leathers were almost worn through at the joints and inner thighs, gray soldier’s coat threadbare. My red, shoulder length hair was currently tied up in a soldier’s que, unwaxed mustache braided and drooping over nearly beard-length stubble. There was a shard pistol at my racer’s belt, but it was currently unbound, in bad need of a polish, not unlike the rest of me. The tired green eyes looking back at me were the worst. They were the eyes of a penniless, desperate individual.

Right. Now I remember why I’m here.

I sighed deeply, made it halfway through another, but held that one in, used it to straighten my shoulders, uncurve my spine. I marched between the golems, into the dragon’s mouth.

As it turned out, this dragon’s mouth was gratefully cooler than outside, with the crisp, rain-like smell of tiny, southern wind sprites zipping about the canvas walled room. I announced my presence to the disinterested, matronly woman in the high collared blouse at the table, laying my scrollwork and racing pendant before her.

She took in my papers and appearance with a bored yet somehow critical eye. “A bit late aren’t we?”

I smiled what I’ve been told is a ‘winning’ smile and said simply, “I would like to speak to Mr. Bull... Please.”

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

“You have GOT to be knocking my cogs boy!”

The old, portly Durin had an impeccably trimmed pair of muttonchop sideburns crawling down his round cheeks like blonde caterpillars. His bald head shone in the lamplight. His grin was wide and friendly. He sat on a cushioned stool, his extra thick, trunk of a torso draped in a tailored black silk suit with a yellow vest.

It was just Mr. Bull and me in the room, though in private I tended to drop the “Mr.” and he tended to let me. I was standing. A folding table sat before him, on it a reading lamp, thick ledger, quill, his small brimmed bowler hat and two heavy looking bags of coin. The walls of the tent room were draped in knotwork Syvani silks. The hard packed floor had a wine colored, luxurious, round Delekian carpet as its centerpiece.

Sweet smelling tobacco wafted as he scissored his cigar in strong fingers then waved it in my direction, caterpillars undulating as he continued, “It’s been no more than two months since you lost her! Why for Five King’s sake would I let you have her back?”

I grinned and spread my hands, “I’m not asking for her back. I’m only asking to pilot her. For YOU, in tomorrow’s race.”

Bull’s deep voice rattled the coins in their pouches, “I’ve got a pilot boyo! And a goodun at that.”

“Not as good me.” My words were automatic. No bravado.

Bull showed a silver tooth in his wide grin, “Ahhhhh, yer misunderstanding the definition of good. I meant good, as in a man that does what he’s told. Knows who’s keepin’ him in proper standing with his tailor,” He picked imaginary lint from his sleeve.

“How many times do I gotta tell ya. That’s exactly what it was. A misunderstanding, that’s all.”

The Durin’s smile dimmed, “A contract is a contract Drust. Only the races I chose for you. Until yer’ debt was paid in full to me. Them were the rules we agreed on.”

“It wasn’t an IRCA race.” I shook my head, “Shadows! It wasn’t even a circuit course Bull! How was I supposed to know you had a stake in it?”

Mr. Bull shook his head matter-of-factly, “This is all old ground boyo. The truth is you broke trust with me, and cost me a fair penny in the doing. If I were a darker dwarf, I might have taken more than yer Maggie. Now ye’ve no ballast to speak of, and by the looks of it, that’s not like to change anytime soon.” His face went stony, “I’m sorry Drust but --”

I cut him off, “Full take. Next three wins.”

He looked hard, reading me. I let him see the desperation, then the resolve.

The silence stretched.

“And after?” he asked.

“Half the take and I race Maggie ‘til I can buy her back.”

I thought I might have reached him, but he let the offer float around the air conditioned room a while. It wasn’t until he clamped the cigar between his teeth and stuck his meaty hand out that I let go of the breath I was holding.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The morning of the race.

It was excellent racing weather, with hardly a cloud in the sky. The verdant canyonlands to the south were a steady progression of green-topped mesas rising up out of the grasslands, numerous dark, defiles where the labyrinthine slot canyons began. To the west, the Tintagel Mountains stood like white cloaked giants, spectating from afar.

I occupied myself watching Bull’s pit crew float and tether Maggie to the starting line alongside the other arcanicraft. Seeing my baby’s curving lines and glinting fins did my heart good. For the first time in weeks, I felt alive. From my spot in the shadow of one of the Imperial viewing barges, I couldn’t hear the conversation, but watched Mr. Bull have it out with the man I was replacing.

The Kirith-Syvani was tall for an arc-pilot, looking even more so next to Bull. He was waving his long arms around quite dramatically. Eventually he calmed down and walked off, helmet in hand. At a wave from Bull I gripped my own helmet then jogged out to meet him.

“Well Boyo! There’s your Maggie. It’s unnecessary of me to say, but I expect great things from you this day.”

I felt like hugging the big ox, but controlled myself, "Don’t worry, we won’t let you down.”

Bull smiled and looked at the other craft, “You have some interesting competition today. Half the racers are new, in from the southern Argon circuit. There’s a Syvani girl from Manawyn I know nothing about who’s racing that Corvid class,” he nodded at the low-profile, blue, heavy craft two spots down from mine. Her crew was fiddling with the lines on her forward cannon, the pilot standing on the engine cowling watching the work.

“No stats?”

“None I’ve seen yet. She was a late entry that paid the waiving fees. She’s racing for herself, so there’s no sponsorship scrollwork. On parchment she could be a fledgeling.”

I looked at her craft, then at her again. Bull watched me watch her, then added, “She’s obviously not.”

I shrugged, “And the others?”

He ticked off the rest one by one. The green Knockfari Hopper was a tribal craft I knew, piloted by a local Goblin named Wag. The modified gold Stormchaser was an unknown Clansman from Argos. The black Kraken, bristling with armaments, was owned by the Sablesmith Mining Corporation, piloted by an unnamed half-hodra thug who’s muscles strained against his leathers. He came to the field with his sinister looking helmet and goggles already on.

The last was a circuit racer from Cuannis. A woman with a gray and black Zephyr class cruiser. Although Bull didn’t know her, he said her records were impressive enough to be considered a threat. I noted with some concern the Cruiser's shocknet launcher looked impressive enough.

The horns blared over the race-speakers announcing the racer’s should move to their craft. An excited murmur came from the crowds in the hovering barges overhead. A gust of wind kicked up the smell of dust and pyromite fumes.

Bull looked me over, gaze stopping at my sidearm, “Is that thing bound?”

I looked aside, “No.”

He grimaced then reached for the silver and gold pistol at his belt, which was altogether finer than mine in just about every way, “Take it. Just in case.”

We traded firearms, “Thanks. Though I plan on being well out of pistol range.”

Bull didn’t bother voicing his thoughts on planning, he just grasped my shoulder, gave it a squeeze, then said, “Traveller’s luck boyo. Don’t make me regret this.”

I nodded and waited until I was headed toward Maggie before massaging the feeling back into my shoulder. I had to walk by both the Corvid and the Hopper to get there. The Syvani pilot was discussing something with her pit boss. I got a good look at her for the first time.

She was incredibly beautiful, with exceptionally long, copper hair braided in a single strand down her back. Her pilot’s leathers were expensive but worn with use. When she glanced my direction and took a measure of me in turn, her blue eyes were cool, confident. I don’t think she was as impressed by my rugged good looks as I was by hers.

I couldn’t help but notice her breather kit was extra fancy, with more moving parts than I had ever seen on a race-pack before, yet it still curved along her lithe spine snuggly. The shard pistol strapped to her thigh was long barrelled and sleek too. In fact, everything about this woman was long, sinuous and smooth. Her and her Corvid both. Still, I kept my expression even, never slowed my pace, feigning the same lack of interest she was showing me. So there. Suave. Yeah, right.

“Wag’s gonna enjoy crashin’ yer’ Maggie-girl Drust!” The absurdly deep voice of the tiny goblin gave Mr. Bull a run for his money, but the threat made me laugh.

I looked up to see Wag straddling his seat and adjusting his oversized goggles. His crew were all tribesmen too. They were running around, climbing all over the cowling, doing last minute, ‘things’ to his Hopper, which was basically an oversized engine with wings. One was wafting a smudge stick over the rocket pods while mumble-humming some kind of song. Another, I kid you not, was pouring active pyromite powder by hand into an auxiliary powerpack, spooning the mixture with a total lack of care, cursing mildly when he burned his fingers. Nuts.

Again I didn’t slow or stop, just talked as I walked, more concerned by the little crewman with the pyromite than Wag’s threats, “Wag, you couldn’t touch me or my girl in a real machine, let alone that rusty piece of slag.” It was true, he was a horrible pilot, only still alive and racing due to insane luck combined with his tribe’s uncanny ability to keep his Hopper flying through multiple, shoddy repairs. The thick, forest green paint did as much to hold the craft together as the bolts and welding.

Wag spit and balled his little fist at me, mumbling more curses in Knockfar, but I was finally at my Maggie, so I couldn’t be bothered with the little git, even if I had understood the language.

She hovered ten paces off the dirt, straining just a hair at her tethers, her fuselage and steel plates freshly polished; gleaming in the sun. She was a heavily modified ‘52 Imperial Cloudskimmer, the version without the ground mounts, but that was like calling a Sky Island Butterfly a worm. Maggie was in a class all her own.

Her sail fins were tight, the fabric new, unscarred, main wing-blades angled low. Her rear-mount, Dragon Mountain, Soldier Series ray-cannons were almost invisible, tucked tight under the blades, with nary an element cable showing. Her inline Kragon Core beam-cannon on the other hand was prominent and intimidating, acting as the centerpiece to her sleek, Arquonite-frame housing.

Like skirts on a Lady, her crimson armor plates were flared outward for style, but instead of virtue, they protected her intakes, along with her Golem cortex hub. A small suite of systems, including but not limited to a Dragon Mountain mechanobot and a displacement generator were also tucked behind the custom drogan-hide seat pads and armored windscreen.

To top it off, powering it all, was my pride and joy, Maggie’s beating heart. The secret to her winning streak: a MacKay & Grimm 750 pyromite powercore with quad steam exhaust ports and sprite cooled casing, that I had tinkered with personally until every last drop of elemental magic was consumed to its greatest potential.

I know. I can wax a tad long winded when it comes to Maggie, but trust me, she’s worth every syllable and then some. And hey, it appeared Bull had given her a fresh coat of paint to boot. Have I mentioned I like Bull?

As the Ignition horns blared their clarion call, I hopped nimbly into the open saddle, punched the startup into the brass controls. Where Wag’s beast coughed and sputtered to life, actually belching flames, sending crew scurrying, Maggie woke quietly and stretched her lungs with a deep sigh of blue exhaust.

I donned my helmet and drew my hologoggles down and into place. Cycling the crystal set to life I plugged in my racing pack and buckled my breather over my lower face, wrinkling up my nose a few times until my mustache hairs stopped pulling. Guess I should have waxed it.

Triggering the comm and nodding my thanks to the crew, I listened as each of the racer’s announced their readiness.

“Gold racer set and ready.” Voice resonant and clear. A Man’s man.

“Wag Set! Wag Ready!” Deepest and excited. Loser, loser, loooser.

In the background I could hear the sound of the Crowdmaster, extolling the virtues of the Imperial Crown Racing Association and dramatizing what was about to take place for all the spectators on the viewing barges and listeners everywhere else.

“Blue racer set and ready.” Smooth and sultry. Called that.

I adjusted a chin strap. Snugged up the fingers of my gloves. As I glanced down the line I could see each of the other racers perched atop their winged craft, making similar last minute adjustments. 

“Red racer, Limbered up and ready to dance.” Cool and calm. That’s me.

I knew right about now the betting was heavy in Racetown. Imperial soldiers, citizens and criminals were huddled around their Crystal sets, markers in hand.

“Black racer is ready.” Whispered. Extra sinister. Nice intimidation factor.

I thought about my tiny five penny marker in my coat pocket, literally the last coins I owned. How if I didn’t place, I’d be dining out of the bins behind Rooster’s tonight.

“Gray racer set and ready.” Nondescript, calm. Gray is right.

I thought briefly about what I would do if I lost. I could bow out before the end, make a break for it with Maggie. Bull would kill me if he caught me, but he might not catch me. I knew the canyons better than most. Or I could face the music, go back to courier service. Death at Bull’s hands might be better.

Now the Race official gave the blessing of Court and Crown.

“To King, Queen and Country we give our pledge of fair and honest contest. To the Gods of Light and Shadow we ask blessings. What say the racers?”

From the racers came the standard reply, in varying tones of sincerity.

“Our pledge to the King. Long live the Empire.”

With those words my worries dissolved, along with every thought of yesterday or tomorrow.  They were gone in a wash of tingling energy that had nothing to do with pyromite. The zeppelin tethered barges hovered above us, the green banner hanging low. The buckles on my boots creaked as my ankle flexed in the foot throttle, my heart beating in time with Maggie’s.

The banner fell. The horns sounded.

We were off!

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

I kept Maggie with the pack through the open stretch. We might have gained an early lead with a punch out of the gate, but it was common practice to gang up on ‘that’ racer. Most of the time no one risked it.

On the other hand, the private barges of the wealthy lined the course here, and race points were gained by daring-do and scored hits, as well as placement at the finish. A little showmanship early in the sector never went amiss with the officials.

As if on cue, the black racer in the Kraken activated his slicer turret, targeting the Grey. With a pop and a burst of shards the Zephyr rocked sideways, veering away from the attack too late to avoid some sail damage. She righted course immediately then fell in behind and to port of her attacker.

First blood goes to Mr. Happy.

Though I paid attention peripherally to the action, I kept my eyes peeled for the follow up, thus wasn’t surprised to see Wag’s Hopper dropping back into my wake. I could have throttled forward and avoided whatever he threw at me, but that wasn’t the entertaining thing to do, now was it?

Part of our success in the circuit was the adoration of the crowd. This early, the pack was swarming with tiny beholder cogs, transmitting their view magically to the barges within range. There were in fact two such hovering, lens-covered constructs near Wag and me, so I thought this should go over well.

I kept my head straight and watched my mirrors with my eyes, but of course, such stealth was unnecessary with a dunce like Wag. He actually keyed his crystal set then laughed maniacally just prior to his rocket, which gave me plenty of time to throttle starboard and trigger my twin rear-mounts. The effect of this maneuver, beside avoiding Wag’s clumsy attack, was to simultaneously take the lead, and cause havoc in the line, mainly because I chose to hold the trigger down until the cannons were red hot.

Elemental energy sprayed the racers with very little precision, but required the grouped craft to slow and swerve out of pure reflex. Though my guns didn’t hit anyone, the blue racer did collide with a beholder cog, which bounced over her visor before it nearly clipped the black racer.

As I throttled forward into the shadows of the canyon, it was to the mixed curses of Wag and the other racers, as well as the roar of the crowds above us.

That, in my humble opinion, is what I call a good show.

There’s not a lot I can tell about the next two sectors of the race. As we passed the first set of green flags, the pack did a good job of not falling further behind, but after a little more rays and rockets that I peripherally heard about over the crystal comms, thanks to my lead, only the gold Stormchaser and the blue Corvid had kept pace with me. From the chatter, I took it Mr. Happy was spreading the joy around.

Blue racer in particular was a real pro. She made her heavy class craft do things a light racer would blink at. I expected to gain some ground on her when the course hit a grinding ascent that took us up out of the main canyon along a boulder strewn plateau, but was surprised when she angled her nose up then hopped the worst of the obstacles with impressive thruster work and lever control. I gained ground on gold, but the Syvani had actually closed the gap noticeably.

No sir, she was no fledgeling.

I just managed to stay out of the range of her slag cannons as we accelerated along the mesa top. Though she only fired once, I got the feeling it was to keep me sweating, more than to damage me. Unfortunately, between her, the crosswinds, and whatever in seven hells was flying off my starboard wing, it worked.

First I thought it was a beholder cog, but did a double take when I caught sight of the blue feathers reflecting along its wings. It was the size of a small dog, and most resembled a crow, except for the longer, striped tail along with a second set of feet tucked against it’s slim breast. Whatever it was, it wasn’t from around here, and it was speedy. With several powerful wing beats it zipped ahead then over the edge of the mesa, which was fast approaching.

When I looked in my mirrors, I saw the blue racer punch forward, actually speeding up as we approached the unknown drop.

Unexpected.

I had to make one of those decisions. You know, the ones that are split second and really crucial. My gut told me the obviously non-native creature was the Syvani’s race scout. If I was right, then she knew what was coming next. If I was wrong...

No time. Slaggit!

I made my decision and matched the Corvid thruster-for-thruster, unsuccessfully willing my vision to somehow extend over the lip while my gloves creaked against the sticks. We were about to pretend we were full fledged airships and --

-- a rush of air, a whine of Maggie’s powercore then we sailed into the blue, grav-plates gone inert with the height. As I eased forward on the sticks my heart went inert too. All I saw before me was a dizzying drop straight into sunlit nothingness. Literally. Hundreds of feet. Of vertical nothingness.

So this was it then, My instincts had failed me. I had doomed Maggie and myself to the hereafter. Another statistic in the IRCA history books.

Stupid bird...thing.

Said creature was banking wide, out over the nothingness. Maggie’s nose continued to drop. I let it, somehow fascinated by the final view. Which is why I saw salvation in time to correct my angle, as the thin strip of stone came into sight directly in front and underneath me.

It was an Ithix arch, no more than twenty paces wide, spanning one mesa to the next like a bridge. It had been completely hidden by Maggie’s nose. Luckily it was straight as an arrow. If the blue racer or I had to turn even a little, we’d probably have sailed right off the edge at the speed we were going. When I peeked, she was right on my tail. Luckily, I don’t think either of us had weapons on our mind at that moment.

On the far side, the flags pointed the way down a cut in the next mesa. We had our hands full negotiating the grade while bleeding off the necessary speed. I considered sending some more blind cannon shots rearward, but was feeling some odd sort of kinship with the woman.

She hadn’t touched her comms since the pledge, but I could almost feel her communicating her, what? solidarity? respect? I don’t know what it was, I just felt like the beautiful pilot and I had a bond.

That’s when she tore a chunk out of Maggie with her ray cannons.

We rocked hard with the shot. I momentarily came up off my seat pads as one of Maggie’s red skirt armor plates cartwheeled down the side of the cliff.

Witch!

Hag-born, puss filled, stink ridden, devilspawn of Sinn!

I continued to think curses at the woman as I struggled to get Maggie back under control. The blue witch-woman blurred by on the dropside. I had no choice but to let her.

That’s how we spent the next two sectors of the race. Her and me trading shots and positions while skillfully piloting our way through the Thruk river falls. Past a mid-race Spectator’s barge full of screaming race fans. Down, then over a blasted section of black crystal sands that played havoc with our intakes.

Once or twice, on the open stretches, I thought I saw the other racers in the rear distance, but they never threatened us. We only had eyes, and guns, for each other.

It continued up until the narrow canyon. Until my critical shot/jump combo. Right up until the dragon showed up.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The Dragon!

I tore my eyes from the deadly winged beast banking toward us then smashed down on the throttle, wishing as I did, that I’d had coin or forethought enough to invest in some racer’s lightning for Maggie. Even without the arcane additive her purr changed to a roar as we surged forward, passed the green sector flags then drifted into a wide left curve in the canyon.

I had to throttle down to keep from smashing a gray stone dolmen jutting from the sandy floor. As I glided past, I realized it was familiar. I knew this section of the canyons!

Unfortunately, I knew it to be a real scrapper, even without a dragon breathing fire down your neck.

I watched it beat its massive wings then swerve toward the gold racer, who likewise swerved to avoid it. The onrushing beast breathed a gout of blue flame. The Stormchaser had to engage his sail brake to dodge it. Seemingly making a choice, the drake then broke off and went after the Corvid, who still smoked from my attack, but valiantly tried to outrun it, which brought it closer to me.

Gulp. That wasn’t good.

I thought again about where we were, what the terrain ahead was like. The flags pointed the way toward a massive uphill section of the canyon, then rode a sliver of high ground for nearly three miles. Even if we made it up the momentum stealing hill there was nothing but open terrain. The dragon would tear us apart up there.

Time for another decision.

LIke I said, I knew this part of the canyons. I knew of another way. If I took it, I and anyone who chose to follow would have a fighting chance against the dragon. It was narrow, and twisty, with lots of overhangs. In fact it was so narrow we might lose some paint, but a big beast with wings would have it even harder.

On the downside, if the course took another turn before I thought it did, I’d miss the next sector flags and be disqualified. The dragon chose that moment to bathe the canyon behind blue racer and me in pretty, azure fire. The decision wasn’t really hard.

I chose life.

And I chose not a moment too soon. The slot canyon came up fast. I cranked the sticks and flared the sail-brakes just long enough to make the turn. I ripped a few smaller plants from the cliff face in passing. The next few seconds were filled with all kinds of fun piloting and narrow misses. I had no way of keeping track of the dragon, or my competition.

Though my need to attend to my piloting became no less intense, I did eventually suss out that at least one of the racers had followed my lead. The angry roars of the dragon, the sounds of smashing rocks, and the blue glow of its fire made that obvious enough.

I cranked the sticks starboard, grav-bumped off the wall, smashing into my seat with the force of the turn, then a moment later did the same thing to port. Maggie’s wingblades scooped sand but I managed to keep her from spinning.

A shadow passed over my head then was gone. It didn’t feel like a cliff shadow, but fire didn’t rain down on me, nor was I plucked from my seat by anything scaly. The cursed blue crowcat suddenly zipped by me, nearly making me soil myself.

I guessed the Blue Witch was still with me and I took a chance, opening the comm, “If you’re back there, I’d really like an update.”

My levers continued to get a workout as I kept weaving through the narrow turns.

Just when I thought she wasn’t going to answer, she did, “The Shagoran flew ahead, though I’m not convinced she has departed.”

I drew a small amount of satisfaction that she sounded shaken, since my own heart was beating like a mining golem’s hammer, but I really didn’t know what else to say, so I kept silent until she asked, “Do you by chance know where this path leads?”

I did, and said as much to her, “It winds a bit more, then there’s a rough climb. Once on top we can duck back into the main canyon next to a pair of tall spires on the near side of the mesa.”

“That’s it then. That is where she will hit us,” I heard her engines echoing off the canyon walls behind me.

I withheld a curse, contemplating our options, “Fine. I didn’t want to, but we’ll have to turn around then. We’ll never catch up but --”

“-- That’s not an option,” she interrupted.

“What do you MEAN, not an option?” I thought I knew what she meant.

“She toppled a spire of stone across the path. The debris is too high.”

That’s what I thought she meant.

“Shadows take it! We’re trapped then,” I throttled down and soon caught a glimpse of her Corvid squeezing through the walls behind me. I didn’t stop, just let her catch up, then had a thought, “Say, I don’t suppose we can call a temporary cease fire on account of dragon can we?”

“Agreed,” she replied immediately, tone diplomatic. I breathed a tad easier.

That settled, she eased in behind me as we moved at a more moderate pace toward the likely ambush. Her raven-cat scout flew in from above then perched on her seatback. Her Corvid was still trailing smoke, but somewhat less so.

“Grumma says the Shagoran waits at the spires, as I suspected.”

I hadn’t heard the thing talk. “Handy little friend you have there.”

She said nothing.

I thought, then continued, “So, here’s what I think we should do...”

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

I was the first to jettison out of the slot canyon with as much speed as Maggie could muster. I hopped and grav-bounced through the brush on the mesa top then zigged away from the path toward the spires. The dragon was perched on the taller of the two stone fingers. When she saw me, her massive wings unfurled and she roared. She was dark red. The noon sun through her wing membranes was purple and really quite beautiful.

I have to admit, until I saw her perched there, I held out a little hope Blue’s pet had been wrong. I mean, I knew dragons were smart, and they got smarter as they aged, but I guess I was still hoping this one was more beast than brains. The blocked path in the slot canyon should have proved to me otherwise.

She launched herself off the spire, sending shards of rock falling. Three strokes of her powerful wings brought her swooping right toward me at incredible speed. I had only a moment to feel pleased. My plan was working.

Yay.

I cranked my foot down and throttled forward, urging Maggie into a sprint toward the west side of the mesa while simultaneously watching my attacker’s course. When she was nearly on me I sail-braked hard and cut the powder. She shrieked as her clawed feet missed us by an arm’s length. The hardened end of her serpentine tail snapped against Maggie’s Dorsal sail, ripping a hole in it and rocking us, but I was already throttling forward again.

As I rode the west edge of the mesa I watched the dragon sail in a curving arc, her shadow skipping over the myriad, tiny washes and boulders, form high up, angling back toward me. I continued to check my mirrors, watching the slot canyon.

The problem with dragons, among many, is they can fly. I know, thank you Sir Obvious, but just follow for a moment. I mean truly fly as opposed to hover like an arcanicraft. Which meant, unless the dragon did me the favor of landing, all my weapon arcs, meant for attacking other racecraft, were wrong for targeting her. Since we already determined she wasn’t stupid, I wasn’t counting on her to solve my problems for me.

She spit a small cloud of flame as she swerved into the sky behind me then lined up above, readying to dive. Riding this close to the lip, my options for dodging were somewhat limited, and she knew it. I twinned the sticks and throttled forward, cycling a round into Bull’s shard pistol with my thumb. I wasn’t naive enough to think a pistol had much chance of hurting a drake, but I might get lucky. It felt better having little chance, instead of none.

As she drew closer I tensed, leveled the pistol over my shoulder, tracked her head, trying to keep my breathing even. I saw her claws flex open and her altitude drop further. As soon as I saw her flames I knew it was too late.

A wash of blue dragonfire enveloped us completely. The terrible claws came next, ripping through my body and subsequently through the front half of the fuselage. The destruction was horrible, and I should know. I had a really good view of it from ten paces to starboard.

The indicator dials for Maggie’s displacer field generator spiked then leveled out as our illusory double was torn up and absorbed back into the ether. I fired my pistol at her. The shard did just as little as I thought it would.

As the dragon screamed in frustration I thanked the Gods Blue’s intelligence on dragonkind was correct, If the creature had been able to see through Illusory fields, that really would have been Maggie and me back there, burnt up and shredded into bite sized bits.

I banked starboard then made a crescent turn as the dragon’s sweeping bank took her back out over the drop, farther from the spires. In my peripheral, I saw Blue’s Corvid shoot out of the slot and bank toward our exit. All according to the plan. I gave Maggie as much power as I could, desperate to get off the featureless mesa top and back into cover.

“Hurry up Red, she looks rather angry and she’s gaining on you.”

I checked over my shoulder and saw Blue was right. The dragon had made this turn far sharper and faster than the last. She was bearing down on me in a power dive. I looked back toward the spires, did the math, my heart sinking with the realization I wouldn’t make it.

“Cut your thrusters when I tell you!” Blue’s voice was commanding.

The Corvid was a good ways in front of me. She seemed likely to make the spires. What do you say to a command like that? I had no solutions springing to mind.

“Yes Ma’am.”’

As the dragon sped closer, far faster than Maggie, two bright flares came from the blue racer’s rear mounts and streaked toward me. For the briefest instant I thought I had been betrayed at the worst possible moment. I didn’t even know she had rockets on board.

“NOW!”

I cut thrusters out of reflex. We sailed quietly forward. The dragon was already spraying fire behind me, lighting up the shrubs in a furious cone of destruction. Cutting power just meant my end would be a moment or two swifter. The twin streaking rockets spiraled at me then over me, before detonating pretty much right in the dragon’s face.

If I thought her roar of frustration was bad, it was nothing compared to her pain filled shriek as the heat seeking rockets hit, but the fire stopped just short of us. The dragon flared her wings then pulled up in an immediate sail brake of her own, thrashing her head from side to side, landing heavily.

All at once I throttled forward, fired off my rear cannons and whooped aloud at the sheer joy of being unexpectedly alive. One of my two blasts hit the old girl in the scaled flank. She spun in a circle, crying out again. With a defensive gout of flame she launched herself awkwardly into the air and flew away from us.

I zipped through the spires into the shallow wash a few lengths behind Blue, whooping one more time as the dragon’s dwindling cries echoed through the canyons.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

With the dragon behind us, I could focus on the race again, if we were still in the running for it. I assumed Blue and I were still under the temporary truce but then realized assumptions might be bad, so I double checked. “Hey Blue, I presume the truce is still good until we rejoin the course?”

“It’s the least I can do. I owe you thanks.”

I checked my dorsal. My mechanobot was busy stitching the tear, it’s segmented legs clinging to the spar like a brass and silver spider. At the next opportunity I slid by the Corvid, took the lead, then put as much speed as I dared into the next open section. We had burned hot and spent a lot of pyromite dueling the dragon. I hoped I had enough to finish the race.

As we approached what I prayed was the course, I informed Blue, then started scanning what I could of the sliver of high ground above us. Our canyon ran along the western edge. I didn’t have a good view. When I saw the sector flag I immediately felt rejuvenated. It was the same color, which meant we were still in the race.

I saw just the incline we needed, pushed Maggie’s engine, popped her nose up then powered up the uneven stone ramp, sailing cleanly onto the ridge -- and almost got clipped by the grey Zephyr, who was doing twice my speed and smoked from at least two major hits.

Blue’s Corvid mounted the ridge behind me. I could see Wag’s Hopper careening like a drunken sky sailor a good ways behind her. Ahead of the grey, I could just make out Goldie, and by the rockets he was firing, I assumed Mr. Happy was not far ahead of him. Not only were we still in the race, but we had lost our lead and were literally IN the thick of it.

“WHAT!? Wag thought dragon made snacks of you Drust! You and south doxie both!” the Knockfar’s basso incredulity was funny.

“You will pay for that slander knockfool,” Blue replied icily.

Well, I thought it was funny.

It seemed our foray with the dragon had loosened her tongue, along with her trigger finger. A moment later she fired a hunter rocket that impacted with Wag’s hopper in a fiery explosion. He cursed as his craft plummeted over the side of the ridge, on fire and out of control.

Like that, we were five racers.

I was going to let Grey go and focus on speed. Really I was, but as we advanced further along the halcion ridge, I saw a sight that changed everything. The black and white striped flag whipped violently in the canyon winds. We had come to the last sector of the race, and I was far from first place.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Hell Hole

I lined up on the Zephyr then triggered Maggie’s Kragon-core cannon, coldly and professionally placing a blast right between Grays damaged thrusters. Her power core ruptured with the shot. It spewed white-hot, elemental energy; pyromite slag venting everywhere, which completely severed her port engine. The thruster pod crashed and cartwheeled, but her craft kept gliding, spinning slowly to starboard. Blue and I zipped past her as she floated off the ridge to an unknown fate.

Four left.

Blue was about five lengths behind me, gliding in my draft, seemingly happy there. I wasn’t fooled into any false sense of security, but I couldn’t bring myself to fire on her first. I was content to take my chances, let her decide when our truce was over. Besides, I had two racers ahead of me to worry about, and the course was about to get much worse.

We came off the ridge then angled west, zagging around high piles of blackened boulders as we descended into a barren, mist filled valley, except of course it wasn’t mist. In the fine tradition of the racing league, the last sector was usually the worst. In this case, it meant volcanic, cloying steam in a wasted landscape of sharp, Ithixian obsidian.

As Maggie skimmed over vented, toxic waters bubbling in stinking pools, the rock formations were difficult to tell from the vapors. I relied heavily on my arcane eyewear to navigate around the former and through the latter, going way too fast, but gaining on the leaders, who by the looks of it, were engaged in their own battle.

Ahead was the worst of the steam so far. Literally an impenetrable wall of greenish mist swirled, rolled, and looked like nothing you would ever want to intentionally pilot a craft into. As the black entered, the gold racer was right on his tail, firing his slicer turret. There might have been a hit, but it was impossible to tell because the stinking fog sucked both out of sight. I gritted my teeth and followed.

The next thirty seconds lasted an eternity.

It was like a disjointed nightmare. Initially I followed the lead racers by their wake of curling vapors. When that became too confusing I eased down on the throttle, relied on my goggles to read the thruster signatures. There was a crash in front to port. Something rolled under Maggie’s wing. I jerked the sticks and narrowly avoided a stalagmite of sulphurous stone still in the process of crumbling.

There was an explosion ahead. Almost immediately after, something large and racer shaped flew by on my starboard. It was there and gone too fast for me to get details, but I thought it was the black racer. The angry, orcish cursing from the comms followed by an aimless burst of cannon fire confirmed it a moment later.

When the mists cleared for a moment I looked over to find the gold racer adjacent to me. Even through the ornate gold helmet and breather I could see he was as surprised as I was. Since I hated to waste a good surprise, I pulled Bull’s pistol and shot him.

Let me clarify. When I say I shot him, what I mean is I did my best to shoot in his general direction. See, while I am a fine pistolman when not racing blind through hell, I knew any second that turret of his would chirp. When it did, I’d either have to take the hit or power down to avoid it. Neither sounded good, so I simply gave him something else to think about.

It worked. He swerved. I gunned the thrusters then pulled ahead, plunging once again into the fog over a wide, hopefully open expanse of bubbling water. I was right. It was open, but turned out deeper than I thought. The grav plates flared as Maggie sank lower toward the water’s surface.

Uh oh.

We were passing through the heart of the sector now. The stink was awful. Our breathers were meant to protect us from pyromite fumes, but here they were working double-duty. I felt certain without them I’d be retching by now. If Maggie nosed into the boiling water the breather wouldn’t help me at all. Low fuel worries aside, I gave her all the power I could then prayed the water didn’t continue for long.

My prayers were answered by several more, thankfully small piles of flowing rock, then a crusted over shelf of stone that marked the boundary of the pool. Maggie’s blades were slicing liquid by the time I nosed her up and grav bumped out. A  rocket pulverized the ledge a half-second later.

I yanked Maggie left then right as the canyon curved, the floor rising in more smooth, cascading shelves of wet stone. I couldn’t see who had fired on me through the steam, but it didn’t really matter. The way was narrowing. It took all my concentration to keep Maggie’s frame from bottoming out on the shelves or clipping the jutting walls. I heard thrusters behind me, along with the grind of steel on stone. My goggles showed me a clear path. I gave Maggie everything we had.

We popped free of the vapors and walls of the hell hole like a tap from a whiskey barrel. I fought to keep Maggie’s nose down as I found myself in a much wider field of wind-sculpted Ithixian stone. Even though the obstacles were many, it felt good to see again. We danced through the boulders. I realized with a grin that we were in the last stretch, and I had somehow managed to gain the lead.

In my mirrors I saw two racers emerge from the crack practically side by side. It was the gold racer and Blue. They were battling hard for position. Gold racers noble voice came over the crystal set, “The dragon should have finished thee Your Highness, but I am glad it failed. As is fitting, thy long forestalled doom shall be my doing!”

Gold’s razor turret stuttered a blast of shards. The Corvid rocked with the hit, narrowly avoiding a finger of stone. Blue swerved away, putting boulders between them. More smoke snaked from her craft.

Your Highness? I slid Maggie around a series of tall formations and told myself it didn’t matter.

“You are a fool Abraxis,” Blue’s voice was tense, “A traitorous fool at that. You will not win against me!” I thought she sounded fearful behind the confident words.

A high shelf of black stone; too high to bump over, was fast approaching. The only passable ways were to the east or west side of the canyon. I chose east and swerved to port.  As I did, a signal light glowed on my dash, telling me Maggie was dangerously low on pyromite. When we righted the red light extinguished.  Fumes indeed.

Beyond the stone lip across half a mile of open ground I could just make out the line of balloon tethered spectator barges along with the twin towers of the finish line.

“Not I! Tis you who are the traitor!” Gold racer/Abraxis, spit the angry words, closed the gap between them then rammed his Stormchaser into Blue’s Corvid. The unexpected move snapped her carriage sails which severed a thruster line. It caused green pyromite steam to vent and catch fire in hissing arcs. Her Crowcat, Grumma took flight as the crafts shook violently with the collision.

“Now is thy appointed hour Princess!” A blast from Abraxis’ slicer turret punctuated his dire words. More flames erupted from the doomed Corvid.

The Stormchaser swerved toward the west path. I rocketed up the ramp of canyon floor. My last sight of the conflict was Blue’s Corvid hurtling out of control toward the shelf of stone. There wasn’t opportunity to do anything, even if I knew what to do.

BOOOOM!

There was a terrific explosion as her heavy craft smashed into the canyon shelf. Pieces of the Corvid; some large, some small, hurtled into the sky, flaming. Ruined.

Blue was gone. Or was a princess just assassinated? I didn’t know, but I felt more sorrow than I should have under the circumstances. Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to dwell on my feelings. Not right then.

As I ascended the rise my thrusters stuttered. It brought my mind back to the fuel situation. As Maggie leveled out, they came back to life but I knew how hollow my tanks were. I sped forward then eased Maggie off the throttles. I coasted where I could.

In my mirrors I could see the wreckage still sliding and spinning along the canyon floor. One piece was still airborne, smoking. I did a double-take when I saw Blue’s familiar, Grumma, swerving back and forth around it. I pivoted all the way in my saddle to get a better look. I was utterly shocked to see the debris was actually Blue!

And she was flying toward me on mechanical wings.

I noticed two other facts at that point. One: Blue’s fantastic metal and canvas wings were on fire, two: ‘Sir’ Abraxis’ Stormchaser had cleared the west end of the shelf. He apparently had seen the Princess too.

My goggles clicked and whirred gauging her distance compared to his. It was immediately apparent that she was losing altitude. She wouldn’t make it to me before touching down, probably painfully. It was also apparent by his course, that Abraxis meant to finish his real mission, and end Blue once and for all. I looked forward toward the growing towers, then back again.

It was obvious I had one last decision to make.

For the sake of image, I’d like to say it was easy. That I casually dismissed a simple win over saving the princess from her plight. But that wouldn’t be precisely true. I’m mercenary enough to admit it. For a second there, I struggled, but on my honor, it was only a second.

The princess swooped low. I thought she would crash, but she gained height. I swerved and throttled down, cursing all the while. In a last ditch dive, she reached Maggie then landed, hard, against the cowling, wings still very much on fire, trailing flames over the dash shield. Into my face!

great.

I cursed some more then held myself as far back and to the side as I could. As Blue clung to Maggie’s vents with one slender hand she pawed at her belt with the other. A rocket streaked by Maggie’s starboard blade. It detonated a moment later against the piled rocks at the canyon’s edge. I turned my head, saw Abraxis approaching fast, swiping at Grumma madly with one gloved hand.

Blue reached what she was after on her belt. With a slithering click, her wings retracted into her sleek race-pack, extinguishing the flames quite nicely. Enormously grateful at being able to see once more, I pulled the sticks to starboard which cut Maggie back toward the the west side of the canyon, across Abraxis' line.

As Blue slid back along the nose and across my lap, Maggie’s engines stuttered again, this time longer. I was busy watching the Stormchaser but Blue recognized the problem immediately. I expected to feel her weight settle in behind me on the saddle, but was surprised when she continued down Maggie’s port wingblade, unbuckling her pack along the way.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

By this time Abraxis had corrected course. I couldn’t see Grumma anywhere. If the gold racer had wanted the win, he could have passed us by now, I was sure of it, but he wanted the kill. With a final cough, Maggie’s engine’s cut out, pretty much granting his wish.

Lucky us.

We still moved at a fair clip, but any maneuvering would bleed speed fast. Abraxis lined up behind us. I let loose with a few shots from the ray cannons, forcing him to swerve. Blue was crouched near the thruster ports, doing something with her pack lines.

The crystal set popped to life. “You have chosen the wrong time to become noble peasant! And the wrong lady to champion!”

He lined up again. I watched him do it, out of options. Blue popped her head up and nodded, gripping the wing edge tightly she propped her feet against the thruster pod. The fuel warning light blinked out.

I grinned. “And you talk too much.”

Maggie purred to life, then roared as whatever super fuel Blue had juiced her with entered her lines. I gave her everything as Abraxis launched his attack. We shot forward with enough force to stretch my arms an inch.

We matched the rocket’s thrust just long enough to dodge it then entered the shadows of the spectator barges at a speed I had never matched with Maggie before. Like that, we were through the towers. Though I couldn’t hear them through the roar of the thrusters, I could see the crowds cheering. More importantly at the moment, I could see in my mirrors the white, IRCA support craft swarming in behind us, cutting us off from the gold racer, who was forced to power down.

I eased off Maggie’s throttle then turned her in a slow arc back toward the tents and crowds once we had bled enough speed. We’d overshot the line by more than usual. Blue dislodged herself from the wing. She crawled up into the seat behind me, slid her arms around my waist and flipped her long ponytail out of the way. She had dark smudges along her cheeks where she had removed her mask.

“You’re an excellent pilot. I owe you my life. Thank you.” Her voice sounded even better in my ear than it had over the comm. Her words; even more than first place, or the fat, smiling Durin standing there waiting for us, were proof to me.

I won.

END. or is it?

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