The Chase

by Bradley Caffee

  “The Law is good!” came the robotic response of the crowd.

  “The Law that preserves us all,” DeGraaf held his arms wide.

  “The Law remains!”

  “The Law that saves us all,” finished the chairman, clasping his hands together.

  “The Law is good!”

  “Our beautiful world was thrown into turmoil,” the chairman continued, “when the Great Collapse threatened to undo our way of life. Corrupt nations scrapped and warred over the simplest of goods. Conflict became lawlessness. Lawlessness became anarchy.

  “Then came the Law. Drafted by our long-departed generations to govern and preserve the beauty of humanity, the Law stands perfect and unalterable, save for once a year when a young man or young woman has proven themselves in the field of contest.” He shook his head slightly and looked down as if mourning. “Not a battle where lives are lost or destroyed. Much of history has been plagued by conflict. Rather they chose a contest where the brightest and fittest alone could achieve victory. Our young people are our future.” The chairman paused to let the words echo through the crowd. His eyes slowly moved over the faces in front of him. “The wisdom of the Lawmakers was to help the next generation own the Law by drafting a new law each year following the annual Chase. Only the most dedicated young people could compete in so difficult a challenge as the Chase, and it is their dedication that will shape their generation. Youth are unfettered by the burdens of adult life, having not yet succumbed to the bias and politics of the world that once brought about the Great Collapse. Only one so untouched can change the Law with pure intentions. Such was the foresight of the Lawmakers that a tested and loyal youth would be worthy of drafting the newest law.

  “Representing the Union of Free Southeastern Territories, this year’s winner will demonstrate the blessing of the Law by imposing new grace upon us.”

  With that, DeGraaf stepped aside from the podium and motioned to Shreya. Sheila’s lips curled. He hadn’t used the girl’s name. He probably didn’t even know it.

  Trembling, Shreya stepped onto the platform and stared at the masses hushed to hear her words. Her eyes nervously scanned the people as if watching for a way to escape.

  I can’t believe they didn’t prepare her. Sheila shook her head. While the favorites were often drilled in their alliance’s greatest needs, the younger racers often had little knowledge outside their training. Regions were strictly prohibited from telling their racers what law to pass, and racers were often drugged and questioned pre-race to see if they’d been coached. Now, an unprepared teenager was to shape the future of her people.

  Shreya’s lips, glossed perfectly and shining in the sunlight, parted into a tremble. “On behalf of the glorious culture of the Union of Free Southeastern Territories,” she spoke trying to keep her voice from shaking, “I declare that the people of that alliance receive a tribute of one-tenth of all the annual food rations from the other eleven alliances.”

  Dear God. She has no idea. The law would create bitterness between alliances and effect little real change. A moment when the world could be bettered was lost to short-sightedness. Sheila guessed the girl had grown up in poverty and feeding her people at the expense of other alliances had been motivated by ignorance and not malevolence. Amid the thunderous applause, Sheila turned to the camera.

  “There you have it, folks. Time will tell how profound an impact this new law will have on the World Coalition.” She rambled on with her impressions of the law hoping Chuck wouldn’t notice her sarcasm in the comment. She’d hear about it if he did.

  But nothing has changed. She hated covering the Chase.

  Chapter Two

  Willis leaned against a post and picked at a loose thread on his jacket as the other trainees pressed into get a better view of the Western Alliance broadcast of the victory ceremony. A few shots of the crowd drew his attention in the hopes of catching a glimpse of his parents who attended every year, but all attention was on the unlikely winner. That’s how the Chase goes. One wrong move by an unprepared racer could ruin the chances of those destined to win.

  “Hey, Willis, that gonna be you next year?” a voice came from the corner, possibly from a member of Green Team. He chose not to answer.

  “When are we up today?” Jez, his teammate on the Red Team, wormed her way through the racers to stand beside him in the common room of the Western Alliance Training Center.

  A hush spread over the room. Even Willis looked up. All eyes fixed on the monitors as the nervous girl passed the new law. A collective sigh filled the room as she finished speaking. The moment was over. That year’s Chase was over. Conversation in the common resumed, ignoring the reporter named Sheila Kemp who was commenting on the girl’s decision. Willis joined others in shaking his head at the new law. Jez impatiently grabbed his wrist to pull the schedule card in his hand closer, reminding him he hadn’t answered.

  “We have the track right after the goldies.” He checked once more to be sure he was right.

  Jez clicked her tongue in disgust. “That’s all we need, a track smelling of hair spray and nail polish.”

  “Careful, Jez. Joanne has them working hard. They may seem all glitter and selfie shots, but we can’t let up. They’re right up there with Black Team.” The goldies, as many called them, were the all-female Gold Team. Their obsession with themselves was ceaseless, but that didn’t mean they weren’t true racers. Willis had done the math and knew that one good run would be all they needed to take over second in the standings.

  The common room made up most of this half of the space station and resembled a university recreation hall with the section to his right hosting various amusements meant to occupy the trainees in their downtime. These were rarely used since most trainees spent all their spare time preparing for the next run. Monitors lining the walls meant to resemble windows displayed live images of the stars around the orbiting station, but one could switch the screen to display various scenes from around the Western Alliance. Tables, normally occupied by strategizing teams, filled the bulk of the space. The wall to his left contained a window opening into the gym, complete with its color-coded sections to designate the equipment as belonging to a specific team of trainees. Behind him was the archway that led to the rest of the facility.

  The station was designed around the training sphere, the largest structure which contained their practice track. Jutting from the side of the sphere was the main corridor, off which the team barracks stuck out like ribs, ending in a rectangular area that contained the common room and gym. An outer ring contained the mess hall, administrator’s offices, medical wing, and various other areas that didn’t concern the racers.

  Despite the size of the space, the normally separated teams stood tightly and mixed together competing for the best view of the broadcast monitor. Willis wore his standard uniform, made up of pants, a black shirt, and a red waist-length jacket trimmed in black. Others wore similar outfits, except with their own colors, which kaleidoscoped as each glued their eyes to the screen to see the results of the Chase. The broadcast shifted to review a highlight reel of the winner’s run and career leading up to the Chase.

  “Who is she?” someone asked.

  “No idea. Never heard of her,” came another voice.

  “Everyone will tomorrow. Man, seventeen, and she won it all.”

  Seventeen. Willis stared from the back of the room, leaning on a table. How could she win at seventeen? Antonio DeLuca was supposed to have won this year. In a short-lived cooperation effort between alliances, he’d trained at the same junior training center with Willis as a child, where their competition was often heated. A close finish in a training run led DeLuca to lose his temper and attack another racer. When the Western Alliance sought to discipline him, the DeLuca family smuggled him back to the Joint Mediterranean States and out of the jurisdiction of the Western Alliance. Willis had been relieved to see him entered in the Chase this year, as they were both eighteen. He was the racer who stood to challe
nge Willis next year, but he’d been entered early when the pool of racers appeared thin. He was a supposed lock for the win, and his use was expended. Racers got one shot at the Chase. That was it.

  “Seventeen?” Willis searched the faces around him to see if he’d heard correctly.

  “Yep. And going home a hero.”

  Going home. It was an idea as foreign to Willis as breathing outside the protective walls of the space station. He had never gone home. Placed into training before he could remember, he never truly knew his parents, yet the Chase reminded him of them every year. His parents, racers themselves, were often held up as demonstrations of the beauty of the Law, the greatness of the Alliance, and importance of his genetic heritage. Yes, he would serve the Western Alliance, but more to make his parents proud. Becoming a Law-changer was the lone way he grasped how to do that.

  “The girl’s a half-wit,” Jez snarled into his ear, glaring at the images of Shreya. Her nails dug into the muscle of his arm, which she’d taken after examining the track schedule, right through the red sleeve of his team jacket. She curled her lips in disgust at the screen. “How dare she assume the place of superior racers. Her alliance should have pulled her before she embarrassed them with a stupid law.”

  Willis shook off her clawing grip but allowed Jez to go on without interruption as she spouted more venom at the girl on the screen. Food rations would have little effect on the Western Alliance—the WA—or any of the other larger alliances. The people were well cared for as long as they obeyed the Law.

  He had rubbed the back of his left ear with his thumb when Jez had mentioned ‘superior racers,’ a habit he had since childhood. The tattooed code, a number one, on his ear which sat above a bar code that identified his famous parentage indicated he’d been genetically recoded once in his life. Recoding was a process by which a racer’s memory and consciousness was transferred to a genetically modified copy of their physical body. A low gen-code was a badge of honor and prestige among racers, and it meant he wasn’t in the habit of losing. The tattoo had one small flaw as if the needle had slipped. The skin was raised at that spot ever so slightly, perceptible to the touch. It brought comfort to Willis to know he still had his low gen-code. It told everyone else that, in the Western Alliance, he was a superior racer.

  Unless they competed in the Chase, racers weren’t allowed to retire until age twenty-one, and recoding was practiced even at the earliest stages of childhood training. Scanning the room, Willis noted that none of the racers present were even close to retirement. Over the span of his training, Willis had watched others face frequent recoding during their developmental years if they didn’t perform, and he knew a couple of the racers on the station to already have high gen-codes.

  It was a reality none of them discussed, though it was always on their minds. Most preferred to leave their gen-code as private a matter as they could.

  More than his height, strength, or well-toned body, Willis’s famously low gen-code told everyone a story. He was a natural, his talent not genetically manufactured. Among the racers on the station, everyone expected he would compete in the Chase or retire long before his recodings were used up. It gave him respect as a leader. He rubbed the bump behind his ear once more for good measure.

  “D-d-d-d-dex, gonna t-t-t-t-trip again this week?” Willis’s thoughts were interrupted by the high-pitched mocking voice of Toad, another of his Red Team members. At least that’s what they called him. His real name was Lester or something like it, but Toad was more fitting his character. “You sure it wasn’t a relative of yours who tripped that guy in the Chase?” Toad added.

  “St-st-st-stop, T-t-toad,” Dex stammered, retreating from the area. His glassy eyes betrayed the hurt caused by Toad’s ridicule of his stutter.

  “Toad, lay off.” Willis rolled his eyes and sighed as he approached Toad from behind.

  Toad smirked and continued his rounds to the lesser racers in the room. The kid was relentless in his teasing of the other trainees, but he wasn’t being untruthful. Dex had speed, for sure, but couldn’t keep from tripping over himself, leading to several Blue Team failures. More than once, Willis had leapt over the kid as he lay sprawled on the track.

  “Back off, maggot,” came a stern voice.

  Willis chuckled to himself. Toad had turned around right into the enormous body of Creed, the leader of Black Team. Willis couldn’t help but laugh at the thought that Toad had overreached this time.

  “Touch me again, and I’ll squash you.” Creed wasn’t kidding. Mario Creed stood solidly flanked by the rest of the Black Team. Jen Walker and Casey Stone, the female members of the team, stood on either side of Creed with their arms crossed. Casey’s twin brother, Zeke, stood next to his sister, running his hand through his unkempt hair and staring to the side absent-mindedly. Since the Black Team solely used each other’s last names, Creed called him Stone-zee to distinguish him from his sister. Much larger and impressive in their black uniforms, they towered over Toad as his face flushed to match the color of his red uniform. The ceremony done, most trainees were gawking at Toad’s idiocy.

  “Try it, and we’ll see who ends up recoded after the next run.” Toad was talking too big a game. Willis glanced over at Kane, the fourth on his Red Team, who stepped forward behind Toad. Creed wouldn’t hesitate to find an excuse to hammer Toad if he believed he could get away with it. Kane silently laid a giant, dark hand on Toad’s shoulder. Creed was an imposing presence, built with a huge frame that could crush someone of Toad’s underwhelming size, but he was nothing next to Kane who stood like a giant among the group. Kane’s behemoth size made Toad appear even more pathetic. For a second, Creed’s advance was halted as he contemplated Kane’s addition to the situation.

  Seeing the various teams intent on watching the standoff between the two largest racers in the room, Willis turned to Jez. “Better get Toad out of here before Creed decides taking on Kane is a good idea.”

  With a nod from Willis, Kane began pulling Toad toward the door despite his protests. A fight no longer a possibility, the rest of the trainees began to disperse.

  “Why do you even put up with that red-haired runt?” Jez’s eyes narrowed at the scene.

  “He’s a good racer. That’s why,” Willis retorted. He believed it, though he too, sometimes questioned whether the annoyance of Toad’s manner was worth it.

  Jez turned to him, an expression of cynicism on her face. “A racer who made his former team look foolish to impress you. He told those guys they were running the course at half-speed that day. He knew you were recruiting.”

  Willis tilted his head, keeping one eye on the door to make sure Toad didn’t escape Kane’s grip, and spoke softly. “I’m not stupid. He may have hamstrung a few teams in his wake, but he’s raced with the best. Remember, I made him run the course against another team before I picked him up.”

  “I-I don’t think you’re stupid.” Jez retreated. Her dark eyes brightened as she looked up at Willis, her hand raising to move her straight, jet-black hair behind her ear. For an instant, her hardened appearance softened, and Willis noticed how attractive she could be when she wasn’t angry. She had delicate features when they weren’t hidden behind fierce eyes. He pretended not to see her studying the side of his face for a moment and then turned to glance at her.

  She quickly glanced away and restored her usual cold appearance. She trusted him. That was important. She was an elite racer, trim, but all lean muscle. Her gen-code was a nine, low, although not as low as his. She could probably lead a team of her own. She’d chosen to stick with the Red Team, which made them that much better. He needed her trust for his team to remain elite, even if he never could truly return that trust. He couldn’t have her leaving the team—or worse—trying to take his place. He had no doubt she wouldn’t hesitate to backstab almost any other trainee in the room. She despised other racers, especially those of the Green or Blue Team.

  Green Team was above average, but no real threat to the leading tea
ms. Nico, their undersized team leader, overstepped when he took on a team of his own. Willis had considered recruiting him for Red Team around the time he’d added Jez, but Nico accepted leadership before he could act. It was a good thing too. Nico had peaked as a racer and would have become a liability.

  Black Team was merely a few points behind first place. Creed had introduced a military form of discipline to their training, and it'd launched the team into second place. Willis had to push Red Team daily to keep them out front. Willis reminded himself that Creed’s team practiced immediately after his own and showing up late wouldn’t give his team any extra time on the track today.

  Then there was Blue Team. Dead last.

  Chapter Three

  Perryn gasped as she bolted up in her bed. Glancing quickly around the room, her thoughts raced, trying to collect themselves.

  “My name is Perryn,” she whispered. “I am a racer for the Western Alliance. I run for Blue Team. I will survive to retire from training.” Her heart slowed as she repeated her rehearsed reminders. She examined her hands to make sure they were hers. She never felt like herself for days after waking from a recoding, and she hated the feeling.

  Pulling her feet over the side of the bed, she breathed deliberately to test if her new lungs worked. For all the improvements the recoding was supposed to make, she never felt stronger. As a child, she could always sense that she was a little bit faster or stronger, but those sensations stopped years ago. She did remember twisting her ankle slightly during the race, and this new ankle showed no signs of the injury.

  “At least that’s something.” She rubbed her legs and arms, assuring herself they were truly hers. She tried to remember her recoding, but all she recalled were emotions. Horror and dread filled her with no memory as to why. The Alliance had done its job preventing her from remembering what happened in the medical wing of the station.