We’d gone a mile, through a district of half-ruined warehouses, when I heard a noise like a hundred road drills. Giggling, the Bluefish flattened themselves into doorways.
The noise became an orgy; doors vibrated. Then the street end filled with a cloud of dust full of glinting points of chrome, and red and yellow helmets and green and purple and gold arriving at stupefying speed. I slapped my hands over my ears and the scream of tortured steel drilled straight through, trapped and bouncing between the walls of that brick canyon. I glimpsed the black leading bike, black rider, black helmet, blond hair streaming back like eagles’ wings. Then their exhaust gas punched our faces and they were dwindling, leaving us choking in the cracked and burning hydrocarbons.
As they reached the far end, a yellow robo-truck turned the corner, seemed to totally block the brick canyon. I gasped, waiting for the splat.
The lead rider swayed left, like a reed in the wind, into a shadowed crack between robo-truck and wall; almost seemed to pass right through the truck.
Others, blue, green, and white, managed the same trick. The rest swayed right instead, spilling down an empty rubble slope in a shambles of tumbling, rolling, spinning chrome.
The robo-truck came on steadily, undisturbed. Its yellow front carried a splatter pattern, a scarlet spider-web. Odd! Who’d bother decorating a robo-truck? And on top… among its steering antennae, a brown shape fluttered feebly, like a trapped bird.
Then I wished I’d closed my eyes sooner. The scarlet pattern was still wet, growing, glistening. The fluttering bird was an impaled motorcyclist. One gauntleted hand still moved, as if pleading. I hoped it was the slipstream moving it.
Six feet above our heads he passed, unstoppable, spattering us with warm, red rain.
“They’ll fetch his body from the robo-depot,” said George. “Man, I’ll say that; they do give each other great funerals. When they’re not racing, all they do is go to funerals. Come and meet this girl. …”
The Bluefish emerged, grinning and whistling. “That Keri… ain’t she somethin’?” They loped on, happily.
I threw up in the gutter.
“That Vanessa’s cookin’ ain’t doin’ you no good, man,” said George, heartlessly.
We reached the rubble-strewn slope; the motorcyclists were picking themselves up, straightening the handlebars of their bikes. There were a couple of gum-chewing broken arms, and a broken rib, coughing up blood and jokes.
With a roar, the surviving riders returned.
“Who hitched a ride on the robo-truck?”
“Billy.”
“Billy who?”
“He never had time to tell us.”
“You can’t just write ‘Billy’ on a coffin!”
“What about ‘Silly Billy’?”
They all seemed to think that remarkably funny. The black-leather lead rider took his helmet off, so he could laugh easier. A rounded, girlish face; rosy, dimpled cheeks, under the oil smears. The eyes were large and green, under dark brows odd against the blond hair. The nose was snub, determined. Two deep frown marks of concentration on the rounded forehead. The full mouth smiled, cherubically. The broadish shoulders were slightly hunched from riding.
The chest, partly released as she unzipped her leathers, was opulently female…
“This is the real woman,” said George, with his biggest dazzling grin. “Keri Roberts, National Champ. She’s lasted four months, longer than anybody.”
“As Champ?”
“As alive,” said George. “Keri, meet Sellers. He’ll be pinball Champ of the Month by tonight.”
“So I can see,” said Keri, raising one dark eyebrow at my wretched plastic champ’s ribbon. “Dangerous sport, pinball. A real man’s game.”
I should have loathed her forever. Intead, I was fascinated.
“Don’t knock the guy,” said George. “I’m managing him.”
“George, you’d manage a three-legged cockroach, if you couldn’t find anything better.”
“Thanks,” I said. “As one ex-Est to another …”
“Who’s ex-Est?” she blazed. “I’m Unnem, mate. Born and bred. What’s so bloody great about being an Est?”
“Sorry. I thought …”
“Oh, yes, you Ests think. Guzzle real red meat and think. Drink genuine booze and think. Go for long walks watching dicky birds and think. I don’t think about racing; I race.”
“Keri can see round corners,” said George, hurriedly. “She can smell a robo-truck coming a mile away. This Keri, she got nine lives like a cat, man.”
“Shurrup, George. I ran over a cat this morning.” Her hand reached down, touched a sweat-blackened silver cross that hung between her breasts. Her face was suddenly sharp and peaky.
“I’ll lend yo’ my lucky rabbit foot, Keri!”
“Just manage your little ex-Est out of my way, George.” She put her bike into gear and rode straight at me. I dodged, but the end of her handlebar still caught
me in the crotch. Then she was away in a cloud of smoke.
“Keep goin’, man.”
Three hours since the Championship started. One kid each from Glasgow, Birmingham, Swansea. Two of us from London Northeast; some kid from London West. A flickering in the corner of my eye told me the big screens were busy; one showing scores, the other close-ups of us players as, doubled up, we sweated on.
Sweat running into my eyes. Unasked, George changed my towelling headband for the tenth time. All round, the huge audience shifted and coughed in the flickering darkness. All the machines silent, except two, tonight. Mine was running so hot a glow came up to my face, like an oven. But it was well serviced; I’d seen to that. Half an hour to go, and it wouldn’t conk now.
No time to look at the score. I could sense how I was doing from the muted noises of the crowd. A deepening silence, as I lost ground; a growl as I began to climb; a sigh as I regained the lead. I’d gained and lost it twice; was lying third, behind Birmingham and London West.
An exultant yip from the crowd.
“Birmingham burned out,” said George. “Keep goin’. Twenty minutes left.”
My back was locked solid; my hand clenched in a glove of pain, my mind a maze of numerals. But I still heard the sudden shouting outside; savage shouting far away. Hammering on the dome. A growl from the Blue-fish, shoulder to shoulder around me, in a sweaty ring.
“What’s that?” I asked, missing one shot altogether.
“Nothing to bother you, man. Keep goin’.”
The hammering grew. The crowd around me was breaking up and whispering away.
“Keep goin’, man. We can cope.”
“With what?”
A huge slow banging on the main doors made the whole dome boom like a gong.
“Keep going’. ‘Tain’t nothin’. Just the usual.”
I heard the main doors collapse, with a screech of metal. Echoing triumphant shouts. An answering shout from the remaining crowd around me.
“George, for God’s sake …”
“Watch it, man. You missed two in a row, there. Keep going’—the rest’s up to us.” He sounded tense, uncertain.
A crack, like a gun. A Bluefish staggered back against my machine, steadied himself with one hand, pushed off again. Leaving, on the glowing glass, a bloody palm print.
Then I was in the middle of a storm; backs and legs of Bluefish pressing in round me. The machine rocking and swaying. Thump of flesh on flesh, bone on bone. A gurgle. It was all caving in on me, but I went on pulling the handle to please George. Suddenly a roar of triumph. Many feet, running away. Silence, and a ring of grinning, earless Bluefish faces, close to mine. I went on pulling the handle, till George eased my fingers off.
“You won, man.” Stroking me gently. All the Bluefish—stroking me like I was a prize-winning pussycat.
“Let me stretch.” I pushed through them, easing my numb back with numb hands. One big screen just carried my score. The other carried my face as big as a wall. Unshaven beard like black
grass; wrinkles like irrigation ditches with streaks of sweat like waterfalls. I could have crawled up the black nostrils of my own exhaustion and vanished from the world forever…
White-coats hanging a purple cloak round me again; it seemed a slightly better quality. An even higher crown, put crooked on my head.
My foot kicked something soft. I looked down, holding my crown in place with both hands.
At my feet lay a dead boy; a total stranger. A yard away, a Bluefish lay face down, a round wound in his back pulsing blood like a little roadside spring.
“Look up, man, smile,” said George. “You’re on the Box.”
“Come and speak to them, man. They’re all waiting.”
Bluefish practically carried me up the metal stairs, to a metal balcony where the moon rode high.
I’d never seen a crowd so huge; all of London Northeast. All looking up at me. Little children held up in their parents’ arms. Old, bent grannies shrieking, “Sellers is Champ, Sellers is Champ.”
But all I could think of was the blanket-covered bodies laid out against the wall of the dome. Two rows, one much shorter than the other.
“We done them, man. We really slaughtered them.”
“Who were they?”
“Guys from London West. We were expectin’ them. We was ready.”
“And what happened to the London West Champ?”
“He ran away. When we broke into his dome, he ran away. He’s finished, man, finished. You’re Champ. An’ it’s Champ of the Year, next month. Speak to them, man. Tell ‘em they did well. …” He thrust a microphone into my hand.
“You did well,” I said.
I thought the cheering would never stop.
“You’ve given them something to live for, man!”
I looked at the row of blanket-covered bodies.
“That as well, man. If you hadn’t come, they’da fought among themselves, died for nothing. Thanks to you, they died happy, dyin’ in the moment of victory.”
“What victory?”
“Don’t talk that way, man.”
“Take me to Vanessa’s.”
Around dawn, I went to the window, drew back the curtain; a grey, flat morning.
From the bed, Vanessa said, “You’re a good man, Sellers. You’ve no idea what this place was like before you came. You give people hope… pride.”
“I get people killed.”
“People are getting nicer. George is talking to me. The Bluefish come to take me shopping. …”
“I’m going away.”
“Oh, God, where?”
“Where I can only kill myself.”
“To Keri Roberts. She’s the real killer. Killed hundreds and never grieved for one.”
“That’ll make a pair of us, then.”
Behind me, on the bed, she began to weep.
Chapter 9
“Here’s your bike,” said the mechanic. “Gimme your chit.”
I handed him my Racer’s chit from the Labour Exchange and bent to examine the bike.
A wretched thing: once red, but most of the enamel had been scraped away by contact with the road. Rust bubbling through everywhere. The previous owners had tried covering up the rust with stickers and hand-painted lettering: ball of fire, the clacton kid.
There were other stickers beneath the top stickers; other lettering under the top lettering. I peeled and picked at them, like doing an archaeological dig.
LEYTONSTONE LIGHTWINGS, YOUNG GARY.
Where were they now? The handlebars had that wavering line that meant they’d been bent and straightened
many times. So had the front forks. The crude single-cylinder engine dripped oil on my boot.
“She’s a goer,” said the mechanic. “She was always fast, that one. Just top her up with oil before every race and she won’t burn out on you.” “Don’t reckon much to those tires.” “No worse than anybody else’s. Good for a hundred miles, yet. ‘Course, I could let you have a new set for fifty credits. …”
“The brakes seem to pull to the left. …”
“What are you—a bloody Est or something?”
I pulled out a fistful of credits, and he changed his tune.
I spent nearly the whole day stripping her down, straightening things and welding, cadging new parts. Cost me a bomb. Meanwhile, a whole stream of kids rode away on bikes worse than mine. The mechanic kept coming across and saying they were doing it the right way. Racing was like swimming: plunge in headfirst. If you kept on standing on the bank dipping your toe in you’d get so nervous you’d never start. … I told him to get lost. Twice, trucks delivered loads of smashed-up bikes. I could’ve sworn I’d seen several of them cheerfully ridden away that morning…
Finally, my bike was as ready as she’d ever be.
“Can I practice round here?”
The mechanic spat on the brick-strewn vacant lot behind his garage.
“That’s what it’s for, if you’re that nervous.”
I kicked the engine into life.
I couldn’t get the hang of it. The front wheel was tiny, stuck out on the end of long forks, giving the bike a lousy, huge turning circle. The handlebars were narrow, when they should have been wide to give leverage; you really had to pull them hard over to make the front wheel turn at all. If you pulled a mite too hard, the front wheel turned sideways, locked solid. Three times I went over the handlebars, not doing more than twenty. And the bike was so high-geared it was hard to go slow; it stalled frequently. My right leg grew weary, kicking it back into life. My arms grew weary, because the handlebars were placed so high you rode like a dog begging. After two hours, my jeans were torn, my knees skinned, and my arms shaking so much I could hardly steer. I could’ve wept. Techs were supposed to be good with machines.
“This isn’t a bike, it’s a bloody death trap.”
“Bad workman always blames his tools. Look at that guy—he’s really getting into it.” He pointed to a little dark kid, who’d started practising ages after me. He’d got the hang of it. He rode fast, a bit like Keri. Sitting well back on the straights, to get more thrust on the back wheel. Then the sudden push forward and down at corners, to give the front wheel more grip for turning. Graceful and right. He made me feel a bumbler with his beautiful curves, getting faster and faster.
Until, turning at the far end, he hit a wall without warning.
“I’ll get the meat wagon,” said the mechanic casually, wiping his hands on his backside, reaching for the white, thumb-printed phone.
I ran all the way, thinking, please God, not another. The bike’s engine was still bellowing, threatening to tear itself loose from its mounting. The kid just lay there; I raised his visor. There wasn’t a mark on him, even a little smile of wonder on his face…
“You might have turned the engine off,” shouted the mechanic. “Bikes cost money, you know.”
“And kids don’t?”
He picked up the bike and began straightening the handlebars.
I looked back at the kid; wondering whether to put my coat over his face till the ambulance came. He couldn’t have been more than fourteen…
He opened his baby-blue eyes and smiled at me.
“Try moving your arms,” I said, then. “Try moving your legs.”
He sat up and said, “I ain’t half gotta headache.”
I loved him just for being alive. “Have you thought,” I said, “of trying any other futuretrack?”
“Wanted to be a singer, but I ‘adn’t no money to buy an amplifier.”
I dug into my pockets and held out a handful of credits. “That enough to buy an amplifier?”
His eyes grew wary; he jumped to his feet. “Hey, mister, what’s the catch? You a homo?” Then he frowned. “I know you—you’re King Sellers, Champ of the Month.”
“Yes,” I said, “I’m King Sellers. I’ve got so many credits they’re making holes in my pockets. And I’ve found you a manager, for when you’re a singer—he’s called George. And someone to live wit
h—she’s called Vanessa.” I told him where they lived.
“What can I do for you?”
“Tell George and Vanessa—I’ll be back someday.”
“Right,” he said. “Thanks, King. Hurry back soon.” He limped off across the scattered bricks.
“That’s interfering,” said the mechanic. “What you done—that’s treason. I can report you. …”
“Did you want him dead?” I asked. “We’re alone here, Tech.”
He saw the look on my face. Glanced round nervously. Fiddled with the big spanner that stuck out of his overalls.
“Whatcher mean—we’re alone?”
“What grade are you, Tech? One? I’m 4n—it’s your word against mine about treason. Who’s going to listen to a grade one?”
“You razzlin’ swine always cause trouble. Anyway, we ain’t alone anymore.”
A Paramil car was pulling up outside the garage. I walked across; thought he’d be making inquiries about the crash. He was leaning against his bonnet, pad and pencil at the ready. Gave me one of their little smirks.
“Stephen Sellers, alias Henry Kitson, Tech 4n?”
I nodded. He couldn’t touch me: Techs had the right to go on the razzle.
“Your father wishes to see you. You must go straight home. Here is a legal pass to get through the Wire. Forty-eight hours—is that sufficient?”
He enjoyed startling me. I’d nearly forgotten I had a home and father. Since I’d never expected to see either again, there wasn’t much point in remembering.
Chapter 10
My parents lived in the Cotswold Enclave. It was one hell of a ride. Besides falling off every five kilometres, I kept being stopped by Paramils, British Police, even bossy Ests. My pass was dog-eared within the hour. Everybody found my presence deeply and profoundly insulting.
Father opened the door himself as I roared down the drive; red flags of anger in his cheeks. “Did you have to ride that bloody thing all the way here? The phone’s never stopped ringing.”
“I’m a Racer now. How else could I have come?” “By taxi—you’ve got plenty of credits.” “You seem to know an awful lot about me!” “Your mother saw you playing pinball on TV. She hasn’t slept since—they’ve hospitalised her.”
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