Sword Fight

by Nathan Van Coops

  The bay bridges were all lit, and the twilight air seemed somehow more alive up here. The sounds of the city below were still present but muffled and safely distant.

  “How did you know about this place?” Valerie asked, following Rico to the front of the building and peering over the edge.

  “My uncle used to have a flat here when I was younger, before they raised the rents in uptown and drove out all the common folk. Landlord changed the locks on the front of the building, but she was too cheap to do the back. I found out my key still worked, and I’ve been coming up here ever since.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  They took seats on the gravel and tarpaper rooftop, and Rico pulled the cork from the wine bottle with the corkscrew on his multi-tool. He poured them each a cup of wine and held his aloft. “Here’s to eighteen. The first day of officially knowing better but doing it anyway.”

  Valerie tapped her paper cup against his. “I might be too late for knowing better.” She paused the cup on the way to her mouth. The aroma of the wine made her stop. She knew this vintage well. How many times had it been opened on the table with her family gathered around? How many glasses raised to health and happiness?

  She took a slow sip. It was the same deep flavor. It tasted like summertime and a hundred walks through the clover and lavender in her family’s fields. It all seemed a long time ago.

  “You feeling nervous about tomorrow?” Rico asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Pretty sure everyone will be scared. It’s a packed field. Plus, Connor Kane basically hates you.”

  “I’m not even thinking about that,” Valerie replied. “I’m not scared about dying in a crash or getting hurt. I’m more worried about what happens if I don’t make it through the finish line. This is my only shot at getting to the king. If I let my brother down, he’ll never have justice. It’ll just be over.”

  Rico took another sip of his wine and focused on the distant horizon. “I didn’t know your brother, but he sounds like a good guy. If you die tomorrow, then at least you get to go hang out with him. It’s me you ought to worry about. With you dead, I’ll have nobody left whose life is more miserable than mine to feel sorry for.”

  Valerie punched him in the arm.

  “Ow!” Rico laughed. “At least I’ll be able to say I got to hang out with the daughter of Il Orso Nero the night before she died. That’s worth something.”

  “You’re no help at all in these situations,” Valerie said. “Aren’t you supposed to lie to me and make me feel better?”

  “No. Because I don’t think you should want to feel better,” Rico said, his voice growing serious. “I want you to bottle all that up and use it to drive your war car right over Jasper Sterling’s smug face.”

  Valerie chewed her lip. “Yeah, you’re right. That will make me feel better.”

  “You and me both.” Rico poured more wine into her cup. “I was thinking we might still have time to weld some spikes to your lug nuts tonight. Good for slashing Sterling tires.”

  “All four wheels?”

  “You tell me. It’s your birthday.”

  Valerie tipped her cup back again.

  They drank until the stars were out and the bottle was empty, then returned to the garage and got to work.

  27

  Remember

  “It’s about focus. You have to think like a car.”

  Her father was beside her in the passenger seat of the ’68 Del Toro, his hand resting on the seat behind her head. Out the windshield, a constellation of 55-gallon drums was arranged around the lot. A path through them was laid out with white, spray-painted arrows on asphalt.

  “But cars don’t have brains,” Valerie said.

  “With you in the driver’s seat, they do.”

  He had moved her seat all the way forward and stuffed a pillow behind her back, but even with the extra padding, her feet barely reached the pedals.

  “Racers get themselves into trouble because, when they get in the driver’s seat, they still think like they do the rest of the time. They get emotional. They think like a person. What does a car need to think about?”

  “How much gas it has?”

  “That’s the pit crew’s job. Unless we’re talking about the distribution of weight. Why is that important?”

  “So the wheels get good traction.”

  “So you get good traction. Remember, you’re nothing but a car’s brain right now. This is your body.” He slapped his hand on the doorframe. “You don’t have feet anymore. You have tires. You don’t have a heart. You’ve got a motor.” He picked her hand up and placed it on the shifter. “You feel that? That’s your heartbeat now.”

  Valerie wrapped her fingers around the leather grip and let the vibration set her arm quivering. The engine pulsed under the slightest pressure from her foot.

  “Eyes on the road. Don’t worry about the gauges. Your ears will tell you when to shift. Let’s get rolling. Show me how you launch off the line.”

  Valerie pressed the clutch to the floor and shifted into first. She touched the throttle and brought the engine RPM up to 2500. She exhaled and focused on the sensations of the car, then she slipped the clutch pedal out, applying the throttle the moment the pressure plate engaged. The engine’s torque transferred cleanly, and the four tires stayed adhered to the ground without breaking loose. They bit the asphalt and hurled the car forward, pushing Valerie into her seat. She had to stretch her toes to keep the accelerator down. The engine screamed, and she pumped the clutch, the shifter moving simultaneously and taking them into second gear.

  She dared a glance at the speedometer, and the Del Toro blazed through 60 mph before the tachometer redlined again. The shift into third brought a whoop of joy from the passenger seat.

  “Yeah! That’s my girl! Get on it!”

  A smile spread across her face, and she careened into the first turn, downshifting as she went. They erupted out of the curve and blasted down the next straightaway. The speedometer crept past 80 as she got into fourth gear.

  “Give me a heel-toe downshift through this next turn, then we’ll hit the hairpins.” He pointed to a series of barrels at the end of the lot.

  She decelerated and took the turn, coming out in third gear with the engine roaring. She downshifted again going into the first hairpin.

  “Looking good. Don’t oversteer coming out.”

  Her father’s voice slowly faded into the background. It blended with the whistling wind through the windows and the steady growl of the engine. As she glanced over at him, she caught him smiling at her, the gleam in his eyes unmistakable.

  But then the wind and engine noise faded, replaced by the blaring of alarm bells.

  The clanging grew oppressive, and Valerie opened her eyes.

  She was back in Damon’s loft, the alarm clock hammering away on the nightstand. She rolled over and pressed the stop button.

  In the darkness and silence, she could still feel him beside her. Just around the corner of her mind. The proud smile was still there. But then the dream faded, and the memory lost the battle with reality.

  She sat up.

  Stars shone out the window. She rubbed her eyes and pushed away the covers.

  The bed was empty. Wherever Damon was, he hadn’t come home last night.

  She walked to the door and flicked on the lights.

  On the floor of the garage below, the Guardian was waiting. Fueled up. Armed. They had raised the rear end to accommodate the all-terrain tires. The tires had come used but still had plenty of tread. The lug nuts now bristled with steel spikes. Even in its resting state, the car looked dangerous, its broad air intake formed into a permanent snarl. Valerie took a deep breath.

  She washed and dressed quickly, only taking the time to down her water bottle and fill it again. She checked that her tournament sword was stowed on the ceiling rack of the Guardian and gently touched the watch dangling from the rear-view mirror. “Today is the day I get justice,” she whispered.


  Valerie worked quietly to get the Guardian out of the garage in an attempt to make a discreet exit.

  She needn’t have bothered. Once the bay door was open, the sound of engines could be heard throughout Tidewater. An intermittent stream of headlights was winding its way up the turns toward the Crown Bridge, then meeting the flow from the city. The caravan of vehicles coming out of the walls lit up the predawn sky and made the bridge glow.

  A door slammed, and Valerie turned to find Rico descending the stairs from his apartment.

  “So much for getting you out ahead of the crowd,” he said.

  “Everyone seems to have the same idea.”

  Rico opened the passenger-side door of the Guardian and climbed in while Valerie went inside the garage to lock the bay door. She cinched the chain and was working her way to the side exit when she spotted the glint of silver beneath one of the rolling toolboxes. She squinted at it in the dim light, then walked over and knelt down, fishing beneath the toolbox until she felt a handle. She dragged out a silver briefcase.

  Valerie stared at the case for several long seconds before trying the latches. The briefcase was unlocked. She flipped it open to find it empty except for a few lumps of sand still wedged in the crevices and corners. There was no question that it was the same briefcase she stole from Blaise, but what on earth was it doing here?

  She closed the lid gently and slid the briefcase back under the toolbox where she found it. She was still trying to come up with a reasonable answer as she locked and closed the side door of the garage and made her way to the car. As soon as she got in, she started the engine and reached for the radio. She tuned in channel twenty-eight and keyed the mic button wired into the steering wheel. “Danger Dog. This is Alley Cat. Are you there?”

  “Woo hoo!” a voice replied. “This is Brickyard, Alley Cat, you got some company on the line.”

  She glanced at Rico’s skeptical expression, then keyed the mic again. “Brickyard, are you a racer?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Meanest son of a sailor this side of hell. What are you driving?”

  “Guardian 770,” Valerie replied.

  “Woo dog, that’s a hot rod,” Brickyard replied. “But you see a bright-as-the-sun orange streak coming up on you on the track today, you pay no mind. That’s just me and my Rockwell Hurricane. Don’t look too close, you might go blind.”

  “I’ll try to remember that,” Valerie replied, unable to keep a smile from her face.

  “Good luck out there, Alley Cat,” he added. “See you at the finish line. Brickyard out.”

  “Going to be a lively day on the Citizen’s Band,” Rico said.

  Valerie waited a few more moments to see if Damon was also on the channel but then turned down the volume. It seemed she would have to wait to get her answers. She consulted a map of the circuit, then put the car in gear, climbing up the hairpin turns of Tidewater’s upper slopes. On the way up, they passed a battered produce truck that someone had attempted to convert to a war car. A few men were working furiously under the hood, and their swearing was audible even over the rumble of the Guardian’s engine. The motor of the truck hadn’t been strong enough to even get it out of the village.

  “That’s why I wanted out early,” Rico said. “I bet we pass a dozen of these junkyard rust buckets clogging the road by the time we reach Baylor’s Field. They’re liable to stop traffic and make us miss the start.”

  When they reached the main highway, they joined the flow of vehicles on the Crown Bridge. The Guardian drew a fair amount of attention. Most of the city race cars were being towed via trailer out to the starting line. But Valerie and Rico weren’t the only ones making the drive in a war car. They passed a pair of Outlander Rebels that had been modified with giant buzz saws on the hoods. The men driving them looked just as intimidating with red war paint on their faces and spiked collars around their necks.

  “Don’t worry about them,” Rico said. “Everyone thinks a buzz saw is a great idea until it binds up in somebody’s frame and gets stuck there.”

  “As long as it doesn’t come through my window,” Valerie said.

  “You brought your road armor, right?” Rico asked.

  “In the trunk. I figure I’ll put it on when I get there.”

  They passed several drivers who had thought differently and were already wearing their gear. Road armor, by design, was meant to provide freedom for your shifting arm and your legs while protecting your upper body and head from attack through the driver’s side window. Worn outside the car, it made for a lopsided look with only one arm fully protected. Sometimes drivers went so far as to protect only one half of their heads.

  Rico pointed out one such driver whose helmet was formed in the shape of a bison skull, one side bearing a horn to complete the look. He looked like a monster from a storybook. Valerie had to admit it was intimidating.

  “You remembered to bring the extra fuel, right?” Rico asked.

  “Enough for a top off,” Valerie replied. “You still think we should go with a full tank when we get there?”

  “Hard to say,” Rico replied. “I guess we’ll need to see the track condition when we get to the start. Might need to stay light to get out in front of the pack.”

  When they neared the exit for Baylor’s Field, the traffic slowed to a crawl. As they exited the offramp, contenders were directed away from the growing stream of spectators.

  A man with a glowing wand noted the decal number on the door of the Guardian and waved them on through a barricade. “Twenty-three is on the right. Keep moving!”

  Valerie pulled through a gate and down a long stretch of road leading to the starting line.

  The name Baylor’s Field was a misnomer. It might have once been a green space, but over the decades, the area had sprung up clusters of low-rent high rises. Weather and a lack of upkeep had battered the buildings, leaving many as vacant shells. Today they were experiencing a revival as scores of spectators climbed the crumbling towers for a better view of the race start.

  The buildings surrounded a wide lot that had once been a vibrant plaza. The area had been cleared of its old fountain and any residual obstacles with the exception of a newly erected wooden tower with an Avalon flag flying from the top. Several race officials were already in the tower and commanded a view of the start.

  Valerie brought the Guardian down the line. Most of the cars were already in position; the few that weren’t were being rolled off trailers. She tried not to focus on the weapons in view, but it was difficult not to notice the ballistae and spike launchers.

  She backed into the space marked twenty-three between two vehicles from other cities. They both bore emblems from houses she didn’t recognize. The men surrounding the cars fixed her with stony glares as she parked.

  “This won’t be a bad position for you,” Rico said. “At least you aren’t too far out on a wing.”

  The starting line wasn’t straight. The officials had formed it into a shallow V, owing to the fact that there was only one route out of the plaza, and it would require that the racers all meet at a point at the north end with the matter-of-fact name ‘The Bottleneck.’

  Valerie was positioned on the right side of the V near the center. It would be a mad dash from her position through the Bottleneck and out to the highway beyond. She expected chaos prior to that, and it was anyone’s guess who would make it through. The drivers in the cars beside her didn’t exactly look like they planned to play nice.

  Valerie shut the Guardian off and got out, then climbed onto the roof of the car for a better view.

  She studied the route out of the Bottleneck, then scanned the start and the growing line of her competitors.

  Her eyes caught on a brand new, emerald-green Samurai X parked at the center of the V. She was shocked to see the Bear Claw emblem of her own house emblazoned on the hood.

  “What the hell?”

  Then she saw the driver. Jasper Sterling had his road armor on, but his helmet was off, and his b
leached blond hair was tied behind his head. The Terravecchia crest was on his chest plate as well. It was all Valerie could do to choke back a shout. How dare he wear her colors! Her fingers clenched into fists. That’s when she noticed the charcoal-gray Easton Blackbird parked next to the Samurai. House Sterling’s champion, The Red Reaper. The windows were too dark to see him, but she could almost feel his presence. Both of her enemies in one place.

  Valerie jumped off the top of the car and reached inside for her sword.

  “What are you doing?” Rico said.

  “That bastard is stealing my life,” Valerie said. “So I’ll take his.”

  Rico grabbed at her wrist to stop her from pulling the sword from the rack. “Whoa, whoa! Not here! You’ll deal with him on the track.”

  Valerie pulled the sword from the rack anyway and spun around to find her enemy. Rico’s words warred with her urge to storm down the line and end Jasper this instant. Rico was right, but she didn’t want him to be.

  The radio crackled. “Alley Cat, this is Danger Dog. Come in.”

  Damon.

  Valerie turned around and set the sword against the car, then reached for the volume knob. She pressed the mic. “This is Alley Cat.”

  “Hey.”

  “Hey,” Valerie replied. Despite her heightened state, she couldn’t help the little flutter she felt in her chest at the sound of his voice.

  “I’ve got a good position to watch your start. We should be all right.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I nabbed a seat on the spectator train. I can coach you from here.”

  Valerie looked up to the elevated railway that passed through the west side of the plaza. The train was pulling into position for the start.

  “Which train car are you in?” She scanned the various windows on the train. A few were open, and ladies and lords were waving flags and handkerchiefs with their favorite racer’s colors.

  “I don’t think you’ll be able to see me, but the train will be parallel to the track for a good sixty percent of the race. I should be able to keep you well informed. Rico’s ticket is set for the mechanic car as well.”