Gasoline, exhaust fumes, and cheap cigarettes. A parking lot buckled from age and disuse was full of vehicles and their teams preparing for the race. Remy burnt through his second cigarette of the night and lit another one, trying to ignore the tremble in his fingers as he lifted it to his lips.

  Josie was underneath their borrowed skiff clanging away with a wrench and a spot welder. Jack had assured them it was in tip-top condition but Jack wasn’t the one who was going to be cruising through the air at four hundred kilometers per hour on it so Josie’s inspection seemed like a prudent choice. Josie was a crack mechanic but there wasn’t any amount of assurances that would make him feel good about flying this thing.

  “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.” He muttered around his cigarette. He’d been hesitant to light the first one with all the fuel just waiting for the right spark but everyone seemed to accept that risk so Remy sucked through his own to keep pace. Alternatively, if the parking lot went up in flames, he could just skip the race and die right here. It wasn’t unappealing given the choice.

  “What?” Josie asked from under the skiff. She couldn’t hear half of what he said but he could clearly hear her chomping gum through two tons of steel and plastic. He could hear that sound in his sleep.

  “Nothing. How’s it looking?”

  “Just a bit more…there.” She slid out from under and raised a hand for Remy to help her up. Josie had taken off her racing jacket to work and her white undershirt was splotched with oil and other fluids that Remy hadn’t ever bothered learning. Maybe it was just pre-race adrenaline or the certainty of his coming death in a fiery wreck, but Josie looked good. Real good. He almost told her so but she smacked her gum as he started and he regained his senses. Josie did look good, but he’d had that before and it had ended for a reason. Good reasons. Impending death was no reason to revisit that decision.

  “So what, now we wait?” Remy was almost through his cigarette and fumbled for a third.

  “We wait.” She confirmed, taking the unlit cigarette from his hand and lighting it for herself. “Should be lining up within the next ten minutes or so.”

  The other teams milled about much like he was. They smoked, some laughed, and everyone was eying up their competition. Remy wondered who would be the skiff that took them out. Which ones would he kill tonight? He tried not to think about that. Killing wasn’t part of his job description.

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  He checked his Vasculator again and flexed his fingers. Not that he needed to, of course. It was as set as it had been for two days. Though his didn’t display the tell-tale holographic sign of which Vasc he was using - Josie’s stealth modification took care of that - the Displacer was locked in and active.

  Josie had been right about activating it a day or two early just in case. He’d been nearly bedridden for an entire day after plugging it in. Josie had laughed at him trying to crawl to the bathroom to puke up whatever he’d managed to keep down. Remy knew he didn’t have the most robust Vascular system but it had hit him harder than anything else ever had. Now that it was loaded, they should be able to get a few uses out of it but swapping to a different Vasc would be pushing it. Sticking to the Displacer meant a defensive race with good driving from Josie and a displacement or two if absolutely necessary. Defense wins championships, he supposed.

  Josie was right about the race’s timing and the teams began pulling their skiffs into position. He strapped himself into the rear seat and turned on the displays. The anti-gravity unit whirred to life underneath him and they rocked into the air. Josie set them down again on the old highway next to another freelancer team occupied by two large men with nose rings. Their skiff was, at one time red, but paint had flaked off and replacement parts now dotted the vehicle. In crude and shaky handwriting someone had written “ROAD HOGS” in spray paint across the side.

  Remy was checking their weapons systems when a message popped up on his display.

  “You seeing this?” He frowned.

  “Yeah, I got one on my screen too,” Josie said.

  Instructions from Happy Jack. A list of skiffs that were officially JD’s and those that were suspected hires. Like Josie and me, Remy thought, but for the other guy. Don’t take out JD’s guy directly, but try to keep the hires at bay. He glanced back at the two fat men in their skiff. The Road Hogs were on the list. He wondered if they had a similar list with his own name on it. They almost certainly did.

  A sleek skiff painted bright yellow dropped into place and the line-up was set. Josie and Remy were near the back, with the other first time racers and freelancers unaffiliated with sponsors. Jack’s sanctioned vehicle, a blue and green skiff piloted by a grim looking woman and an equally grim man, was near the front. It looked more like a cannon with engines than a skiff.

  Josie whirred the anti-gravity repulsers back to life and revved the throttle in place. Remy’s heart pounded along with the skiff’s vibration. Combustion engines powering anti-gravity units gave racing skiffs a different feel than the all-fusion based cores of normal skiffs. The craft rumbled beneath him and exhaust fumes were intoxicating. He could see how people could get addicted to the feeling like a drug. It felt powerful and wild. The smell was oddly invigorating. He tensed as a floating sign counted down to the start.

  “You ready?” Josie’s voice crackled in his ear piece.

  “No, but let’s fucking do it.” He shook his head and gripped the weapon controls with sweaty palms.

  The display reached zero and a siren sounded. Josie jammed the throttle forward and Remy held on for dear life.