Story written for "Gloves Up | A Multi-Genre Smackdown Contest", Round 4.2 (November 2022). Genre: Sport. Sub-Genre: Any.

Story word count = 3983

Bring it...

Racing was freedom. Free from class restrictions, structural poverty, and the petty presumptions of society. And I lived for the thrill.

Although, to be honest, I also craved the fame and fortune that came from winning — my ticket out of the Scrubs to a better life.

The Scrubs were a collection of impoverished wasteland communities outside of the more affluent central cities. The wealthier Elites treated us Scrubbers as lower class, but they were more than eager to exploit us to maintain their opulent lifestyles. Considered a terraforming failure, not much of this remote world was inhabitable, but people came anyway, and the vices of humanity came with them.

Skim Racing was a dangerous sport. When you whizzed along at eighty meters-per-second above rugged terrain in something like a levitated open-air sled — well, accidents happen.

Mac, my partner and mechanic, put a scowl on his dark grizzled face while a race inspector made final checks of our racing sled. There were strict rules about the machines to keep everything equal and fair, but everybody cheated, and not getting caught was part of the competition.

"Are you sure he won't find the booster?" I whispered. The module, like nitrous-oxide injection in the old automobile racers, would provide a momentary burst of speed when I needed it, and a competitive edge.

"Phfft..." Mac spat a gob of saliva in the dust. "The prick is not that bright. Probably couldn't pour piss out of a boot if the instructions were printed on the sole. Besides, I made a diversion."

Before I could inquire further, a self-satisfied grin rose on the inspector's weaselly little face. He pointed at an air diverter on the front. "This is an illegal modification. It must be removed."

"Oh, yes. I had forgotten." Mac said, slapping his forehead. "Thanks for finding that, sir. You have a keen eye."

The inspector lifted his pointy nose high as he made notes on his tablet.

"You sly dog," I whispered, hiding a grin. "You put that on just so he would find it."

"Right. He justifies his miserable existence, and we keep the booster. Sorta win-win."

A racing sled wasn't much more than twin turbo-thrusters and a seat strapped on a flat platform. An open metal cage surrounding the racer provided limited crash protection. Control was all mechanical linkage — no electronics allowed — which I manipulated with yokes and foot pedals. Fans underneath made it skim just above the ground, hence the name skim racing. Our sled was not the flashiest on the starting line, but she had it where it counted, and Mac kept her in tip-top shape.

My protective overalls and helmet were flashy, though, black with vertical red stripes. A bit of style was good for my image.

I blew a kiss to Electra as she awaited inspection of her sled, and she cast a narrow-eyed glare in response. Early in my racing career, lustful sparks flew, and we dated for a period. But fire did not abide fire, and our competitive spirits clashed too much for anything long term. I missed her, though.

By pre-race odds, she was favored to win. Bring it...

As we set up on the starting line, an android reporter ambled over to me. "Mr. Chase Knight, you have enjoyed a successful season thus far. What is your strategy for today's race?"

"Hmm..." I put a hand to my chin, pretending to be thoughtful. "My strategy is to cross the finish line before anyone else. That works every time."

"I see." The robotic reporter paused as if unsure what to say. "Good luck, sir."

Rows of boisterous fans in stadium seating flanked the starting line. Colorful banners fluttered in the breeze. Cheers rose as the announcer shouted my name and I waved.

Over the com, my mechanic gave me some pre-start encouragement. "Go fast and keep the shiny side up."

"There is no shiny side, Mac."

The one-hundred-and-sixty kilometer course weaved through brushy seaside hills, and all I had to do was finish before anybody else. Countless fixed and airborne cameras broadcasted the drama across this desolate world. A victory would secure a place in the Grand Championship — first time for a Scrubber.

On signal, the racers fired up thrusters in a symphony of rumbles, and the sleds lifted above the ground, swirling dust across the stadium. When the green light came on, rumbles became roars, but I only lightly pushed the yokes forward, ceding start position.

The slow start was intentional — I wanted to stay out of the fray where the wide path funneled into a narrow canyon. Barely two sleds could fit side-by-side through the Filter, as they called it, bounded by two red sandstone spires. The other racers sprang from the starting line at full throttle, trying to get there first. And sure enough, carnage ensued. Sleds slammed into the rocks and each other in chaotic violence, tumbling across the rocky ground and spewing flames and parts.

Just like that, the field went from twelve to eight, likely to the viewers' delight. I glided past the wreckage unscathed. Now to get back into the race.

Sage scented air rushed past me as I shot along the canyon, weaving between enormous boulders along a clear trickling stream. It didn't take long for me to overtake the first sled, which left a trail of dark smoke from a thruster, likely damaged in the crashes. The path climbed from the canyon along a narrow rocky ridge, passing the second blinking-red beacon as it emptied onto a dry plateau dotted with small twisted trees.

Ahead, the other racers came into view, almost side-by-side as each took a different line through the trees, leaving clouds of dust in their wake. I took an alternate route to the next beacon that bypassed most of the trees. Although longer, I could go faster because of fewer obstacles. My thrusters screamed in approval.

It worked. At the beacon, I came even with the peloton and back in the action.

The next obstacle had us leaping off a seventy meter cliff of black volcanic rock to the beach below. My heart jumped into my throat as my sled vaulted off the edge, seemingly into the void. It was not quite so dangerous — the gyroscope kept the sled level while the downward fans slowed the descent enough for a manageable thump on landing.

But one racer was not so lucky. His sled clipped a boulder at the cliff's edge and tumbled end-over-end until it slammed into the surf with a huge splash.

"That's gotta hurt," I mumbled.

Between cliff and surf, we jockeyed for position along a black pebble beach. With few obstacles, I opened up the throttle, but so did the others. I came up alongside Electra's sled, which sported brightly painted lightning bolts, just like her helmet, and we exchanged mock salutes.

The next beacon flashed at the end of a narrow, rocky peninsula that jutted out into the waves like a bony finger. To pass it would require a tight, nearly one-hundred-eighty degree turn, not an easy thing to do on a levitating sled. These things don't make sharp turns very well. Controlled by the yokes, directional thrust helped, but was not enough. The key is to bank the sled, drifting the turn much like the old wheeled race cars while minimizing the air rudders, controlled by foot pedals, which increased drag and sapped valuable speed.

The lead racer took the turn too fast and spun out over the sea. A wave crest caught the sled's edge, tumbling it into the water. One more down.

I came to the turn next, closely followed by Electra. My sled shuddered, protesting as I wrenched the yokes and stomped a pedal to put it into a sideways slide. I thought it went well, but Electra shifted her sled to the inside track and shot past, gaining a sizable lead after the turn.

What the hell?

"Mac, did you see that?" I yelled into the com. "How did she take so tight a line?"

"That shouldn't be possible," he replied. "Bet she installed some lateral pulse thrusters."

"That's illegal!"

"Yup."

"I hate it when other people cheat." We should have thought of that...

"Not like us. Huh?" Mac scoffed. "Squeeze up on her arse and, when the time is right, make your move."

"You're a dirty old man, Mac."

"Damn right."

Electra widened her lead as the course wound along a narrow bay, taking advantage of her sled's cornering ability. She deliberately skirted the water line, spewing mist on those who followed, especially me. Salty water tingled my tongue as I wiped my helmet visor.

With little thought, I turned into the churning bay.

"What the hell are you doing, Chase?" Mac yelled over the com.

I didn't answer. His concern was valid. A skim sled will fly over water, but if the swells get very high, like now, you could easily catch a wave and dunk yourself. Steering to stay within a trough between waves, I created a shortcut across the bay. Wave crests flanked me, frothy edges like claws snatching. But the risk worked, and I came ashore dampened, but just behind Electra.

At the next beacon, the course left the sea behind, ascending again into the hills along a broad rocky wash. I stayed close to Electra, not quite on her arse, as Mac advised, but to the side because of the dust clouds that churned in her wake. The winding turns that dodged red rock outcroppings were not so tight that she had a distinct advantage. Clumps of low brush and dry grass passed in streaking blurs.

Electra maneuvered to protect her lead, weaving back and forth, or cutting to the inside track on curves. But I had no intention of taking the lead now. "Not yet, sweetie," I mumbled, grinning. That label had always drawn her ire. She was many things, but sweet was not one of them.

We left the others behind as the track climbed into the hills. The more plentiful spruce trees slowed down our pace as we laced our way through them, now nearly side-by-side.

The last beacon stood at the mouth of a narrow valley surrounded by tall red-sandstone cliffs. As before, Electra made an unnaturally tight turn into the valley, aided by the illegal lateral thrusters. This time, I noticed the brief flare as they fired. As a result, she widened her lead to four sled-lengths going into the final stretch. The stadium and finish line loomed in the ever-shortening distance.

Now, it was my turn.

Flipping a switch on a yoke, I activated the booster. Acceleration from the power surge pressed me into my seat as the thrusters howled in response.

I made a small wave to Electra as I passed her, then crossed the finish line a half sled-length ahead. Bet the viewers loved that.

The crowd leaped to their feet and roared as I spun my sled to a stop before the grandstand, kicking up dust. Standing on the sled, I lifted my helmet high and basked in the applause.

Electra stopped beside me and jumped out of her sled while throwing down her helmet, revealing spiked bright-red hair. With fists clenched, teeth bared, and eyes blazing, she came up in my face. "What the hell was that?"

"What?" I replied, putting on my best innocent expression.

She seethed. "That acceleration. You cheated!"

I dropped my jaw in faux surprise. "You mean, kinda like illegal lateral thrusters?"

"This isn't over, Chase." Electra jammed a finger into my chest, then stomped away. The crowd roared again, loving the drama.

*****

Mac contorted his dark face as the footage played again on the tavern viewscreen — not the race highlights, but afterward, with me sticking my foot clear down my throat. Then a red-faced politician railed against my words, calling them violence inciting. Probably true.

"Good God, Chase," Mac said, rolling his eyes. "You could have walked around the political cesspool, but no, you had to jump in."

Also true. At the post-race reception, a half-drunk Councilman launched into a tirade about the Scrubbers, calling us inferior and ungrateful, but using less charitable words. I shoved him up against the wall and responded in kind, laying out all the injustices and inequities the Elites used to maintain their lavish lifestyle, also using less than charitable words. And it was all caught on camera.

That Councilman got under my skin, besides being a politician. It was not so much that the Scrubbers were so much more virtuous than the Elites — there were plenty of vice to both groups. Maybe it was that I was a Scrubber. Yeah, that and alcohol.

"It's all true," I said.

"Did you think of the consequences?" Mac sighed as he finished his ale and slid off the barstool. "I doubled security around our sled. The extra cost is coming out of your cut."

Yeah, consequences. Already there were reports of escalated protests and violence. All because of me.

And with that depressing thought, I sat alone at the bar, clutching my half-empty mug.

"You really stirred the shit pot this time," a familiar voice said. Electra perched herself on the barstool beside me and caught the bartender's attention. "Whisky. Put it on his tab."

"Did you come here to rub it in?" I said in a caustic voice.

But Electra's amber eyes held none of the earlier anger, rather concern. With a sharply angled face, spiky red hair, and athletic form displayed by a tight black jumpsuit, she projected a rugged type of beauty and self-confidence. It was these qualities that originally drew me to her, and still do. She grew up in an Elite family, but had none of the pretentiousness.

"I've come to warn you. The Council is very unhappy about your remarks."

"No shit," I scoffed. "What are they going to do? Kill me?"

She grinned. "Not directly. You have too much of a following and they don't want a martyr." Her grin faded. "It was highly suggested that if you were to die in the race... Well, you know."

"Great," I groaned, then lifted my eyes to hers. "Why are you telling me this? Trying to get me to bow out?"

"Hell, no." She threw back the whisky shot and pursed her lips while swallowing. Even though Electra didn't win our last race, she still had enough points to qualify for the Grand Championship. "I want you in the race so I can beat you. But be careful."

I grinned and nodded. "And there I thought you were gettin' sweet on me again."

"Maybe..." Electra's expression softened. "Just don't die, okay?"

After Electra walked away, I signaled the bartender, a skinny man with tan skin. "How much do I owe?"

"On the house," he replied to my surprise. Raising a hand, he answered my unasked question. "I'm a Scrubber like you. Everything you said needed to be said. There are many of us, and we will root for you."

His words warmed my heart, but also twinged my gut. The race had become about much more than just me.

*****

Twelve sleds lined up six-by-two, and no surprise that I started in the back. Because of extra scrutiny, Mac didn't dare include any illegal modifications. The crowd was especially loud when the announcer called my name — half cheer and half jeer.

Twenty-two eyes glared at me from the field, but only two meant me no harm. I had a home-field advantage, though. The two-hundred kilometer course wound through the Wastelands near where I grew up.

So, bring it on!

I put on a sweet smile and wiggled my fingers at the other racers with obvious sarcasm. Probably should not have done that.

As I buckled in, Mac came over the com. "Try not to die, Chase."

"Mac, you're the second person who told me that. I'm gettin' all warm and fuzzy inside."

"Phfft..."

The Wastelands comprised of rocky vermillion mesas separated by sparsely vegetated sandy washes. Because of little rain, high daytime temperatures, and high concentrations of heavy metals and toxic salts, nobody lived here. But that didn't stop the Elites from sending Scrubbers out on dangerous mining expeditions, like me, one miserable summer.

When the green light came on, twenty-four thrusters boomed thunder. And off we went. I chose a similar strategy to my previous race — hang behind the fray at first, then after the field thinned, make my move. And sure enough, at the first turn, two sleds crashed into each other and tumbled across the rocky ground, churning dust.

The racers shifted to a single file as the course climbed a series of tight narrow switchbacks. Ahead, a racer took a corner too fast, then slid down the steep slope to embed his sled in the sand below.

Three down.

At a turn, the sled ahead of me unexpectedly slowed down, and I nearly ran into it. Then he poured power into the thrusters and re-accelerated. The thruster wash blasted against me, causing my sled to buck and shudder.

It was an old dirty trick to shake a pursuer. "Prick," I mumbled as hot anger rose in my gut.

The path widened slightly ahead, so I accelerated to nudge between the offending sled and a rocky ledge. As the path narrowed, my sled scraped rock, and I pushed against his rear corner-panel. That sent him into a flat spin, and he disappeared over the edge.

Four down.

A beacon blinked red where the winding path deposited us on a long mesa top. I stayed just behind the lead group as they spread out, picking a line that avoided the dust wakes. The route became rockier until the group slowed to dodge boulders and angled red rock outcroppings. Two sleds battled for the inside path between boulder piles. They bounced off each other and crashed into the rocks, flipping over as if in a choreographed gymnastics display. But they didn't stick the landing.

Five and six down.

The course descended along a long, wide ridge to a ten-meter high rock cliff. I was close behind the pack when we made the jump to the Alkali Flat. Electra had a slight lead.

The Flat was a desiccated salt plain, in the rain shadow of the massive Sawtooth mountains. A dust devil danced a twirling jig far ahead. Shimmering heat often produced water mirages which had lured many past travelers to their deaths. Also, tales abounded of how gangs and warlords disposed of their victims in shallow graves here, eventually to be consumed by the caustic salts.

With few obstacles on the parched white surface, we all opened up the throttles. Levitated above the surface, the racers spread out, whipping flumes of dust and salt in their wakes. The high sun that blazed down took its toll, and sweat dampened my skin.

Ever so slowly, I moved up until even with the others. That bit of extra speed compared to the others was a testament to Mac's skills as a sled mechanic. I might have taken the lead, but two sleds converged on me from both sides.

"Watch out!" Mac shouted over the com.

"I see 'em," I growled.

A mere second before they rammed me, I pulled back one yoke, cutting power to the right thruster, and angled the air rudder with the foot pedals. This put me into a clockwise spin, a risky move at such a high speed. The aggressors missed, passing in front and bumping the noses of their sleds together. My sled jolted as it scraped against the sled to my right, which veered away. The other sled to my left fared much worse. My thruster exhaust blasted against it, getting underneath and launching it skyward, twisting through the air until it crashed down on the salty ground.

Seven down.

Resuming full thrust, I maneuvered my sled just in front of the other, spewing clouds of dusty salt over it. Caustic salts do not pair well with tight-clearance high-torque turbines. The other sled slowed and fell back, streamers of thin blue smoke trailing.

Eight down.

Another voice came over the com. "Good move, but brutal," Electra commented.

"They pissed me off," I answered.

The four remaining racers continued to the beacon at the far end of the Alkali Flat. From there, the course turned, skirting gray granite cliffs before climbing into dry hills. From somewhere above, a low-frequency whomp popped my ears.

"Rock fall! shouted Mac over the com. "Veer hard left!"

I did so without question, barely missing a huge, jagged boulder that rolled past. Smaller rocks pelted my sled, one painfully glancing off my shoulder. I spun out and came to a stop. The settling dust revealed that the whole cliff-face had slid down in massive slabs. This rock slide was not natural.

The sled that had been beside me did not fare well, smashed under a slab.

"Electra, do you read?" I called out over the com. No answer.

"Mac, do you see Electra?"

"No. She got caught up in the rockfall."

I threw off my seat restraints and stood as I circled my sled around the slide, heart pounding, while I scanned the rocks. There ahead, within a pile of boulders, smoke poured from the thrusters of her overturned sled. Jumping from my sled, I scrambled over the rocks, then crawled on my belly to get to her.

"Electra, are you alright?" She groaned in response. Fortunately, the roll cage had done its job and saved her life.

In the dusty darkness, I unhooked her harness and carefully pulled her out from under the sled. Once away, I picked her up in my arms, bringing her to my chest, and carried her to safety just before flames burst from the thrusters. I placed her on the edge of my sled and took off her helmet.

"Are you okay?" I asked in a breathy voice.

"Oh my God," she replied with a groan as her wits returned. "Did you just rescue me like some damsel in distress?"

"Something like that."

She turned her head, taking in the surroundings. "And you gave up the race for me?"

"Yeah. Some things are even more important than winning," I replied with a grin. "You should be grateful."

"What do you want? A kiss?"

I slid closer, putting a arm around her shoulders. "That would be a good start."

*****

Electra abruptly sat up in her bed, still dressed in her racing tights because she refused the standard hospital pink gown. Medical monitors above gently beeped and drew colored lines. "I'm fine," she grumbled. "Let's get out of here." But then her eyes rolled back as the color drained from her cheeks. I helped her lay back down. "Maybe not yet," she relented.

Mac burst into the room with a sly-grin. "That was some suck-face. Didn't think you two would ever come up for air."

My eyes shot open. "You saw?"

"Hell, the whole world witnessed it." Mac pulled his com-viewer from a pocket, touched the transparent screen, and turned it to us. There we were in full lip-lock on the cover page of some scandal blog. 'Scrubber and Elite Racers Make Love, Not War,' the headline read. "You're trending big-time. The riots have stopped and the Council even said they would review their policies."

"Really? Because of a kiss?"

"Who would have thought?" he said with a shrug. "But the public wants more. There are a shit-load of reporters waiting outside for both of you."

I turned to Electra with a sly grin. "We might as well play the part. You know, for the good of humanity?"

"Fine," Electra huffed, rolling her eyes. "But I'm still going to beat your arse in the next race."

I bent down and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead, then whispered, "Bring it."