Road to Anywhere

Skim Racer

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."