The Elementalists

Chapter 5

Rai

'Henry, watch out!'

And the crowd goes wild as we whizz around the corner—nearly hitting Saffron, swerve Henry!—a bunch of racers—novices—scattering as we burst through their midst, drones knocked clean out of the air. The breeze whips through my hair and my eyes begin to stream.

But there it is—the finish line. So close. . .

'Hurry, Henry, c'mon!'

His motor whirring with effort, Henry zooms forwards; I pinch my knees tighter together, flattening myself as much as I can as we soar over the audience.

'Almost—there—almost—'

No! From out of nowhere, Quail drops down in front of us. His drone, Edgar, spits a trail of black sludge behind him, right in my face.

'Ugh!'

The finish line is too close, we'll never beat Quail now—

'Yeesh, Henry, is this stuff toxic?' I spit out a mouthful of sludge as the crowd gasp, a noise of collective heartbreak for my about-to-be-stolen victory. . .

Beep-boop. Henry's light sensors flash double-red: negative.

'Right.' I grit my teeth. 'Ready to knock this asshole out the sky?'

Bee-dee-boop! Two blue flashes: game on.

'GO!' I yell and with a high-pitched stream of beeps and squeaks—watch your mouth, Henry! —we dive, a stomach-lurching nose-drop. I glance up; Quail is turning, desperately trying to see where I've gone, taking his eyes off the prize for a fraction of a second too long. . .

'Now!'

I slam on the breaks; Henry shoots up like a cork exploding from a bottle. Our velocity exactly on point. I look up just in time to see Quail's eyes widen in horror—oh heyy, buddy—and we crash with full-force straight into him.

There's a horrible crunch of metal and limbs. Flailing, smashing together—Henry judders and jolts beneath me. It takes all my skill to keep my feet on the handlebars and knees tucked in. Then I open my eyes: Quail is spiralling, Edgar totally out of control, before crash-landing on the sand of the arena floor.

Henry and I breeze past the finish line, my arms outstretched in victory. And the crowd? They go nuts.

Hah! Like there's a drone-rider out there that can take me and Henry down.

We land with a soft flump on the sand and I jump off Henry; he takes off again over my head as I'm immediately mobbed by my gaggle of dronies. Yup, that's right. There's a word for drone groupies—and I have them.

'Ohmigod, wow, Rai, you're such a good pilot!'

'Can you take me riding one day?'

'Can I touch it? I mean, him? I mean—ah, I'm sorry, I sound like such a fanboy—'

­ And Henry saunters down reluctantly, letting his adoring fans reach towards his little round body, all sleek and shiny. Aw, hell, I sigh. They're breathing all over him. I'll have to polish him all over again.

'Nice one, Rai.' Quail finally hobbles over, Edgar tucked under his arm; he gives me a rueful smile, dabbing his nose with the back of his hand. 'You sure screwed me over, didn't you.'

'Sorry about your nose.' I offer him a tissue from my pocket, but he just laughs and wipes his nose on his sleeve, smudging blood across his chin. I get it; after all, cuts and bruises are the signs of a good rider. This isn't a sport for the delicate.