SL Huang - Up and Coming - Stories by the 2016 Campbell-Eligible Authors

A huge hydrocarbon pocket’s dead ahead, unavoidable. I take a deep breath and brace myself for the reduced visibility and increased drag as I sink into it.

It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dimness. I hit something and nearly double over in pain. My eyes widen at a lifeless body in a pressurized suit just like mine, hovering in the cloud. There’s no telling how long the body’s been trapped here.

Oh god. There are more of them. Dozens…Too many helmets knocked aside, revealing ghostly pale faces, slightly bloated, eyes open or closed, blood staining their suits, slash marks cutting through the thick material along necks and wrists…The cold, the hydrocarbons, must slow the rate of decay.

Dinner claws its way back up my throat. I choke it back as I try to maneuver between the bodies. I can make out the company’s logo on some of the suits. Bodies usually get incinerated on the rig. But this…so many…The convict uprising?

I’ve pieced together enough of the history to know a team of convicts were assigned to repair a faulty exterior handling unit. A dangerous mission requiring self-propelled pressurized suits with safety lines tethering them to the rig. And now those suits are the very things keeping them in gruesome orbit around Titan.

Instead of repairs, the convicts cut the lines and tried to highjack control of the rig. The company security force fought them off. I’m not sure if tensions between the convicts and the rig staff will ever go away.

I should keep going, keep my head down and get out of here, but I’m looking for him . The one who gave me life and then made it worse.

A figure on the periphery demands my attention. There’s nothing special about it, except for the black hair, glossy dark just like mine. A sturdy build that’ll be mine in a few years.

Without thinking, I’m already banking to sweep around and take another look. I blink back sweat and something else as I stare into my father’s face.

He’s not scary, not in the way I expected from all the hushed tones in which he’s been mentioned over the years. I have his cheekbones and jaw but Shima’s lips and nose. His eyes are closed, relaxed, despite the iron-brown stain across his front.

But he’s still a stranger. And he can’t hold me back any longer. I won’t let him.

My stomach heaves. I’ve got to keep going. I’ve got to find the research vessel. My only way out. With my wings, they can’t doubt my determination. I’ll prove myself useful. I’ll prove I am more .

A few flaps of my wings, and I escape the cloud.

I force myself to ignore the sick crusted to the inside of my helmet. I barely register the burn of my shoulders and pectorals. I only have eyes for the dark blip on the horizon. The research vessel.

If I had hesitated, if I hadn’t learned about it from Shima…No. I won’t think about that or the fact I didn’t have a chance to say goodbye to Tokala. But Dr. Veler will understand. At least she’ll try.

The bright lights urge me on. As I get closer I spy an observation deck where I can strip off my wings. Set down what I’ve been carrying so long. They can chain me to their machine shop if they want. I don’t care.

So long as the vessel leaves Titan’s orbit one day, that’s all that matters.

The Journal of Unlikely Cryptography. Unlikely Story, Issue 11. February 2015.

Machine oil and carnauba wax scent the air as I go through my crosscheck. Drone cameras buzz and flash overhead. My hover bike—all gleaming chrome and hard-molded plastic—sits on blocks in the open-air stall as it charges. Beyond, the crowded arena rumbles, rippling into cheers as the other riders emerge from the locker room to check their gear one last time before the race.

A qualifying round, one of those free-for-alls where all you care about is crossing the finish line before anyone else. By any means possible.

I clench my fingers as another wave of cheers crashes around me. Sweat beads across my upper lip. No help for it. Time to queue up a vid-chain.

Closing my eyes, I use my neural implant to start the program. My heartbeat slows as the first clip slides past in the periphery of my vision. Lucio knows what settles my nerves—mostly scenery pans: lush forests, windswept fields, mountains majesty.

The knot in my stomach has almost loosened completely when someone slaps my shoulder. Gritting my teeth, I blink back the images. I find Ari giving me a lop-sided grin and nearly groan. “What do you want? It’s almost post time.” I brush past him and grab my riding gloves and helmet from the bench along the low wall separating my stall from his.

His grin deepens. “Oh, come on, Jack.” He waggles his bushy eyebrows. “Can’t you get excited for a race just once in your life?”

My stomach lurches in protest, and I momentarily refocus on the rolling countryside scrolling along the edges of my vision. Deep breaths. “You know how it is,” I say through my teeth.

Ari laughs and slaps my back again. “What? That the legendary Jack Deseronto nearly wets himself before each race?”

“Knock it off.”

“All right. All right. I’m just a bit amped.”

I snort. Ari’s always amped.

His gaze sharpens on me. “Sorry, man. I didn’t realize you’re already boosting. I forgot Lucio builds in a longer lead up for you.”

I attempt a shrug. “Helps me race on my own terms, you know?” I had a nasty spill a few months after going pro and never got over the gut-clenching terror of that moment.

Ari shakes his head. “All I know is you’re the only guy on the hover cross circuit who lets the carnage on the track get to him.”

“Can still beat you any day.”

He laughs and gives me a knowing look. “I’ll leave you to it then.”

“No, it’s okay.” And it is. There’s too much history between us for it not to be. We joined the tour four years ago, and we’re still here, now racing for the same sponsor. Though neither one of us have medalled recently. Tonight will be different though. I can feel it. Or maybe it’s just the chain.

I rub my face. “So what did you want?”

He glances at the other stalls, then leans in. “Got a new vid-chain for today. Marek approved it a few hours ago.”

“Really? Didn’t think Lucio liked rush jobs.”

“Doesn’t matter if Marek’s the one asking.” He winks. “Got a good feeling about this one. Keigo won’t have a chance—”

Screams drown out my response as Keigo Atori enters the arena, waving to the cameras. Cocky, after taking gold the last few tournaments. Keigo scans the other stalls, stopping when he finds me and Ari. He gives me a deferential nod, and I return it despite Ari’s elbow digging into my side.

Keigo turns his attention to his bike, and Ari sighs. “High and mighty bastard. He won’t last, you’ll see.”

“Cool it. You’re not doing my stomach any favors.”

Ari holds up his hands and backs away. “All right, grandpa.” He hops the wall separating his stall from mine.

I give him a sharp nod. “Good luck.”

Another grin. “I like you, Jack, but I like you better when I’m higher up on the podium.”

I just shake my head and put on my gloves. Then the helmet. The crowd noise is dampened, and with a blink I turn up the music that accompanies the chain. Thrash metal like always. The only stuff loud and unpleasant enough to drown everything else out.

Moments later, the lights flash overhead. Time to line up.

I kick my bike into gear. With a slight hum, it repulses from the blocks and hovers in the air. I have to fight the giddy breathless feeling I always get and just focus on the bike beneath me. The crowd roars as hover bikes and riders exit the stalls. Ari gives me a quick backwards wave as I maneuver my bike behind his and follow the procession up to the starting gate.