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

Jenny pushes her hair behind her ear. “Hey, are you going to be in that tournament this weekend?”

“The Oceanside Exhibition?” I shake my head. “No. I’m not racing.”

“Oh. I thought I read somewhere you’re participating.”

Marek. That bastard. I told him no, and he still thinks he can go over my head.

I use my implant to scan the roster for the exhibition and, sure enough, I’m on it. A dozen posts come up, filled with speculation about what my appearance means. Hell no.

I turn my attention back to Jenny. “Well, I’m not.”

Her eyes drift to the scar on my forehead. Shit. Not her too. I get enough looks from the people on the street: There goes Jack Deseronto, the washed-up hover cross star. Will he regain glory or limp into exile? I really don’t care either way so long as it’s on my terms.

“I get it,” she says, smiling again.

No, she really doesn’t. “I gotta go.”

I don’t wait for her answer. I skip out of the archives for the day and make my way to the maglevs. I flop down in a seat in the front-most car. Green and blue scenery ticks past like 16mm footage as the train picks up speed. My hands bunch into fists every time the train stops to admit more passengers. It’s only while we’re moving that I can think.

When I get to Lucio’s, he waves me off. “Not today, my friend. You don’t look too good.”

“I don’t feel too good.” My hands twitch at my side. If I turn my head too quickly, it’s like a chain of individual stills stitched together instead of a continuous pan. “Everything’s breaking down. I’ve taken the maglev out to the end of the line and back but it’s not working. I need—”

“No, you really don’t. Trust me. I’ve been there.”

I blink and try to follow Lucio’s face. One minute he’s behind the counter. The next his hand clasps my shoulder, and I jump.

“Vid-boosting’s like looking into the sun. Too much, and you’ll go blind.” He tuts. “How did that new chain work out?” he asks, all businesslike once more.

My nose wrinkles. “I had trouble getting over the soundtrack. Kept interfering with the boost.”

“Keep trying.”

I wave my hands at my head, a helpless gesture. They feel disconnected from my body. “But it’s not doing anything.”

Lucio sucks in his cheeks. “I can’t give you another chain. Not if you’re not racing. Marek’s orders.”

“But the boost…I need it. You know why.”

A wave of pain passes over his face. He was Ari’s friend too. “If you’ve exhausted all your old chains…” He steps closer and peers into my eyes. “And clearly you have, there’s nothing I can do.”

See, the mind can be tricked, but not for long—too many reruns, and the effect crashes. Game over. You can tweak the context, pushing the boundaries of flow, but even that will break down eventually.

“But—”

“Marek said no more freebies. And that means you, my friend.”

A wave of blood-red darkness swamps my vision. “You wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for me and Ari,” I say. It comes out more like a snarl. “You were just a montage hack working piecemeal.” Custom jobs for cinéastes and movie freaks who loved the nostalgia or getting their brains scrambled—maybe both—along with more twisted fucks who could only get it up if there was enough visual stimuli to keep them going.

“Jack, I’m sorry. The chains, what you’re doing isn’t healthy. You need—”

I step toward him, and he flinches back. “What I need is a new one.” Tremors rip through my hands, and sweat dampens my palms.

“Ari wouldn’t want this for you.”

I shudder, buffeted by an invisible breeze. “Don’t talk to me about him.” My arm snaps out and connects with a display case. Glass shards dance everywhere. They tinkle onto the linoleum until the only sound is my ragged breathing.

My eyes squeeze shut. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s all right, Jack.” Lucio sighs, sounding more tired than I’ve ever heard him. “Keep trying the last chain I gave you, tinny sound and all. Because if that doesn’t work, I won’t be able to help you.”

Saturday morning I’m torn out of bed by someone trying to break down the door to my apartment. I really don’t need this, not with the headache threatening to implode my temples. But the knocking doesn’t stop.

I shuffle to the door, ready to destroy whoever it is, but it’s Marek and he’s brought Vaughn.

Marek smiles grimly. “I see you slept in.”

Vaughn shoulders past me and starts rooting around in my closet for my racing gear.

I turn back to Marek. “I already told you I’m not doing it.”

“Don’t be stupid. You do what I tell you.”

Vaughn escorts me to the car. My head still hurts, and Marek keeps going on about respect and honor. He gives me a hard look. “The house always wins.” I can’t tell if he’s actually delivering his lines like some hard-boiled goon or if I’m so far gone I can’t distinguish between the boosts and reality anymore.

I decide it doesn’t matter when the car pulls up to the track bordering the ocean. Sweat drips down my spine. Bleachers already full are clustered at the bottom of the course.

“Let’s not do this the hard way, Mr. Deseronto. Get out of the car like a good boy,” Marek says.

I spy Keigo Atori’s fan bus in the parking lot. Digital projections of his face and a bunch of Japanese characters cavort along the vehicle’s exterior. I clench my hands in my lap. “Why can’t you just leave me out of it?”

“Because that wouldn’t be very sporting.”

“I don’t understand.”

Marek chuckles—like stones clacking together in his chest. “Then let me explain, Mr. Deseronto.” He waits until my eyes focus on him, then slides a black leather-bound book across the upholstery. “Do you know what this is?”

I shake my head and immediately regret it at the answering throb in my temples.

“This is the ledger where I keep track of the hover cross circuit. You and Ari made me a lot of money. At first. But then…” He holds up his hands. “Well, I had to diversify a bit.”

A sickening suspicion pushes past my brain fog. “Keigo? You gave him chains too?”

At Marek’s nod, my eyes slam shut.

“What do you want me to say? You boys had been doing so well I couldn’t make money betting on you anymore. Keigo kept things interesting, kept the odds ever changing.”

“Did Ari know?”

Marek pauses, his reptilian gaze unreadable. “I wanted you both focused on racing.”

The chauffeur opens the door, and I’m hit with the tang of the ocean. Fans’ voices drown out the constant roil of the waves. It’s funny. I’ve lived here for the last two years, and I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve been this close to the sea.

“You don’t want to miss post time, Mr. Deseronto,” Marek says.

“Am I supposed to win or lose?”

“I just need you to race.” He gives me that look again. “You need this too.”

I snort but I get out of the car. “Fine. But I’m not doing any interviews afterwards.”

Marek just inclines his head, and the chauffer closes the door, shuttering my view of the old man.

At the gate, my implant isolates me from the noise of the crowd. I start up the chain with the crap sound Lucio gave me. I mop my face one last time and try not to look at the white caps colliding with the cliff face that hugs the course.

My breathing slows to match the tempo of the music. Then it increases in intensity so slowly I almost don’t notice it. The images change too. Cuts are quicker, more violent, moving. And I need to move with them.