Racers of the Night: Science Fiction Stories by Brad R. Torgersen Read Online Free PDF Page B

Her helmet was clutched in one hand, her elbows on her knees. It was time to go. She felt it in her bones. The race was on. And yet, not. Standing up, she started towards the door to the pit—and stopped short as someone else walked in from the door on the opposite side.
    The visitor wasn’t in coveralls. Instead, she wore a vintage evening gown styled like those worn by glamour models at the tail end of the previous century: slit high on one thigh, strapless, low-cut, and strategically boned so as to create a gravity-defying silhouette with plenty of cleavage. The dress’s satin fabric was embedded with fiber optics that swirled and rippled in various tints and hues of bright blue light.
    “Sally,” Jane said softly.
    The ex Mrs. Cazetti smiled, but didn’t say anything. She walked skillfully on a set of platform heels across the ready room to the opposite wall, turned, and leaned against it.
    Recent memory swirled: the Falcon had been pinned, then flipped, followed by a long, frantic parabola over the track towards the surface of the Moon just beyond …
    Jane felt herself begin to tremble as she stared at the silent apparition whose likeness had towered over Cazetti Raceway since before Jane had been born.
    Death—the possibility of it—had always haunted Jane as long as she’d driven the lunar tracks. Yet at the same time, somehow, it never bothered her. She’d been too busy winning. Victory upon victory, each purse growing a little larger. Each season, her horizons broadened a little bit more.
    But now …
    “Why?” Jane said at Sally, slamming her helmet to the white floor. “I was going to do it. I was going to take the Armstrong Cup. I was going to win.”
    Sally seemed untroubled by the outburst. Her artfully shadowed eyes glanced past Jane’s shoulder, in the direction of the pit door.
    Jane glared at her nemesis, fuming, then slowly turned her head as a second figure entered the ready room.
    Like Jane, the second visitor was clad in a racer’s suit. Its colorful vacuum-tight fabric hugged the racer’s athletically feminine body, in spite of frumpy insulation and hoses.
    The other racer looked whisperingly familiar, but in a way Jane couldn’t quite put her finger on.
    The racer’s free hand jerked a thumb towards the pit door behind her.
    Time to go.
    “I know, I know,” Jane said, but couldn’t move. Her eyes remained locked on the racer’s face. So similar to someone Jane knew. Yet, different too.
    “Ellen,” Jane finally breathed. The racer had Bill’s nose, and his prominent cheek bones. She was younger than Jane, and had a bit of cockiness in the way she stood, her eyes staring sympathetically down at Jane’s confused and angry face.
    Ellen jerked her thumb over her shoulder a second time.
    Jane looked to the pit door, which remained open. Then back at Ellen, who had begun to stare at Sally across the ready room. A coldly invisible beam of acknowledgement seemed to pass between the two—opposed ghosts conjured for Jane’s benefit, or peril. It was crazy, but it also made perfect sense too. Somehow, it all made perfect sense. Like a waking dream.
    Jane felt questions tickling at the back of her tongue, but her mouth made no sound. She simply watched the two spectral women. They stared forcefully at one another for several long, agonizing seconds. Then Ellen walked purposefully to where Jane stood, bent to the floor, and retrieved Jane’s helmet.
    Ellen passed the helmet respectfully into Jane’s hands, then jerked her thumb over her shoulder a third time. No words. But the message was clear.
    Sally Tincakes stepped away from the wall, but stopped short as Ellen walked past Jane and stood in Sally’s path. With her fists balled on her hips, Ellen didn’t look over her shoulder as Jane felt a sudden urgency to move.
    Quickly, strength flowed back into Jane’s legs.
    It took a few broad strides to make it through pit door.
    She was already putting her helmet on.
    • • •
    Jane