Racers of the Night: Science Fiction Stories by Brad R. Torgersen by Brad R. Torgersen Page A

slow blur.
    Stacked columns of pallets swayed like hula dancers. Lisa was screaming and trying to get to the door, only she kept having her feet knocked out from under her. One of the columns tilted too far, and collapsed against the side of the kiln. Then another. Godfrey managed to keep his feet, his mouth hanging open and his eyes gone stupidly wide. The column next to him started to give—this time, towards the middle of the kiln.
    Ivarsen’s reaction was so fast I didn’t even realize what had happened until both he and Godfrey were on the floor, sliding out of the path of the collapsing bricks.
    One of the walls popped thunderously, and a new crack split wide from floor to ceiling, shining a shaft of light crossways to that which already flooded in from the main door.
    Two more columns of bricks went down.
    And then … silence.
    Lisa and I were coughing spastically on the dust that had filled the kiln. I discovered I’d been sitting on my butt the entire time. Heaps of whole and broken bricks were everywhere, and I got to my feet to move around to where I thought I’d last seen Ivarsen and the kid.
    I got there just in time to see Godfrey crown Ivarsen with a brick the size of my forearm. Our guard crumpled.
    “Oh shit—” I said.
    The kid moved quickly, snatching the pistol out of Ivarsen’s holster and pointing it at me while he used his free hand to explore the pockets of Ivarsen’s shorts.
    Lisa froze when she came around the corner and saw what was happening.
    “You stupid, stupid asshole,” I said to Godfrey. “Ivarsen saved your life.”
    “Fraccaro, you and Phaan get against the wall.”
    Lisa and I didn’t move until Godfrey thumbed the pistol’s safety and pulled the hammer back. Then we raised our hands and backed into the shadows as Godfrey came away with the keycard for the dumper.
    “You won’t make it,” Lisa said, deadpan. “The chip is already sending its alarm to the satellite.”
    Godfrey scoffed. “Pig ‘aint dead. Just knocked out.”
    I looked at Ivarsen’s still form, and thought I saw thick, dark fluid running from the back of his head where Godfrey had hit him.
    “If he dies,” I said, “then we’re dead too.”
    “You, maybe,” Godfrey replied. “I’m out of here.”
    “Where are you going to go, kid? There’s no native forage on this land mass. And they can track the movement of the dumper. You’ll be—”
    “Shut the hell up, Fraccaro. Maybe you like being a slave. Not me. Freedom’s better than nothin’. I’ll take my chances.”
    Finally, the rage that had been rising in me, boiled over.
    “Damn you, I was getting paroled!”
    Godfrey considered this while sidling towards the doorway. He looked back at Ivarsen, then to Lisa, and then to me.
    “Sorry man,” was all he said.
    Then he was gone, and Lisa and I were rushing to Ivarsen’s side. The guard’s heart still beat, and his lungs took in air. That was good. But the deep laceration on his head bled profusely, and I dared not explore it for fear of finding pulp where there should be skull.
    Lisa ripped open Ivarsen’s shirt and we tore off pieces to use as a temporary bandage.
    Outside, the dumper’s electric engine started up. We heard its large tires crunch on the dirt while Godfrey drove away.
    Lisa was cursing and started to rise to her feet, but I stopped her.
    “Let him go. We’ve got more immediate concerns.”
    She thought for a second.
    “We can take him on the shovel. It will be fastest.”
    I nodded—there was a first aid locker in Ivarsen’s hooch.
    Would we get to it in time?
    • • •
    Godfrey had gone off-road and disappeared over the southern hills by the time we got Ivarsen back to camp. I drove the shovel while Lisa sat on a pallet that we’d cleared, and which now held Ivarsen’s unmoving body. The pallet was perched on the fork of the shovel’s hydraulic arm, and I did my best to avoid bumps. At ten kilometers an hour, it took precious minutes to motor out of the