IGMS Issue 28 Page 3

  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 woke up trying to gasp, and couldn't.

  She'd been in and out of the hospital a few times during her racing years, replete with scuffs and broken bones from spills on the junior tracks.

  But nothing could have prepared her to be seeing the inside of the coffin-like full-metabolic support unit that housed her now. A small window showed her the ceiling, while warm fluid gurgled around her ears. Several tubes felt like they fed into her mouth and down her throat -- they were horribly uncomfortable.

  Jane lifted a hand weakly and scratched at the window with her fingertips.

  Quickly, several faces appeared in succession, each of them examining hers.

  Then, a hissing noise, and all the fluid began to drain away from around Jane's prone body. The coffin came open, and several surgically-suited medical people were extracting the tubes from her esophagus. She coughed and sputtered, hacking violently, which caused tremendous pain in her ribs, until she was shaking like a leaf and breathing in huge gulps of air.

  Too disoriented to wave the medical people away, she let them towel her off and sit her up -- which also hurt. But at least she was in one piece, or so things seemed. When she tried to talk, she croaked like a frog -- her vocal cords soggy. Someone who had the officious demeanor of a physician began poking and prodding, shining his light into her eyes and asking her questions to which she answered by holding up either one finger, or two.

  Once they got her into a proper medical gown, they tucked her between the sheets of a rolling gurney which spirited her away from the critical care ward with its rows of identical, human-sized immersion capsules.

  Jane went through several brightly-lit hallways, her hand weakly raised to shield her eyes from the harsh glare. Then she was deposited in a softly-lit intensive care room. She felt them plug her into the monitoring and life support station that sat like a pillar in the room's center. A pepper-haired male nurse spoke comforting words, then disappeared. Leaving Jane in a fuzzy stupor that could have lasted minutes, hours, or days.

  Clarity was achingly gradual. Staff came, and staff went. Always, they murmured encouragingly to her as they checked her connections to the monitor, and adjusted the intravenous tubes that snaked away from the tops of both wrists. Jane's mouth became dry, and they let her drink water. When her stomach grumbled, they gave her soup. When her bowels complained, they ushered her delicately to the lavatory and back, her tubes and wires trailing behind her.

  Finally, the floor physician disconnected her from the ICU tower, and she was again whisked by gurney through a series of brightly-lit hallways, until she was left in a simpler, less mechanized room.

  She weakly depressed the stud on the gurney that would call the nurse, and was surprised when a familiar face poked through her sliding glass door.

  Bill wouldn't look her in the eyes when he hesitantly entered her patient room.

  "I'm glad you came to see me," she said, her voice soft and breathy.

  "I've been in and out of this hospital at least a dozen times since they brought you in," Bill replied, hand wrapped tightly around the cup of coffee he'd brought. "I almost couldn't take seeing you comatose in the critical ward. You looked as good as dead. The medics said your heart and lungs had stopped. That the machines were doing all the work, at least for awhile."

  Jane nodded, and let her head fall back on her pillow while she closed her eyes, remembering the final instant before she hit ground.

  When she opened her eyes again, Bill was still there. Seated in the recliner at the gurney's side. Watching attentively.

  "It's a miracle that you landed where you did," Bill said. "All that regolith they dug up and piled on the edges of the track, it's like slushy snow. And meters deep. You soft landed. Or at least you landed and didn't turn to insta-jelly. The other drivers, they weren't so lucky."

  "I bet the footage of the wreck was all over the news," Jane said.

  "Biggest and most spectacular racing disaster in years," Bill said, then snorted. "They replayed it for a week, even on Earth. As the only survivor, your name got the headlines. If you check your e-mail you'll probably find several gazillion messages. You've suddenly become the best-known racer on the senior circuit. I've had at least a dozen companies contact me, wanting to know if they can hire you to be their spokeswoman -- assuming you didn't come out of the hospital a vegetable."

  Now it was Jane's turn to snort. Then she coughed, and lay still for a few quiet minutes.

  "I suppose I should feel lucky," Jane said.

  "Damn right you should," Bill replied. "You'll have time for survivor's guilt later. Trust me. I've been through a wreck or two in my day. Though nothing close to what you went through."

  Jane simply nodded. Bill slowly sipped at his coffee. Not saying another word.

  "I still need you, old man."

  He looked up.

  "For what?"

  "Sponsors and crash insurance should cover the medical bills, and they may even buy me a new bike."

  "The race is over," Bill said firmly.

  "For now, yes. But I'll be back. Next season. Cazetti hasn't seen the last of Jane Jeffords."<
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  Bill almost dropped his coffee into his lap.

  "The damned track takes you out, and you want to go back?"

  "Of course," Jane said, smiling. "Sally Tincakes already killed me. Once. She can't rightly get me twice, can she? That's double jeopardy. I swear to you, next year, this woman is hoisting the Armstrong Cup over her head."

  Jane jabbed a thumb at her chest in emphasis.

  Bill looked like he was about to argue, then sighed -- a long, tired sound.

  "How can you be so sure it won't happen again?"

  "I'm pretty sure."

  "How are you sure, though?"

  Jane swallowed hesitantly, considering whether or not to tell Bill everything she remembered from after the crash.

  "Let's just say I think it's what Ellen wants."

  "Ellen? My daughter? What's she got to do with this?"

  "Nothing. And everything. Maybe old Sally Tincakes has cursed Cazetti Raceway. But I think it's time to put paid to the legend. For Ellen. For every racer who died."

  Jane reached out a hand and laid it on Bill's age-freckled arm. He flinched at her touch, but he didn't move away. His old eyes had gone watery and several tears trailed down his age-weathered cheeks.

  "Ellen . . . " Bill whispered.

  "Yes," Jane said.

  The room was quiet for several minutes. Then Bill stood up and used a towel from the patient room's dispenser to wipe his face.

  "I doubt you'll have enough for a new Falcon," he said.

  "Maybe I can buy a used Firebee," Jane replied. "Something that will get me back on the track. Until I get my winnings up enough to buy something more sophisticated. Or maybe you were right, maybe it's not the crate, but the woman sitting in it that counts."

  Bill looked at her with his eyes large and worried, still not quite accepting her determination. But then he closed them and shook his head slowly, the smallest of smiles creeping onto his thin lips. He put down his towel and began chuckling. It was an odd sound, gravelly and low. But it was the first time Jane remembered the old guy laughing since she'd first met him.

  "Jay-Jay," he said between laughs, "did I ever tell you my daughter would have liked you?"

  "No," Jane said. When Bill didn't elaborate further, Jane clasped her hands in her lap and looked at him with raised eyebrows. "So what's your answer, old man? Are you with me?"

  They studied one another for a moment -- racer to racer. Then Bill crossed the

  tiled floor and stuck his palm out.

  "I'm with you," Bill said.

  Jane grasped his hand in hers -- and realized it was the first time they'd ever shaken. A good feeling. Strong. Solid.

  "We've got six months to get ready for next season," he said.

  "Plenty of time," Jane said. "Plenty of time."

  Blank Faces

  by M.K. Hutchins

  Artwork by Anna Repp

  * * *

  Sometimes, seems like my clothes are just mud. Cracked mud, wet clumpy mud, fine dusty mud. Underneath it, there's cloth somewhere, but it don't show on the outside much.

  I slouch out back of the saloon, under a lip of roof. Didn't have the money to be inside, and I'd already managed to steal a shot of whisky tonight. Barkeep said he'd cut my tongue out if I try another.

  That still made the saloon the safest place to steal from. Brothel, apothecary, and the main general store? They've got a sniper on their roof to shoot anyone who runs out suspicious-like -- two dead miners this week alone.

  The longer the rain drips down the roof, the more the ground I stand on turns to mud. Maybe Miss Annie will let me sit in her shop awhile. Unnerving woman, but her gaze won't kill me faster than the freezing rain.

  I churn my feet through the street. A few of the brothel girls dance at the window. They'd be on the balcony, except for the rain. It'd rust their gears, those wind-up girls. No women actually come this far west, except Miss Annie. I pat my coat pocket for the money I know isn't there. The brothel girls might only be warm due to the gears whirring inside their chests, but they're warmer than whiskey.

  Something shifts in the rain. Likely the sniper. After the saloon threw me out, he knows I haven't got nothing to spend. I tip the hat I don't have and shuffle by. Miss Annie's light glows stronger, the closer I get.

  I step inside and a tiny silver bell chimes above the door.

  "Wipe your feet off, please," she says, voice clear and clean. I can see her one good eye and her eyepatch, but the rest of her face looks like a blob of color to me. Digging up old Indian bones will do that to a man.

  Usually I'd stomp mud all over the place and spit in anyone's face who told me to clean off. Usually I'd grab the silver bell and the jar of penny candy and run fast as I could. But stealing never felt sporting with Miss Annie -- she won't try to stop you, and I'm not sure she even owns a gun.

  She looks up from her ledger at the counter. "How may I help you?"

  I feel like my mother's staring down at me, even though Miss Annie's a young thing. Her eyepatch looks pretty as a cushion with lace around the edges and an embroidered flower on the top. How she keeps the lace white in this town, I don't know, but it only makes her dark skin look darker. Most folks say she's a runaway slave. Probably the truth.

  "I was just looking to browse a bit," I say, tipping the hat I don't have again.

  Her voice sounds pleased, as if I'd invited her to tea, and her eye crinkles like she's smiling, though of course I can't see her mouth. "Very good. Do let me know if you need help with anything."

  And just like that, she looks back down at her numbers. Doesn't even try to watch me, doesn't jangle a drawer to let me hear the pistol inside. The pistol-jangling would have been familiar, comfortable. I know those rules: if you're caught stealing, you'll get shot.

  What Miss Annie's rules are, I don't know. I wipe my feet on the rug and wander the few shelves. Some cloth, sugar, flour. Shiny boots. Every time I look at Miss Annie, she's not looking at me. What's worse, I don't even feel like she's trying -- stealing glances or such. Just working on her ledgers. She must've lived on a beautiful plantation, been some important woman's personal slave to know manners and numbers and stitches.

  I stay until the rain lets up, then grab my mining pan and head out to the river. A friend of mine joins me, name of Jeb. Maybe it was an experiment, maybe it's a punishment, but one of his arms is gear-work, just like those brothel girls. We make a wild onion stew in his mining pan for lunch and try to steal bites while the other isn't watching.

  "Miss Annie's an unnerving one, isn't she?" I say.

  "Can't steal from her, can you?"

  I keep my eyes on him, and he keeps his spoon near the pot to steal an extra bite, in case I look away. Of course, it's hard to read his expression, only being able to see his eyes. But Jed's dug the bones, too, so he has the same disadvantage as me.

  "Think it's magic?" I ask. Gold's not the only thing that gets mined out here. The bones of dead Indians are worth more. The gear-men out East stick them inside the wind-ups and say a spell. Makes them move human-like.

  "I ain't seen no gear-people hiding in her store."

  I narrow my eyes on Jeb. He waves his hand, trying to get my eyes to follow, but I'm smart enough to ignore it. "Not gear-people. Those bones are cursed. Makes our vision of faces go. Maybe she knows curses."

  "Moonshine. It's probably something on the bones what ruins the eyes. Preacher-man said digging up them bones makes us hate and steal too, 'fore we ran him out of town. But we'd do that anyway." Jeb slaps a bug on his neck, and I steal a spoonful from his bowl before he can see. "People steal because it's like a game. Who'll beat who?"

  "Except Miss Annie don't play."

  Jeb wiped his gearwork arm down with a rag. "Maybe that's why no one takes from her. It's plain not fun. She acts like we're all gentlemen. Maybe her good eye ain't so good, either."

  Next week, I find a flake of gold and spend it all at the other general store, getting myself some food. The store o
wner -- he's got green eyes stuck in a dun-colored oval -- jangles the gun drawer, pulls out the scales, and inspects my treasure with a fancy eye-glass twice. That all feels familiar, home-like.

  But I have to pass Miss Annie's on the way back to my prospecting cave, bag of flour on my shoulder. She's out sweeping her porch. She curtsies, pretty as a painting. Except I haven't seen any paintings of slaves, let alone ones with lace eye-patches. Maybe it's because we don't have much in the way of paintings around here.

  "Good day to you," she says in her lovely little accent. She even sweeps with lace gloves on.

  Can't she see I've just been to somebody else's shop, after she let me stay warm and dry in hers last week? Maybe under that eyepatch there's something magic, something evil, and she's trying to steal my soul and shove it into gearwork.

  "Why you always trying to be nice all the time? Curtseying like it matters!"

  She holds up sweeping and her tone's more polite than before. One finger touches her eyepatch. "There's been enough ugliness in this world, sir, without me adding a drop more to it."

  I glare, but can't think of anything to say. I shuffle past, muttering. Strange, though -- the snipers on the roofs of other buildings shift, rifles glinting in the high sun, like they'd actually shoot me if I so much as spat at her. As if they'd waste good powder on someone else's problem.

  World's an ugly place. Miss Annie's words roll around my head as I pan. If I were in town, I'd march into her store, spit in her one good eye, and tell her so.

  Jeb gives a low whistle. I jerk up. "Whatcha got?"

  Jeb realizes his mistake too late. He shoves something into his jacket. "Nothing."

  "Not going to tell?"

  "I told! I got nothing!"

  I shrug and say, "All right. Calm down. Won't your arm rust if you get excitable?"

  "Don't work like that," he mutters.

  That night, I wait till he's asleep. I creep up. I slide my hand into his jacket, grinning like a jackal.