Black Mercury

Chapter One Caspar Goldstein—son of Maximilian Goldstein of Goldstein Industries—settled into the seat of his steam-powered autocarriage and tried to take a deep breath. His vehicle was in the middle of a pack of twenty-two similar machines, their engines warming up ready for the day’s race, the air around them filling rapidly with clouds of steam. By the time the race began, visibility would be poor, and he had ten vehicles to fight his way past. An ordinary day, then. He checked the fastenings on his driving gloves. Sound. Next, he pulled the heavy canvas cross-over seat straps into place and buckled himself in. One of his engineers handed in his helmet and he put that on, too. Ready. He watched as the drivers ahead of him went through the same routine, their engineers performing last-minute checks to engines, boilers and gears. Twenty-odd autocarriages with their engines running put out a lot of heat, and he was already sweating inside the thick, padded leather racing suit he wore. Today’s race wasn’t serious, as these things went. Serious began in ten days’ time, when the city of Eisenstadt’s Autocarriage Cup began. A large and very enticing financial reward would go to the winning driver, but the prestige was a still more appealing prospect. The Cup was held only once every three years, so the title had the lustre of rarity. And only the world’s best drivers stood a chance of qualifying. Cas had qualified. Not easily, but he was in. Now here he sat alongside more than twenty other drivers at least as desperate as he was to win that Cup. Today’s race was a test event, a warm-up. It was an opportunity for drivers to test strategies for the Cup races, for engineers to identify and eliminate problems with the vehicles, and for bookmakers to pick out the winning odds. The stands were packed; even the test races attracted huge crowds. A ‘friendly’ event it might be, but Cas knew that every driver there was taking it very seriously. The five-minute signal sounded, and Cas was still horribly tense. He took a few deep breaths, trying to relax his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. He couldn’t see much of the vehicles ahead of him, and the noise of the engines drowned out everything else. So when a face loomed out of the steam three inches from his window, he jumped violently. The man—one of his team—rapped hard on the frame and shouted something. Muttering curses, Cas wrenched off his helmet. “What?” he yelled. The man came closer and Caspar recognised Karl, chief of the engineers who maintained his autocarriage. “Lukas!” Karl bellowed. “What? What about him?” “Where is he?!” Cas blinked in surprise. “Somewhere up there, I suppose?” He gestured at the sea of vehicles ahead of him. Lukas Rosenthal, his best friend and fiercest rival on the track, had scored a higher position than Cas. As usual. He would be up at the front, among the top five. But Karl was shaking his head. “Not there,” he shouted. “Car’s ready. He’s not in it.” What the…? Lukas’s commitment to his career went beyond mere dedicated and emerged somewhere around obsessive. He was never late for a race. Never. “No idea,” Cas bellowed back. He really didn’t have any idea where Lukas was. He’d seen the man less than two hours ago. The two of them ate together before every race; it was a tradition that went back years and they’d stuck to it, no matter how competitive the two of them got on the track. Luk hadn’t said or done anything to suggest that there was a problem. The two-minute signal sounded, an incredibly loud bang that still fought to be heard over the racket. Karl shook his head and backed off. “Too late,” he shouted. Damnit. Lukas wouldn’t miss a race. He couldn’t. But as Caspar formed that thought, someone else appeared behind Karl and grabbed his arm, shouting something directly into his ear. Karl directed a wide grin at Caspar. “Forget it! He’s here!” Caspar didn’t have time to reply. Karl was already retreating out of the path of the vehicles, and Cas had to scramble to get his headgear back in place. He couldn’t share Karl’s relief, not entirely. If Lukas had made it in time, he was only just in time. His car had probably already been pulled out of position and moved out of the way, which meant he’d lost his advantage. Why had he been late? No more time to think it over. Cas adjusted his goggles and checked his seat straps, his fragile calm destroyed. This didn’t feel anything like a routine race anymore. His gut told him something was up. He pushed those thoughts aside and forced himself to focus. He was ready to go. Thanks to his father, he had one of the best autocarriages in the field. If Cas did well enough in the test races, he might improve his position on the track for the Cup events. That mattered. For the next twenty minutes, Lukas would have to take care of himself. The starting shots began to sound. Five… four… three… two… One. Cas waited a beat or two for the cars ahead of him to clear a little space. Then he hit the accelerator. His distinctive maroon-painted autocarriage shot forward, and all thoughts of Lukas dissipated as he focused on pulling off his signature manoeuvre. Cas’s vehicle had been designed and built by Goldstein Industries, and that meant it was as technologically advanced as it could get. One of the biggest advantages of the latest model was the steering. It was more sensitive than most other examples, more flexible. He didn’t have to throw so much raw body strength behind it. That meant it was a relatively simple matter for him to weave his way up through the pack, dodging around the leading cars smoothly. He passed two, then three of the autocarriages ahead of him, and aimed for the fourth. Then something hit his left rear wheel, not hard but hard enough to knock him slightly off course. He had to wrench the steering wheel back to correct for the collision, abandoning his attempts to pass the next car. As he did so, a car the colour of deep umber sailed past him, going too fast. Cas heard a crunching sound as it collided with the vehicle he’d been trying to pass and forced it off to one side. Then the umber driver roared through and chased after the five or six cars still leading the race. Cas had wrenched his wrist in the collision. He swore faintly at the new weakness in his hand; he could barely keep his grip on the steering, and he was pretty sure his rear wheel was damaged. Anger began to build, slowly eroding his reason. Autocarriage racing was a gentleman’s sport. Ramming the other vehicles and forcing them off the track was not considered an acceptable strategy. He wished he’d been able to tell who the driver was; the car at least was not known to him. His behaviour didn’t make sense. Driving like that would get him disqualified from the Autocarriage Cup and probably banned from racing altogether. What could he hope to achieve by it? Swallowing his anger, Cas managed to pass two more cars, but he had to be careful. Something was definitely off since the bump, and his manoeuvres were considerably less graceful than before. It was when he passed the third that he realised what was going on. He was coming up behind the leaders now, and one of them was Lukas. His dark green autocarriage was lying fourth, and he stood clear to move up into third before the end of the lap. The umber vehicle was right behind him. Cas could only watch as the crazed driver drew level with Lukas and veered sharply to the right. He bumped Lukas’s car, pushing it into a half-spin. Cas expected the umber car to move on to the remaining three, but it didn’t. The driver didn’t pause and he didn’t swerve past Luk’s car; instead he kept going at full acceleration, allowing the full weight of the vehicle to slam heavily into the green autocarriage. The whole back end of the vehicle crumpled under the impact. It all happened in a very few seconds. The damage to both cars looked bad, but as Cas watched, the umber vehicle tore itself free of the wreckage and accelerated away. It wasn’t moving fast. Most of the other drivers passed it easily, leaving Luk’s car wrecked on the side of the track and the umber car limping away from the crime. Cas didn’t sail past like the others. He slowed down. His mind replayed the image of the crash, Luk’s precious and hard-won autocarriage crumpling under an attack that was obviously deliberate, and just as obviously aimed at Lukas personally. Boiling anger rose, swift and choking. His hands shook with it as he gripped his steering wheel harder than ever. To defile autocarriage racing like that was bad enough. To direct such tactics at Lukas was unforgiveable. Cas forgot about the race. He forgot about his track position, his autocarriage, his rivals. For those few minutes, he even forgot about the Cup. He followed the umber autocarriage, closing the intervening distance fast. The driver had already been flagged down multiple times, but he wasn’t stopping. He was heading for the pits, Cas guessed, and from there he would be looking for an exit. The coward had no intention of being caught and identified. Baring his teeth in a savage grin, Cas hit the accelerator and powered forward. The final twenty feet or so between him and the umber vehicle vanished and he drew alongside and to the left of the other car. His tires protested as he wrenched his autocarriage over to the right, giving Umber a taste of the manoeuvre he’d pulled on Luk. He shouted in triumph and pain as the impact jolted his body, hard, and he heard the sound of machinery crumpling. The other driver shot a look over his shoulder and saw Cas, still keeping pace with him, preparing to ram him again. Just as Caspar prepared to repeat the manoeuvre, Umber pounded the brakes. His car slowed, just enough to send Cas sailing past him. A glimpse in the mirror revealed the Umber driver throwing himself out of his wrecked autocarriage and running for the stands, shaky on his feet but moving. But Cas didn’t have time to worry about that. Momentum had carried his autocarriage off the track and sent it heading straight for the wall. He had three seconds to brace himself—three seconds that felt strangely long as he stared at the approaching obstacle, horribly aware that he didn’t have time to avoid the impact. He braked hard, hauling the steering to the left. Then his precious autocarriage slammed into the wall. He was thrown back against his seat; the straps protected his body from the worst of the impact, but his head whipped back, hard enough to send a severe pain shooting through his neck. He blinked, dazed. Something else crashed into the rear of his vehicle, sending him flying forward again. His head hit the tall frame of his windscreen, and his vision went black. He came to himself to find three faces peering at him anxiously. One belonged to Karl. The man grinned in relief when he saw that Cas’s eyes were open, and he sat back. The second man—a doctor, Cas guessed—did not smile. And neither did Clara Koh, his assistant, manager and friend. She was virtually expressionless, in fact, though he detected a note of worry in her dark eyes. “Well. He’s awake,” said Clara coolly. He was lying on his back, he realised. Turning his head hurt, so he stopped trying and instead croaked, “Where am I?” “Still on the track, boss,” said Karl. “Had a job getting you out of the ‘carriage.” Caspar digested that for a moment as the doctor checked various parts of his anatomy. Memories of the last few minutes of his life hit him in a rush, and he groaned. Had he really wrecked his car? Had he really wrecked someone else’s? “Cas,” Clara sighed. “What were you thinking?” He ignored that question; there was no good answer he could give. “Where’s Luk?” “Off to the hospital,” she replied, with a lift of the brow that told him she’d noticed his avoidance. “Broken leg.” Cas clenched his jaw on a renewed surge of anger. Luk couldn’t possibly drive with a broken leg. That meant he was out of the running for the Cup, even if his autocarriage could be repaired in time. “Son of a—” he began, but Clara’s hand lashed out and she pinched his lips together. Hard. “Don’t disgrace yourself any further, Mr. Goldstein,” she said coldly. He glowered at her until she removed her hand. “b***h,” he finished. “Not you,” he added as an afterthought, earning himself another scornful look. His neck hurt like hell—in fact, most of his body ached—and his autocarriage was wrecked. His best friend had been removed from the Cup by the most disgraceful means, and he himself had probably lost position on the track rather than gained any. He wasn’t in the mood to be polite. “The bastard who did it?” he muttered. “The spectators grabbed him,” Clara replied, and he detected a flash of satisfaction in her eyes. Maybe even a little amusement. “Eight people piled on him when he tried to flee, including a ninety-two year old woman. He’s in custody.” Cas lifted his brows. “I’m not telling you who it was,” she said, unmoved. “Not until you’ve been properly patched up.” “How long, doc?” he asked, directing his pained gaze at the fortyish, light-haired, harassed-looking man who was still busy doing something to his legs. “Minute or two,” the doctor replied without looking at him. “You’re not badly injured, though you should be.” Cas snorted. “Thanks.” The doctor looked up at that, his expression cool. “You endured two collisions in quick succession. I’d say your vehicle bore the brunt of both, which was lucky for you.” Lucky. If his autocarriage had taken most of the damage, it would be in bad shape now. Very bad shape. Would the damage even be fixable? His stomach knotted at the thought, and he had to force himself to breathe slowly. With the first Cup race only ten days away, he didn’t feel lucky. But then again, Luk had ended up with a broken leg. The doctor returned to his head and began doing something painful to his neck. Cas winced, his fists clenching involuntarily as the muscles in his neck screamed in protest. “Mm, that will hurt,” the doctor said. Obviously, thought Cas, but he managed to say nothing. The doctor spoke again, but Cas quickly realised he was speaking to Clara. “The injury to the neck is not severe, but it is painful. He will need to rest it for a few days. Heat applied to the neck will help, as will a range of exercises which I will have sent to you. I will also supply some pain medication, but only for the first two or three days.” Clara was nodding seriously. “Hey,” Cas objected, “shouldn’t you send all that stuff to me?” The two of them looked down at him. “I think not,” said the doctor, his lips twitching. Then he stood up, collected his bag, and left. Cas frowned up at Clara. “Well?” “Someone will have to make sure you actually follow the directions. Guess who gets that job?” She stared down at him, a spark of anger in her dark eyes. “That was stupid, Cas,” she said quietly. He sat up carefully, gritting his teeth as his neck muscles pulled. “I know,” he said after a moment. “I just… lost it.” “Obviously.” She held out a hand and helped him to his feet, gentle in spite of her annoyance. “Just… seeing someone do that to Luk. I couldn’t let it pass.” “So you wrecked the man’s car and yours, injuring yourself in the process. And you could have hurt the other driver, too. One or both of you could have been killed. Weren’t you thinking about that?” “No,” he sighed. “I lost the power to think when I saw Luk’s autocarriage wrecked.” “You could be disqualified.” He blinked at her. “Disqualified?” “Unsportsmanlike behaviour.” He blinked a few more times, unsettled. “No,” he decided at last. “Everyone saw what happened.” “I’m not sure they’ll excuse your deliberately wrecking someone else’s vehicle, no matter how nasty the other person was.” Cas felt a creeping sense of dread growing in his gut. “My father,” he said with faltering confidence. “They can’t disqualify me.” “Because your father is rich? I don’t think that’s how it works.” “But he’s the biggest sponsor for the Cup.” Clara looked unimpressed. “So?” His shoulders slumped. “Crap.” Clara sighed. “Off home with you,” she said. She was a bit less formidable when he was on his feet, since she was several inches shorter than his six-foot-two-and-something height. But she could still skewer him with the faintly disappointed, how-could-you-do-that look that she was wearing right now. “The races aren’t over yet,” he protested. Her eyebrows went up, just a degree or two. “But, liebling, I have nothing to do at ho—” “Cas! Go!” “All right, all right,” he muttered. “Cas has been a bad boy, no more fun for him.” “I really hope you aren’t referring to multiple collisions as ‘fun’.” Cas did his best to look innocent. “What are you going to do?” “It seems I’ve got pain medication to pick up,” she said coolly. “And after that? I suppose I’d better go see your—” “Don’t tell my father,” he begged. “—aunt,” she finished. Cas sagged a little in relief. But only for a moment. “Do you think she’ll fix my autocarriage?” Clara looked up at the bright blue spring sky, her expression long-suffering. “Again? Well. Let’s hope so, shall we?” She turned to leave, but Caspar intercepted her. “Admit it,” he said, smiling. “You were scared for me.” She glowered up at him. “No.” Pushing past him, she stalked away, her back rigid. “Worried?” Cas called after her. “Even a little bit concerned!” “I shan’t admit it!” she called back without turning around. That was almost as good as a “yes”. Cas allowed himself a smile before his neck muscles screamed again, and the smile dissolved into a grimace. “So,” he muttered to himself. “How to get home…?”