There were no further mishaps, or at least not of the deliberate and malicious kind. I saw other racers make errors as they tried to catch the Englishman and me, but my sensation was that, having thinned out the forerunners, our adversary had done all that was necessary. The rules of the race were clear: each day's course was worth a certain number of points, offered in descending order depending on time elapsed and placement across the finish line. To ride away on Signor Panterello's new motorcycle, its patents in hand, the winner not only had to place highly each day, but attain overall what an auctioneer might call a reserve bid: in his determination that only the very best and most deserving would win the bike, Panterello had declared there would be no winner if fewer than three hundred course points were assigned to the first place rider. In exchange, I was given to understand that he had grudgingly conceded that the sponsors could bring teams to the race, allowing them to choose the best rider for that day's course. Had it been otherwise, I would not have been allowed to ride in the English boy's place.
In a moment of retrospect offered by a clear stretch of street, I was offended that Khan hadn't asked me to ride for him from the start. It was true, perhaps, that as a Centurion I was somewhat more difficult to locate and draw into a plot than a speed-loving youth who could be found at any racetrack. But we were comrades, brothers-in-arms, and I would have gladly come at his call.
Of course, had I done so, it might be me with the broken leg and shattered ribs now lying in the hospital bed, with no one left to finish the race on Khan's behalf, for he could never hope to ride himself. His weight was too great even if one did not consider the inhuman strength that would undoubtedly wrench the handlebars and front wheel off the motorcycle at the first enthusiastic twitch of muscle. Regarded that way, it seemed the fates knew their business and should be left to it, as I was left to mine.
In my moments of reflection, the Englishman moved ahead of me, though not to a dangerous lead. The sun was high now, less than an hour from its zenith; we were meant to be finished with the race before the noon hour, or all who completed the course would be docked a certain number of points. The Englishman and I had only a little distance left, and those behind us would have to make haste, for it seemed our destination was la Louvre, where the police would certainly congregate once it was realized the finish line lay there. More than fifty riders had started with us today; I wondered briefly how many had begun yesterday only to be met with disappointing arrest after the morning's ride, and how many fewer might meet at the sunrise starting line on the following morning.
It did not now matter. I gunned the Indian and she leapt forward, making up the inches I had lost to the Englishman. Together we roared around street corners to alarmed shrieks and enthusiastic curses. Suddenly, though, we were in the clear: passersby had taken to the sidewalks and vehicles of all other manner had pulled aside, offering us no more traffic to dodge through. Relief and dismay pricked me in equal parts: I did not wish to see anyone accidentally harmed, and yet the thrill of darting through traffic, adjusting for its flow and for the unexpected gifts and difficulties it caused, was a not-inconsiderable part of the joy of riding. But in the last few hundred yards it seemed it would be only about the speed of our bikes and the skill of their drivers. Wheel and wheel, the Englishman and I raced onward, each of us grinning with violent intensity.
I prided myself on the quickness of my reflexes; anyone who uses her fists and wits for her living must. Yet it was the Englishman who sensed that something was once more amiss, and acted before I so much as saw what threatened us.
He thrust out his right arm, impacting my left with astonishing strength. A bloom of pain was muted by astonishment, and instant retaliation only foresworn by the need to twitch the Indian's handles into alignment again. But I was already off course, losing precious inches that would cost me everything in the race to the finish line. Moral outrage seized me, for I had not imagined my opponents would resort to such blatant cheating—
—and then horror drowned outrage as the Englishman's front wheel hit the oil slick I had not seen; the oil slick that he had saved me from, judging his own course already too set. I watched him, not the so-close finish line, in cold-bellied terror as he lost traction and slid at desperate speeds across gleaming oil. Clear oil, oil with the sharp sweet scent of kerosene, not the dark and easily visible stain or pungent scent of motor oil. We had not been meant to see it at all; only a fortunate ray of striking sun and the Englishman's quick wits had saved me from the fall he now took. And fall he did, terribly, with the weight of his speeding bike crushing one leg while the wildly spinning wheels threatened the other as he tried to kick away.
A match arced in the air, hardly visible in the bright light of day, and flames roared before la Louvre. The width of the oil slick became clear: it went on for many yards, farther than the Englishman's speed would carry him. Farther than speed would carry even his bike, which he kicked free of and which carried on, its weight helping it slide as much as it hindered it. The Englishman, less weighty, slowed more quickly and came to his feet just as the inferno reached him, his face set with nothing but raging determination to survive.
I could not stop. I could not stop in time: the finish was so near and my speed so great that even as I slammed a foot down to pivot the Indian around, even as I wrested the handlebars sharply to the side to spin her, I crossed the line in record time, albeit facing the wrong direction.
The whole of the oil slick was alight already, the Englishman barely visible in the licking orange heat. I crushed my eyes closed for an instant, envisioning what I must do. Then, never one to take my eye off the target, I returned my gaze to the Englishman, begged a favor from the Fates, and plunged into the flames.