By Mandy Munro

I’m flying among the stars with the girl of my dreams beside me… this is living, right?

I lean over the control column of the hoverbird and run my fingers across the curved, hard line of her dash. It’s like stroking the back of a retired stallion — a little knobbly on top, but beneath the skin is explosive power. She’s a truly magical beast, the Hawk8. Three years of working six days a week and staying at home on weekends — the old bird is finally mine.

“I’ll need to do a bit of work on her,” I tell Amelia, trying to be nonchalant despite the grin splitting my face.

The seatbelt on Amelia’s side is almost frayed through, and one of the side airbags needs replacing. As a precaution, I’d adjusted the magnetic field around the Hawk’s capsule at the sale yard, so that the bird wouldn’t fly any closer than a metre to the sides of the enclosed highway tube — there are still bits of loose metal on her outer skin that need screwing down.

Amelia turns her chestnut curls from watching the city lights fly past in a kaleidoscope of colour and gives me the sweetest of smiles. 

“She’s wonderful, Mattie. You’ve worked so hard, and maybe when she’s all fixed up you can race her on weekends. I can be your navigator.” 

I’m used to her smile making my heart do flip flops, but when she slips her hand on my knee and squeezes, certain parts of my body start thrumming like there’s a race about to start. How could I be so lucky to have the prettiest girl this town ever produced as my girl, in my Hawk, with her hand on my knee?

I stare blankly at the reflectors marking the lanes in the highway tube and mumble something I hope that sounds like “Thanks love,” but I can hardly speak with happiness. 

“How much faster can she go?” 

Amelia’s tone is playful, and her hand burns hot on my leg.

I’ve already cranked the old bird up to Mach 6. There’s no shudder in the frame, which is reassuring, just an off-key hum, which I suspect means there’s more tinkering to do.

“A lot faster,” I say, giving her a sideways glance. My gaze lingers on her red lips which glisten with moisture. I swallow, suddenly breathless, and force my eyes back to the highway. “The 8 in her name means she’s certified to reach Mach 8, although she’s been rumoured to hit Mach 10. She was the fastest of the Hawks until the Falcon came along.”

“Tony G has a Falcon10.”

I scowl with a darkness that I can’t control. It’s news to me, but Tony G has always had whatever was the latest version, the latest edition, the latest best thing of anything I ever owned. Even in grade school he had a BMX bike, while I had a rusted two-wheeler.

“How do you know that?” I ask, voice tense, pushing the speed up a notch, making the engine keen louder, just because I can.

  Amelia giggles. “Because he’s in one next to me, blowing kisses.”

I lean forward so fast, the Hawk jerks erratically as my chest presses the control column. Tony G’s ugly mutt of a face grins from the polysheen window of a sleek, black Falcon10. He gives me the middle finger, fuelling an anger that’s always simmered just below the surface when it comes to him. He licks his lips suggestively at Amelia, making me seethe.

“Race him,” Amelia says.

She’s right. The timing is perfect. According to the Electronic Flight Display, we’re just about to hit the straight stretch of the highway between Waterman’s Pub and Hanging Joe’s Pole — in between is nothing but manufacturing plants, and no Whalefreights filled with merchandise come out of there at night. I glare at Tony G, point my two fingers at my eyes and then point them back at him. 

His eyes narrow, and then he nods.

“Buckle up tight, love,” I instruct, gripping the control column like I’ve got the horns of a bull. I’m hunched and tight with determined anger. The light marking Waterman’s Pub on the flight display is getting brighter by the second, and the Falcon’s pointed nose is alongside mine. The black machine is all smooth aerodynamic lines, designed for stealth and speed, but I know my Hawk has a few tricks in her.

“I believe in you,” Amelia says, holding onto the frayed strap of the seatbelt. 

I’m suddenly doubtful, even though we’re almost at the pub and the Falcon is trying to edge ahead. The seatbelt’s worn, but it should hold her at Mach 10, ‘cause that’s where we’re going, if we’re going to do this.  

“Are you sure, love?” I ask quickly. There’s only five seconds to go.

“Do it, Mattie!”

I hit the controls with all I’ve got. The Hawk lurches forward as the Falcon takes off, smooth as water. God’s oath, if I let Tony G get too much of a jump on us, the race will be over before we’ve even started. Hanging Joe’s Pole is just ahead. Amelia’s got one hand on the dash and is gripping the leather strap old people use to get in and out of the bird. 

“He’s getting away!” she yells.

Tony G’s in front and I’m doing Mach 9.

I rip away the panel from next to my leg, searching for the fuel injector button every Hawk has hidden from all, except for those in the know, and press. 

Just as a Whalefreight pulls out.

I process the information in a split second. I’m too slow, and there’s not enough room to go around. Tony G’s just dashed past it with inches to spare. I wrench the control column like it’s a bull on steroids, flipping the Hawk onto its back, flying along the top of the highway tube. 

“Mattie!” Amelia’s screaming my name. 

I see it all in slow motion. Her face contorting in horror as the Whalefreight sheers through the Hawk’s magnetic field, striking the bird. Me with my hand trying to hold her, and we’re tumbling, tumbling, tumbling.

“Mattie.”

My heart’s in a frenzy like I’m at a thrash concert.

“Mattie,” Amelia repeats softly. Her hand gently squeezes my leg. 

I drag my white knuckles from their death grip from around the padded control column of the Sparrow4. It takes a minute for my heart to slow. To block the memories that haunt me. Amelia’s lined face, covered in thick scars, is full of love and concern. She is still the most beautiful girl I know. 

 “Let’s walk to the park. The stars are beautiful tonight,” Amelia suggests, pressing the central button, so the Sparrow’s tiny doors flit open.

She’s right, of course. 

“Yes, love,” I say, reaching for the leather strap above the door frame and ease myself out. 

The night sky dazzles with the streaks of hypersonic birds where the Eagle17 is now the master of the skies. Amelia’s arthritic hand slips into my calloused one and I smile — the girl of my dreams is still beside me. 

I let out the breath I’ve been holding as we slowly walk the path.

This is living.

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