I slid under the rogue masin's front axle, my roof shrieking against its oil pan. At the last second, I popped the Ram-9's emergency ejector bolts—the roof blew off, and I drove out from under the beast like a snake shedding its skin. The rogue masin crashed into the ones behind it. A chain reaction of twisted metal.
The Ram-9 landed hard, suspension crying, but I kept it straight. Behind me, masin after masin caught air like leaping whales. Some landed wrong. Three flipped. Two exploded. Ninety-five left. Then ninety. Eighty-five. skacat- city car driving 100 masin
The counter stopped at forty-seven.
They chose me because I am the only driver who can hear the rhythm of the asphalt. I slid under the rogue masin's front axle,
I pulled into the Outer Fissure depot. Forty-seven masin left. Smoking. Bleeding hydraulic fluid. But alive. A chain reaction of twisted metal