Chapter 7 — Resolution

Greaseball tore down from the training track as fast as his diesel engine could manage. He was halfway to the freight yard when exactly the same thought struck him as had Electra yesterday afternoon.

"Oh, right," he mused. "CB's not racing."

He sat down, kicking his heels against the ground as he thought hard. Pearl was with Electra—there was nothing he could do about that and nothing he wanted to do about that. But he needed another partner, pronto. He'd tried the other coaches—no luck. He'd tried his maintenance team—not interested. He'd even approached a few members of Electra's maintenance team—that turned out to be a mistake. CB was his last chance, but there was no way that would work.

"Chalcie," he suddenly thought, and leapt up.

"No," Chalcie told him firmly.

"Please!" cried Greaseball, following her despite her efforts to move away.

"Listen, Greaseball, if you want to race with CB then you'll have to apologise to him. Apologise to the Marshal. Own up."

Greaseball shot a look around, glad that no one had overheard this. He was too anxious by this time to challenge how she knew that he had been involved. "I can't!" he hissed. "If they knew I was in on the whole thing then I'd be suspended, as well! I'm looking for one more racer, not one less!"

"Well you'll be racing alone then," Chalcie said cheerfully.

"Why won't you race?" Greaseball begged.

"Because I don't race," Chalcie said, "and because I think you're a selfish bastard."

"Oh, thanks," Greaseball snapped.

"Well if you weren't, you'd go apologise to CB right now."

"I can't!" Greaseball insisted through gritted teeth. "This is my entire life we're talking about here! My reputation! My career!"

"But not your friend?" Chalcie said pointedly.

"CB's never done anything for me," Greaseball fumed.

"He's never betrayed you," Chalcie said.

"What would you know?" snapped Greaseball.

"I know that your friend has been suspended for something you did, and that you're too much of a coward to make amends."

Greaseball froze, staring at her. "What did you call me?"

Chalcie turned around, stared coolly back and repeated, "A coward."

Shaking with fury, Greaseball took a moment to prevent himself shouting. Then he turned sharply on his heels. "I'll show you coward," he muttered furiously, and stormed away from Chalcie in the direction of the Engineer's Workshop.

Without turning, Chalcie smiled to herself.

Greaseball skated at full speed all the way to the Workshop before he fully realised what he was planning to do. It was too late to go back now. If he went back, he'd be a coward—but if he went on, he'd be disqualified. He continued in the same direction, much slower, contemplating his options. Disqualification, cowardice. Disqualification, cowardice. Disqualification, cowardice. A cowardly champion, or a disqualified do-gooder. A weak, spineless hero—or a friend.

"CB!"

Greaseball raced to the Workshop so fast that he nearly ran straight into it.

"CB! CB, where are you?"

There was silence for a few seconds, then CB's face appeared from the roof above him.

"Greaseball?"

"Come down, CB!"

CB disappeared again. "Go away."

Greaseball ignored him. He skated around to the side of the Workshop and mounted the steps to look over the wall. CB was lying on the roof again, hands behind head, eyes shut. Greaseball hauled himself onto the roof and edged over to him.

"CB."

CB didn't answer. He kept his eyes shut.

Greaseball sat down beside him, silent for a moment more. "Look, CB—" he began, but inspiration failed. He sat silently for another few seconds. "CB, I wanted to...I just wanted to say...To say that..."

CB didn't respond to his broken dialogue, but despite his closed eyes, he was listening carefully.

"Look, CB...the thing is..." Greaseball shrugged, touching CB's shoulder. "We're going to be late for the race."

Surprised, CB opened his eyes. Greaseball was smiling.

"You mean you're going to be late for the race," CB said uncertainly.

"Well there wouldn't be a lot of point in me going alone," Greaseball said, "unless I wanted to watch."

"I thought Pearl—"

"Uncoupled me," Greaseball said with a weary smile. "She ditched me for that flashy electric engine."

CB couldn't work out where this was going. He sat up, watching Greaseball closely. Greaseball lowered his gaze, tapping his fingers against the rooftop.

"Maybe if we go to the racetrack," he said slowly, "we can find one of the Marshals. Have a word with them. About...about the other day. I thought...maybe we needed to have a chat with them."

CB wasn't sure whether to believe what he was hearing. A moment ago he'd hated Greaseball—but his wheels were jamming up from lack of use, his armour was grubby and had lost it's shine, and he felt somehow deflated from not smiling for three days; by now he was almost willing to believe anything.

"I think the Marshals will be around the track," Greaseball added, "after the race, if you want to help me find them on the finish line."

CB had been waiting for the word that Greaseball was carefully avoiding, but he decided that it was pointless to sit and wait all day. Too fed up and desperate to want to believe otherwise, he decided for himself what Greaseball was implying, and his face split into a wide smile.

"Race you there!"