by C. L. Stone
Happy reading,
Lyn Forester
1
Glitter on the Asphalt
Location: Leton
Season: Fall Cycle: Day 46 Year: 894 PL (Post Landing)
“Your friend is on her way to the hospital. I called your parents to come collect you.” The blue guard frowns down at the four of us, the azure of her uniform a green haze through the night goggles. Overhead, the holo-sky remains shut off. Our accident won't interfere with Lights-Out. When called, the Time Wardens decided lighting the octagonal panel over our current location would draw unwanted attention, no matter how much it might help the investigators wrap up the scene. Behind the blue guard, the shattered remains of a disc-bike litter the street. “You're under our protection until they arrive.”
“Yes, ma'am.” The agreement comes in varying levels of discontent from the three boys who sit next to me.
Blue Guard squats down in front of me. “You okay, Ms.—”
“Sparks.” I interrupt, eyes forward. No one down here needs to know my real name. The only reason she knows it is because she'd scanned my dat-band. I should have left the damn thing at home. The finger-wide, purple circle of rubber has my entire life loaded onto it, easy exposure for anyone with the right scanner.
“Of course, Ms. Sparks.”
In the background, holo-recorders scan the street, documenting the accident site. The narrow beams of light flash off her three-winged badge as she stands and moves away. As a low-ranking traffic patroller, she was only on the scene to make sure our disc-bike race didn't interfere with the Level 3 citizens. Now in charge of an investigation with a potential fatality, she's out of her league.
Two other blue guards inspect the wreckage, night goggles winking like stars. With the Time Wardens' refusal to illuminate the street, their job will be way more difficult. The night goggles work off heat signatures, the world washed out to shades of green. By the time they arrived, most of the pieces had cooled to the same chilly temperature as the rest of the level. No reason to keep the heaters running, since they wanted to encourage the lower class citizens to stay inside at night. Only Ratchet's body registered as a distinct shape by the time the rest of the blue guards arrived. They'll have to rely on the holo-vid to figure out what went wrong.
Not that there's much left to go off as far as evidence is concerned. The disc shattered on impact, leaving tiny gears and coils to litter the street. Blood during Lights-Out looks beautiful. At first, it shimmers, like glitter on the road. But, as it cools, the sparkles fade. Now the black streaks are almost indecipherable from the asphalt.
“Those deadstreams took the prize credits.” Rush pounds a fist against his thigh.
I've never seen any of them without their night goggles on, but rumor says he and Vice are identical twins. Plenty of gossip around those two, but I don't care. I'm here to win races and not getting paid pisses me off, too.
The Night Pirates disappeared the moment Ratchet's energy coil burst, our entry fees with them. They host the races, but the only messes they clean up are ones of their own design. This? Well, this was a shoddy bike modification, therefore not their problem. None of us crossed the finish line—two blocks over—so no winner. All credits forfeited.
Blaze turns toward me. “Sparks, you were closest, what happened?”
I straighten my spine, not enjoying how he towers over me even in a sitting position. My small frame makes me a faster racer, but I get tired of being loomed over. “Don't know. Ratchet was bragging about some new boosters she installed. She was on my ass the whole race, so they seemed good. I didn't see what actually happened though.”
Rush leans forward. “I was behind her, but all I saw was a pop of white from the disc, then her light ring cut off. Shoddy mods might have fried her energy core.”
“Doesn't she work with that halfbreed guy? Where was he tonight?” Blaze leans backward onto his hands, the thick material of his jacket creaking. His shirt rides up to reveal a thin line of skin. It shines a warmer green through the goggles. “Where you looking, Sparks?”
Blaze sounds smug as his head lolls in my direction, goggles flashing. His friends snicker, and I flip them all off. “You've got blood on you.”
“What? Where?” He straightens, hands brushing at his clothes. The blood sparkles on the sleeve of his coat, kept warm by his own body heat. He can find it on his own; I'm not telling him where it is.
“How long do we have to wait?” Vice shifts on the curb with a grimace. “My ass is numb.”
“Depends on how far your parents need to come, I guess.” Legs pulled to my chest, I prop my arms across my knees to give my head a place to rest. Father has a ways to travel. I might be here when the holo-sky switches to Quarter-Light before someone arrives.
On the ground between my feet rests my disc-bike. A metal wheel the size of my hand, stuffed full of tech I still struggle to understand. When activated, a seat fans out, just big enough for me to sit on, with a telescoping pole that bends at the end into a control lever. Thin wire poles drop to form stirrups. Streamlined and serviceable, the true beauty comes from the dual green energy rings that spin out to surround me.
When I ride, the pulses of light stream through my bones. Weightless and free. I'm going to build my own in the future. I've been stockpiling the prize credits from these races for over two years to send myself to the halion-run tech school.
“Hey Sparks, you asleep?” A warm hand nudges me in the shoulder, tips me over.
I fling out an arm to catch myself and glare at Blaze. “Shove off.”
“Aww, are you glaring at me? It feels like you're glaring.”
“She's definitely glaring,” Vice chimes in. He sprawls out on the sidewalk, arms behind his head and knees bent.
“Why are you always angry at me?” Blaze pokes me in the shoulder again. “We should all be friends.”
“I don't like you.” I rub at my cheeks. The tight press of goggles hurts my face; a headache forms at my temples.
“Because I kick your ass in the races?”
“Hey, I win sometimes, too.” Rush rolls his disc-bike between his fingers.
“We all win sometimes.” Vice flings an arm out to punch his brother.
“You guys don't win for shit,” Blaze and I snap in unison.
He smiles at me. “Aww, see? Total friend material.”
“Careful, Sparks. We're his friends too, and he treats us like shit.” Vice pouts.
“Bro, you need a hug?” Rush puts his disc-bike in his pocket and sprawls on the ground next to the other man.
Vice's head turns toward his brother. “Blaze is so mean.”
“Yeah, he's so unfeeling. A real deadstream.” Rush waves an arm in my direction in invitation. “You can be our friend, Sparks. We're way nicer.”
“I don't want to be any of your friends.”
“So harsh,” the twins whisper to each other. “Not nice at all.”
I don't want to be nice. Before the three of them joined the racing circuit, I had a seventy-five percent win stat. If I'd been able to maintain that streak, I would have been in school starting this Spring Cycle. But, Blaze is real competition, and now, I'll be lucky to make tuition in time for next year.
“Make way, make way,” the blue guard from earlier shouts. We all straighten up, craning our necks toward the commotion.
A town car pulls onto the street, lights off, its sleek lines dark green through goggle vision. It hovers two feet off the ground, silent propulsion skimming it into the accident site.
My stomach sinks as sweat breaks out beneath my arms. I take measured, controlled breaths, trying not to panic. The others weren't supposed to be here when my ride arrived.
At my side, the guys stiffen, the twins sitting back up, spines straight. We look at each other. The goggles make it hard to read emotions. No one stands.
The car slides to a stop, and the driver steps out. Black uniformed, hair coiffed to perfection. He glances in our direction, goggles sh
ining like stars. Then he approaches the waiting blue guard, hand extended. While they talk, I fight the urge to vomit as I stare at the rear of the vehicle. The blackout windows make it impossible to see if there's someone inside, but I know. I feel the sensor emanating from the car, a hot burn against my skin.
Chauffeur shakes the blue guard's hand again, then walks to the curb side door and opens it. From my seated position, I can see the straight line of pressed slacks, the polished toe of a dress shoe.
“Ms. Lonette, if you please.” Chauffeur gestures to the waiting car.
“Shoddy mod,” Vice swears. “Councilman Lonnette's daughter.”
I stand and refuse to look at the boys. I'm burned. They'll never let me race again. The school is so far out of reach I can't even picture it anymore, every step toward the open door is another nail in the coffin of my dreams.
2
NO HANDRAILS, NO SECURITY
Location: Leton
Season: Spring Cycle: Day 2 Year: 895 PL (Post Landing)
As the shuttle docks with a gentle thump, the vibrations in the metal beneath my feet cut off. I snap off my belt restraint before the pilot can come back to escort me. Now that I'm here, I won't embarrass myself by fighting anymore.
After three months of arguing with father, I accept that the next few years of my life are tied to the school of my father's choosing. Patience and I are about to become good friends. The minute I turn twenty, though, I'm gone. No amount of coercion will change my mind.
By the time the pilot makes his way from the cockpit, I have my carryon in hand as I wait at the rear door for the ramp to lower. He sends me a startled glance, not used to the upper class being willing to cart around their own luggage.
“How was the flight, Ms. Lonette?” Polite conversation must be a prerequisite for personal transport pilots. At loading, he'd been chatty, too.
“Excellent. I will inform my father.”
I ignore the twinge of guilt as the pilot beams. My entire life has been a lesson on how my opinion won't sway anyone in my family.
“Please pull up your air mask. The doors are about to open.” Following his own instructions, he positions the clear mask over his nose and mouth. Black vents flutter on either side as they draw in the moisture from the surrounding atmosphere and convert it to new oxygen.
I hurry to position my own, tighten the strap that loops around my head to make sure the fit remains tight. On Level 13, the masks are the only way to breathe outside of the glass domes.
Resettling his hat with white-gloved hands, he stands beside me as the ramp lowers. A gust of icy air streaks through the widening crack, ruffling my hem and whipping my red curls into a tangled knot. So much for first impressions. Repositioning my bag to hold it in front of myself anchors my skirt in place. I will, at least, arrive decent.
Even though the school dome lies within easy walking distance, a town car waits on the tarmac, ready to deliver me to my fate. A driver, standing by the rear passenger door, braces himself with legs wide to balance against the stiff breeze.
“Careful, miss.” The pilot takes my elbow as I begin the descent, heels slipping against the corrugated metal of the ramp. My first instinct to shake him off gets dispelled by another gust of wind that nearly knocks me off my feet. My ankles quiver in the stupid boots, and I grip his arm tight.
As we draw near, the driver opens the door with a bow. I toss my bag inside before sliding in after it. Supple leather warms my cold hands, catching on the calluses I refuse to have buffed smooth.
Once the driver hurries around the car and locks us in, the interior becomes silent as it pressurizes. He settles behind the wheel, glancing at me through the rearview mirror. “Was your flight pleasant, Miss Lonette?”
“No turbulence and the Storm Makers kept their distance.” The gelatinous beasts that live in the upper atmosphere make any air travel a danger; they're attracted to the electricity of aircrafts. I'd seen the clear tentacles wafting from a distant cloud bank, but our small transport shuttle hadn't drawn their attention.
“Glad to hear it.” The car dips, then rises upward as he presses the power button. It drifts to the left as another blast of wind pummels the broad side. “Are you nervous about your first day?”
“No.” If this were the halion-run tech school, I'd be giddy with excitement. But, this school for politicians is just a waiting place for now, something to be endured until enduring becomes unnecessary.
“You must be excited then.” The car moves toward the tunnel that protrudes from the base of the glass dome. “Did you get on well with your classmates at your society introduction?”
He must not read the gossip columns. I'd been at my last race instead of the expensive celebration Father had planned to debut me as his successor. An extreme miscalculation on my part, but he'd never cared if I skipped a party before. I couldn't know this one was different.
“I had no problem with anyone at the gathering.” Because I wasn't there to meet them.
We reach the tunnel and pull up behind another car, already waiting for entry into the dome.
The driver slows to a stop. A few minutes pass in silence, and he glances at me in the rearview mirror, questions all over his face. So far, he hasn't seemed bothered by talking. Whatever he holds back now must not be appropriate.
I turn in my seat to peer out the rear window. Another shuttle, next to mine, lowers its gangplank so the passengers can disembark. Four figures, two striding ahead while the others struggle in their wake, dragged down by heavy luggage.
All of our belongings were shipped up a few days ago to be settled in our new rooms. What last minute items could they bring that demands such large bags?
I stroke the converter coil that hangs from a chain at my neck, soothing away the annoyance. Sometimes, it tingles against my fingers, and I tell myself energy still courses through it.
Turning back around, I meet the driver's gaze. His mouth pops open as if my inattention is all that restrained him. “How many are in your starting class?”
“Twelve, I think.”
“I heard there's a Riellio pureblood attending with you this year.” His voice rises with excitement as he bounces in his seat.
Ah, the real meat of his curiosity. The big news had reached our family a month ago; the gossip magazines a week later. Every council house received notice. It wasn't unusual for the ruling classes to mingle in our education, human and halion coming together for equal training. It helps keep everyone on the same page, even if most purebloods return to the colonies at the end.
No, this year's big news is that a female will be in attendance. Outnumbered and in high demand back at the halion exclusive colonies, females are rarely seen in the more human populated areas.
“I have no knowledge of that.” The lie rolls off my tongue with the ease of practice. Father's public relations specialist drilled the response into me for anyone who asks about my soon-to-be classmate. Even without the house arrest my father decreed, the gossipmongers at the gates kept me a prisoner inside. After the third ambush in the mansion's garden, I'd stayed in my room with the drapes closed until the shuttle flew down to pick me up today.
“Really?” The driver frowns. “The high families didn't get a media packet or something?”
“I have no knowledge of that.” My mouth tilts up in a cool smile.
The driver's eyes shift over my shoulder. He straightens in his seat, face forward once more. “Looks like we're about ready to go in.”
I turn to glance back again. The third vehicle stops close to our bumper, almost on top of us as they squeeze into the tunnel. After their entrance, a metal gate slides into place, cutting off the outside environment. I press my fingers against the door to feel the subtle vibration as vacuums suck the exterior atmosphere out. We lift a few inches higher in the air as the propulsion system loses gravity resistance. Then the car returns to normal hover height as the school atmosphere floods in.
“It's safe to remove your mask
now. The tunnel's properly pressurized.” The driver pulls off his own mask. “There's a mirror and brush in the middle seat compartment, if you need it.”
In the rearview mirror, his eyes flick up to my hair. Must be worse than I thought.
By the time we pull into the school grounds, I'm tamed once more. The vehicles stop in front of the main office. The circular drive, wide enough for everyone to park side-by-side, leads to a set of stairs. At the top, glass doors stand open, a woman framed in the entrance to welcome the new arrivals.
The driver hops out, running around to the passenger side door to open it. I slide across the seat to swing both legs out, ankles pressed together to prevent any wardrobe malfunctions from the dress Father insisted I wear today. The pale blue skirt and golden cardigan are the latest fashion of Level 12 debutants, and he informed me, just the ticket to fitting in with my new classmates.
“Thank you,” I murmur as I drag my carry on over and climb out of the vehicle. Wind from the hover system ruffles the hem around my knees, and I press the bag in front of myself to anchor it in place.
“Is there anything else you need, miss?” The driver shuts the door behind me, blocking my last chance to escape. Not that he would drive me away. Father pays too well to allow insubordination from the servants.
“No, thank you. I will inform my… Mr. Lonette of your exemplary service today.”
“Thank you, miss!” The driver doffs his hat with a bow, a wide smile across his face. He hurries back to the driver's seat and climbs in.
From my left comes the thump of other car doors opening and closing, and the quiet murmur of masculine voices. I don't look, uninterested about my prison mates for now. All of my concentration goes to not falling down as I walk toward the stairs. I found—in the three days I had to practice—that taking small steps provided the smallest risk of wobbling on the narrow heeled boots that are also the latest fashion rage.
Notice of the school's uniforms came with a sense of relief. My entire wardrobe wouldn't be bursting with horrible outfits selected by my father's stylist. I'd asked for a uniform to be delivered to the house, so I could arrive at school already wearing it. Like all areas of my life, my request was ignored.
