by Jenny Martin
Bear flinches. There’s a second of hesitation, like I might have gotten through to him.
“Calm down, man,” Cash says. “I didn’t . . . I promised her I’d come back over tonight and—”
No. No. No. No. He did not just say that. Cash might as well have flaunted a red flag in front of a Biseran Boar. Bear tackles him and they both tumble to the floor, crashing into a low, flex glass table on the way down.
Face-up, Bear swings for Cash’s nose. Cash ducks, bracing his forearm under Bear’s chin. “I didn’t do anything,” he says to Bear. “So there’s no call to get all scorched off and—”
Cash has him in a chokehold, but it’s not enough. Bear’s right hook searches for his face and I’ve just about had enough of this testosterone circus.
“Hey!” I yell.
They both pause mid-swing, frozen like two lock-jawed, half-cocked fuel triggers.
Since they’re actually listening now, I decide to take myself out of this equation. I let them both have it. “Hey,” I say again—this time withering them with my stare. “I am not the prize in your box of flakes. If you two sap-holes don’t knock it off, I will drop-kick you both into next week and never speak to either of you again. Ever.”
I’m pretty sure I made myself clear, so I stalk into my room, slam the door, and fall into bed. If they don’t kill each other first, these two are going to drive me into the wall as sure as a bad rig coming around the third turn.
CHAPTER TEN
I didn’t sleep well, and I’m less than happy to be at Benroyal’s clinic in the Spire. The technician keeps telling me that the burn only lasts for thirty seconds, and that the whole procedure is so quick, I’ll hardly get comfortable in the tube before they roll me out again.
See, she keeps saying that, but as I look at the machine through the glass, I don’t think I’ll ever get comfortable inside that thing. It’s a tiny space, maybe three feet in diameter all around, inside the white Pallurium cylinder. Not a lot of wiggle room.
This is going to suck exhaust in the biggest way. As scorched as I am with Bear and Cash, now I actually wish they’d let someone come in here with me. I don’t want to get inked, and I certainly don’t want to lie down on that table and slide into the mouth of that metal monster all by myself.
“I could give you a sedative, if you’d like,” the technician offers.
“No.” I hope she can’t hear my teeth chatter. “No needles.”
But of course, needles are exactly what I’m going to get once I’m in there. A hundred of them, red hot and tipped in permanent ink, will bear down on my shoulder and brand me with Benroyal’s corporate mark. It’s a rite of passage for every circuit driver—one I’d prefer to skip.
“Alrighty then.” The technician shrugs. “Let’s get started.”
She makes me take off my robe. Underneath, I’m wearing one of those horrible gowns with the slit up the back.
“Lie facedown on the table, please,” she says.
When I comply, she drapes a heavy, protective coverlet over me. There’s a cutaway square, baring my shoulder. “When you are relaxed, turn your head to the right.”
Relaxed? That’s not going to happen.
My jaw clamps shut and I try to score more than a shallow breath. “Get on with it,” I say, teeth gritted.
Almost immediately, I regret begging her to push me in the tube. An electric hum slowly builds until the whole tube vibrates with deafening sound.
For a moment, a slight warmth tickles my shoulder. I gasp, and the warmth turns into a screaming burn. A million pinpricks of pain stab deep into my skin. A sharp throb burrows its way past tissue and muscle and then deeper still. Suddenly, I’m sure they’re tattooing the marrow of my bones and not just the tender skin on my back. Just when the wail begins to crawl out of my throat and into my mouth, it all stops. An icy cold envelops the burn and instantly quenches it. No pain. Two blinks later, my whole shoulder is numb.
I slide backward as they roll me out and my stomach drops into my feet. They’re lucky I don’t vomit on their shoes. My torturer shuts everything off, lifting the blanket away. With the weight gone, I fear I’ll float off the table.
“You may resume normal activities after an hour. Some dry mouth is normal,” the technician says. “Would you like to see?”
She mistakes my trembling for a nod, and two assistants move in with mirrors. They angle one above my shoulder and one below the table so I can look. I glance down and see the mark etched into my skin.
Benroyal’s golden lion rears up and paws the sunlit sky. I recognize the crest, but it has been altered. Phoenix wings, dappled with the colors of flames, arc and spread out from both sides of the shield. It is beautiful. Majestic. A work of art.
Even as I marvel at the emblem embroidered on my skin, I despise the sight of it. The vibrant golds and reds and blacks remind me I’m marked for life, just a pawn in a rich man’s game.
After grabbing my clothes, I barely make it to the clinic bathroom before hurling my five-star, protein-packed, room service breakfast. Somehow, I know it’s not the procedure that turned my stomach. It’s my fatal allergy to all things corporate. I’ve been branded, and my DNA is furious. My digestive tract has staged a revolt.
Two fried pies later, I’m full of castraberries and caloric fuel. The Onyx pulls away from the bakery and Auguste instructs the driver to take us out to Benroyal’s circuit headquarters, his practice track west of town. I’m not sure why I thought we’d be heading for Sand Ridge Speedway, but I’m disappointed all the same. At least Bear will be waiting for me. Not to mention I’ll get to meet my entire team.
Traffic is thick downtown. I press my forehead to the glass when we reach the south side of Capitoline. I know these streets all too well—every alleyway and sand-whipped facade is etched into me, mapped as surely as the brand on my back.
We pass Mercer Street. Eleven blocks from home, but still. I look out the window at the protesters, the weary handful of people still foolish enough to march the streets in broad daylight. They pair up, flex banners stretched between them. VOTE FOR ABASI. More slogans blink over images. Prisoners mining in the Gap. Starving children and withered black sap addicts.
No More Contracts. No More Lies.
Who Pays for Your Prosperity?
There is more truth in these pictures than anything you’d ever see on the newsfeeds, but I don’t know why they even bother. It’s a joke, really. Everybody knows Toby Abasi’s the only politician in Capitoline the Sixers haven’t managed to buy off, and you can bet even his days are numbered.
It’s just the way it is. We live and die hungry, and the Sixers write the rules. They push through every bill and control every resource, while these people have no voice, no money, no real shot at changing anything. These banners? They’ll soon fall to the ground. The DP will see to that, sweeping up another inconvenience for the corporates who pay them well enough. I think of the officer who dragged me into court. The thought almost makes me dry heave.
“Are you all right, ma chère?” Goose asks.
I nod. He understands. He knows I’m lying, and that my nausea has nothing to do with breakfast and everything to with what’s outside our bulletproof windows. And we both know our place, that we’re powerless to do anything about it.
“Perhaps you should rest,” he says. “I will wake you when we arrive.”
I sit back to appease him, but I don’t close my eyes.
It’s a twenty-minute ride through the rough edge of the city and then we finally make it to Capitoline’s outer rim. Benroyal Racing HQ may not look like much from the outside of the gates, but it is sprawling and I’m sure the plain brick facade of the track conceals plenty of jaw-dropping surprises.
As the Onyx approaches the cameras, the lion-crested gates swing inward to welcome us. I’m on the inside now, and I’m both wary and traitorously thrilled
about the high-tech, steel-boned snares that await me.
The driver drops us off at the far end of the track. My new flex gets us inside and I follow Goose down the main corridor. We turn a corner and there it is. Benroyal’s main garage.
“Behold.” In a grand gesture, Auguste sweeps his hand through the air. “Our fair kingdom.”
Go ahead and call me a sellout, because I am more than giddy. I am rusting awestruck.
Even though the cement walls and floors are painted the standard blue-gray, the bay is so beyond ordinary. The open space seems to stretch forever and there are people everywhere. Apparently, it takes more Benroyal jumpsuits to fill out a crew than I’d ever imagined. I’m definitely not in Benny’s tin-roofed shop anymore.
In the farthest corner, sparks fly as fabricators smooth out sheet metal and mold it to a frame. Opposite them, two engineers are testing three identical rigs on separate decks. I’ve seen this kind of setup on behind-the-scenes circuit feeds, but I’m still amazed how they can test horsepower and suspension and chassis by mounting the vehicles in place and spinning the wheels. There’s even a synthetic track control that simulates the turns. I watch the engineers. Flex screens in hand, they make notes on the data.
In the middle of the bay, there’s another rig, but since it’s almost completely draped by a blue-gray slipcover, it practically melts into the background. I almost missed it. A cluster of jumpsuits mills around its frame.
“Shall we?” Goose starts walking their way.
I’m only too happy to follow. When we get closer, I recognize a friendly face. Bear is hanging back, standing behind the crowd, but he’s head and shoulders above the rest, so I don’t know why I didn’t notice him before. Benroyal’s tri-colors—the deep red with gold piping and the black vertical stripe—look good on him. The uniform’s a little tight in the shoulders, but I’m thrilled to see him blend in with the team.
“Hey there,” a voice calls out.
I turn, and Cash is beside me. To say the jumpsuit looks great on him would be an understatement. The high- collared zip-front fits him like a perfectly tailored second skin. And I can’t imagine his hair and eyes—all the darkness in him—looking better against any other shade.
Cash owns this look.
I should be civil and say hello, but suddenly my throat wants to close up and I have to squeak out the words. They come out louder than I’d like. “Hi. What’s up?”
“Miss Vanguard,” Goose announces. “This is your circuit team.” He smiles at Cash and passes him a flex screen. “Cash, would you do the honors and introduce each devoted member of the crew?”
Cash is obviously caught off guard, because while I’m sure he’s acquainted with everyone, he looks none too thrilled once he takes a look at the roster. “Um, sure. I guess you already know me, so let’s start with your over-the-wall guys . . . This is Billy and Arad, they are your tire changers. Corky and Joshua are tire carriers, and Dev here is your jackman . . .”
In turn, Cash introduces them all, and I know it’s going to take a while to keep everyone straight. Dev is huge, the strongman of the group. I’ll have to think of other ways to help me remember the others, who are all short, agile- looking grunts.
“Ben is your trigger man, the guy who’ll always load your fuel for you—”
“You can call me Banjo,” Ben pipes in. “Everybody does.”
“Banjo it is, then.” I nod.
Banjo’s a hayseed blond with a toothy grin. Bet he was born and bred far from Capitoline and only wandered here when he ran out of tractors and dry season tillers in need of repair.
“And these guys . . .” Cash turns toward the remaining stragglers. “They keep things running smoothly in the pit stall and in the garage. Mr. Gil Gates is your crew chief and he’s also your chief mechanic. Navin oversees all bodywork and he’s our detail man. No one makes it shine like he does.”
I nearly fall over when Gil offers his congratulations. I’ve seen the feeds. A million times, I’ve watched the highlight recaps. He’s old-school, a rally legend. There’s isn’t a driver alive who wouldn’t kiss Gil Gates’s feet and beg him to join their team. I’m humbled that Gil and everyone else smile at me, a nothing street rat racer. I hadn’t expected them all to treat me with such uncommon respect. I shake hands with every person in the room, even the guys Cash doesn’t introduce, the nameless grease monkeys who walk over to greet Benroyal’s latest driver.
I’m lit like a live wire, practically twitching with excitement, but through it all, Bear is stone faced and quiet. For him, there’s no introduction, no explanation of duties. He is lost here, and I don’t know what to say to reassure him.
Auguste is distracted, talking shop with Gil, when I notice Cash taking one last look at the roster. His expression clouds, so I look over his shoulder. My eyes sweep to the bottom of the list and find Bear’s name there.
Barrett Larssen—floor sweeper
“I had nothing to do with this,” he says. “I swear.”
“This isn’t going to fly with me, Cash,” I say. “No way. Not okay.”
Bear moves to my side. “What’s not okay?”
Before Bear can get so much as a split-second glimpse, Cash wipes the screen. “Nothing,” he says. “We were just discussing paint schemes.”
For a moment, Cash and I stare at each other. I hope he can read the silent thank-you on my face. They can arrest me, terminate my contract, do what they will, but I’d sooner be cut loose and tossed in juvie than allow Bear to see himself as anything less than a full-fledged crew member. Cash can call himself my pacer to appease Benroyal and the powers that be, but Bear will always be the voice on the other end of my headset.
“Yeah,” I say to Bear. “I was just saying that I wanted to see the scheme they’ve got on my rig.”
We’ve captured Auguste’s attention again. He perks up when I mention the vehicle. “Well then,” he says, motioning at it. “Take a peek for yourself.”
Cash and Gil pull the cover forward. It slips off and pools on the floor like a castoff silken gown. It’s the big reveal, the moment I’ve been waiting for, maybe for longer than I’d ever thought. Can a dream sleep for a lifetime, only to surface and breathe the second it comes true?
My own circuit rig.
It’s beautiful. Almost my snub-nosed Talon, only the body curves more subtly, and every plane is smooth as glass. All the seams and rough edges are gone, made invisible with body filler and gloss. And unlike the rig I sunk by the docks, this one is drenched in crimson, a red richer than garnet, deeper than blood. The paint detail is gorgeous. Sharp black pin-striping on each side. The air dam—the low, ground-skimming dip of the front bumper—is painted gold. The glimmer gradually fades up into the ruby blush on the hood. The crest over the engine is identical to the marks on my shoulder, but I sense the car and I are well-matched in ways beyond this.
This is how they get you. With metal and gears, the Sixers dangle the hook you can’t refuse. They bait the trap with everything you want to taste. And just like that, they have me. I move closer to the driver’s side.
“You like?” Auguste asks me.
I’ve been staring so intently, I’d almost forgotten where I was, and that there was anyone else here. I’ve been alone with the most perfect rig in the world—one that was made for me.
Bear moves behind me and puts his hands on my shoulders. It’s a gentle reminder to speak, but I’m at a loss for words. A feeble “Uh-huh” is all I can manage.
“I think she likes it,” Cash says.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I’m dying to look under the hood, but I want to let the engine speak for itself. I want to see how this thing handles first. Gil says they still have a few tweaks to finish, but they’ll need my input before making any more adjustments to my rig, so I beg for a test drive.
Since I’ve yet to get fitted for racing g
ear, it’s not easy to get them to roll it out of the garage onto the oval practice course. Even so, I can tell I’m not the only one who wants a test drive, because everyone else on the crew follows us out to the sun-bleached track.
Clear skies. Cool breezes. Perfect day for a ride.
“Listen now,” Gil warns me. He’s all squinty eyes and wide nose and gap teeth. “You just take it easy. If something happens and Benroyal finds out I let you open her up without fireproofing you first, we’re all out on our exhausts.”
“Just a couple of laps,” I say. “I’ll be careful on the turns, I promise.”
He and Cash step back while I slide through the driver’s- side window. I’m not used to a rig with no doors, and I’m a little embarrassed when Bear has to give me a hand. Next time no one’s around, I’m going to practice until I can jump in like a rally pro.
I pull, and the steering wheel locks into place. Gil hands me a helmet. After I strap it on, I buckle the six-point. I give it a couple of tugs—it’s not as tight as it should be. The crew is going to have to make some belt adjustments to accommodate my runty frame. It’ll do for now, but when it’s race time, when I rocket through the backstretch at well over two hundred miles per hour, I’ll need the harness as tight as it can be to keep me firmly in the driver’s seat.
I spy an ignition switch on the dash, but that’s about it. I flip it on and the engine hums to life. I don’t think I’ve ever heard sweeter music than its low purr. Even so, I’ve got a big problem on my hands. Besides the wheel, all I see are dead dash screens. And when I reach for the throttle and trigger stick, they’re not there.
No stick? How am I supposed to drive without any control, any get up and go? “Um . . . I’m not really sure . . . ?”
Cash leans through the driver’s-side window. “What’s the trouble, Vanguard? Never worked a hyper-screen setup?”
“No,” I croak.
He smiles; it’s an exultant gleam. We’re on the same team, but I swear, every time his grin widens, it costs me something. I’m ashamed to admit he’s racking up victory points right and left.
