by Jenny Martin
We buy every half-truth and every product Benroyal pushes while he grows richer by the second. We cower while his hired guns pretend to police the streets. We watch his IP soldiers perfect the charade, as they “protect” us from drug dealers and terrorists in the Gap, when they’re really protecting his product.
We are all King Charlie’s fools.
Breathe. Grab the flex. Swipe into Safe Mode.
Run.
I bolt from the apartment without even looking for James. I slow down only to get by the guard at the penthouse doors. He calls out, asking again if I need any assistance, but I close the elevator without answering. After slamming my fist against the ground-level icon, I sink to the floor and pull my knees to my chest.
I’ve made a deal with a monster. His brand is tattooed on my shoulder. The thought pushes me over the edge. I kick the wall like an animal, trapped in Benroyal’s cage.
Only when I have no more fight or breath do I pull myself to my feet again. The encrypted flex promised deactivated surveillance, but what happens if Benroyal finds out what I’ve seen? What happens if he doesn’t?
What the rust am I going to do, keep racing and pretend I don’t know he’s shipping out enough black sap to deep-fry an entire generation? Look the other way while the feeds blame Bisera and Cyan for the constant threat of more war?
Benroyal is so clever at this game. War is a brilliant distraction, and there’s profit in holding the Gap and poisoning the throwaway poor. Cash and I, so many of our people are hooked on his mind-killing sludge. I can imagine Benroyal’s twisted logic. Keep the strong ones, put them on the payroll. The rest . . . who cares?
Lifting my head, I force a slow exhale. I watch the numbers blink as I reach the ground level. I need advice from someone I can trust. There’s only one place to run now.
I’m ready to bolt for the lobby doors, but the scene outside the elevator stops me in my tracks. There’s a crowd of Sixers down here, milling around, saying their good-byes. To Benroyal, who’s circled by smiling guests.
Traitorous son of a jackal. That smug look on his rusting face. The adrenaline buzz hits me like a storm surge, feeding my blood with rage and numbing my brain. I stalk out of the elevator, ready to kick his teeth in, to spit in his eye and expose him, no matter what it costs me. I slam into someone. It’s the woman from the gallery. The stranger who pulled James aside.
Her bodyguards start to pull me back, but she calls them off with a wave of her hand. Unfazed, she holds me at arm’s length, studying me.
My eyes flick past her shoulder. Benroyal’s still absorbed in conversation. My pulse rockets up, but I’m still dazed.
“Apologies,” she says calmly. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. My name is Grace Yamada.”
Yamada. As in . . . “Yamada-Maddox?” I blurt. I’ve run headlong into the planet’s most powerful banker. It’s a wonder one of her bodyguards hasn’t already stunned me. Or maybe they have, and that’s why my brain can’t quite sync up with my mouth.
She nods. “And you are Miss Vanguard.”
“I . . . I—” I stutter.
“Take a breath,” she commands.
I can’t help but obey. Benroyal’s turned away from us now. This time, when my eyes sweep the room, logic kicks in, anchoring me in place. In the Spire, amidst this crowd, there’s nothing I can do. If I confront him here, I’m dead. I’d be dragged away before I landed a single blow. A new anger blooms. The cruelty of reason. I wish I’d never run into Grace Yamada.
“I just need to get out of here,” I croak.
She nods, then signals her entourage. Instantly, her bodyguards surround us. She takes my arm and suddenly, I’m gliding alongside her. “Let’s go for a walk,” she says.
She steers me, and seconds later, we’re walking through the first set of doors, shielded by her escort. We breeze past several pairs of Benroyal’s guards. Alert at their posts, they watch me, but no one makes a move.
I feel my pace quickening, but she holds me back. “Don’t run,” she says softly. “Head high. Back straight. Prove you have permission to leave. You’re only going for a walk.”
And just like that, we reach the last set of doors. No blocked exits. No shouts for me to halt, but the silence is more terrifying. I sense it’s no mistake, that I haven’t engineered some brilliant escape. The animal part of my brain hums in alarm. This woman is not your friend. None of them are. They are letting you leave. This is a trap.
After the front doors slide open, I wait for a struggle that doesn’t come. Once we’re outside, Grace Yamada lets go of my arm. I drift beyond her, but she is very still, like a carved goddess who’s rooted to the steps. A sharp breeze lashes through my hair, and I could almost believe she is one, the force of nature who willed it.
I pull myself together. “Thanks for getting me out of there.”
“I find it hard to breathe in the Spire.” She looks down at me, then gestures toward the sculpture garden separating us from the street. “But I’m sure there’s at least an hour’s worth of fresh air out there.”
“Why are you helping me?”
There’s something both casual and dangerous about her smile. It could harbor sympathy. Or it could hide a death threat. “Sometimes it’s good to take a walk. Fresh air clears the head. Stops girls from making very foolish mistakes. The clever ones, at least.” Smoothing the drape of her gown, she turns away, then signals her men back inside.
And with that, she’s gone. Back inside with the rest of the Sixers. The night air was her gift, so I risk a breath and take it.
Quickly, I make my way through the sculpture garden. Abstract shapes—sun-bleached and sterile—loom like the giant bones of ancient things, skeletal creatures long dead and drained of marrow. Above, the Spire rises like the blade that pierced and slaughtered them all.
It’s quiet. The only sounds are of my quick footsteps and the rush of wind as it gusts against stone and metal and glass. Down the Mains, I spy the Sixer playgrounds—all the standard clubs—like so many splashes of light in the dark.
I’m so far from the grubby food carts and the black- market back rooms on the south side of Capitoline. Here, the facades are all the same. Every sidewalk is smooth and unstained. Each sign and corporate logo promises the unique, the exotic, but it’s all an engineered ruse. No one but Benroyal and his elite friends taste anything unique.
I figure once the Sixers run their focus groups and test their assembly lines, there’s nothing left but the illusion of choice. This is why it must be so easy to hook people on toxic black sap. We’re dying to see something original, even if the tripped-out mind movies erode our memories and rot out our brains. And that’s the only choice Benroyal wants to give us—we can accept dull, prepackaged lives or we can die slow deaths, poor and drug-addicted. I want to break something. Get behind the wheel and tear these streets apart.
I step closer to the curb and snag a passing cab.
“Twenty-first and Mercer.”
I knock on the apartment door. Mary answers, bleary-eyed and in her scruffy gray bathrobe. I’d forgotten it’s pushing midnight. Here I am, on her doorstep, wild-eyed and huffing after running up five flights of stairs. “I’m sorry,” I gasp. “Is Bear here?”
“Phee!” She pulls me close, more tightly than she ever has before. The gesture breaks something in me and I’m not a circuit racer or a jail-break runaway. I’m just Hal and Mary’s daughter. Suddenly, I’m stringing words together without making much sense.
“I . . . I had to come home . . . I’ve seen it . . . He’s making it himself and I don’t know—”
“Who is it?” Hal staggers into the living room. The second he lays eyes on me, it’s over and done. He practically tackles Mary and me, guiding us both inside. I break loose, scrambling past them to get through the hallway and into Bear’s room.
I swipe the light on, but he�
�s not here. His bed is made, empty. “Where is Bear?” I ask. Hal shuffles me back and guides me to the sofa, my favorite lump of cushions in the whole world. I sink into its red raggedy softness.
Hal and Mary sit beside me. The fact that they still haven’t answered my question makes me uneasy. “Where is he?”
Mary cuts in. “What were you thinking, street racing in town? We’ve been so worried, Phee. Hal’s been at wit’s end since you were picked up. Are you hurt? Are you all right? What has Benroyal done to you?”
“I’m . . .” They are keeping something from me. “Where is he? Where is Bear?”
Mary looks away. Hal is quiet. Tense.
“He’s at Jason Eager’s house.” Mary’s voice limps along. “He and a few of Benny Eno’s boys are keeping vigil.”
I blink. “Keeping vigil for what?”
“Jason Eager’s gone. TransCorp offered him a circuit deal, but he wouldn’t have it,” Hal answers. “He didn’t—”
“You know how TransCorp laid off Eager’s daddy?” Mary says. “How his mother marched against them before last month’s strike? Jason didn’t want anything to do with a Sixer contract. When he didn’t sign, the court recalled him on new charges. They said he resisted arrest and tried to pull a DP’s gun,” Mary says. “They shot him, Phee.”
I curl into myself, sinking further into the couch. Poor Eager, my crew-mate, the boy who never said a bad word about anyone, hardly a line of real trash talk. We’ll never see his crooked smile again. I think of loyal Bear, who must be comforting Jason’s family tonight. I can only imagine how badly he took the news. I need to share this grief with my brother.
Hal says quietly, “Has Benroyal let you go?”
“No, he definitely did not let me go.”
Mary pulls her robe tight. “How did you get here?”
“I walked out. I don’t know what’s going to happen.” I take a deep breath. Another nervous glance around the room. “I took an all-access flex from Benroyal’s wife.”
“Wait,” Hal says. “What?”
“Well, really from a guard, but I scammed my way into Benroyal’s study and saw everything. He’s using his own fuel runoff to cook black sap and he’s shipping it everywhere and now I’m—”
“Slow down. Black sap?” Mary gapes. “You’re sure, I mean, absolutely sure of it?”
I nod. There’s realness, a feeling of safety in our apartment that gives me a scrap of courage. “Positive. I know what I saw.” I tell them about the cameras and distribution routes I uncovered.
Hal drags his hand through his hair, something I’ve seen Bear do a thousand times. “Phee, this is . . . Who saw you? Who knows what you saw?”
“I don’t know. The flex gave me access, supposedly disabled surveillance, but I don’t trust Benroyal. At least a couple of guards know I was in his penthouse tonight. Grace Yamada walked me outside, helped me get past the guards. I didn’t tell her anything, but—”
“Oh Phee. Don’t you say another word. Not to her. Not to anyone.” Mary presses the heels of her hands into her eyes. “If Benroyal’s really behind the black sap, your life’s not worth two credits once he finds out.”
“I know. That’s why you have to get out of Capitoline. Benroyal’s got eyes on the clinic. Just take Bear and get out. Settle someplace outside another city, Dalmark or Mid-iron, maybe.”
“We’re not going anywhere.” Hal stiffens, then squeezes an arm around my shoulder. “Not without you. You’re our daughter.”
“He’ll kill you,” I say. “If I step out of line, it’s not just me who’ll pay for it.”
Mary sighs, then puts on that deep-thinking face, the one she wears when treating an incurable disease. Her blue eyes are bright with worry.
“I’m sorry.” My voice almost cracks. “If I hadn’t taken that race, the DP wouldn’t have picked us up and come to shake down the clinic and I never would have—”
“I can’t do this, Phee. Ever since we heard about Jason Eager, we . . .” Her eyes flick to the door. “I can’t handle losing you or Bear. How could you be so reckless?”
The sharp edge in her scolding cuts too deep.
Tearing up, she cups my cheek. “What’s done is done. And now we’re just going to have to manage this. Hal and I will think of something.”
“There has to be a way to expose Benroyal without putting you in danger. I have to tell someone.”
Her hand drops. She jerks her head toward the door. “Who’re you going to tell? The DP? The feedcasters? The prime minister? Out there, you tell anyone, and you’re as good as dead.”
“There has to be someone.”
“You don’t breathe a word of this to anyone, Phee. Not to anyone outside of this room. Not even Bear.”
“I can’t keep something like this from him.”
Mary turns on me, shoulders squared, as fierce as I’ve ever seen her. “Anyone who knows is at risk. The less you tell Bear, the safer he’ll be. I won’t have my son beaten and interrogated by the DP. And I won’t see you cut down like Jason Eager. For now, while we sort this out, you’re going to forget what you saw and that’s the end of it.”
Before I can argue, the Larssens’ front door bursts open.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The sight of the flimsy door, torn from its hinges by six of Benroyal’s guards, pushes me into fight or flight. I lurch from my seat, but Hal beats me to the punch. He shoves me back, ready to hold off anyone that advances.
“Get out of my house.”
The guards ignore him. The first two, a hulking pair in black, make a move to toss him out of the way. I fly against them, but my fists are no match for these men in their bulletproof vests. So easily, they pin my arms behind my back while Hal and Mary struggle to fend off the remaining goons. I watch as one of them puts Hal in a chokehold, pressing a deactivated stun stick against his throat.
“Stop it!” I scream. “I’ll go! Let them be and I’ll do whatever you want.”
The brute pinning my arm relaxes his grip. He nods at the rest of his team. “All right. Let’s move out.”
As they drag me away, I dig in my heels to buy one more moment. “I won’t be there to pay my respects,” I call back. “But tell Eager’s mom I’m sorry.”
I can’t keep up with the officers’ pace as they hustle me down five flights. Overpowered by their jackboot stomp, I give up, limp and spineless, my feet sliding against the landings. This was a trap. They know where I’ve been and what I’ve seen. They let me walk out, just so they could take me down for violating some rule or contract clause.
How long before they kill me? Will there be some pretense of arrest, like Eager’s fall? Or will they just haul me into the alley and shoot me in the back of the head?
I stumble on the last riser. I feel the jolt and bounce of my misstep all the way from my heel to my jaw. My teeth clack against the inside of my cheek, and a trickle of my blood lashes against my tongue, sharpening something in me—a last gasp of courage, of desperation, of longing to taste freedom before the bullet’s call. In the split second of confusion, I twist and slip the guards’ hold. I’m off the leash and through the exit doors, only fingertips beyond their reach.
The spectacle beyond the curb stops me in my tracks. A row of DP speeders. An Onyx from the Spire. Three other armored rigs, lights flashing. A score of silent officers in riot gear. And they are not alone.
Old Mr. Fontanata and his daughter watch from their opposite stoop. Lang Metter stands in the threshold of his shop, Gold Flake Pawn. It’s late, but my neighbors hover in their doorways and lean from open windows. Lang’s middle son, Rip, makes a move. Even as Benroyal’s guards catch up and lay hands on me again, he dares to approach, stepping off the curb and into the street.
“Step back,” a DP barks through a wrist amp. “Do not advance.”
The door to my building clangs o
pen. I twist and catch a glimpse of Hal and Mary. Several DPs have to hold them back.
“All civilians back inside,” the leader commands, but no one retreats. Strangers appear in doorways. Lang moves onto the street to join his son.
“I said get back!” The officer pulls his gun, gliding his thumb to deactivate the safety. I gasp and taste the charge in the air, scanning the taut uncertainty in the faces of my neighbors. Heat shimmers from the sap-stained pavement while we dance on the brutal edge between indecision and resistance, doomed at every tilt.
I think of last month’s strike, and the riots that trailed it. One shot fired into a crowd of protesters was all it took to spark a raging fire. So much smoke and south side blood. Tonight, I know my life’s not worth the burning. “Please . . .” I collapse into myself, falling pliant and slack. “Call them off and I’ll—”
Lights blaze across my field of vision. Another Onyx roars through a gap in the DPs’ line and slams to a stop in our path. Its doors fly open, and Hank is beside me. In two blinks, he’s flanked the guards and pulled me loose. James is at his side.
“Are you hurt, Miss Vanguard?” Hank asks.
I don’t know what to say.
“What in the name of Castra do you think you are doing?” James yells at the guards, then wheels on the lead DP officer. “Stand down and tell me what’s going on before I have you all charged and reassigned for desert watch.”
The tallest guard, the one who’d put Hal in a chokehold, shrugs. “She was unescorted and hadn’t returned by midnight, so we—”
“They took her,” Mary shouts. “Burst into our apartment and dragged her into the street.”
