by Jenny Martin
I let go of him just in time to force my tears to stay put. I can’t lose it or tell him what happened last night. “I’m so glad you’re safe.”
“I could say the same about you,” Bear says.
Sunlight haloes his face. I look at him, and it’s like drinking in blue skies and fresh air. “How’d you get here so fast? Thought you’d be gone for days.”
“Benroyal’s people told me I could have a week off, but I couldn’t stay away.”
“Bear! You should’ve stayed with them as long as you could.”
“Didn’t you want me to come back?” he asks. “I was worried about you, Phee. I thought you needed me. Don’t you need me to pace you and practice before tomorrow’s exhibition?”
“Of course I need you, Bear.” I’d forgotten we were going to have to work this out. Cash is experienced, practically a circuit pro. There’s no way I can push him aside, and I’m not willing to toss Bear away either. For now, I need to ease Bear’s mind. “I’ll always need you. You’ll always be my pacer.”
From the corner of my eye, I see Cash has already made his way back down into the pit. Just in time to hear me. He turns and stalks away, and deep down, I know I’ve brought this all on myself. First I kiss-attack him, then bolt. Now, the second Bear shows up, I all but dismiss him from his job, a job he rocked for me. We were good together, even in our first practice. Even after last night.
“Cash, wait,” I call after him.
But he doesn’t stop, not even for a second. He pretends he can’t hear me, and I can’t blame him at all.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
My first race day, and late-afternoon sun bakes the track. There’s little breeze, and the heat tastes like fuel and grit. Gil tells me not to worry about today’s exhibition. For the Castran Classic, it’ll be me running alongside five other rigs for a mere twenty laps. No one expects any clashes or bumps, just a nice clean show to give the circuit’s biggest VIPs a look at the competition. We don’t even have to leave Benroyal’s arena. King Charlie’s hosting it here.
Outside, while my crew adjusts my rig and the officials check their work, I flick through pit rosters and driver profiles and guest RSVPs on my flex. I double-check the guest list and suite numbers.
Abasi’s listed as a top-tier guest, along with just about every other significant Chamber or Assembly member. He’ll be to the left of Benroyal’s personal suite, sitting with James and Prime Minister Prejean. I’m surprised. Since Abasi’s shown no love for the circuit, or, for that matter, our prime minister, I can’t imagine why they’d want him so close. I look up into the stands, but it’s too far and there’s no way to see through the boxes’ mirrored glass.
“Hey.” I push the flex back into Bear’s hands. “I’ll be right back.”
He frowns. “Wait. We need to walk through strategy one more time. It’s almost go time, Phee. They’re going to let the feedcasters in here in less than fifteen minutes. We really should be—”
“I’m just . . .” I trail off. I hate lying to Bear, yet I find myself doing it more and more. “It’s nothing. Call it nerves. Gotta unzip and park it one last time before the race. I’ll be back in a minute, I promise.”
The boy I used to know would step aside. He’d shrug like my exit was nothing. Instead, Bear crosses his arms and stares me down. Because he knows. Better than anyone, Bear can spot my little tics and tells. I’m a map he memorized a long time ago. I turn away so he can’t look at me anymore.
I duck inside and take the long way around the track, avoiding the strand of locker rooms and team pit stalls. After I’ve skirted most of the action, I take a service elevator up to the top tier of spectator boxes—the warren of ridiculously plush suites reserved for Benroyal and the rest of Castra’s finest.
In this hallway, the walls are a mosaic. Tiny bits of flex glass are fused against one another, rimmed with light. Images fade in and out—a history of the circuit glows in a parade of color. I see the first drivers, colonials racing over hundreds of miles to plant their flags on new land. The old routes evolve into high-profile rallies. The corporates devour the sport and institute the first oval course. Sleek rigs careen round and round, going nowhere.
Overhead, a lineup of legendary drivers. My father’s portrait, his profile half lit. The final panorama is of the Sixer emblems. Benroyal’s lion rises and overshadows everything else.
To reach Abasi’s suite, I have to push through a cluster of Sixer underlings placing circuit bets for their bosses. The scene here is far posher, but the action isn’t so different from what happens in the bettors’ stalls at Benny Eno’s garage. Slick bookies scan the wagers, offering odds while calculating their cut of the credits and stocks. Whatever happens today, I hope my driving costs them all a fortune.
A pair of DP guards flank Abasi’s box. When I try to stroll in, they stop me. “I’m sorry, Miss Vanguard, but you’re not allowed in here. Gold security clearance only.”
Instinctively, I touch my hip. My fingers graze the pocket where I’ve tucked the stolen flex. Oh, I’m gold clearance, all right. They just don’t know it.
I scan the crowd inside the room. Abasi’s on the far side, surrounded by well-heeled politicians and their aides. I may not have the clout to get in, but I’m sure as sap not getting turned away without catching his attention. The minute I lean forward to get a better look, the DPs react.
“Hey!” I say. The guard pushes me and pins my arms behind my back. I’ve got maybe two seconds before his wingman pulls his weapon. A little too loudly, I growl, “Keep your paws off me!”
A murmur ripples through the box and out into the hallway. A pair of bodyguards rush out of the suite, followed by Grace Yamada.
“Stand down,” she commands the officers.
She is ice-water calm. Only the barest trace of irritation flickers over her face, and I’m not sure whether she’s annoyed more with me or the DPs.
She waves the guards off. They withdraw and take their places at the door. Grace Yamada turns to me. “How can I help you, Miss Vanguard?”
When I hesitate, she tilts her head, leaning enough that I can almost whisper in her ear.
“I was hoping for a moment with Chamberman Abasi.”
“That would not be wise, Miss Van Zant.”
She knows my real name. The sound of it is a warning, a hammer tap to the sternum. “Perhaps another time,” she adds. “I could arrange another hour of fresh air and we could discuss—”
There’s something about her that demands respect, yet at the same time leaves me unbalanced. Grace Yamada is no one to be trifled with. “Please. I have to see him.”
She turns away, and my courage fails. I pivot to leave, but she calls over her shoulder. “Wait here.”
So I wait. A minute, ten minutes. I don’t know. I’m cutting it too close to race time. I’m just about to leave, edging past her bodyguards, when someone taps my shoulder, startling me.
The old man’s not as tall as I’d expected. “Chamberman Abasi?”
Kindly, he nods. “Toby, I insist. Your friend Grace said you wished to see me?”
My gaze flicks over the hallway. A lone aide trails us, but unlike Ms. Yamada, Abasi didn’t bring a pack of bodyguards to shield us. We are surrounded by Sixers, exposed on every side. All this scheming to get here, and now I don’t know what to say. I’m not equipped to play the spy. Nervously, I reach into my pocket. “I . . . I have something for you . . . information about—”
Abasi cuts me off with a warning look. His gaze flicks up. No longer than an eye blink, but I catch the signal. Surveillance. Of course. “I’m very glad to meet you, Miss Vanguard. Very glad. In fact, quite honestly, the only reason I came at all was to watch your debut.” He touches my shoulder until my hand drops. “But I am afraid I cannot accept any campaign contributions today. Alas, circuit rules. I would never encourage you to break them.”
> “But—”
His smile is old parchment. On his face, a hundred lines, creased and inked. He reaches into his own pocket and pulls out a flex. “But perhaps there is one thing you could do for me?”
I nod.
“My niece, Amisa, would be very disappointed if she found out I met you and did not ask for an autograph. Here, I have today’s race schedule, with your picture. Would you be so kind as to personalize a message for her? Here, let me spell her name for you.” He taps on the flex before handing it me.
TA: THIS CARD IS SECURE. TELL ME WHAT YOU WANTED TO SAY. TEXT QUICKLY.
Shaking, I hold his flex and leave the only message I can.
PV: BLACK SAP. BENROYAL IS BEHIND IT ALL.
“Your niece is beautiful. I hope she likes the autograph,” I say.
Abasi looks over my shoulder. I finish texting.
PV: EVIDENCE. I CAN GET YOU EVERYTHING.
“Thank you, Miss Vanguard,” he says, taking back the flex. Casually, he swipes it clean. Like me, he knows how to smile for the cameras. “I know Amisa will be thrilled. Of course, she’ll want to meet you someday soon. I’ll be in touch.”
Still on edge, I’m down the stairs, round the track, and almost to the pit stalls when I hear the two voices outside the pre-race commotion. Instead of turning the last corner, I press my back against the wall.
“She deserves to know up front.”
“No, absolutely not.”
My brain blinks and I know the voices. Cash and James. Infuriating, these two. Thick as thieves.
James’s voice drops to a whisper. I have to concentrate to hear him over the buzz and clang in the pits. “If you tell her, she’ll go guns out and get herself killed. I know you’ve grown partial to her, but this isn’t your call. I promised to watch out for her, and right now, that means she’s out. I can’t risk it.”
“Risk what?” I round the corner, almost colliding with Cash. Of course I don’t do the smart thing and keep eavesdropping. Of course my anger and pride get the best of me. Again. “What are you two jaw-jacking about behind my back?”
James looks stricken, then irritated. He’s not used to being caught by surprise. Cash is unreadable. Silent and cool.
“Gil’s been looking for you for the last ten minutes,” James says, already advancing. “Where have you been?”
“I was looking for someone. Actually, it’s none of your business.”
“Did you find him?” Cash asks, but there’s no trace of the usual swagger.
“No, I didn’t. You mind telling me what’s going on? What don’t you think I need to know?”
James grabs me by the arm and drags me toward the team stalls. I thrash, but he’s a lot stronger than he looks. “You are going to report to your crew and get ready to race this instant.”
“Let me go.” I twist out of his grip and blaze past the first stall, the one with AltaGen’s purple logo plastered all over it. Courant is there, grinning as I stalk away. I’m nothing more than a girl on a leash in front of my fellow drivers.
James doesn’t follow, but Cash slips beside me, easily keeping up.
“What is going on?” I say. “Don’t pretend you’re not hiding something from me.”
“Look.” He sounds more weary than annoyed. “I’m going to hang back tonight. Give Bear a chance to pace you.”
“Stop avoiding the question. What were you and James talking about?”
“Nothing. Who were you looking for?”
“No one. Nothing. Tell me, Dradha.”
He sighs. “It’s Maxwell Courant. He and the rest of the Sixer drivers are out to put you in your place. Don’t expect to get very far tonight, Phee. James didn’t want you to worry about it beforehand. Are you happy now?”
We both stop in our tracks, but I don’t answer. I stare back, certain he’s thrown out an obvious truth to distract me. Cash and I both have our secrets, and I guess neither of us is ready to come clean.
“No, I’m not happy, Cash. I’m not happy at all.”
Goose is furious. While I was shaking hands with Abasi, I missed the pre-race photo op. By the time Cash and I wander back, it’s already time to roll out.
“I told them your absence was planned,” Goose says, smoothing the lapel of his crimson jacket. “That you prefer to make your statement behind the wheel rather than in front of the cameras, but I won’t make excuses for you again, spitfire girl. You had better impress them tonight.”
“Don’t worry,” I lie, “I’ve got this. Where’s Bear?”
“Dependable, that boy. Already at his post.” He scowls at Cash. “I suggest you join him.”
Scolded, we take our places. While Cash scrambles to the pacers’ deck, I climb behind the wheel and gear up while my crew makes final adjustments and rolls me onto the track. It’s just an exhibition, I tell myself. Twenty laps. We’re not supposed to break a sweat or even pull a fuel trigger. My game plan is to slide behind the front-runner until the last second, then break loose just before the finish line.
Hundreds of white flags ring the arena. They’re supposed to remind us of the brave pioneers who raced to claim Castra, but in the wind, the banners snap like a thousand surrenders. There’s no one in the stands save for a handful of feedcast crews. And, of course, the corporates who hold our contracts. Far above, they watch with a few of their favorite puppets, the politicians who carry out their will. So it’s weirdly silent beyond the rhythmic snarl of six engines.
We’re not a full lineup. I don’t even get to drive against Cooper Winfield today. This is strictly a Sixer affair, and I couldn’t feel more out of place. While my custom ride is sleek and snub-nosed, their rigs are all muscle and curve. If this were a knife-fight, blade against blade, I brought the stiletto and they’re swinging battle axes.
Staggered into our starting positions, we wait, draped in our corporate colors. I race for the crimson. Max Courant in purple for AltaGen. Bobby Banks Jr. in brown for Agritech. Will Balfour in orange for Yamada-Maddox. Scott Kimbrough in emerald for Locus Informatics. I wince. It’s the deepest cut to see Marcus Fallon at the end of the row. It should be Jason Eager in TransCorp’s deep blue uniform instead of Fallon, a black-hearted driver who’s come out of retirement to take his place.
Every rig snarls, ready to run. Aggression ripples through the air; I taste its heat and fury. Cash was right. My rivals are out for my blood. And I cannot let them have it tonight. Not because James wants me to win, but because I can never stomach losing.
The pace car leads us off. We crawl once around the track. Five seconds until the starting flag drops. I take a deep breath and . . .
Rust. This isn’t a race. It’s an ambush.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Long after everyone has left my apartment in the Spire, after Bear has gone to bed, I sink into the cloud- cushioned sofa and try to reconstruct the colossal failure otherwise known as today’s exhibition. My first race and I choked. Wait. Choked implies initial success followed by catastrophic loss.
In my case, I blew it right from the start. Maxwell and the other cars moved as a synchronized unit at every turn, completely boxing me in for twenty laps. Bear did everything he could, brilliantly anticipating the split-second gaps, but I just couldn’t bust loose.
Technically, I finished in fifth place, but the other drivers made their point. They showed me they could pin me in place for an entire race. And the worst of it? Agritech’s one of Benroyal’s biggest rivals, and I tasted plenty of Bobby Banks Jr.’s exhaust. He made sure I stared at the back end of his mud-brown rig the whole time.
The whole ordeal was beyond humiliating, and there’s no way I’m letting it happen again. I thumb my flex and summon a search screen.
Tommy Van Zant.
I flick through official photos and clips until I find my favorite. It’s a two-minute feed of the final laps of the 2380 Sa
nd Ridge 400, the race that made my father a legend. That day, he became a six-time Corporate Cup series champion. He set the record no one has ever broken.
I lean back and watch the last seconds. He’s driving for Locus, of course; his emerald rig’s leading the pack once more. Unlike me, no matter how hard the other drivers push him, he always shakes them off. On victory lane, he pulls off his helmet, closes his eyes, and smiles against the sun. I lean forward, longing to taste that glory.
There’s another clip, one I can hardly bear to watch tonight. After his last mountain rally in 2381, my father collects his trophy but doesn’t grin. When the helmet comes off, his wild brown hair falls over his face, half obscuring weary eyes. The race is over, but he looks as if every prize is lost and every route forever closed.
I’m starting to understand the temptation to drop off the face of the planet. Is this what finally broke him down? Was it the pressure of the circuit, the demands of the Sixers, or something else? I swipe the screen clear and search again.
It’s a familiar game. I try a dozen search terms, but each variation is just as useless.
Tommy Van Zant Wife
Tommy Van Zant Girlfriend
Tommy Van Zant Family
Thomas Van Zant Personal Life
Of course, I get a million hits, more than I could read in a lifetime. But none of them tell me what I want to know. There isn’t a single picture of anyone who looks remotely like the woman on my father’s old flex. It’s as if my mother never existed. I’ve never understood why.
As my eyes move over the image results, my mind slips into that secret place. I invent my mother, re-imagining her as someone I never lost. She is beautifully alive, luminous and full of laughter. I take the best of Mary—owl-wise wit and loyal nerve—until the picture blurs into something I can almost hold. I conjure the best mother I never had. It hurts, but I do it because I can’t resist pressing my thumb against the bruise.
