by Jenny Martin
Hank is silent, stoic as I stand in the elevator and watch the numbers climb. The blinking floors on the glass. The ticking clock on my flex. Time. There’s just not enough.
If I pull this off, Winfield will have to scramble to get Benroyal to take an impossibly desperate bet, and my crew will have six days to pack everything up for an off-planet race, the biggest rally of the season. And I will have a couple of hours to leave the Spire, slipping away to Mercer Street in order to convince Bear and his parents to leave everything behind.
Now I’m left with a handful of seconds before the elevator doors open. We arrive, and they part.
“After you, Miss Vanguard,” Hank says.
A pair of Benroyal’s men flank the lion on the penthouse doors.
“Miss Vanguard’s here to see Mr. Benroyal,” Hank says. “She has an appointment.”
The first guard touches his earpiece. After listening for a moment, he flexes the doors open and waves me in.
“I’ll wait for you here,” Hank says.
The lock clicks behind me. It’s quiet. No sign of my mother or the servants who keep this place pristine. Benroyal must prefer his antiques to anything made of flesh and blood.
I’ve already tucked my own little secret into the waistband of my cargoes. The stolen flex will be my contribution to Cash’s cause. This morning, I cut open a seam to hide it. I’ve ignored the safe mode switch, but I’ve already flicked the data sync on. No idea how long it’ll take for a sync to complete, but it’s worth a try. The chance to hand over all Benroyal’s secrets—gift-wrapped with a tiny card—is too much to resist.
I look through the arch. Sitting at his desk, he’s waiting for me.
“You may come in, Miss Vanguard.”
I step inside. One of his ancient books is open. I stare into the blue-flamed hearth, the wasted fuel perpetually burning.
“I was surprised you asked to see me,” he says. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Take care of my family,” I say.
“I haven’t forgotten our bargain. The Larssens are quite well, I hear.”
“It’s just that . . . the south side is a dangerous place. Maybe you could—”
“Ah, I see. You’d like me to set them up someplace more suitable, more in line with your new status, is that it? Perhaps a modest townhouse, north of the Mains?”
I nod.
“And why should I do that?”
I let go of all the tension in my body. I am wounded prey. “I’m asking. Please.”
“Is that all? Surely you haven’t come all this way only to beg trivial favors.” He pushes his book aside and smiles indulgently, as if he were my best friend or benefactor. Or father. “I am at your service. Do tell. What is it that you really want, Miss Vanguard?”
I’m no good at pretending to break so easily, and somehow, today it’s not what he wants. I switch tactics. “I want to win.”
“You have won, Miss Vanguard. I’m very pleased with your triumph at Sand Ridge and I—”
“Put me in the mountain rally.”
He blinks, shocked that I’ve interrupted. “I think not. The exhibition was embarrassing enough. Despite your last performance, I don’t like the thought of a real circuit loss. You’ve proven a bit inconsistent, and I suspect you need more time.”
“I can win the series and bring home the Corporate Cup. I need to show the others I can compete on any course. It should be my rig pulling into the winner’s circle. Every time.”
He pauses. My boasting seems to please him. There’s a sliver of real satisfaction in his eyes now. “Ah, and Benroyal Corp at the top of every scoreboard.”
I nod.
He stands up, then moves toward the biggest bank of screens. He swipes away today’s feedcasts to uncover the images underneath, the ancient pictures that have become so familiar—the statues, the Colosseum. “You never went to school beyond the eight-year core, did you? No languages or ancient history?”
I shake my head.
“No matter. South Siders need not trouble themselves. Better to focus on the present.” Another flash of teeth. His false smile turns sympathetic. “It’s a shame, nonetheless. I’ve made it a point to study the past. From it, I’ve learned how predictable most of us are. . . . Look back through thousands of years and you’ll see the same desires, the same weaknesses, the same paralyzing fears. Every great conqueror understood how to leverage those driving impulses. But to be truly exceptional, to build a lasting empire, the trick is not to overreach. Do you know what that means, Miss Vanguard?”
Slowly, I shake my head. I don’t know how to play this game.
“It means you must never grasp at things you are not strong enough to hold. It is a lesson every good student of history must learn.” He glances back at his books. “From Khed II of Cyan, I learned the limits of expansion. From Alexander the Great, strategy. But it’s the Romans I admire the most. The emperors managed public relations so well.”
Benroyal knows I’m ignorant and unschooled—at first, I’m sure all his talk is just to remind me. To make me fear him all the more. But when he steps closer . . . I read something else in his face. He craves approval. Allegiance. Admiration.
He slips an arm around my shoulder and I freeze. Terrified, I focus, desperate to control my breathing, the breakneck run of my pulse. When he speaks again, his silken voice rings like an invitation. Listen and learn, it seems to plead . . . welcome to the family.
“Most people require little more than pomp and pageantry—a few holidays, a glittering spectacle, a few vouchers for this or that. It’s the illusion that matters.”
“The distraction,” I whisper.
“Inevitably, there are always the few who see through it. But I know well enough how to deal with that.” He pulls up a newsfeed of Toby Abasi. The screen is muted, but I read the captions. Traitor. Terrorist. Call for Execution.
When my breath catches, Benroyal turns on me, tilting my chin to examine me. His touch breaks the spell. Quietly, something new claws its way through my anger and fear. Calm. Self-control. My skin burns and every part of me wants to tear him apart, but for once, I don’t let my expression betray me. I can play this game. I can learn from you, Benroyal. My lips curl, and I wear his smile, grinning hard until I’m sure he’s looking into his reflection.
His eyes flare and brighten. “Have no fear, Miss Vanguard. I know how to take care of my best assets. I gave your friend a generous leave—and I’m sure I could improve the Larssens’ circumstances should you continue to win. You’d be quite satisfied with such an arrangement?”
“I’m happy to be the distraction. As long as it gets me what I want.”
His smile widens. “Your attitude is much improved, Miss Vanguard. Perhaps I should let you go after all. I’d very much like this year’s Corporate Cup.”
In the elevator, Hank raises an eyebrow.
“We’re in,” I answer.
I don’t dare pull out the stolen flex until I’m in the bathroom. Cloaked by steam from the shower, I hold the card and stare at the screen.
DATA SYNC: 91% COMPLETE
Shaking, I swipe through the file names. The sync captured hundreds of documents—maps, formulas, distribution routes, delivery schedules. Benroyal’s whole black sap empire is compressed into raw data and images. And best of all, money. I spy the numbers to at least a dozen accounts, and it looks like King Charlie stashes most of his dirty profits anonymously, in banks in Manjor, Bisera’s financial center. Makes sense. Every other criminal in the universe hides their credits there, so why shouldn’t he?
I can’t wait to see the look on James’s face. He’s going to love this.
After stuffing the flex back into its hiding place, I clean up and go back to my room. Two seconds later, I collapse on the bed. I’m getting another headache and my ears need to pop. I swear, these migraines
are getting worse. A fuzzy crackle ebbs in and out, sometimes for a few seconds, other times for a minute or more. With my concussion, Dr. Menar said I might have these symptoms, but part of me is afraid to mention them to anyone.
What if they pulled me from the next race?
I can’t risk a last-minute detour before our escape, so I’ll just have to ride this out. Palming my own flex, I text Bear.
PV: MEET ME TONIGHT. THE USUAL SPOT.
I wait for his reply. Half an hour. Nothing.
PV: PLEASE.
Ten more minutes drift by.
BL: WHY?
James made me swear not to breathe a word about our plans, so I can’t tell Bear the truth, at least not via flex. Yet, if I can’t come up with a rusting good reason, I know Bear won’t see me. Not that I blame him. I’ve been nothing but heartbreak for him and his parents. Even so, I have to make him listen and pace me in the mountain rally. For a dozen years, the Larssens sheltered and cared for me. They protected me. And now, for the first time, I must protect them. I have to get them on the right transport next week.
I hate myself for playing on Bear’s emotions. But I’d despise myself a million times more if I left him behind. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep him safe, whether he likes it or not.
PV: PLEASE, BEAR. I NEED YOU.
BL: TONIGHT.
I wait at the deli at Picker’s Grocery and take in everything that’s familiar. I know this place, with its battered glass cases and scarred wooden tables. Crates of spices and pickled pale ochre-root are stacked against the walls. The butcher is busy, cleaving his last cuts for the day. The sound of his knife against the ancient block. A hundred times, I’ve heard its rhythm.
I lean against the counter until the butcher notices I’m ready to order. When Mr. Neeland looks up, it’s as if he doesn’t know me. Like I haven’t stood in this same spot and ordered a number two special at least a hundred times. I look down at my new clothes—my tank, slim cargoes, and racing jacket. Do I really look so different? Has a little polish and gloss erased the girl who lived on Mercer Street?
Yes. To him, I’m a stranger who’s wandered too far south of the Mains. I can tell by the wary pinch around his eyes. His crow’s-feet are deep, sun-spotted crackles. “Can I help you?” he asks.
“Can I get a number two? Extra ochre-root, easy on the sauce?”
He nods. I reach for my flex, but pause as a shadow falls on the counter. I feel his presence behind me, the warmth looming over my shoulder. I’m afraid to turn around and see him again.
Bear greets Mr. Neeland and hands over his own flex. “Put this on my folks’ account,” he tells the butcher.
I don’t argue. It’s a matter of pride for Bear and I don’t need to flaunt Benroyal’s money around here anyway.
“And for you?” Mr. Neeland replies, wiping his hands on his apron. “What’re you having, son?”
Bear shakes his head. “Nothing for me.”
After Mr. Neeland swipes the charge against Bear’s flex, he stuffs a sandwich and then hands over my order. I forgot to order something to drink, but it’s too late. Mr. Neeland has already turned away, scuttling to the back room of the deli. I turn a bit, just enough to catch a sideways glance at Bear. I’m the one who called him here, but now I can’t seem to face him at all.
“You want to sit down?” I ask.
He says nothing, but steps away and claims a seat at the table in the farthest corner of the room. It’s late. No one else is eating here. I follow.
We sit across from each other. When I finally muster the courage to look up from my uneaten sandwich, he’s staring at me.
“What do you want?” he asks.
Back at the Spire, I’d rehearsed my plea a dozen times. Now the words won’t come. I look into his sunken blue eyes and forget everything. “I want you and your parents to come to the next race. I want you to be my pacer.”
“Why?”
I’ve never seen him this way. Closed off. Flat. Empty. Bear isn’t angry. He is drained and colorless. I used to look at him and see a quiet light, clear skies, and the first blaze of morning on the dunes. That light is gone, and I don’t know what to do to bring it back any more than I know how to summon the sun.
“I need you. In the race.”
“You have a pacer,” he says. “Use Dradha.”
I’m not sure why I ever thought I could avoid bringing Cash into this conversation—Bear isn’t going to let me off the hook so easily. “I can’t do this without you.”
“What do you want?” he repeats. “Really?”
“I need you in the race. You have to come with me to Cyan-Bisera.”
“I don’t want to. Not now.”
“Please. Do this one thing, and I’ll never ask again. Everything depends on it.”
“I don’t care about the circuit anymore. You can win without me.”
“No. I can’t. We leave this Thursday at noon. There’s a spot for you and Hal and Mary on the transport. Sand Ridge Launch Yards. Bay number four.”
“Are you still with him?”
I’m not sure Bear heard a word I said, and I don’t know how to answer. He’s here. This corner is our fragile truce, but my promise to James, my oath to keep Cash’s secrets, hangs like a noose. I need to tell Bear. It’s the only way he’ll agree to come along. “Cash can’t pace me in the race. I need you, Bear. I can’t make it without you. Things are not what you think. You’re in danger.”
“Is this another threat? Benroyal told me about the DP clinic raid. How you practically begged James to have them shake my parents down, how he didn’t really want me on the team in the first place. Even then, I still loved you. I stayed. Like a fool, just to be with you. But you just kept pushing me away, Phee. I don’t know who you are anymore.”
“No. It wasn’t like that. Listen to me. You have to get on that vac. It’s not safe for you here anymore.”
“And I’m safer on Benroyal’s payroll? Watching you and Cash?”
“No, Bear. You have to leave with me. I can’t tell you why. Just come with us, and I’ll explain everything. I swear to you. We have to get out of here. I hate this life.”
“Don’t come to me for escape when you’re tired of Cash,” Bears says. “Come when you want to be with me.”
His chair slides back with a grinding scrape. Bear is already on his feet, turning away. I reach for his arm, but he recoils.
“Bear. Please. Listen to me.” I try to block his way. “I can’t let you get hurt. I’ll die if anything happens to you.” My voice thickens into a teary croak, but he’s not listening anymore. He pushes past me, and there is nothing I can say or do to stop him.
When I leave Picker’s Grocery, I see the Onyx parked on the corner. I climb in and hand my sandwich to Hank, who’s waiting for me along with Cash. “Going anywhere else tonight?” Hank asks from the driver’s seat.
I shake my head. “Take me back.”
“I talked to James,” Cash says. “Can you believe it? It’s on. Benroyal took the bet.”
I don’t answer. I can’t even think about that right now. If I do, I’ll fall apart. Everything that ever mattered to me, the anchors that always held fast are all coming undone, and I’m drowning. Silent, I lean against the door. My whole world has changed in such a short time.
Quietly, Cash sits beside me. He doesn’t take my hand or push me to talk. He’s waiting for me to say something first. I’d reach for him, but I can’t. I understand it now, the look in Bear’s eyes. I feel that absence of light. I can’t live without my best friend, the boy who’s stood beside me for so long, I don’t know how to run without him.
“I tried,” I whisper to Cash. “He won’t listen to me.”
“It’s going to be okay,” he says.
“No, it’s not. I was just a runt. A scared little girl stuck in a string of windowl
ess rooms on Mercer Street. I was hungry and alone. One day, Bear’s parents delivered supplies. He found me, Cash, hiding under a bed. He smiled at me first and gave me his coat.” I stop, my voice too halting and ragged. “I can still remember what it smells like. Bear is my family. I can’t lose him. James won’t let me tell him the truth.”
“We won’t leave them behind.”
In panic, I lurch forward. “Take me to the Larssens’. Right now. Hal and Mary will listen, if I can just tell them everything.”
Cash pulls me to him. “Benroyal’s watching your every move. Don’t flex them or show up at their apartment. Don’t give him an excuse to suspect you.”
“But I can’t let Bear—”
“Leave it to me. He will be there. Hal and Mary too. I swear it.”
I wish I could believe him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Thursday comes like a death sentence.
We pass three other teams on the way to launch bay four, and I’m pretty sure Max Courant mouthed something nasty as we drove by. I heard he broke two ribs and a wrist when I drove his rig into the wall during the Sand Ridge 400. He’s still wearing a special splint.
Figures. My car flips six times and I don’t fracture a single bone, but I give that weasely sap-hole one little tap and he shatters. Pity I won’t get the chance to do much more damage in the next race. If everything goes according to plan, I won’t face him on the course for long.
It’s petty to care so much about it, yet I don’t relish handing him—or any of these corporate clone drivers—a rally victory. But I have a lot bigger things to worry about. In a matter of days, I won’t be part of the circuit anymore.
Soon, I’ll be burning, a thick ash cloud rising.
After the team finishes loading my covered rig and our gear on the behemoth transport vac, Cash and I ascend the ramp, following Goose to climb aboard.
James and Benroyal, along with the rest of the Sixer entourage, are taking a smaller, more luxurious vac, of course. Living it up in one that’s not so grim and gray, like this monster made of Pallurium bolts. I bet King Charlie’s already outside our sweatbox atmosphere, moving across space bridges in high style.
