by Jenny Martin
Cash and I linger on the last open loading deck. I squint and search for any sign of another approaching vehicle. Even now, a tiny part of me clings to a fragile hope. Maybe he’ll come. Maybe he’s changed his mind after all.
There’s nothing to see. Not even the wind moves today.
“Quick, quick.” Auguste walks back out to me. He clucks his tongue. “Obey the schedule. We are waiting to close the doors, spitfire girl.”
So much depends on this race, but a selfish impulse dances through me. You don’t have to do this. It’s not too late to jump and run back to Mercer Street. “I can’t leave. Not without Bear.”
“Have a little faith in me.” Cash cups my cheek. His thumb catches a falling tear. “I’ll never break a promise.”
I nod, but I don’t follow him into the passenger hold. I’ll wait on the deck until the doors shut out the noonday sun. I want to look out on Castra one last time.
Even though I’ve never traveled to another planet, I know how it works. After we rise above the pitiful protection of the Castran atmosphere, the flight crew docks our uni-vac into its Orbital Charging Shell. Without our craft locked into the OCS, we wouldn’t be able to make it far out here, let alone drift through folded space.
The actual trip is supposed to feel like an eye-blink, but the lock and launch phase eats up three hours. We are securely pinned in our seats while the crew is caught up in a series of checks and tests and protocols, a bunch of stuff I don’t understand. Now that we’re juiced up and armored, we navigate our way to the nearest space bridge.
When we first broke through the atmosphere, I’d expected to see the glimmer of stars right away. Instead, it seemed a curtain of black had fallen. There was nothing visible but endless, starless night. But now that we’ve reached the giant man-made space bridge, the turning satellite wheel, I see the swirl of golden light all around—nebulae as blue green as sea foam, and billions of jeweled stars, rubies and diamonds, winking bright.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the captain’s voice drones into our headsets. “We’re fully calibrated, so we’ll be charging the bridge in approximately two minutes. For those of you who haven’t traveled with us before, welcome.” The captain’s voice slips into a quick, rehearsed monotone, but I’m not listening anymore. Tightly, I’m clutching Cash’s hand and cursing under my breath.
Put me on any road and as long as I’m behind the wheel, I don’t break a sweat. But hurtle me through folded space, at the mercy of another driver, and yes, I’m rusting white-knuckle nervous. One of my headaches takes root. Tendrils of dull pain stretch and unfurl inside my skull.
“It’s no big deal, really,” Cash reassures. “I’ve done this a hundred times.”
Banjo and Auguste are strapped into the seats across from us. “Yes, yes,” Auguste says. “Have no fear. Almost there.”
I close my eyes. I just want people to stop talking.
Banjo, with his good-natured twang, interrupts my cleansing breaths. “Once you have a good puke, you’ll be good as new.”
Yeah, I think I’m going to hurl.
Our vac drifts into the open center of the space bridge. I think something went wrong. I heard a soft ping in my headset, but I don’t feel the rumble of engines or the skull-rattling quake of g-forces at work. Nothing’s happening. In a blink, all we’ve managed to do is coast through the calibrated rim.
Wait. No. My gut says otherwise. My nervous system sends out a distress call to every cell of my body, a buzzing relay that says: You were someplace else a second ago, only that somewhere is now far, far away and we’re not sure if all our particles are accounted for, do you copy?
I repeat, do you copy?
My stomach answers. Affirmative. I reach for my gray airsickness tube and slip the attached rubber mask over my face. I lose everything I ate for breakfast and then some. A push of a button and tiny jets of water and mouthwash rinse out the nasty acid tang. As I spit the last of it, it’s all suctioned up and out.
I look around and see that several other members of my team have done the same, including Banjo. I shove the apparatus back into its chamber and take a deep breath. Cash is fine; he doesn’t look the least bit green.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” he asks.
I shake my head. Except I’m lying. That was completely weird.
Cash smiles, like I’m not the most repulsive thing he’s ever seen. Like he actually can’t get enough of me, even after watching me vomit in outer space.
“Feel better?” he says.
I nod, and this time it’s the truth.
The captain’s voice comes through our headsets again. “We’ll be preparing to enter Cyan-Bisera’s atmosphere shortly. Until then, we hope that you enjoyed the flight, and we ask that you bear with us for a few minutes as we interface with our crew on the ground. Your seats will unlock as soon as it is safe for them to do so. At that time, you may stretch your legs and make your way to the forefront of the hold. You might want to catch a glimpse of the view.”
Another soft ping interrupts, and the latches on our safety restraints click open. I stand up and drag Cash out of his seat. I might still be a little woozy, but there’s no way I’m going to miss this. “Let’s go.”
All of us disentangle and make our way to the observation point. A hatch opens, revealing a floor-to-ceiling convex window. The view steals my next breath. I’ve caught images of Cyan-Bisera on feeds and through Cash’s telescope, but up close, it’s more beautiful than anything I’ve ever seen.
There is so much water—teeming seas and oceans of rich drowning blue. I’m used to the endless brown of Castra, but there’s hardly any to be found on Cash’s home planet. Pristine clouds swirl over the black deltas of great rivers. Fingers of land reach out from two visible continents, every rise and valley emerald, dappled and veined with gold and orange and red.
I see the Biseran Gap, the deep slash cutting through the center of the largest land mass. From here, the ancient canyon blazes like a firestorm, a thick line of flame dividing one half of the world from the other. Just to the west, I can even make out the Pearl Strand, the demilitarized zone between the two countries, with its endless fields of giant white poppies. From here, the strand is a ribbon of snow, melting into the singed embers of the Gap.
This cannot be real. Something so full of light and life must be an illusion.
Cash rests his palm at the small of my back. We stand silent for the longest time. It’s the captain’s voice that breaks the spell.
“Preparing for re-entry,” he says. “Please return to your assigned seats in the passenger hold. Six minutes until countdown.”
We land on the outskirts of Belaram, Bisera’s capital. As we climb down the exit ramp, I gulp my first breath of the atmosphere. My headache disappears, swept away by the scent of balm leaf on the breeze. I’m so conditioned to the scorching heat of Castra, it’s a shock to breathe in cool moisture. Every pore of my skin opens and drinks in the nourishment.
We’re only halfway down the ramp when the roar begins. At the edge of the launch yard, a crowd swarms. They press against the gates, shouting and chanting in Biseran. But they aren’t circuit fans. They are here for Cash, clamoring, pulling at the fences to get a glimpse of him. It occurs to me, I don’t know if they are cheering or crying out for blood. Suddenly, I tense up, afraid.
Dradha. Dradha. Ay-khan banat bakar. Eb banat bakar.
I lean into Cash, to be heard above the roar. “They’re calling your name. What are they saying?”
“Ay-khan, the evening star,” he whispers in my ear, then turns to wave at the crowd. “Eb banat bakar. It means ‘he returns.’”
It’s then I finally see it. The hope shining in each face. Despite every lie, every bit of gossip on the feeds . . . here, Cash isn’t a spoiled aristocrat or a gambling pacer. He is his father’s son. They believe in him. They believe in the promise of
impossible things. And for the first time, I think I do too.
When he takes my hand again, Cash’s eyes are bright, maybe with unshed tears or with relief or joy at coming home. All I know is when the smile lights up his face, his people answer, cheering louder than before.
Eb banat bakar. Over and over and over, a thousand voices strong.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
My team jumps into the back of three waiting Onyxes. I sit with Cash and Auguste in the lead rig. We disappear behind dark, tinted windows, and the crowd parts to let us ride into Belaram. Cash’s people line every street, laughing and shouting and throwing red poppy blossoms, as if they’ve been waiting for this moment for a hundred years.
As we leave the good road, and move onto a narrower street, I look out my window. The city’s nothing like Capitoline, with its clean lines and endless sun-bleached horizons. These streets are a riot of sound and color. Tangled vines and moss cover the ancient facades of crumbling high-rises. The buildings are patchy layer cakes—mismatched levels of brown brick are sandwiched between gray stone walls. From hundreds of balconies, yards of silk hang to dry. Each faded swath billows and flaps in the breeze, waving as we pass.
When I crack our windows, I smell rainwater and spices and roasting meat. Beyond the crowd, I hear voices calling and the stomp of feet. Ragged laborers hustling to work. Sidewalk vendors guarding their wares from the mob. Quick-fingered children running from shops. It’s dirty and jam-packed and noisy as anything.
I love this place.
Auguste glances at the beggars lining the walk. “It would seem Bisera has seen better days.”
Cash frowns. “My brother has no concern for his people.”
“They seem to love you well enough.” Goose snorts, then reaches into his breast pocket for his handkerchief. Nervously, he dabs his forehead.
Cash doesn’t answer, and I can only guess what he’s thinking. His country’s been caught in the crossfire for so long, and the weight of a kingdom seems to press down on him. I can see it in his eyes—despite the warm homecoming, he’s anxious about so many things.
When our Onyx turns right, we pass through a set of gates and leave the crowds behind. Our road curves, leading us up to the elevated heart of Belaram. Here, the squalor is cleared away. The whitewashed villas of merchants and noblemen jut above the rest of the city. On these wide streets, there are even a few gleaming skyscrapers. One of them looks like a mini version of the Spire.
I scowl at Benroyal’s handiwork. Even here he has to make his mark.
Our driver lowers the screen between us. “Almost there.”
“The hotel?” I answer.
He nods. Our convoy of Onyxes turns another corner. I see the marquee, but I can’t read the Biseran script. As we pull under the circular portico, Goose sits up. Cash and I both look through the glass to see what’s spooked him.
Someone is waiting for us. It’s a diplomatic motorcade, half a dozen sleek black rigs. I catch a glimpse of the flag they’re flying. A red, five-point star on a field of black.
I’ve seen the emblem on a million feeds. Cash’s ay-khan. The evening star, the symbol of the Royal House of Bisera. For a split second, Auguste’s eyes widen in full-on alarm, but he’s quick-witted enough to recover. By the time we get ready to step out, he’s already put on his most charming smile.
Cash reaches for the door, but Auguste stops him. “Perhaps you should stay.”
Cash shakes his head. He and I step out of the rig. While the rest of the crew does the same, Gil and Auguste flank us, moving slightly ahead. “Battle stations, everyone,” Gil mumbles under his breath. He laughs, but I don’t think he’s joking.
Three thick-necked bodyguards slide from the front seat of the third rig in the motorcade. They open the backseat doors. Three men, one more guard and two more-richly dressed passengers, step out and move toward us in a lockstep gait.
Even though they are all Biseran, they are not so different from Castran Sixers. Their suit jackets are cut a bit longer and their ties are fat and old-fashioned, more like knotted scarves, but the finely tailored threads have the same silken sheen as Benroyal’s.
The guards and one of the passengers give a slight bow, but the taller man from the backseat stands proudly and smooths the lapel of his jacket, as if he had nothing better to do. I stare at him. His expression is stern and ugly, and his features and imposing height give him away. It’s the same face I saw on the gallery portrait. He is a cold, bitter reflection of Cash.
“Hello, little brother.” The dark familiarity in his voice chills me to the bone.
Before Cash can answer, Dak’s well-heeled lackey bows again. “I welcome you on behalf of His Royal Highness, Prince Dakesh Mohan Benyaran Bahkra-Anan, Prince of Belaram and Lord of the Eastern Isles, Royal Knight Companion of the Most Noble Order of the Evening Star, of the Royal House of Bisera, Steward of the Crown and First Son to Her Majesty, Queen Napoor.” He takes a breath and wipes his brow. “I am Her Majesty’s foreign minister, Ammad Negendra.”
I do not like this diplomat. I sense his closed-mouth smile hides the hungry snap of teeth. He waits for us to bow before His Royal Highness. Most of us nod or awkwardly lean forward, but Auguste obliges best, gliding into an elegant low sweep.
Cash stands tall, his face blank, betraying nothing.
“Thank you, Minister Negendra,” Auguste purrs. “We are not worthy of this unexpected visit.”
“Unexpected? Surely you would expect His Royal Highness to take great interest in your arrival. After all,” he says, bowing a third time. His voice drips with false sincerity. “You have been gone for so long, Prince Cashoman. It is not every day that we have the pleasure of serving the queen’s second son. And of course, we hold Mr. Benroyal’s interests as close as our own. We want to ensure that your stay is most pleasant.”
“Thank you again, Minister,” Auguste soothes. “We are at your service, Your Royal Highness.”
Nagendra, the rusting jackal, interrupts. “Perhaps we might be of assistance to you? We are prepared to take on passengers and any burdensome cargo. Indeed, you need not stay here. We would be delighted to host your entire crew at the palace.”
Dak nods, still saying nothing. His guards approach, as if to escort us all into the waiting vehicles. They stop when Auguste raises his hands in protest. “Minister, I thank you, but again, we would not dare impose on your hospitality and I’m certain Mr. Benroyal would insist we stay here. In fact, if I’m not mistaken, he and Mr. Anderssen have just arrived at the palace to greet Her Majesty, Queen Napoor? I believe they have important matters to discuss. Surely we should not detain you from receiving the Castran diplomatic envoy?”
Dak flicks his hand at Negendra, dismissing him to verify our story. The servant steps back and makes a call. He touches his earpiece and nods several times during the conversation. After he is done, he approaches his master and whispers something in his ear.
“It would seem you are correct. The queen awaits. That is disappointing . . .” Dak stares me down, and for the first time, he smiles. “We were looking forward to spending more time with Cashoman. We’ve missed him since he ran away.”
Cash’s fingers flex, then curl. His expression’s cool, but the rage is there, just under the skin.
Dak springs, pulling Cash into his embrace, in a mocking show of brotherly concern. He leans into his ear, and I strain to hear the thread of his whisper. “Run along, Cashoman, play your little games, run your foolish races. But watch your back. Step out of line on your own and I will end you.”
Cash smiles and grips him tighter. “Could you hear them, my brother, all the way at the palace? Eb banat bakar.”
Flinching, Dak breaks away. Without another word, His Royal Highness, sap-hole of the realm, turns on his heels. Nagendra, along with the rest of the servants, scrambles to catch up. A minute later, the motorcade is gone.
“Yes, yes,” he says. “Perhaps our stay will be much less complicated if we avoid the palace.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The night before the rally, I stay in Cash’s suite while he sits by the window, staring at the lights of Belaram. It’s three a.m. by the time I finally stop tossing and turning. Still, I wake up too early.
At the foot of the bed, I spy a tidy stack of clothes. Black pants and a black shirt, creased and starched and folded. The crisp IP uniform doesn’t belong here. The second I look at it, I know. Cash won’t be slipping into his circuit gear today. He’s traded it in for this new disguise. He is leaving.
Groggy, I stumble out of the bedroom, then stand against the loft’s railing to look down at the rest of the suite. I’m dumbstruck by the mess, the room service carts that weren’t here last night. The scattering of dirty plates and crystal glasses. On the counter, empty wine bottles lined up in drunken rows. It’s as if someone dumped an all-nighter across the entire room.
Cash is there, a bottle in each hand. They clink as he empties them into a sink and sets them aside. I wonder if he slept at all.
“Cash . . .” My voice comes out in a sleepy croak. “What happened? Who trashed this place?”
“Hank helped me out. You were sleeping.” His eyes sweep the room. “That should be enough, I think.” He pauses. “But I have to go soon.”
“We both have to go soon. We have pre-race interviews in three hours.”
“You have pre-race interviews in three hours. I have a food service truck full of ice-packed bluefin to catch in forty-five minutes.”
