by Jenny Martin
I’m not ready to think about what that really means. That kind of money and power—it’s the last thing I want. “You’re the silver-tongued CEO, James, not me. I wouldn’t know the first thing about leading a whole company.”
“It’s just something I want you to start thinking about. Not right now. I just want you to be prepared when that day comes.”
“What aren’t you telling me?” I ask. “You talk like this is good-bye. Aren’t you coming with us?”
“Please,” he teases. “Why should I run? I have money, influence, a hundred places to hide, both here and on Castra. I’ll be fine. I just wanted you to know, no matter what, everything’s going to be all right.”
We reach the hangar doors, but as my crew waves me inside, I’m more worried for him than ever before. I’ve come to learn James’s tells. The glasses never came off.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
I’m strapped in, idling on the blacktop starting line. Feed cameras everywhere. Vacs overhead.
My new rig shivers; the engine is growling at me, telling me to put my foot to the floor. I’ve got the chance to race in a real point-to-point rally, not an endless sprint around a track, but for once, my jittery pulse doesn’t slacken into the usual stone-cold zone. A dull ache blossoms at the base of my skull; one of my headaches is brewing and I’m a knot of panicked energy.
No rivals flank me at this starting line. Instead, the trail of rigs stretches behind me. One by one, seconds apart, we’ll each get our moment to launch forward, hurtling toward the mountains and a finish line that’s hundreds of miles away. Thanks to my victory at Sand Ridge, I’ll have the best head start, but Courant and the others will be snapping at my heels soon enough.
And this time, I’m running for real. I have thirty-eight minutes to rocket over seventy miles, to take the right fork at the top of the mountain pass and duck into a blind spot, the one place on the course the live feeds can’t reach.
I flip down my visor and the VR screens come to life. The clock counts down. My green flag will flash in a matter of seconds. I hear Bear’s voice through my headset. “In position, route is all clear,” he says. “Go time.”
Three . . . Two . . . One. I blast off, tires squealing. It’s almost nothing but straightaway for the first forty miles, so I punish the floorboard, jamming the accelerator all the way down for as long as I can. Once I get more altitude, snaking up the treacherous summit, the turns will get fierce and tight. My competition will catch up and I’ll have to force the RPMs down just to maneuver without skating off course and over the cliff’s edge.
Of course, the whole plan is to run this rig off road, to tumble and fall a thousand feet. But I’d prefer to crash this baby on purpose, not in a moment of shaky recklessness. If only Bear would say something. I’ve never raced without his steady voice to center me.
I grapple with the silence for as long as I can, but when the road narrows and the emerald foothills disappear, I can’t take it anymore. I can’t hear their roar in the distance, but my rig’s exhaust cam shows me Fallon and Banks are gaining already. I’m climbing too high and the rough terrain is too much. I can’t do this alone. I can’t even blurt out how scared I am and how badly my head is throbbing, because I don’t know who’s listening over the line. “Talk to me, Bear.”
“Making good time, slow down a bit. You’ve got the first turn in two miles, maybe twenty seconds,” he says. “Take it easy and you’ll be fine.”
Somehow, I’ve softened him. I can hear it in his voice. “How many ’til the second marker?”
“Six,” he says. “And then . . .”
He doesn’t have to finish. I know we’re halfway between the second and third points. I run through the getaway script in my head one last time and gulp a ragged breath. I’ll stay on track until the last crucial moment. Then I’ll take the right fork. We’re praying my rivals aren’t stupid enough to follow, choosing the race’s losing route. But if they do, I’ll have to blaze or leave an obstacle, crippling them in my wake.
Gripping the steering wheel, I will my skull-splitting headache to disappear. It’s not working.
“My . . . my head,” I stammer. If I don’t stop bugging out, I’m going to end up smashing my rig against the twisted rock face of the mountain.
“You’re hugging the twists too hard,” he says. “Ease up, Phee. Please.”
“Bear, I need you. Talk me down.”
A long silence, then a sigh. “Remember your second race? The time we beat Harkness up in Bellamy Heights?”
I blink. “Yeah. I nearly flipped the Talon on the third corner. Almost smashed into somebody’s iron gates.”
“But you didn’t,” Bear says. “And you’re not going to crack up now. I won’t let that happen.”
His words take my panic down a notch. The pain behind my eyes hasn’t let up, but with Bear on my side, I know I can deal. We’ll negotiate the route together, just as we always have.
In the distance, someone’s pulled a trigger to catch up. I look and see a purple rig rip through the space between Fallon and Banks. Rust. Courant’s decided he wants a rematch. He’s hurtling toward me. In reflex, my finger hovers over my own triggers. It’s going to kill me to move aside.
I slide right, but he doesn’t speed ahead. Instead, he ducks behind me, letting Banks and Fallon pass us both. “Stupid sap-hole son of a . . . What’s he playing at?!”
“He thinks he’ll coast in your wake and slingshot later,” Bear answers. “Wants you to drag him all the way to the finish line.”
A blur of color flashes beside me as three more rigs—Winfield, Balfour, and Kimbrough—pass us. I’m glad to see Coop get around me, but as for Maxwell . . .
“Courant can kiss my exhaust!”
“Actually, looks like that’s his plan.”
Whump. I brace against the bump and scrape as Courant’s rig nudges my back end. It’s nothing more than a love tap, but I’m sure it’s just a taste of things to come. He’s baiting me, waiting for me to make an insane move.
“Be careful,” Bear says. “The turn’s ahead.”
The fork looms before me. I loosen my grip on the throttle, slowing down a hair. “C’mon, Courant, get off my back,” I whisper. “Take the left fork.” Surely he wants to win. Ahead, I see Coop and the rest of my rivals break left, taking the broad route to easy victory. Maxwell would be a fool to follow me up the narrow twist.
Speed up. Swerve right. Check my tail. The slash of purple’s still there. Blind, vengeful, arrogant Courant. He’s forced my hand, and now I have to make him bleed. “How far ’til—”
Fear darkens Bear’s voice. “At this rate, you’ve got maybe two minutes.”
I speed up, then slow down. Again and again, I try to throw Courant off, but he won’t pass me. I can’t have him on my tail in the blind spot. No witness to my escape. I jerk the wheel and skate dangerously close to the outer edge of the road, tossing gravel and catching him off guard. Before he can react, he pulls ahead. I drop behind him, turning the tables at last.
The next hairpin turn is seconds away—I must act now or not at all. I never thought my life was worth that much, but people are depending on me to come through. This is no time to lose my edge.
I have to take Courant out of this race.
I swing right. Just as he mirrors my move, I rocket forward, clipping Maxwell’s rear end on the way out. The feeds will say it was haphazard, but the tap was fiercely calculated. While I speed away, Courant fishtails and spins, skidding toward the inside of the mountain. I wince as he slams into the railing, crashing to a brutal stop. Courant will survive to race another day, but not against me. Not ever again.
I gasp, shell-shocked I actually pulled it off. Soon a response crew will descend. The clean-up will close the route to other rigs. I’ve bought myself a few precious minutes in the blind spot.
After I take a few dee
p breaths, I wait for Bear to get back on script. If everything’s in place at the rendezvous, he’ll warn me about an obstacle ahead. That’s my signal to spring into action.
A few more seconds tick by. The feeds are consumed by Maxwell’s crash. I swipe the volume up to listen. “. . . already stumbled out of the wreck, but we all thought she was going to get herself killed up there . . . Jack, any word if she’s turned up on the other side of the pass?”
“Watch out for debris after the next turn,” Bear says. “There was a lot of overgrowth when I scouted this morning. I don’t know if they cleared all of it out.”
That’s my cue. I swallow a deep breath and try not to throw up all over my gear. I make one more ascending turn and grab the throttle stick. Moon and stars, I hope this rig won’t fail me. I clench my fist and burn a trigger. My rig surges forward, fueled by a screaming burst. Hold on, baby, hold on . . . I wrestle the steering wheel, squeezing tight to keep this bullet on the right trajectory.
I have to make a stupid move. They have to believe I’m going to skid off the . . .
“What in the . . . Phee . . . what . . . doing?” Gil shouts into my headset. The blind-spot pass has turned his signal into little more than static and crackle. “. . . crazy? Shut that speed down . . . before you . . . up there.”
Wish I could tell him that’s the whole plan.
I’ve managed to keep my rig from careening completely out of control. I punish my brakes and the car squeals to a whiplash stop near the outside lip of the road. I’m a few meters from a windswept drop. It’s time to play my part. “Something’s wrong,” I shout into the headset. “My steering’s off and the engine’s smoking. I can’t get a visual. I can’t see through the—”
On cue, I run into a gray cloud. I squint into the woods. I can barely make out Hank and Bear, hiding in the trees. Hank has done his job and tossed three cans of industrial- grade smoke onto the course. The thick, billowing plumes obscure us from any rogue vacs. Even if the feeds could pick up anything, they wouldn’t know what’s going on.
I have to keep talking my way through this. “I’m caught on something. A tree branch or a deep rut. I can’t get her loose!” All the while, as the smoke hides my movement, I’m prying myself out of the six-point restraint, scrambling out of the rig. Hank and Bear dash onto the road.
I hear the clash of broken voices on the line. “Don’t move . . . Shut her down . . . Get out . . .” My team yells in the background; they think I’m still gunning the engine, foolishly spinning my wheels. Gil pleads with me to stay put. “DISENGAGE, PHEE. DO NOT TRY TO PUNCH IT.”
“No!” I shout. I have no idea how much he’s picking up. “I can get out of this. I’ve got some traction.”
The engine’s still running, but I left it in neutral. Hank and Bear jump behind my beautiful rig. They push, straining until it rolls closer to the edge of the road. I don’t have much meat on my bones, but I lean in to help. Our combined leverage shoves the car another precious two feet.
“NO . . . IT’S . . . I CAN’T . . . I . . .” I rip the headset and helmet free and toss them after the car. We watch Benroyal’s circuit rig smash and flip and twist, buffeted by rocks and branches on the way down a thousand-foot plunge. The ugly scream of metal against stone sounds like a dying dream.
The fuel tanks explode; the roar of flame is deafening.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
I’m frozen, standing at the edge of the cliff.
“Move out, let’s go.” Hank tugs at my shoulder. “Clean-up crew will be on our tails. Let’s go.”
I killed my rig. I’m dead to my crew. My skull is pounding and I can’t get a grip on the shakes rippling through me. When my knees buckle, I nearly drop.
Bear puts an arm around me and drags me back on my feet. He’s about to lift me over his shoulder when I finally snap out of it and break into a run, following Hank back into the woods. Once we’re sheltered behind the sloping tree line, Hank hands me a new headset, so we can communicate on the go.
“Keep moving.” Hank leads the way, hiking down the mountainside at a furious pace. “Watch your step. Don’t want to break your legs on the way down. Two more miles.”
Bear catches up. He stays close, watching out for me every step of the way. My legs are too short; I can’t keep up with their pace and I know I’m just slowing them down. I’m rusting useless anywhere besides behind the wheel.
We run until my lungs scream and wheeze. I trip on a rock and tumble forward, slashing my jaw against the tip of an evergreen branch. Bear catches me before I face-plant. When I reach to wipe the blood away, the red smears my hands like diabolical finger paint.
Hank tosses me a scrap of black fabric. I press it against my jaw until the cut stops oozing.
“Did Hal and Mary get out?” I ask.
“James made sure they got on the transport. They’ll be hours ahead of us. Probably halfway there by now.”
“What about James?”
Hank shrugs. “His vac was still on standby when I left. Said he wanted to stay and keep Benroyal occupied and off our scent for as long as he could. Don’t worry. James is smart. He knows when to stay, and when to cut and run.”
Hank takes off again before I can gasp out any more questions. We don’t stop moving until we reach a thick knot of trees at the base of a hollow. Hank rushes ahead and starts prying at the tangled limbs.
Wait. The branches aren’t haphazard, they’re woven together, a clever screen to hide our getaway vehicle. It’s a tank. We’re climbing inside a rusting anti-vac tank. Inside this giant black beetle, it’s dim and hot; there’s barely room to breathe or stretch our legs. I lean against one of the low walls and slide to the floor. Hank flips three switches and a bank of screens blinks to life.
“Where did this come from?” I ask him.
“Cyanese Army,” he says, swiping icons on a touch panel. “Love their hardware. Corporates make everything complicated, but Cyanese weapons? Totally idiot-proof. Everything’s lock and load, point and shoot, start and go.”
Idiot-proof or not, I don’t know how to drive this monster, but Hank certainly seems to know what he’s doing. He climbs into the turret seat and two seconds later, we’re off, lurching toward a narrow road at the far end of the hollow.
With arms folded around my knees, I try to relax. We’ve got miles to go and we’re not home free yet, by any means. There’s a vac waiting to fly us to the rendezvous, but we can’t jump on until we’re much farther away from the course.
I glance at Bear. Now that we’re eye to eye, sharing the same cramped airspace, it feels like the wall has risen between us again. I suppose it’s easier to talk when you don’t have to look someone in the eye.
I stare at the blinking panel just over Bear’s shoulder. The screen bathes him in red light. “I wish I hadn’t ruined your life,” I say.
“Me too.”
His voice isn’t much more than a murmur and I can’t tell if he’s joking or not. He moves from his spot against the opposite wall of the tank. At first, I think it’s just to get farther away from me, but then he wedges himself beside me. We’re shoulder to shoulder, pressed in on both sides by equipment and compartments. I open my mouth, but Bear cuts me off before I can get a word out. “Don’t,” he says.
I read his silence.
Don’t speak.
Don’t explain.
Don’t tell me you’re sorry.
Don’t hurt me anymore.
I want to lay my head against his shoulder and tell him how much I still care, but I can’t. Bear needs time to heal and space to forgive. And I’m going to give it to him.
I lean back and close my eyes.
I’m relieved when we make it all the way down the mountain. At the narrow break in the trees, I’d half expected a squadron of IP to be waiting for us, ready to arrest us all. Instead, we climb on an unassuming vac and h
ead for the rendezvous. We soar, flying high over the mountains heading west.
In the passenger hold, three hours crawl by, and I’m anxious to land. I know the plan. Hank’s drilled it into our heads well enough. We’ll touch down at an old rebel base. Cash and his allies will be waiting, and we’ll all have to pull together to get everyone evacuated. If we move to a stronghold farther west, near Manjor, it will be easier to get more support from the Cyanese. More importantly, we’ll be farther from Benroyal’s soldiers, who stay close to the Gap. The distance will give us the chance to plan a real coup, a revolution that will put Cash on his father’s throne. And I’ll have the chance to help my own planet. I won’t rest until Benroyal’s black sap empire is burned to ash.
Finally, the vac begins to descend.
“How far?” I ask Hank.
“Almost there,” he says, tapping the bolt-rimmed window beside his seat. “Take a look.”
I lean over him to catch a glimpse of the landscape below, but see nothing but forests and mountains and land-bridged valleys.
We sink, and suddenly, we’re dangerously close to one of those land-bridges, a massive, low outcropping. I exhale when we clear it, dipping into its shadow. Near the end of our descent, I finally see what Hank’s talking about. Far below us, underneath the shelter of the rock, there’s an enormous man-made wall, gated and half shrouded by flowering vines and lichen and the leaves of hundred-year-old trees.
It’s perfect. Shielded by ragged stone and practically undetectable from the air. We fall and I see the bell tower jutting above the gates. This place is ancient. No way did a few rebels build this. “Where did this come from?”
“Used to be a sanctuary,” Hank explains. “A secret refuge for Biseran monks, but it hasn’t been holy ground for a hundred years. Whole complex belongs to Grace Yamada. Her family bought it years ago. Lucky for us, it’s a pretty good hideout.”
