by Jenny Martin
“Bear,” I cry out. The whisper is hoarse and hollow.
He doesn’t answer, and I think he must be unconscious. When his chest rises, I catch the soft wheeze of his breath, but he is much too pale, little more than a ghost.
“He’s going to make it,” Hank reassures. “For a while, we were worried. The bullet in his back tore him up pretty badly. Mary’s got him pumped full of anti-gel and painkillers. He’ll come out all right.”
“How long have I been out?”
“Couple of days.” He pauses, then slips a flex into my hand. “When we tried to upload the files, the card erased itself. This is all we got. The whole thing’s corrupted now. He set us up, Phee.”
I turn it over, recognizing the stolen flex. I read the frozen screen.
You must never grasp at things you are not strong enough to hold.
Rage burns through my tears. This whole time Benroyal knew I had the card. He might as well have put it in my hands. The flex, the implant, the secrets in his study were all just a game to hunt down his enemies. Maybe he suspected James and Cash. Maybe he was certain all along. I think of each move I made, bolting home, running into Yamada, chasing Cash to the sap house. Benroyal tracked every step. He played us. Me, most of all.
“Where is James?”
Hank shakes his head. “We know Benroyal’s men boarded his vac, but James wasn’t there. It’s been complete flex silence, and no one knows where he is. Locus is a mess and the newsfeeds are going crazy. The rumors are wild, Phee. They say Locus was nearly bankrupt. That James committed suicide.”
“Suicide?” The word trembles on my lips. James can’t be dead. I know he is. I’m positive he isn’t. I don’t know which is the lie. “Locus can’t be bankrupt. James said he had everything taken care of. Did they kill him?”
“I don’t know.”
“What about Cash?”
He looks away. “Phee, I . . .”
Wide-eyed, I wait for him to finish.
“I went back myself, to pick up our wounded, but there’s been no sign of him.”
“No.” I sit up. “There has to be something. We have to go back.”
Slowly, he shakes his head. “There’s nothing to be done. There’s nothing left.”
“But he can’t be—”
“That base is smoke and ash. He’s gone.”
I shudder, unable to control the ugly, wracking sobs. My sorrow is a silent drowning choke. Hank moves closer, to console me, but I flinch and curl into myself.
“I’m sorry.” He stands up. He knows there’s nothing left to say.
After the attack, we never made it to Manjor. Instead, we fled Bisera altogether. We took shelter in the snow-white sea of the Pearl Strand, the neutral border zone between Cyan and Bisera. Here, we make camp and pick up the pieces.
It’s been a month since the ambush, and I’ve fallen into a routine. Wake up. Report to Hank. Do whatever needs to be done. The Cyanese keep sending more supplies, so we usually have our hands full unloading incoming vacs. Otherwise, I volunteer for grunt work or patrol duty or infirmary shifts with Bear. I prefer construction detail. It’s not that I’m good at putting up tents or laying brick, it’s that I crave the sense of building something. Despite everything, that’s why we carry on. Stone by stone, we mend a rebellion.
We worked on the armory today. It’s nearly done, and already half full of weapons. We’re finished for now, and while the rest of the crew heads to the mess hall for dinner, I slump onto the soft grass outside its front doors. On my knees, I lift my flask, then gulp the last of the water. I’m worn out, but still not tired enough. Can’t seem to quiet my mind. I need to take a walk after dinner. Go for a climb. Seems that’s the only thing that gets my brain off high alert.
I shouldn’t be so on edge. They say we’re safe in the Strand. That we’ve put down roots in ground too sacred to be attacked. I look up, spying the proof. To the east, the forests of giant poppies march up and out of our little valley, every inch hallowed ground. To the west, up the slope, is the Hill of Kings. Nine centuries’ worth of tombs still stand, a memorial to better days. Hard to believe Cyan and Bisera built it together. For almost a millennium, they lived in peace and buried their leaders side by side. Every day, I’m drawn to those graves, yet I avoid them for the same reason: Dead or alive, this is where Cash is meant to be. Fallen, he’d be laid to rest. Standing, he’d rally us here.
I close my eyes, and I can still see him, smell him, feel the slick of his blood on my fingertips. The memory’s too painful, so I pull a flex from my pocket. On it is the antidote. The one thing that takes the edge off my grief. I’ve watched this bootleg feedcast a dozen times. I keep watching because it gives me hope. I see it and know our gamble wasn’t all for nothing.
On the tiny screen, Charles Benroyal sits inside the Castran Assembly House. He is near the dais, watching from the sideline of the visitors’ gallery. Up front, he is barely visible, hidden in a tight knot of suits. Around him, Sixers and feedcast crews fill the space, while politicians occupy every seat on the floor. Predictably, the real public’s been forced outside, onto the atrium and steps of the House. For this particular press conference, there’s only room for the allied elite.
Prime Minister Prejean stands at the grand podium. Above him, Castran flags and corporate banners. Before him, a panel of bulletproof glass. On the periphery, soldiers in black, lined up in neat little rows.
It is the day after. The day after the mountain rally, the day after the ambush, the day after everything. Prejean takes one step forward and begins his formal statement:
“Yesterday, citizens of Castra and Bisera came under attack in a series of calculated and deadly terrorist acts. During yesterday’s rally, His Highness Prince Cashoman Dradha was taken by force. We do not know if he is alive or dead, or whether or not he’s being held for ransom. Phoenix Vanguard, who was one of our own, is also missing, and we are devastated by the loss.”
Was. Already, I belong only in past tense. When he pauses, I zoom in on Benroyal. King Charlie’s expression is grave and tight, but his eyes dance. I’m certain he knows exactly where I am. And where Cash is. Behind the mask, he is smiling at me.
Prejean continues. “As of this afternoon, the facts are few. Midway through yesterday’s rally, Miss Vanguard disappeared. Her rig exploded, but no evidence of her remains have been found. And while we are certain Prince Dradha was kidnapped, we have not yet determined whether she was the victim of a tragic accident or a willing accomplice in violent, treasonous acts.”
Again, the look. That secret smile in Benroyal’s eyes. Prejean’s words—I bet every one of them was scripted by Benroyal. Of course, the vague explanations and omissions make sense. King Charlie is waiting. He doesn’t yet know how he’d like to twist the facts. Cash and I, we are cards to hold. Later, he can lay our bodies on the table.
“At this time, the Castran Circuit Control Board is currently investigating Locus Informatics and a wager that may be linked to yesterday’s attacks. As of now, all shares are frozen. Our administration gratefully acknowledges the contributions of Benroyal Corporation, which has generously offered to fund operations of the courts, until these matters are settled.”
Benroyal can barely keep a straight face. He pretends to close his eyes, as if lost in private anguish, but I know he’s savoring victory. He doesn’t see what’s coming.
Prejean begins to wind down the speech. “Yesterday was a terrible day for our nation, but we are proud of the heroic efforts made by officers of the Interstellar Patrol. After discovering a terrorist base, our men and women made a valiant stand to rescue Prince Dradha and capture the enemy. Tragically, five officers were wounded and eight were killed. We salute these fallen soldiers. We grieve with their families.”
I scan the faces in the chamber. They’ve lost no sons or daughters. On the floor, no one is mourning.
; The prime minister makes his final plea. “And it is for these fallen brothers and sisters, I beg. For Castra. Because our very way of life is at stake, and we must do whatever it takes to root out our enemies and bring them to justice.”
He is nearly breathless now, carried away by his own words. You could almost believe them. At last, he stares into the cameras. His eyes don’t scan the floor anymore, because this message isn’t meant for the gallery. It’s meant for the rest of my world, for South Siders in their living rooms and for those who stand outside.
“Today, I ask you, our citizens, to help. When Domestic Patrol officers knock on your door, share any information you have. If you are able and of age, answer the enlistment call. Stand with me, and contribute to the cause of freedom.”
When he finishes, the soldiers take one step forward. Crisply, at attention, they salute the audience, while the Sixers and politicians politely applaud. Quickly, I scan the sea of people and pinpoint the bogus feedcaster, a second before he reaches into his bag. He slips two steps closer to the dais. The pod of raw sap barely fits in his hand. It’s a small, gray, thin-skinned ball, the kind designed to rupture easily when used for fuel. But the pod doesn’t stay in his grasp for long. In one quick, desperate stroke, he hurls it.
“Give us Abasi!” he shouts as it bursts against the bulletproof glass. The dull thud is startling, and the murky splatter still makes my stomach twist. It’s like watching a corpse hit the ground. The entire chamber sucks in a breath, and for one long second, holds it. Then the IP guards descend on the rogue dissenter. They pounce and drag him from the House.
And it begins.
The chamber doors part, gasping open like an intake valve. As the IP guards pull the man through it, a spark of anger pistons through the crowd in the atrium, igniting a roar so strong, it breaks through the lines of the soldiers. A riot is born, and the feedcast ends with the sound of a thousand shouts as the mob surges into the House. The cut’s so abrupt, you’d almost miss the eye-blink of footage. But it’s there. I see the look. I freeze the screen and stare at him.
Benroyal isn’t smiling anymore.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
After dinner, I leave bear in the infirmary. He doesn’t like it when I hang around during his physical therapy sessions, while he hobbles back and forth and builds up his strength. Maybe he can’t chase Hal and Mary off, but I’ll let him be. I can give him that much.
It’s the quiet hour. The breeze carries idle chatter—the sounds of soldiers gathered around tables, and children being tucked into their beds with stories and songs and prayers. I cut through the eastern edge of the camp, past the barracks and the armory. Hank is on evening watch. He acknowledges me with a nod and a fist over his heart. We trade greetings. Bidram arras noc.
The night wind gusts and sings, and I turn up my collar, grateful for the warmth of the uniform. My coat, my shirt, my cap. It’s all army surplus, the no-nonsense gear the Cyanese hand out to refugees. It’s all dark blue, thickly woven, stripped of all its stars and silver thread. Colors, but no country. Like my Earth-born father, I have a new world, but no home.
I keep hiking until the clearing disappears altogether, until I’m deep into the endless field of towering blooms. I find just the right stalk, one thick with thorny buds, and I climb. I struggle, hand over foot, until I’ve breached the canopy, where the night meets the sweet, heady scent of velvet petals and rain-kissed leaves.
My fingers are sticky with bitter earth and fragrant nectar, but I’m secure enough, perched between two twining stalks. I tilt my head and stare into the sky. This is what I do. Every night, I look for the Evening Star.
Tired and restless, I come here to find him. I tell myself that he isn’t dead and that the IP picked him up. I imagine what he must face each day while I’m here, safe and well-fed. Then I spin other futures. We recover Cash. James. Abasi. All of them, safe and alive. We march into the Spire and bring back my mother. Finally, one last task.
I face Benroyal, and he falls.
A rush of air. In the moonlight, a barden soars past my perch. I spy his black feather crown and the pearl-bright sweep of his wings. Slowly, he glides through the tangled swirl of poppies, moving east, then doubling back. He lingers here and there, drinking from a bloom, then winging through the stalks, searching for whatever creeps in the dark.
The barden flies up, circles one last time, then disappears. No prey in sight, I guess, so he must keep going. I wonder how far, and by what road. A thousand miles from here, the Palace in Belaram. Behind the horizon, the Gap. Beyond the stars, Castra is worlds away.
But if I close my eyes, I can still see it. I can still feel the scorch of midday, the sun rising over Capitoline. The memory of it burns like a flame in my heart. It’s a fire I tend every day. I can’t forget.
Because somewhere, there’s a battle waiting. In the Spire, there’s an unsettled score. A revolution’s coming, and when it does, I’ll be ready. I won’t run. I won’t lay low the way I used to do on the streets. This time, I’ll rise, every talon curled and sharp.
I stretch out my hand and look to the skies. I reach for my Evening Star.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
“IT’S EITHER EASY OR IMPOSSIBLE.”—SALVADOR DALI
I can’t believe you’re reading this. If you’re really reading this, Tracked is an actual book. So can I just say? I can’t believe we pulled this off.
Because Tracked is my impossible thing.
It wasn’t easy to write it and bring it into the world, and I’m so grateful for all the people who helped me do it. I will never stop giving thanks.
To Sara Crowe, my agent and friend—you are my champion. Always in my corner, you’ve never failed to help me answer the bell. Thank you for everything. I could not have done this without you and the rest of the team at Harvey Klinger.
To Heather Alexander, my editor and advocate—you are my lamppost in the dark wood. I have learned so much from you, and your patience and tenacity are a gift. My words will be forever influenced because of yours.
To Stacey Friedberg, my editor and sounding board—thank you for pacing me through the last leg of the race. And to the rest of the crew, at Dial and beyond—Jill Bailey, Lauri Hornik, Regina Castillo, Irene Vandervoort, Dana Chidiac, Mina Chung, Lori Thorn, Elizabeth Rupp, and Jennifer Dee—thank you for your generosity, patience, and hard work.
To my husband, Chris, who always, always encouraged my writing dreams and defended them against the relentless monster of self-doubt. Thank you for your strong arms and loyal heart. Everything that’s best in Cash and Bear? I borrowed from you.
To my son, Conor, who never fails to dream the grandest dreams. Thank you for teaching me to believe in them too.
To my truest friend, Caron Ervin, who has the kindest, fiercest, most admirable spirit. Thank you for the honor of your friendship. I owe you so much for carrying me, through thick and thin.
To my parents, who didn’t laugh when I said I wanted to be a writer. To my mother, Marilee, who is endlessly encouraging, and my father, Charles, who’s been with me the whole way, vicariously chasing the dream, getting just as choked up as his sentimental daughter. And to the rest of my family—to all my J’s and C’s. (And N’s and K’s!) I love you very much.
To Rosemary Clement-Moore, Kate Cornell, Candace Havens, Sally Hamilton, A. Lee Martinez, Tex Thompson, and all my friends at DFW Writers’ Workshop who were never too busy to encourage or spur me on. Thank you for always listening.
To Julie Murphy (my darling JAM), who is strong where I am weak.
To Amber Swindle, for reading draft after draft.
To Jen Bigheart, for all the laughter and happy songs.
To Donna Lufkin, for inspiring so many of us.
To Mary Kole, for teaching me so much when I was just an embryo writer.
To Neil Gaiman, for your life’s work, and also, for the hug.
To my bookish friends, online and off, who have been comrades in arms—Erin Bowman, Mindy McGinnis, Victoria Scott, Lindsay Cummings, Kari Olsen, Kristin Treviño, Natalie Parker, Christa Desir, Jeramey Kraatz, Stacy Vandever Wells, and Britney Cossey, I’m looking at you. Also, the Fourteenery and the Freshman 15s and my Dallas Darlings and Austin Girls and the Houston Horde and the Lufkin 6 and the Literary Lonestars and so many more. You know who you are. I love you guys.
To the infamous, mercurial Mr. Happenstance, who taught me that a good deal of luck—finding the right person at the right time—can make all the difference.
Lastly, to you. I sincerely and humbly thank you for reading Tracked. It’s not mine anymore. It’s yours. May you always believe in impossible things.
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