Marked (4 page)

When she and all the rest get back to work, Larken turns. “Come with me.”

I follow him to a flex glass table, one normally set aside for intercepting and filtering feeds. We take it all in: the official news from Castra, and raw footage from friendlies—hacker groups like BitReaper and the Fist. For weeks, Hank's kept an eye on communications; no
one gets new data in or out of our little valley without clearing it with him first. Sure, we can access transmissions, but HQ screens them. All this time, I thought Hank was protecting the rebellion. Now, I see, he was also protecting
me
.

Leaning over the table, Larken signs into the system, disables half a dozen applications, then pulls up a single screen. “Should be able to pick up a few direct feeds from here,” he says, stepping aside. “Find me when you're done.”

After he leaves, I sit in the chair. I stay up all night watching the screen, staring at feedcast after feedcast. Zaide brings a cup of coffee, but I leave it, cold and untouched. I don't need it to stay awake. The rage is enough.

Back home, I used to avoid too much screen time. Working at the Larssens' clinic and racing for Benny kept me plenty busy, and even when I had the time, I never saw the point in watching anything but circuit racing. On Castra, the news is always depressing, and scripted Sixer shows are nothing but subtle propaganda.

But there's nothing subtle about what they've done to me. My family. Hank and a dozen other rebels. To millions, we're now a pack of bloodthirsty terrorists. Castra's Most Wanted.

Sure, I've seen most of it before. We knew Benroyal
would make us outlaws. But I never expected this latest spin on the story.

It's been three months since the prime minister's disastrous public statement, and I guess Benroyal's smooth-talking strategists got to work. To say they perfected damage control is an understatement. I watch the old feeds, and see the first story break. Then another and another and another.

New Evidence in Vanguard Disappearance.

Circuit Racer Linked to Bombings.

Phoenix Vanguard: Accomplice or Mastermind?

Dradha Presumed Dead, Assassinated by Ex-Racer.

Then, the most recent story. The perfect final blow. False footage of me, supposedly recovered from the ambush. The angles are all wrong, and the action's choppy. The fiery chaos looks all too real, and I could almost believe they actually captured this, then and there, during the attack. Except in this new “footage,” there's a new Phoenix Vanguard. A slick, digitized copy of me. Same eyes, same hair, same black racing uniform, but there's a gun in her hand.

I tense, my nostrils flaring.

I stare at the screen. Through hopeless smoke, my ringer stands over a kneeling victim, posed to look like Cash. You can't see his face; he's mostly out of frame as she raises the barrel.

It isn't the jump cut to barren ground as she fires that turns me inside out. It's the crack of the bullet and the sound of his body dropping. The angry churn in my gut curdles into a full-on case of the shakes. One grainy clip, and they've erased who I am. They've hijacked my identity. But I don't stop. I push past the nausea and keep watching. I don't move or make a sound until I see the last feedcast, recorded only hours ago.

Riot in Biseran Capital.

There's a procession, streaming through the Biseran capital. Thousands have gathered for a beloved prince. When the people surge in the streets, fists raised for their Evening Star, I die with them. They cry out for my blood, and I break, biting down on a sob.

I log out and shut it all down. When I finally check the time, I see I've missed the sunrise.

ZAIDE'S NO LONGER IN THE COMMUNICATIONS ROOM, BUT HER
day shift replacement tells me where Larken's gone. As the sun climbs, I find him outside camp on the Hill of Kings. He sits on a rock at the top of the silt-veined slope, surrounded by the tombs of his ancestors.

Despite the stubborn flocks of barden and the crusty layers of bird drip on every grave, on this planet, there is no ground more sacred. For centuries, the Cyanese and the Biseran buried their leaders on this height. As angry as I am, I don't have the right to raise my voice here. Quietly, I sit beside him. “Why do you let them stay here?”

He doesn't tilt my way. Instead, he shrugs. “Let who stay?”

“The birds.”

He ignores my question. “Did you find what you were looking for at headquarters?”

I don't answer at first. Instead, I squint into the morning sun, so bright it makes my eyes water. I listen to the birds. Their cries knit into one scratching, fluttering shroud of grief-song. The sound is oddly comforting. “He's taken everything from me,” I say. “My home. My birth parents. Cash. But at least I had my identity.”

“But you were never Phoenix Vanguard. Not really.”

“That's not what I mean. I thought once I escaped, he couldn't touch who I really am. But now . . .”

He takes a breath, as if to speak, but I'm not finished yet. “You know what the bounty on my head is? One billion credits, as of last week.”

“And you're surprised? I'd have thought you'd seen that coming.”

“I figured he'd smear my name. But I didn't expect him to put a gun in my hand and make me Cash's killer. Millions of people think I did it, Larken. I don't know how to fight this.”

Larken doesn't react. Instead, he stares into the bright haze. When his eyes settle on a single distant, openmouthed crypt, it's like he can see into it, reading some dead man's invisible approach. “My grandfather Khed II rests there.”

“Parabba mocks you for it.”

“And he isn't completely wrong. My grandfather
was
insane. Imagine a thousand years of peace, between Cyan and Bisera . . . he helped to destroy that. He plunged us all into the Thirty Years' War.”

I pause. The only history I've been taught is the version sold on the Sixer feeds. “What happened?”

“The old man marched across the Strand. Tried to invade the Gap, and the Sixers rushed in to ‘protect' it for Bisera. Cyan and Bisera haven't been the same since.”

I look up at him. “Living here, I think I get it now. It's not just two countries . . . it's more like old friends, torn apart.”

“Old friends . . . and families too.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Your family?”

“The war dragged on and on. We were blamed for so much. The conflict, the destruction, even the assassination of His Majesty King Mohan.”

“But Benroyal and Cash's brother, Dakesh—they were the ones who murdered his father. It wasn't—”

Larken cuts me off. “Yes, but my grandfather sneered at Bisera's loss. In public, he acted all too pleased to see Cash's father gone. He should have denounced the assassination; at the very least, he should have offered some token of sympathy. Instead, he fueled the rumors, making it so
easy to pin the lie on us. And my father . . . he couldn't handle the pressure or the shame. He gave up his title. Locked himself away in his country estate, abandoning my mother and me. After that, we never fit in. Not even when the Skal finally came to its senses and put an end to my grandfather's madness.”

“Your throne, the one with the scar—”

“The council guard cut the old man down, right there in the tower. They left his chair, as a reminder.” Bitterly, he smiles. “Forgive me, if I'm not eager to sit there and take his place.”

“Larken, that's horrible. But they have to know none of it was your fault.”

A shadow passes over him and for a second, I swear he's a hundred years older. “They know I'm a madman's heir, and a coward's son.”

The air's quiet and thick; it's an effort to suck in a breath. I have no title. I will never sit on a throne or lead a people. But I know what it's like for Larken, to be abandoned.

“After my father left, my mother bargained to hold our place on the council. I took my father's seat. But we were never really accepted,” Larken adds. “The damage had been done. It was too late.”

“But you stayed behind,” I let slip. “You could have followed your father and run away.”

He doesn't answer. He doesn't have to. That deep sense of duty—it's written all over him. For a moment, shoulder to shoulder, we sit in silence. He eyes the shifting flock of barden. “You asked me why we let the barden stay,” he says at last. “But they were here first, and they'll be here after we're gone.”

I sigh. “And that doesn't bother you, on your own holy ground? The barden stink. They drip all over the place.”

“They also keep the hill clear of things that slither and crawl. They eat pesky groats and wendel, and even their drip serves a purpose. It kills the weeds and fertilizes the poppies.” He's too diplomatic to let it show, but there's a slow-blooming smile on his face. “And if the birds seem to prefer roosting on Parabba's family crypt, and a little extra falls on his ancestors, who am I to argue?”

I cough, choking on a bit of laughter.

Larken straightens, and a little of his reserve returns. He's the commander again. “They stick together, this flock. Drive them away, scatter them a thousand times, and they will migrate back, drawn to each other. They do not surrender. They do not give up their ground.”

I'm quiet once more. I close my eyes. My city, Capitoline, is light-years away, but I can almost feel its desert fire in the sun-glazed air. “I've done everything but hold my ground, Larken. I abandoned my world, and my people.
These past three months, all this time . . . I've just been hiding out.”

“You can call it hiding out, but maybe it's building strength,” he says. “After my father died, it took a long time to find my way. Sometimes, it takes a while to recover. You have to make the choice to come back from it. Come back a little stronger . . . a little wiser . . . and you can show them what you're made of. Show them who you really are.”

I freeze, uncertain.

“Or not,” he adds. “You could just let him define you.”

My fists begin to curl at my sides, but even as my temper flares, I know that I'm angry with myself, not Larken.

“How?” I ask. “You're the military strategist. How do I take my identity back?”

“Engage your enemy,” he says, as if the answer were obvious.

“What do you mean?”

“First, you've got to choose a suitable battlefield. Second, launch an offensive. Quickly, before the enemy has the chance to read your position.”

I blink. “Are you saying I should leave the Strand?”

“I'm saying you have options. Remember: The wisest victors act, rather than react. They know when to strike, rather than defend. So you can wait for Benroyal to make the next move, or you can make one of your own.”

Larken stares me down, so I turn away.

“Don't wait too long, Phee.” He stands. His final words fall heavy on my shoulders. “You decide. Don't let him choose your battleground.”

I NEED A SHOWER AND SIX HOURS STRETCHED OUT ON MY
bunk, but instead I walk down to the launch yard to find Bear. As soon as I duck into the flight ops tent, Hank waves from his seat on the command platform, then points me in the right direction. “He's in sim one,” he says. “If you don't mind standing by a sec, he's finishing up.”

I eye the giant gray sphere while I wait. I'm told it's the largest, most state-of-the-art flight simulator on base, and Bear's logged about three billion hours in it since we arrived in the Pearl Strand. He's bound and determined to become a Tandaemo fighter pilot, and I can't blame him for aiming high. Tandaemo are worthy aircraft. More agile than regular vacs, they're capable in a dogfight, and can still handle vertical takeoffs and landings.

And unlike other fighters, they're set up with two flexible command seats, which can alternate as gunner and pilot positions. At any given time, either partner can switch tasks or take over completely. Which explains the fighter's name: Tandaemo is a play on the Cyanese word
tan,
which means “twin,” and
daemo,
which means “bird of prey.” Not a bad way to describe such a sleek, dangerous vac.

Finally, another officer hands Hank an oversized flex screen, and after looking at Bear's latest sim score, he enters an exit code. I hear the pressured pod door hiss as it opens. Hank and the other officer stand up to leave.

And then I'm alone with my former best friend. Bear unbuckles and pulls off his helmet, and I catch the rarest glimpse of joy as he sits in the pod's left command seat. He doesn't spy me yet. His face is flushed and his ice-blue eyes are all lit up. It's the happiest I've seen him in ages.

He looks up as he rises from the com, but the sight of me presses him back into his seat.

“Hi.” I swallow. “I figured you'd be here.”

He nods, and I watch the joy slide away. A shadow passes over him, his jaw sets once more. This is the Bear I've come to know best in the last three months. He says nothing, and suddenly, I'm not ready to have this conversation.

“Perfect score today?” I ask.

“Almost. I missed one target. Or technically, my
artificially intelligent copilot missed one. It's a lot harder to run this kind of sim alone.”

“But you'll have a partner soon?”

“A copilot? Yes.”

Too many seconds of silence hang between us. My eyes sweep the pod; I look at everything but him. “Tell me what you love about this.”

“The fighter vacs, you mean?”

“Flight school. The simulator. All of it. Tell me.”

“You really want to know?” he asks. He's surprised. Lately, we've only seen each other in the clinic and in the mess hall. I've never sought him out here before.

“I really want to know.”

“Then,” he says, beckoning me into the pod, “instead of telling you, how about I show you?”

I climb in and sit beside him. Bear hands me a helmet, and I buckle into the second command seat. When the pod door closes, we're pinned down in darkness, the slow sigh of his breathing the only sound. A moment later, the sim comes to life, and I'm dazzled by false sunlight through pretend windows, and the sharp glow of a dozen holographic com screens. Bear swivels toward one and enters a code to launch the sim.

“I'll pick an easy one. We'll have to handle evasive maneuvers over the mountains, but we won't have to land
under pressure. I'll fly. You can be my gunner.” He gestures at the weapons console, with its lone mechanical control, a throttle-like trigger stick. “I'm betting it won't be that hard for you.”

He smiles. Already he's relaxing again, falling into the rhythm of his work. “Flight ops, this is Talon One, reporting for Mission: Karkoun.”

“Copy that, Talon One.” Flight ops is a silky-voiced, female AI. “Initiating simulation six-six-three.”

“Interesting choice for a call sign,” I tease Bear, ignoring the pang in my chest. Our first rig, the one I sunk at the docks.

“I've got a better one for you,” he answers mischievously. “Flight ops, I have new data.”

“Standing by, Talon One,” she says. “Go ahead.”

“Call sign for number two seat is Short Stuff,” he replies, a grin plastered over his screen-lit face.

I scowl at Bear. I should've known. It's his favorite nickname for me.

“Copy that,” the computer says. “Welcome aboard, Shorts Tuff.” Bear cackles over the wire.

“Seriously?” I kick, but his steel-toed boot's just out of range. I swivel hard in my chair. Bear reaches out to stop me.

“Easy there,” he mocks. “Or we'll have to lock your com
seat. And I might need you to swing around once the sim gets up in the air.”

Which is exactly what's going to happen in about ten seconds.

“All systems are go, Talon One,” flight ops warns. “Prepare for takeoff.”

I clench up at the sound of a hydraulic gasp as the com seat platform locks into place. Screens count down the last few seconds before liftoff. The platform jerks, and suddenly every surface vibrates with movement. The launch cycle presses me into my seat, and the way g-forces seem to ripple through me, I'd swear we were blasting into the sky.

The most primitive patch of my brain takes over, delivering familiar orders. Release adrenaline. Endorphins. The bliss-terror cocktail that floods my system every time I buckle into the driver's seat. Worse than a junkie, I've been chasing moments like this for half my life. In a rig, you get an eye-blink, a half-second jolt after you pull a speed trigger. Your heart bursts as you rocket forward. But the bullet-arc of the launch seems to stretch out so much farther. Just when I'm sure I can't get any higher, I
am
. And then the teeth-rattling lift is gone, and we're stabilized, racing smoothly. We're . . .
flying
. I glance at my copilot and think to myself,
I get it, Bear. I really do.

His hands are on the controls. His eyes sweep the false
horizon, then focus on the screens. “You make it look so easy,” I say.

“It's easy when you're flying with flight ops. The system can do a lot on its own, given the right parameters. But you can't always rely on auto-pilot. If there's any kind of systems failure, or signal disruption . . . airspeed, energy-to-weight ratio . . . it's all on us. You can't ever count on coasting, Phee. You've always got to be ready.”

Silent, I nod. In the past three months, Bear's recovered from a bullet to the back and become a pilot. What have I done with the same number of hours? Marched the perimeter, laid some brick, and swept some floors. He has grown beyond me.

“Flight ops,” he calls out. “Ready for briefing.”

“Copy. Affirmative,” she answers. A floating grid map appears. “Your mission is to penetrate hostile airspace over the Karkoun mountains, drop supplies to target, and return to base. Pilot Talon One, you will manage fighter position and employ evasive maneuvers against enemy fire. Gunner Shorts Tuff, you will monitor airspace and dispatch enemy fighters at will. You have twenty-eight minutes to complete your mission. Over.”

“Copy.”

“Out,” flight ops signs off.

And with that, we begin. I'm mystified as Bear
effortlessly keeps an eye on airspeed and altitude. One touch to a screen or tilt of the center stick, and he easily manages the high-speed pitch and roll. A few prompts appear on my own screen (I think my com seat must be set for “novice”), but I catch on quickly enough. I'm to watch the defensive grid for approaching hostiles. If I see any, all I have to do is aim, and pull the trigger to blow them away. In the sim, Benroyal's IP fighters shoot disruptive pulse fire, but they're also equipped with tracking missiles and charged magma artillery. I'm not sure what kind of heat we're packing.

“What am I firing? Pulse fire or—”

I'm cut off as Bear pulls us into a steep climb, then into a gut-churning spin. It takes me a second to figure out that I'm upside down, caught in a high-speed maneuver. A loud alarm pierces the fog.

“Warning,” flight ops says. “IP signatures detected. Hostiles in pursuit.”

Just as quickly as we flipped, we spiral again. I don't know how Bear keeps his head in the game and his hands on the flight controls. I've raced my share of rigs at more than two hundred miles per hour and crashed half as much, but this flying thing? All the blood's gone to my head, and it's screaming
Which way is up?

“Three fighter vacs at seven o'clock. Get on it, Phee!”

Bear says something else through the headset, but I'm
too bugged out to catch it.
Dig in, Van Zant.
My eyes loll back, then I curse and force them to focus.
Get a grip.
I zero in on my targeting screen and reach out for the trigger stick. The feel of it in my hands anchors me. Bear engineers another plunging turn, but this time I'm ready for the swing. When the first hostile slips back on my screen, I'm on it. When I tilt to follow the target, it's as if I'm riding the gun barrel, poised to rain down heavy fire.

The alarm doesn't let up, but I tune it out and pump the trigger once, twice, three times. I miss by a mile. The careless pulse fire does nothing to stop the IP fighters. Relentless, they loop back around in hot pursuit.

“Hold steady. You have to pull and hold it for a missile lock!” Bear shouts. “When your target blinks, let go!”

We nearly take a direct hit, but Bear manages to keep us out of range. He dips, slowing down, until the fighters have eclipsed us. This time, when they appear on the targeting grid, I take Bear's advice. A four-second squeeze, and we blow the first fighter to bits. It takes two other stomach-turning sprints to get into position again. I hammer the second fighter, ripping it out of the sky. Through my headset, the sim rewards me with a satisfying crack, and we weather the aftershocks of a fake explosion. It's too easy to forget this isn't real.

The third fighter isn't going down so easy. It rockets
ahead, moving over the drop zone. “Target in range,” flight ops alerts us. In the midst of combat, the monotone calm of her voice is jarring. “Air drop must occur below one thousand feet.”

“We won't make it,” Bear says. “I've never made a successful drop without dispatching all hostiles first.”

Sim or no sim, it pains me to let him down. “You've never had me on the trigger,” I say, forcing a confident edge I don't really feel. “It's not too late. Sweep down. Attempt the drop. I've got your back.”

He takes me at my word and manages the descent. I swear, my stomach climbs into my throat as we fall. I've always known Bear as a brilliant navigator, but I'd never bargained he could play so fast and loose.

I prepare for another evasive move, but the enemy fighter's pulled ahead. It's racing toward our drop zone. I strain to get a better glimpse of the ground. We are in the Karkouns now. The rebel camp's below us. As we close the gap, the hostile vac slows down again. The enemy fighter's playing a new game. We are no longer his target.

And I have been here before.

A rain of enemy pulse fire strikes the edge of the camp. The screens blink, illuminated by the hit.

“Warning,” flight ops says. “Abort mission. Return to base.”

My throat tightens and I'm paralyzed, my hands in a stranglehold around the targeting stick. When I don't let go, missile after missile blazes forward, misfired into the air. I hardly notice. My eyes are fixed on the ground, and I watch as the enemy fighter obliterates the camp.

Memories of the ambush rush in, and all the locked doors fly open at once. A dry heave twitch builds in my gut. I have to get out of this harness. Get out of this sim. I am here and not here. I can't handle this.

“Phee, are you okay?” Bear asks. He sounds so far away.

An ear-splitting alarm sounds as I unbuckle and fumble with the com seat harness. My screen flashes with orders.
Simulation Incomplete. Re-Engage Safety Restraint.
I ignore the warning, but when I stand up, I can't tell if the platform is still shifting or if I just can't find my feet. One exhale gallops after another, and I sink to my knees, desperate to catch a deeper breath. A sob is crouched in my wind pipe, and I'm determined to hold it in.

“Flight ops,” Bear barks, swiveling toward me. “Sim Over. Rapid Shut Down.”

For a moment, I'm alone in the dark. No more sirens to cover my gasps. But then Bear's hand falls on my shoulder. At his feet, I heave, shuddering like a helpless mess. My chest burning, my mind whirling, my whole body contracting, I'm pulled toward the black edge of tunnel vision.
The white-knuckle fog seems to last forever, and when it finally lifts, I am past light-headed. I am empty.

The emergency pod lights power up and I'm exposed. There will be no denying the panic attacks after this.

Mercifully, Bear waits. He doesn't try to pick me up or put me back together. And when our eyes meet, the quiet kindness sends a fresh stream of tears down my face.

I shift, angling toward his seat. Bear leans until our foreheads touch. “You'll get through this,” he says.

“I don't think I can.”

“You will.”

“He's gone, Bear.”

In the space of a breath, he is on the floor, beside me. I reach for him like a child waking up after a nightmare, and without a word, he takes me in, scooping me into his arms and holding tight. In the crush, there's relief. Between us, there's no more anger. Only forgiveness. I've been so afraid and alone. I'd forgotten how much I've missed my best friend. How starving I've been for all that he is.

For a long time, we are silent. Then Bear shifts. His lips find my forehead, my eyelids, my cheeks, my temples, and I am too relieved, too comforted to resist. Tenderly, he searches out every wound and heartbreak. When at last, his mouth seeks mine, I welcome the gentle press. His kiss
is slow and lush, as weightless as compassion. I drink it in, the touch of his soft lips and sandpaper jaw.