Tracked (15 page)

One of the men inside the Onyx rolls down a window and raises an eyebrow at Cash. “C'mon, let's blaze already.”

“Just a minute.” Cash turns to me. “People are counting on me. For sun's sake, trust me. Just this once. Please.”

Before I have the chance to argue, my flex buzzes. It's Bear.

BL: YOUR RIG'S ON THE STARTING LINE. GIL'S WAITING. WHERE ARE YOU???

Rust. I can't stay out here and hold Cash hostage, no matter how much I'd like to blow off practice to get answers. People are counting on me too.

I move out of his way, but he stops me. No taunt or smirk in his eyes. No more walls, only honest truce. “I'll make you a deal, Vanguard,” he says. “Cover for me, then I swear I'll tell you everything.”

Afternoon practice is brutal. For three hours, I drive
with my foot to the floor, my jaw set, my mind spinning through every backstretch turn. Cash is gone, but Bear and I are perfect. He's all business today, focused and confident, while I punish my rig, tearing through routes like my hair's on fire.

Turns out when I'm on edge, we light up the scoreboard. I finish first, beating out every virtual rival, but I couldn't care less. I'm mad and confused, but most of all, worried about Cash.

I roar into the pit stall for the last time. Bear grins at me and stops for a triumphant high five before he hits the showers. After he leaves, I rip off my helmet and pull Goose aside. “Take me to the sap house.”

“What? You have practice again in two hours. Until then, you need to rest.”

“Get a rig, call a guard, whatever,” I say. “But get me over there. I need to see Cash. Please, Auguste.”

He frowns, deliberates for a moment. “We'll pick him up? Bring him back for practice?”

“That's the idea.”

“All right, ma chère. But if you tell Gil I let—”

“Thank you, Auguste. Thank you, I mean it.”

“Quick, quick. Let's go. You can thank me later,” he says. “When you make it back on time.”

As usual, it doesn't take much to get Auguste to stay in the Onyx, but I can tell he's mortified I'm going in alone. I stalk through the chophouse and burst into the noisy kitchen. Sure, I get a few double-takes. I'm pretty certain it's not every day a girl passes by in a Benroyal zip-front, still sweaty and all geared up. I head straight for the backroom entrance, but this time it's locked.

I give the handle a shake, then pound on the door. No answer.

“Cash, I know you're back there,” I shout, slamming my fist. “Let me in or I'll—”

A bolt snaps. The door opens six inches. I spy a face. Hank. He stares at me.

“Open up,” I say, wedging my foot in the crack.

“You shouldn't be here.”

“Neither should you. Open up.”

“Sorry. No can do.” He smiles, as if he's enjoying his gig as bodyguard-turned-bouncer a little too much. He is different here, every trace of “yes, ma'am” is gone.

I roll my eyes. “Look. I'm not going anywhere. Either you let me in, or I go back to the rig and tell Auguste that maybe he should go ahead and let someone at the Spire know that His Highness is down here, doing who knows—”

Hank yanks me inside and bolts the door behind us. He drags me down the darkened hallway. “Hey,” I say. “You don't have to—”

He shakes his head, unrelenting in his pace, half mumbling the whole way. “I keep telling him you're more trouble than you're worth. You just had to come down here. I swear, he's going to kill me when he finds out I let you in.”

“We'll see about that,” I say as he practically carries me through the last doorway. Unceremoniously, he lets go and I stumble inside. By the time I look up, the crowded room is already hushed. From around the table, a dozen faces stare back.

Standing in the middle, leaning over a holographic map, not a stack of cards, is Cash. Too quickly, the Cyanese woman next to him swipes the tabletop clean. Some of the others take a step forward, but Cash stays them with a hand.

He gapes at me. “What are you doing here?”

Suddenly, my mouth goes dry. I hadn't exactly planned out what I was going to say once I got here, and I certainly don't know what the rust to do now that I've caught him, I don't know, planning a field trip? Presiding over the Castran Geographical Society? “I . . . Auguste and I,” I sputter. “We're here to bring you back for practice.”

I've seen Cash irritated before, but I've never seen him quite as scorched as he is now. I'm surprised he doesn't come straight across the table. Instead, he rounds the crowd and drags me back into the hall.

I shake him off, once, twice, but no, he's still all over me, steering us into another room. “What is with you and Hank? I think it would be great if you two would quit manhandling me!”

Inside the dim and empty space, he slams the door behind us. Alone, we stand toe to toe. “Oh really? Because here's what I'm thinking. I'm thinking I will personally toss you over my shoulder and carry you out like a sack of ochre-root if you ever sneak in here again.”

“You wouldn't.”

“Oh, I would,” he says. “I can't believe you did this. You put me at risk coming down here unannounced.”

“How is that, exactly? What are you doing down here?”

“I can't tell you.” He paces. “I told James I wouldn't.”

“Enough.” He tries to tilt away from me, but I grab his arm and reel him back. “No more bull-sap, Cash. There are no cameras here. No guards or feedcasters or anyone else. It's just you and me, so you've run out of excuses. What the rust is going on?”

“You want the truth?” he taunts. “The truth is, every morning, I get up and pretend this is my life. I smile and bow and work the circuit like a good little prince. I let King Charlie put his boot on my neck, because all the while, I am sharpening the blade, waiting for the right moment to rise up and cut him down. I am a rebel and a spy, and I have been one for the last sixteen months and twenty-one days. I will never stop trying to avenge my father's murder. I will never stop until men like Benroyal are exposed. I will never stop fighting for my planet and yours. That is what is going on, Phee.”

The shock of everything he's just said hits me like a body blow. When I look up at Cash, most of the anger in his eyes has drained away. “That's a lot to take in,” I say quietly.

“I'm sorry.” He has the nerve to almost smile. “But you kinda forced my hand.”

I nod dumbly. And nod some more. I straighten up and try to collect my wits. “So when you say rebel and spy, what does that mean, exactly?”

“It means I am actively supporting the rebellion against my brother's rule, and working against Benroyal by passing along information about his illegal black sap labs.”

“Wait. You know about the labs?”

“Of course I know. How do you know about them?”

“I snuck into Benroyal's study and I saw what he's doing. Yesterday, at the race, I told Chamberman Abasi.”

Cash frowns. “I wish you hadn't.”

“Why?”

“Abasi can't do a thing. At least not yet. He's a good man, but your government's too far gone with every politician and soldier on Benroyal's payroll. You can't take King Charlie down from the outside right now. You have to beat him at his own game, from the inside. That's what we're trying to do, Phee. You thought I was coming here to gamble, but every time, I was really meeting allies, Castrans, Biseran, Cyanese, basically anyone who's sympathetic to the cause. And I'm also working with . . .” He stops himself, as if he's not sure I'm ready for this.

“Who?”

“Not all the Sixers are as bad as you think. Some of them despise Benroyal as much we do. James and—”

“Grace Yamada.”

When he steps back, he's more than surprised. He's impressed. “How did you . . . Has she approached you?”

“No. But we've met. She helped me out once. Okay, maybe more than once. But how can you possibly trust a pair of Sixers, Cash? Maybe they're on board to cut down a rival, but you don't seriously think they'd be in this to do the right thing.”

“You're wrong. James isn't like the others. We're working on something big.”

“On what?”

“A huge circuit bet on the Biseran mountain rally. A double-cross that will cripple King Charlie and get me back on my home planet. My people need me, Phee. If I don't step up and fight, no one will. I've been wanting to tell you, but James wanted me to hang tight.”

The door opens, and it's Hank. “Auguste is in the kitchen. I don't know how long I can stall him. You better get out there.”

“This isn't over,” I say to Cash. “If this is for real, I want in.”

He nurses another half smile, this one a shade more devious. “Oh, this is for real, Vanguard. Win the next race, and I'll be begging for your help.”

I am alone, standing in an air-conditioned room
underneath Sand Ridge Speedway. Cash and Bear and the rest of the crew have done their best, working their exhausts off to get me here. This is it. The Sand Ridge 400. My first real series race.

After zipping into my gear, I stand and face the full-length mirror and mark the changes in my reflection. Grueling hours of physical conditioning have made me stronger and leaner than I've ever been in my life. I hardly look like a street rat anymore.

The last few days have been all practice, all the time, and with no extra time outside the Spire, I've been forced to focus on the circuit and nothing else. The endless laps have eased the restlessness, slaking my thirst for fuel-triggered speed, and now I hope I'm ready for whatever happens today.

Someone knocks on my door. “Come in.”

It's Bear, dressed in the Benroyal crimson. Like the rest of the crew's, his uniform is the reverse image of mine—red zip-front, black stripe. He's carrying a huge arrangement of flowers, red and white poppies, tipped in gold. He finds a place for them on the already crowded counter.

“Who are those from?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Not sure. Just arrived. Auguste asked me to bring them down.”

I peek at the flex tag in the crystalline vase, the one half hidden by leaves.

Good luck today. Amisa looks forward to meeting you. Tomorrow's gala.

Best wishes, Toby

Shaken, I take a second look at the gaudy poppies. Abasi wants to talk, and I don't know whether I'm more relieved or terrified. Cash and I have been careful not to talk in the Spire, but if Benroyal finds out what he's up to or what I've already told Abasi, the Larssens are at risk. I can't afford to lose my family. Today I'd better perform, and not just for James. I'd rusting better well give King Charlie every reason to trust me.

Misreading my nerves, Bear moves behind me and puts his hands on my shoulders. “It's time. You ready?”

I nod. “I hope so.”

He tugs me closer, his strong arms encircling my waist. I inhale the crisp, clean scent of freshly scrubbed six-foot boy. “You and me, just like always,” he says.

I don't answer. We've agreed to headset both Cash and Bear, but I can't help chasing this fear that soon I'll be caught between two voices. They are so different, with strengths that clash like bumper to steel. For now I have no choice. When the first flag drops, we'll have to make the best of it. I need them both.

“Let's go,” I say.

His arms drop. I take in one last breath of chilled air on the way out the door.

After the elevator takes us up two levels, and the doors open, I feel the hum of the arena. The deep, relentless beat of drums vibrates through the sandstone risers. The anxious buzz of one hundred thousand fans washes over me. By the time Bear and I reach the blinding sunlit peak, the sound crowds out almost everything else.

I am afraid. I am ecstatic. I'm alive and ready to drink everything in. The light, the heat, the roar—it's all my adrenaline elixir.

Bear takes my hand for a moment before walking away. He must join Cash on the pacers' deck and I must stand beside my rivals. I make my way to the drivers' stall and take my place in the lineup so every feed can get one last shot of us all together. I stand between Coop Winfield and Bobby Banks Jr. Coop is handsome for his age, matching his rig in head-to-toe silver.

That's more than I can say for smart-mouthed, scowling Banks, who always wears mud-colored gear for Agritech. It's a shame looks don't count for laps. If they did, Banks wouldn't be so high in the standings. I'll still have to watch out for Marcus Fallon too. He's preening at the end of the row, smoothing his hands over his deep blue TransCorp jumpsuit before giving everyone a thumbs-up.

Last to arrive, even after me, is stupid, arrogant Maxwell Courant. I'm not supposed to scowl in front of the cameras, but I make sure he hears the snarl under my smile. His rig's got a new paint scheme. The purple AltaGen car now has flames and dragons and lightning bolts. It's got to be the most ridiculous thing I've ever seen.

There are many others; I know every name and face, every corporate logo. I could rattle off their stats, but the numbers don't matter now. It's time to show them I'm not still that nothing girl who's easy to beat. When the reporters ask if I'm nervous, I say I don't care about the outcome, that I'm just happy to get my chance. Of course, my answer is a lie.

I have to place today.

After the last photos are taken, we scatter. I jog over to my crew. As I grab my helmet, Gil walks over and puts his arm around me. “I don't want you to get killed out there or anything.” He lifts my chin and looks me straight in the eye. “But this time you've got to tear it up, kid. You have to.”

I nod, but I'm already too lit up and edgy to say anything more. I jump into my rig. Once I get settled in and start my engine, the jitters fade. It's always like this. I always feel wired, too punch drunk to tie my own shoes right before a race. But the second I'm strapped into the six-point, when they connect fresh air hoses to my helmet and suit, it's like I fall into a stone-cold, chilled zone. Suddenly, I'm steady, and nothing exists beyond the growl of my engine and the sound of my heartbeat in my ears. There is the road and my rig, but nothing else.

Overhead, open-air sky bridges cross over the track at various points. Each bridge is two levels. The top deck is the pacers' domain. Cash and Bear are both somewhere up there—their eagle eyes will probably be my saving grace at more than one point in this three-hour race. Below the pacers, on the lower decks, the most daring, hardcore fans lean over the railing to watch the spectacle below. Circuit fans call this level the spark zone. When there's a serious smashup on the track, it's not uncommon for debris to fly up and take someone out.

Finally, the drums stop beating and the announcer's voice fills the speedway. When he calls my name, my likeness flashes across the flex boards and I can't help but savor the crowd's response. They thunder and howl and stomp their feet, just as they would for any other circuit driver. I swallow hard, tasting the moment, so hot and sharp and sweet. I can almost believe I belong here.

Right now, maybe I want to.

We roll onto the track and take our positions. By some miracle, I managed to take second in the qualifiers. My fastest lap scores me the outside pole, the outside end of the first row. Banks, to no one's surprise, took the pole position, opposite me on the inside of the track. Winfield is right behind me. Unfortunately, Courant is too.

I hate starting out near the wall. Somehow, I'll have to figure out a way to move inside or there will be trouble. I know Maxwell will be gunning to smash me up.

The pace rig leads us around the track for one warm-up lap. The screens mark the climb of RPMs, but it feels like we're crawling.

Everything I've done in my life has led to this day, this hour, this moment. We round the last turn, the front stretch looms before me. I take a deep breath and wait for the green flag. The announcer rallies the crowd. I hear the roar of one hundred thousand fans and a dozen engines.

Let's go . . . let's go . . . let's go . . . The flag drops and I punch the accelerator. We're off, flying up the track. The scream of my engine resurrects me. I'm slammed against the seat; every cell in my body wakes and sings with forward movement.

Within seconds, all the rigs are pushing hard. This time I know what to expect, and I rip forward before they can pin me down. We're snapping at each other's heels at maximum speeds. Banks and I are still out front, holding back the tide of rivals. The intensity is like nothing I've ever known.

“You hanging in there?” Bear asks.

I don't answer. I need to get my bearings first before I can run my mouth. There's so much going on, and everything is a series of blurs and turns. It takes every bit of my attention to keep all four tires on the road.

“Looking good, Phee,” Cash says. “Stay loose, I'll find you an inside route.”

“She needs to watch out for Winfield. If she clears low, he'll—”

“I've got Winfield,” Cash says. “I know his pacer. Winfield will move over if she laps him.”

“I'm right here, guys,” I growl. “Don't talk over me.”

They both chime in at the same time. “Sorry.”

I roll my shoulders and settle in. Speed is not an issue. I just burned my first fuel trigger to stay out front, but now I have a bigger problem. Banks and Winfield and I are moving so fast, we're about to lap the pack. We're all going to get stuck behind the rest of the rigs.

And that gives Courant and Fallon a chance to catch up. I'm forced to brake hard as we hit the lock-jam horde of cars. Several cars have already formed draft lines to cut through the air, but there are plenty of them all over the track. I have to find a route, or I'm stuck sucking the exhaust of my slowest rivals again. Every time I try to nudge one way or another, a pack of steel jackals blocks my escape. Banks has made more progress—these same rigs move over for him. If I don't watch it, he'll break completely loose and leave me in the dust.

“Which way?” I shout through the headset.

“Go low, pass Balfour,” Cash says. “If he doesn't move, give him a nudge.”

Bear cuts in. “Wait. I see a hole. If she goes high, she can—”

“If she . . . if you go high, Phee,” Cash corrects himself. “Kimbrough and Courant will force you into the wall. Don't do it.”

Cash is right. I can't get sucked into the second- or third-turn mag wall. I pass Balfour. I don't make it past Kimbrough, but at least I was able to make a little headway. I'm going to have to battle for position an inch at a time, I guess.

This is going to be a long race.

Lucky for me, the first time I need to pit for fuel and new wheels, we get a caution flag. Halfway through the race, Balfour hits another rig and spins out of control. When the yellow flag slows everyone down to clean up the track, I race down the pit lane, tires scorched and smoking.

My crew is beyond fierce—in just under ten seconds,
Dev
gets
my
car
off
the
ground,
Corky
and
Josh
haul
the tires, and Billy and Arad put new ones on. At the same time, Banjo reloads my tank and triggers, locking in new ninety-pound sap cells without wasting a drop. Every movement is streamlined, synchronized, and choreographed. In the time it takes to suck in a deep breath, they've got me ready to run again.

Rust. The green flag just dropped, letting everyone regain top speeds. The rest of the cars still on the track roar past while I'm still in the pit stall. There goes my lead.

“All clear, all clear. Go, go, go!” Gil signals. And I'm off, punching the accelerator so hard I almost clip Winfield's back end as I screech back onto the track. My engine snarls as I push hard to catch up with the rest of the pack. When I get there, I'm stuck in the middle draft line of cars. Fallon and Banks are out front while Courant and three of his corporate cronies have me—and Winfield—boxed in on all sides.

I am so done eating Maxwell's exhaust. There's no way to go low. Nobody inside the track is going to let me in. We're down to the last critical laps of the race and if I don't make a move, I won't place at all today.

“Bonus target, high on the next turn,” Bear says. “Extra points might save you if you don't finish first.”

“Yeah,” I shout. “I'm going for it!”

“Phee, wait,” Cash says. “I'm working out a route, something with Winfield's pacer. Just hang in there for one more lap.”

I don't have time for one more. I nudge Courant. His ugly rig coasts forward just enough to buy me room to pass. When I break high, I realize my mistake. Courant is in league with too many of these sap-holes. Banks moves over to block me, and the yellow rig behind me bumps my tail, driving me farther out. I clamp my jaw shut against the earsplitting shriek of metal on metal as I'm shoved against the wall. I swerve, but it's too late. I'm fully into the turn and magnetic forces are dragging me to a stop.

I yell through my headset, “Mother-rusting son of a—”

“Trigger!” Cash shouts back. “Now!”

I'm already on it. My fist punched the console before the words made it out of Cash's mouth. “You tell every one of those pacers up there that their slow-hauling drivers better move out of the way or I will smoke them into the ground!”

“Take it easy,” Bear says. “Stay focused. Try moving on the—”

Cash interrupts. “No, stay in the middle. Next turn, go low. Winfield's got your back.”

“Who says he won't leave her hanging out to dry?” Bear growls.

“He won't,” Cash snaps. “I know what I'm talking about!”