Tracked (23 page)

Auguste waves me back. “Wait here. And stay out of sight. By now, you should be preparing for the race, and I am not going to answer for this foolishness.” He leaves and I pace the lowest risers, shaded by the balm-leaf trees.

A few minutes later, he returns, but this time he's not alone. Goose escorts a pale, thin woman onto the terrace. A fragile Sixer doll, weighed down by a train of ruby silk.

My mother shuffles down the flagstones.

“You have two minutes,” Auguste says. “James is here, and I do not need him asking questions.”

“I can handle James,” I say.

He guides her to me. I look up. Her silhouette's haloed by late-afternoon glare. As a little girl, I dreamed of this moment. I imagined how she'd take me into her arms and tell me how much she loved me and how sorry she was that she had to give me up.

But James was right. This isn't a fairy tale.

She stands an arm's length away, in the shadow of the grove, and I see a shrunken, hollow version of myself. A storm front gathers in me. I hate her. I hate her so much that I need to hold her tight, until she drowns in my tears. I need to shake my fists and demand all the reasons why.

But I can't. Now that we're face-to-face, I'm paralyzed.

I was so young when she abandoned me, too small to hold even snatches of her memory—an image on my father's flex is all I've ever had, and it doesn't match up with the weak, vacant-eyed stranger standing here now.

She looks at me, puzzled and lost, a sap-brained mad woman too far from her last fix. “You're a pretty girl,” she says.

I open my mouth to ask a million questions, but Auguste stops me. “Tread carefully. Some days are not as good as others. She is easily upset. Be delicate.”

“Can you give us a minute?” I say.

Auguste nods. He heads back up the stairs, leaving us. I know I don't have much time. “Do you know who I am?” I ask her.

“Of course I do.” The uncertainty in her voice doesn't match her words.

“I'm your daughter, Phoebe Van Zant.”

Her fragile smile melts. “Don't say that name. Don't say it. Don't say it. Tommy is gone. He's not coming back and I have to . . .”

I reach for her, to calm her down, but she touches her throat, flinching away. “They give you things to make
you forget,” she pleads hysterically. “But I remember.
She's out there. You have to find her. You have to keep her safe.”

All the anger and bitterness rage through me again, yet every time I look at her, pity overcomes it. She wasn't the mother I wanted, but I got the family I needed. I see her haunted eyes, and I realize that I'm the lucky one. I'm Hal and Mary's daughter.

A soft cry rises in my throat, but I quickly smother it. She is broken down and lost, but I am strong. I am strong enough to face her without lashing out. I stare forward, waiting until her gaze locks with mine. “It's okay,” I soothe. “I found her. She's safe. I promise.”

The words don't taste like forgiveness, but I don't hate her anymore.

She sucks in a breath and stops struggling. When she smiles, it's like a break in the clouds, a brief moment of peace between tempests. She reaches out, takes my chin in her hand. “You're a pretty girl.”

Auguste comes back down the stairs. “Ma chère, I'm afraid you must say good-bye.”

No. He hasn't given me enough time. There's so much I need to know. I close my fingers over hers. I have seconds left to build a memory, linking the grove's red blossom scent with the fragile softness of this woman's hands. Wildly, my mind reaches for a better ending to the story. Maybe I can take her with me. I can find a place for her. I can save her, even though my father could not.

“Who's down there?” a voice calls from the terrace. “Phee?”

It's James. He hurries down and takes me by the arm. “What are you doing? You shouldn't be here.” He stops himself when he sees we're not alone. “Auguste, will you take my sister back inside? I'll see that Phee makes it to the hangar.”

Goose nods, but suddenly, I don't want him to leave. It occurs to me that I might not ever see him again. “Will you be at the starting line?”

“Go. Immédiatement. See you on the feeds, spitfire girl. You must be brave. The race is a long one.”

If only he knew.

As I watch him walk my mother back, James lets go of my arm. “You shouldn't have done that,” he says quietly. “If Benroyal sees you talking to her and suspects something . . . What did you tell Auguste?”

The urge to snap at him is almost overwhelming, but I resist. “I didn't tell Auguste anything. No one else saw us. I needed to see her. I thought maybe we could take her with us.”

James shakes his head. “He'll never let her go. And I can't risk everything.”

“But—”

“She built her own prison years ago. She chose Benroyal, Phee. And in his twisted way, he loves her more than anything else.”

“Who needs that kind of love? It will kill her.”

“He'll keep her safe enough. He has to. If anything happens to Joanna—”

I finish for him. “He gets nothing.”

He nods, but I'm no more relieved. My mother . . . I feel our ending slip away, like a thread cut too soon. The race is about to begin, but I am so drained.

James must see it in my face. He braces me, holding me at arm's length. “I know this has been hard on you. I haven't always given you credit, but I want you to know . . .”

“What?”

He doesn't answer right away. I trail as he heads back for the hangar. “It's going to work out, Phee. No matter what happens today, Cash, Hank, all of us will do whatever it takes to protect you.”

For so long, I thought I had James figured out. He was the survivor, the man who stood by and looked out for himself. But I'm staring at him now, and suddenly, I don't think I know him at all.

“If something happens, I'm prepared,” he says.

“Stop it. I don't want to talk about that, James.”

“Listen. For once, I need you to hear what I'm saying.” He leans in, forcing eye contact. “Locus and all that our family's built—it's our legacy to you. There may be dark days ahead, but I want you to know it's all set up, most of it sheltered in accounts Benroyal can never touch.”

“It's not like that, James. I don't want your money.”

“Phee, this isn't about what you or I want. Someday, you'll understand that. Things weren't always the way they are now, and they can be different again. You and Cash . . . one day, you can make room for the Magna Carta, for everything Benroyal's tried to keep only for himself.”

I open my mouth, but it's as if he reads my mind. “I know you're not a Sixer, Phee, and that's what makes you the best heir. You can use your inheritance for good. There are ways to out-game Benroyal and there are tools to repair the damage he's done. Come what may, I'm going to make sure you have them.”

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.

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 deep 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.