Tracked (3 page)

The room they shove me into doesn't look like any
holding cell I've ever seen. I'd thought it'd be some kind of steel box with a table and chair, maybe a sad, lone lightbulb hanging over our heads. I did not expect a polished glass table with built-in flex screen interfacing. The DPs nudge me into a chair and I sink into the plush velvet. There's a wet bar at the other end of the room, for crying out loud.

This whole room screams corporate. The crystal vases, filled with bloodred Biseran poppies. The chroma-climate paintings that change color with each variation in air temperature. The thick carpet on the floor, sculpted into squares of ebony and cream. It's a Sixer's boardroom, not an interrogation cell. I glance back at the door, ready to run at the first sight of a stun stick.

Two men walk in. Both are middle-aged, but one of them is dressed to kill. Black jacket. Kid gloves. Silver tie. Sparkling ruby cufflinks. Never mind the traces of gray at his temples, he is fit and well-fed—a smooth-skinned, golden-haired suit who is so handsome for his age, it's unsettling. Like he's not himself at all, but a digitally perfected version.

The other guy is probably almost the same age as his boss, Mr. Sixer, but this one is completely different. At first, I think he's nothing special. He's not very tall and his brown hair is common as the coffee grounds on the bar.

It's the man's glasses—his specs—that throw me.

Corporates don't wear them, unless they're for show. Who needs lenses or shades when your eyes are surgically perfected, enhanced for Castra's unforgiving sun? Sure, I've seen Sixers and celebrities wear them for looks, but these black frames are severe and thick; they do nothing for his who-knows-what-color eyes. I can't understand why he'd hide behind them.

And if he's security, I'm the Biseran queen.

They carry no weapons, but I'm no more relaxed. The older Sixer has gloves on and for all I know, his lackey's briefcase is filled with instruments of torture. Maybe an IV line, ready to pump some especially toxic brand of black sap into my veins. I'd trip out on happy hallucinations until my heart pumped hard enough to actually burst. On the streets, I've heard rumors about that kind of thing. What a great way to die. Dosed on the narcotic runoff of the same sticky stuff that fuels my rig.

I don't say a word. I stand up and move to slip past them, but Mr. Specs shuts the conference room door. I hear the lock click. My fate is sealed.

After slumping back in the seat, I cross my arms. Bring it.

Without a word, they both study me. While Mr. Sixer sits and begins to pull his gloves off, Specs sets the briefcase on the table and opens it. His boss smiles placidly.

No stun sticks. No syringes or interrogation tools.

Specs pulls out a single sheet of paper.

Paper. Not a flex screen, which is strange. Hardly anyone actually uses paper anymore. People only buy it for off-the-wire business. Or because they're nostalgic. And I don't think Mr. Sixer is the nostalgic type.

Specs lays the paper on the table and slides it across to me.

I'm cautious, but I don't lie to myself. I want to know what it says. Without touching so much as the edge of the table, I lean over to look.

REGISTER OF CAPITOLINE, SOVEREIGNTY OF CASTRA

CERTIFICATE OF LIVE BIRTH

CERTIFICATE NUMBER:
401-57-410180

NAME:
PHOENIX VANGUARD

DATE:
APRIL 11, 2375

PRECINCT: 3

PLACE:
CAPITOLINE

SEX:
FEMALE

MOTHER'S NAME:
JOANNA VANGUARD

FATHER'S NAME:
THOMAS VANGUARD

There are other things listed, but I don't read past the names, I can't see straight anymore. Although the certificate isn't mine, the details are close enough to spook me. I was born in Capitoline on April 11, and my dad's first name was Thomas, but Phee is for Phoebe, certainly not something as rusting ridiculous as Phoenix. I'm a Van Zant, not a Vanguard, and I'm not . . .

“Eighteen,” Specs says. He nods at the paper.

It takes me a second, but I catch on. True enough; the printed birth date is one year off, at least from mine. I can't help but make the mental leap. They are changing my identity. They are here to erase me somehow. My eyes find the door again.

“Some improvisation was necessary.” Mr. Sixer's voice is every bit as smooth and artificial as his looks. “For our purposes, you can't be a minor.”

Our purposes. The phrase makes my brain itch. I've seen this guy—both of them, actually—somewhere. On a screen, on a feedcast, sometime or another, I'm certain.

I can't take it anymore. “If you're here to kill me, just do it already. If not, you can spare me this whole intimidation routine. Why am I here? Who are you?”

“I see,” Mr. Sixer says. “You have a tight schedule? Better things to do?”

An angry heat starts to scorch my cheeks, but I don't take the bait. I don't answer at all.

With a healthy dose of respect, Specs introduces his boss. “I am here on Mr. Benroyal's behalf.”

No wonder they look so familiar. Charles “King Charlie” Benroyal is only the most powerful Sixer on Castra. Forget that Benroyal Corp refines more fuel sap than anyone on three planets. His company hires every last DP cop and interstellar soldier; this guy has his manicured hands in just about everything. Defense. Aerospace. Munitions tech. Shaving cream. You name it, they overcharge for it.

Benroyal is the biggest corporate name on Castra. So of course, it's the one I most despise. This man and his bespectacled henchman. They must be expecting me to quake in awe; instead, I tap my fingers on the glass for a second and then stand up as if to leave. As if I really could.

“Pity,” Benroyal says, playing along. “I've heard you're the best street driver in Capitoline. I had high hopes for you on the circuit.”

The circuit.

Two words that stop me cold. I sink into the chair for a second time.

The circuit is everything right, a sport fueled by the ideals Castrans prize the most. It's burning out your last transmission just to make the next checkpoint. It's leaving your competition choking on your trigger exhaust. It's trembling in the wake of a champion, but holding steady when you beat him on the next turn.

It's also everything wrong, a game infected by the sins I hate. It's taking a corporate mark on your shoulder. Getting your skin inked and your soul scorched with a Sixer brand. Staying on script for live feeds and posing for commercials and showing up for sponsored events. It's about selling out with a smile.

Just like my father.

The thought makes my empty stomach flip and roil. Excitement. Hunger. Disgust. I taste them all at once. “Who do you think I am?” I croak out.

“We know who you are, Miss Van Zant,” Mr. Specs says. “The question is, who do you want to be?”

I flinch at his question.

“Are you Phoebe Van Zant, the orphaned daughter of a legendary rally champion?” Benroyal's voice thickens with grand schemes. “Or are you Phoenix Vanguard, the rebellious upstart, the circuit star, the girl destined to outdrive them all?”

Specs, no longer at his master's heels, pulls a flex screen from the briefcase and lays it on the table. No paper this time. No, this is for real. Two taps and a turn of his finger and the document on the flex is projected across the glass tabletop. The name they want to give me is bolded in every blank. It's larger than life. My eyes scan the print. I touch the glass and scroll through screen after screen of clauses. A contract awaits my signature.

I shrug.

“You can stay here, take your chances in juvie,” Benroyal says. “You can work in the mines and rot in the Biseran Gap. Or, you can sign with me and leave here today.”

It feels much hotter in here. The therma-climate landscapes tell me it's not just my imagination. The plum- colored summits on the canvas start to bleed. The fiery veins of orange and red hurt my eyes. I look back at the contract.

My dad once signed one of these. He raced with the best, driving for the tech giant, Locus Informatics. Played this game and look what it did to us. I stood behind the wall, clutching my little emerald pennant, cheering him on while every victory pushed him farther away, turning him into a tense, distracted stranger who spent most of his time on the practice track and at corporate events.

By the time he finally disappeared, he was little more than a shadow on my bedroom wall, a quick whisper before I fell asleep. Somehow, the pressure to keep winning and packing arenas erased him altogether. How can I expect to fare any better? But what other choice do I have? On this planet, you can turn corporate, you can lay low, or you can die.

Laying low is not an option anymore.

“What will it be, Phee?” Specs pulls off his glasses. “We're offering you a way out. Freedom. The chance to write your own legend.”

He says it like he knows me. And in a way, the look on his face says he does. It's as if he reads my past—my hesitations, at least. I know now why he wears the lenses. He hides his intent, probably most of the time. Bet he doesn't like anyone to see the sharpness of his blue-gray eyes. He's allowing me the privilege, but I do not know if I can trust their smoke-signal gleam.

I don't even know if I can trust myself to make the right decision. I can turn corporate, or I can rot. And that would be all right, but it's not just my future, my life on the line. I stop thinking, and just blurt it out. “I'll sign, but only if Bear is part of the deal too. It's both of us, or nothing.”

Benroyal nods at his counsel.

“We anticipated that as a possible contingency,” Specs says. “Barrett Larssen can accompany your team, perhaps he—”

Benroyal interrupts. “He can be her boyfriend, her bodyguard, whatever. I don't care. Just wipe his charges and put him on the payroll.”

A deep breath. I trace a finger over the glass, leaving my mark on the contract. It's done.

Benroyal turns his gimlet eyes on me. His lips curl in a blistering smile; it's a victory pennant he's likely flashed a thousand times before. “It's just as well, Miss Vanguard. The boy can be our best insurance policy. His pardon will remind you who you work for. After today, I don't want you to ever forget. You race for me now. I own you.”

Someday, I will claw that smile off his face. I will slash it to ribbons.

Now that our business in room number one is done,
Benroyal can't bail fast enough. He abandons us in the adjacent hallway, leaving me standing beside his counsel and the DP who dragged me here earlier. Specs puts his glasses back on—he's quick about it too. I'm certain he feels somehow exposed without them.

And I sense another shift. There was an almost mechanical stiffness in his movements back in the luxe boardroom, but now his shoulders are loosened up, and he doesn't sound so much like a laser-eyed corporate robot anymore.

After the DPs deactivate my boots, I pull them off and hurl them down the corridor as hard as I can. Specs nods at the DPs, dismissing them. At first, they're reluctant to leave, but they finally trot away when he waves them off with a less than polite “Thank you, your services are no longer needed.”

As soon as they are out of sight, he puts his briefcase down and pulls a flex card from his jacket pocket. “We'll drive you to your new home. Benroyal has an apartment arranged. For now, your friend can stay with you.”

I open my mouth to tell him I already have a place to live, but he cuts me off, handing me the flex. “When you settle in, take a good look at this. Your schedule. Rules. There's a lot of protocol you'll have to digest.”

I pocket the card. Even though the thin screen fits in the palm of my hand, I'm not fooled. I'm sure it syncs up with the mother of all hubs. By now, Benroyal has probably set up a digital locker to store data on everything but my bowel movements. On second thought, he'll probably want to track those too.

The man hands me a pair of black leather boots. I put them on. A little too big, but they'll do.

“What's your name?” I ask.

“Let's go,” he replies.

I stare him down, unmoved.

He picks up his briefcase again and heads for the nearest exit door. “You can call me James.”

“Mr. James?” It's like I'm talking to the pinstripes on the back of his suit. My feet are still pinched and numb, but I manage to stand again.

“No, Phee. Just James,” he says.

He walks out the exit doors and I follow, even though there are no more arrows on the tiles.

There's a boxy rig, almost the size of a tank, waiting at the back service entrance to the courthouse. A sweet, spit-shined Onyx, probably custom made for the likes of Benroyal. Bet the whole frame is armored. Bulletproof windows for sure. James reaches to open the back passenger door, but I flit past him.

He backs off and lets me grapple with it. It's heavy, and I have to climb just to get on the step bar. From there, I haul myself into the backseat. The thick scent of new leather and old wine—luxury—assaults me the moment I'm inside.

James climbs in beside me. We're not alone. A funny- looking man faces us. He's wiry all over, from his coarse black curls to his skinny, too-long arms. He sits there, holding a crystal-stemmed glass filled with who-knows-what-vintage. Something burgundy, fragrant and rich.

And that ridiculous blue jacket with gold embroidered trim—I can't believe I've cast my lot with these corporate goons. Give this one a cap, and I'd swear he's a yacht captain dropping in straight from the Cyanese Sea.

“Phoenix Vanguard,” James introduces us. “This is Auguste de Chevalier.”

Of course it is. I nod, coughing to cover snorty laughter. I run through my options. What do I call him? Mr. Chevalier? Mr. de Chevalier? Or just Chevy?

The man must have read my mind. “But of course,” he says, dangerously waving his glass. “You must call me Auguste.”

The accent is so thick, his name comes out as Ah-goooost. My mind can't quite place the muddled roll of his vowels. I'm guessing he's not native Castran, or his parents are Earth-born at the very least. Not surprising. With anyone older than thirty-five or forty, there's always the chance they immigrated here. The Sixers didn't start turning them away until a nuclear strike toasted Earth once and for all. Happened just before I was born, and now we have so many refugees from Earth's scattered, broken tribes, I can't keep track of all the distinctions. Doesn't matter. Native or not, I decide I'll just call him Goose.

“Auguste is your team manager,” James says. “He oversees Mr. Benroyal's circuit team, and he's matched you with the right crew chief, pacer, and—”

“I know how it works,” I say. “And I already have a pacer.”

My new corporate overlords glance at each other. The uncomfortable looks highlight how little I really know about this whole break-out-of-jail arrangement.

Auguste clears his throat. “Yes, yes,” he says. “There's a problem with that.”

I reach for the door. If Charles Benroyal thinks he can just ignore my only demand, the most important condition, he can forget putting me on the circuit. Without Bear, I will rot in the mines of the Biseran Gap, thank you very much.

James touches my wrist. “Phee. Wait.”

My first instinct is to shake him off, but I don't. 

“What's the problem?” he asks Auguste.

“Yeah,” I chime in. “Why isn't Bear here already? I thought you could handle the sap-holes in the DP.”

“
Ma lune et les
é
toiles
! I like her, James. You've named her well, she has spark.” Auguste gulps a huge swallow of burgundy. “It's not the ‘sap-holes,' as you say, Miss Vanguard. It's the boy's parents. We've only just contacted them. The father has agreed to sign a contract, but the mother is
un
probl
ème
. It's quite stupid, really. But there it is.”

Oh yeah. When it comes to Sixers, Mary is definitely a headache, quietly fighting the corporate machine every chance she gets. I can only imagine how it went over when Benroyal's people offered Bear the circuit deal. But surely there's no way she'd let him face the alternative.

James pulls his briefcase onto his lap. With a click, it's open, and two seconds later, his fingers are working over a flex screen. Good. He's working on it, I'm sure—making our
probl
ème
disappear.

“You busted me out, and I'm a minor. Can't you fix his records the way you fixed mine?”

“It's not that easy,” James says. “The DP, the courts, the entire public sector is no problem for Mr. Benroyal. And in your case, you are technically a ward of the state with no one to contest anything. It's easy to tweak your age. But Barrett's real parents are around. Ultimately, they can deny consent on any corporate contract. As long as he's under eighteen, they have a say.”

I gasp. I can't believe Hal and Mary would let him go to juvie. “They'd let him rot?”

He reads something on his flex. “Apparently, they would. My sources report Bear's parents have already filed a petition with the court. They think they can seek legal recourse to get him out.”

“Can they?”

“Not likely. No.”

I turn to James. “Isn't there something?”

Auguste puts down his wine and leans forward. “Listen, I have wasted half a day already on this spitfire little girl. Give them an incentive, James. Apply pressure?”

I sense an ally.

James wipes the flex clear and brings up a new screen. “I suppose I could . . .” The glasses come off again and he stares at me. “Do whatever it takes?”

I see the storm front gather in his gray eyes. This is someone to be reckoned with. He can negotiate anything, I know it. And I cannot abandon Bear. “Yes,” I say. “Incentives. Get them to agree. Whatever it takes.”

Auguste and I crowd around James. His fingers fly over the screens, the words are a blur, but I start to put the pieces together. By the time I finally read his intent, it's too late, and I realize I've made a horrifying, irreversible mistake.

With a sweep of his hand, James is finished. “The DP should arrive at the Larssen clinic within the hour. I imagine three counts are sufficient. The drug charges—black sap possession with intent to distribute—will be enough of a threat. They'll sign. Let's get something to eat.”

“Yes, yes,” Auguste says. “Sounds good.”

I can't swallow down the acid this time. What have I done? I'm a rusting reckless fool.

I startle at Auguste's voice. I must have fallen asleep, but I don't think I've been out that long. We're still in the Onyx, although we're not moving as fast. I look out the window. Ahead, a thousand high-rises pierce the hazy sky.

James touches his earpiece and I realize he's already on a call. His face colors a shade between annoyed and angry. “Yes, I understand. I realize that . . . but I told you to be there when we arrived . . . No. Not tomorrow. This is important.”

“Who is he talking to?” I ask Goose.

“You will meet him soon enough, Miss Vanguard. Moon and stars, that one is insolent. But he is the best. There is no better for you.” Auguste waves at James to get his attention. “Where is he? Can we retrieve him on the way?”

James nods and reaches for the bridge of his nose. Just when I think he's going to take his mask off again, his hand drops. “Fine. We're picking you up,” he says over the line. When the call ends, he still looks pretty scorched.

“Where is he?” Auguste says.

“Where do you think?” James answers.

“Ah.” Goose nods. “Another
probl
è
me
.”

“Who are we picking up?” I ask.

“Your new pacer.” James grits his teeth. “He's south of the Mains.”

“At the sap house?” Goose asks.

James answers with a scolding look.

“So,” I say. “Your plan is to put me behind the wheel, racing between two and three hundred miles per hour, with nothing more than a tripped-out black sap addict to guide me?”

“When you say it like that . . .” Auguste sighs. “It sounds very bad. But he—”

“Look. I already have a pacer and I certainly don't need anyone on my team who is—”

James shuts me down. “Benroyal agreed Bear could be a part of your team. He never promised he'd be your pacer. We're picking him up. And you're going to give him a chance. And that's the way it is.”

I know he means business, but I push back anyway. “Or what? You'll drop me off at juvie?”

James lowers his voice. He speaks softly, knowing I'll still read him loud and clear. “Or the DPs don't just threaten the Larssens, they make them disappear.”