Marked (10 page)

WE'
RE SMUGGLED OUT OF THE PALACE IN A DUSTY TRANSPORT
full of construction debris. Fahra gets us underground again, and we make our way back to the abbey. Now we're right where we started, in the dim alcove at the top of the steps.

“Here,” he says, handing over what little we'd brought—our robes and our flex cards. “These belong to you.”

I pull on my baggy disguise, then shuffle through the deck of razor-thin screens. I'm frantic until I find the one from James. I check it, and see that it's still loaded and secure. Then, as Miyu puts her robes back on, I scan the rest of the cards. On mine, there are at least a dozen messages from Larken. He's panicked. We haven't checked in, and he's threatened to storm the city if we don't reply by nightfall. And rust if nightfall isn't creeping close.

Quickly, I text him back.

PV: WE'RE FINE. ON OUR WAY NOW.

Almost instantly, his answer blinks at me.

KL: WHERE ARE YOU

PV: LONG STORY. LATER.

KL: WHAT HAPPENED?

My thumb hovers over the screen, and I think carefully about my answer.

PV: GOT SIDETRACKED. WE'RE FINE.

KL: ETA?

PV: HOLD YOUR POSITION. SOON.

And then nothing. Miyu's standing at my shoulder, reading the exchange.

“We need to return,” she says. “The longer we stay . . .”

She doesn't finish. Doesn't have to. I turn on Captain Fahra. “We need all the information you have, if we're going to help.”

He holds up his own flex. “I have everything.”

“Send the data my way. I've got an encrypted account. Here, I'll enter the flex number for you.” I reach for his card, but he jerks it back.

“I don't need to send it,” he says.

“But I've got to have your intel,” I argue. “We can't pull together a mission without getting everything—”

“I'm coming with you.”

Miyu raises an eyebrow “We're not just making the rendezvous, I'm flying us back to base.”

“I understand,” he says. “I will return with you.”

“And you're just now letting us know?” I say. “No one said you were part of the bargain, Captain. We need to talk about this.”

He straightens, undeterred. His expression's stoic as ever, but the scars under his eyes pink up as the blood rushes to his cheeks. “I am the captain of the Queen's Guard, servant to Her Majesty, assigned and at oath to protect His Highness Prince Cashoman Vidri Pelar Dradha, Duke of Manjor, Second Son to Her Majesty Queen Napoor. I failed to protect his father, the king—
may he return, in this life or the next—
but I will not fail to see His Highness safely recovered and crowned. There will be no more talk of parting. I have arranged transport to your ship. I will return with you.”

For a second, Miyu and I gape, speechless.

“You're the pilot. Can you make it work?” I ask Miyu.

“He could squat in the cargo hold,” she says. “If nowhere else.”

Then she nods. Not at me, but at Fahra. “It's fine. We'll manage.”

In return, he bows, as if we were as royal as his queen.

I'm told a couple of decades ago, flying rigs were all the rage. Everybody wanted one, and the Sixers raced to meet the demand. Soon, both Castra and Cyan-Bisera were swarming with street-to-air skybrids.

Which, of course, spelled complete disaster. Whoever was in charge and thought that skybrids could peacefully coexist alongside regular airborne vacs and street rigs, without building stable networks or reliable infrastructure for say, oh, thousands of daily takeoffs and landings . . . they must've been a real rusting moron.

Whoever it was, you can thank them for the great vehicular apocalypse of 2376. A system overload crashes the entire network, and ten seconds later . . . skybrids colliding into vacs. Skybrids crashing down on rigs. Skybrids running headlong into each other. Never mind the massive recalls. What a nightmare.

Same year I was born, Hal always likes to point out. Thinks it's hilarious that I came into the universe at high tide for smash-ups and raining debris. So I wonder what he'd say now, if he saw the transport in front of me, the one Fahra's asking us to climb inside.

Because right here, three streets away from the abbey, parked behind the sun-forsaken, rot-stinking fish market, is a vintage Lucky Star, the fastest make of skybrid ever built in the galaxy. The day's nothing but rosy haze by now, and I
have to squint to make out the details, but I can see this old monster well enough. The rig's pretty beat-up. The paint scheme's scratched and faded, but I spy traces of bright, eye-gouging orange.

On Castra, you don't run into these much anymore. You can hardly even find them on the black market. I've only seen one other Lucky Star up close, a sweet silver restoration. Benny only let me drive it once, and even then, he'd only let us take it for a quick run around the dunes. Because back home, vacs own the skies and rigs eat the pavement, and never the two shall meet. Keeps things nice and simple and safe. But this old cruiser? Looks dangerous as hell. Count me in.

“Aren't these illegal?” Miyu asks.

“On Castra,” Fahra answers.

“And here?” I say.

He swipes his flex against the rig to unlock it. “In Manjor? As long as the accelerant core's disabled, no one cares. Take a look around. These people have nothing. Rigs are expensive. Better to modify one than to scrap it.”

Fahra lifts the side door of the dubious skybrid and waves us into its small passenger hold. Three jump seats in the back, pilot's and copilot's in the front. Compliant, Miyu scrambles to the rear, but I slip past her, taking the pilot's seat. There's a modified steering wheel, throttle and controls. I check out
the dash-screens—original design, same setup as the one in Benny's garage. Surprisingly simple. I guess it'd have to be, to allow just about anyone to gear up and fly.

“Move aside,” Fahra protests. “Or sit in the back with your friend.”

“No way. I'm not passing up the chance to drive one of these again,” I say, hands already on the wheel. “If we're rolling, I'm driving.”

“That is unacceptable, I cannot—”

“I am a former Corporate Cup racer, winner of the 2393 Sand Ridge 400.” Already, the smile's tugging at my lips. “Before that, lead crew for Benny Eno in Capitoline. Best in sixty-three straight runs. So go ahead and forget any more talk of riding along. Get in. I'm driving.”

I swear I nearly get Fahra to grin. He takes the copilot's seat and buckles in. Miyu climbs in the back. “I'll navigate, then.”

I press the ignition. The skybrid—our Lucky Star—answers in a rhythmic, low but climbing roar. I hear systems powering up and thrusters idling, and the sound of it pierces deep, awakening something within me. Flaring into life, a long quiet itch begins to burn. Deep breath. Gut check. Hands on the wheel.

“Alrighty then. Let's blaze.”

And then, of course, I punch it.

“Stay on this course,” Fahra commands. He programs a route on the navigation screen, and I'm quick to follow it. I can tell he and Miyu are none too thrilled to be plastered against the backs of their seats as I zip down the crowded alley, then careen onto the main road, the sputtering, raging river of traffic cutting through the center of Manjor. And I'm not even going at it that hard. There are plenty of cabs around us, speeding along far more recklessly.

Those rigs, they
want
attention. They need everyone to know they're coming through. But I'm stealth gliding, ghosting through split-second gaps wherever I can, tucking us into night's empty pockets. Slipping past every rearview mirror, I push the limits of inconspicuousness. In the dim fog of sea spray and exhaust, we're nothing more than a flash of paint and taillight.

And it's getting us where we want to go in rusting good time. We've nearly reached the top of the hill. In seconds, the twilit bay will be at our feet.

“When should I exit?” I ask Captain Fahra.

“Three more gates, then—”

We crest and he stops.

And suddenly I see it too. Shadows looming in the skyline. Officers parked at the next three exit gates. The armored rigs on the ground and the squadron of sleek
black battle vacs hovering over the harbor. Guns out and searchlights on, the IP are on the move, blighting the city like flies on a spoiling feast.

“Tell me this is routine,” I say to Fahra. “That the Interstellar Patrol is always out like this.”

He shakes his head. “No, not this many. Something is wrong.”

Miyu groans, and I see what's caught her attention. Through the windshield, I spy half the ships in the bay start to move out. All lit up, they drift like scattershot constellations. The smugglers are leaving, and that's a bad sign.

Here on the hill, traffic slows and we're almost crawling. The hovering vacs turn and begin heading our way.

Miyu's saying something, but I can't hear her. The panic bomb's gone off inside my skull, and my heart skids against the back of my throat. My flex buzzes, and I pull it out. There's another message from Larken.

KL: PULLING UP ANCHOR. HIDE WHEREVER YOU CAN. THEY'RE LOOKING FOR YOU.

“Yeah,” I mumble. “Tell me something I don't know.”

Before I can reply, he flexes again.

KL: HOLD TIGHT. STAY IN THE CITY. WORKING ON AN EXTRACTION PLAN.

“What is it?” Fahra asks.

I toss the card at him. “Answer for me. Tell Larken we're coming. Right now.”

For a second, the captain's frozen. Miyu blurts out what his eyes are asking. “Phee, are you crazy? We'll never make it to the docks.” She leans forward once more, until she's at my shoulder. “Look down there. They're already pulling over rigs right and left, and we've got no way to reach the
Andalan.
You need to slide over, jump the curb, and turn around. We need to get underground until this blows over. It's our only option.”

In my head, the last rational shreds tell me to listen to her. The words flap and squawk, white flags snapping in the wind. Slow down. Turn back. Lay low. But there's another voice too. The girl I used to be. The girl who wasn't afraid of wrecking her rig or getting arrested. She whispers something else.

If you go underground, you won't leave this city alive.

The IP are swarming. I have to get us all out of here. Right now or never.

Traffic grinds to a stop. I stare at the dash, the navigation screens and dual controls. There's only one way to get out over that harbor . . .

“Tell Larken to get Miyu's vac ready for takeoff,” I say to Fahra. When he opens his mouth to protest, I shut him down. “Do it. Now. Tell him we're coming in hot, and to clear the aft end of the deck.”

Fahra takes the card, flexing furiously as I give orders. “Tell him to empty Miyu's cargo hold. Get rid of everything but enough fuel to make it to the Strand. And tell him he sure as sap better be ready to fly.”

Fahra obeys, but Miyu's still jaw-jacking at my ear. “Phee, I know what you're thinking, but—”

“I thinking you'd better reach back there and fire up the accelerant core.”

“What? The core's disabled. There's no getting this thing off the ground. I thought Fahra was pretty clear on that.” She looks at him for confirmation. He nods.

“So
un
-disable it.” When she doesn't catch on, I walk her through, step by step. “Just look down, on the left by your seat, there'll be a small panel. All you have to do is open it. There will be four switches, two for the accelerant boosters and two for flight control. Probably blue. Yeah, they're usually blue. Flip them up. All of them. Easy as—”

“The panel. It's bolted shut,” she growls.

Ahead, the line of rigs starts moving again. At each exit gate, IP soldiers are pulling over vehicles, tagging cargo and scanning drivers.

“What's our plan B?” Miyu asks.