Tracked (13 page)

“Your company, your family used him,” I spit. “I don't know how you did it, whether it was the pressure or the contract or your stupid rules, but somehow it was enough to break him. Because of Locus, my dad walked away from me, from everything, fell off the face of the planet . . . Or maybe he didn't walk away at all. Maybe you erased him.”

“No, Phee. I would never . . .” The look on his face—the accusation cut him to the heart.

But it doesn't matter that I believe him. I can't stop myself anymore. I can't resist dealing someone else a taste of the pain. “Oh, you're so sorry now. My father is gone, and now you feel so rusting guilty. Yet you want me to be grateful, that you would finally remember his poor orphaned daughter. Thank you for looking out for me. Thank you so much for the life sentence.”

He looks away. “Hate me. Go ahead. I'm not blameless. But if you want to stay alive long enough to outlast Benroyal, you need to listen to me. Stay out of trouble. Live by his rules and do whatever he asks until I tell you otherwise.”

I don't answer. I'm caught like a dune bird, tangled up in the poacher's snare. Tell what I've seen, and I'm dead. Play along, and I might as well be. “Let's say I shut up and drive. Be a good robot. Do everything you ask. How does that do anything but win for Benroyal?”

“You're not the only one who hates him. You think people like me, like Grace Yamada, are going to sit around and wait for the day Benroyal either eliminates us, or folds us all into his own private empire? There are plans in motion. Not all of us are as evil as you think.”

“Right. I'm supposed to blindly trust you, even when I'm pretty sure this has nothing to do with protecting me, and everything to do with protecting your precious company. I do as you say, but of course, you only tell me what you think I need to know, which is basically nothing. Is that it? How's that work?”

“It works like this: Show me you're more than a reckless, foolish, careless girl and then we'll talk. Perhaps I cannot trust you.”

We are silent all the way back to the Spire.

The morning after my midnight field trip, there's
no inquisition, no mention of breaking curfew. An early wake-up call is my only punishment. If Benroyal knows what I saw last night, he's sure not letting on.

Even so, for most of the morning, I watch my back like I'm in custody again. It doesn't help that Bear's still gone, and I don't loosen up at all until I arrive at Benroyal HQ for practice. For Hal and Mary's sake, there's nothing to do now but stay silent and play my part with gritted teeth. James would be so pleased.

But I won't stay silent for long. Maybe I can't tell James the truth, but there might be one man I can reach. I look over the guest list for tomorrow's exhibition race and trace my finger over his title. Esteemed Chamberman Toby Abasi.

If the Larssens taught me anything, it's that a vote for most Chamber or Assembly members is nothing more than a vote for one corporation over another. But if there's anyone with enough power who hasn't been bought, it's Abasi. If I can get to him, I'm almost certain he'd help me stop Benroyal.

After the exhibition, we've got a handful of days until our first official race. I know this, because about every twenty minutes or so, Goose walks by me and Dev and Gil and Banjo and everyone else on our crew to remind us.

The hangar is buzzing. Everyone is anxious to start running speed trials and simulations, and at ten a.m. or so, Gil tells me my rig is ready for practice.

It feels too good to jump in again. After I strap in and pull on my helmet, I wait for Cash's voice to come over the headset. In an open-air booth, he's high above the track, ready to scout for me. For the first time, he'll be my pacer.

All morning, Cash and I have been playing a stupid game of let's-avoid-each-other-and-pretend-nothing-happened-last-night. It's awkward and dumb, and neither of us is very good at it.

He rumbles through my headset. “You ready for this?”

“Thanks for ratting me out last night.” Even as the words come, I curse myself. It's a false and selfish play, goading him just so I can hear his voice.

But he is silent. Either he's scorched, or he knows how ridiculous I really am. One minute I'm trash-talking him, the next I'm all over him like he's never been kissed before. Even now, a part of me wants to blurt out an apology and tell him how much just seeing him sends a twitchy rush of feel-good chemicals into every cell of my body, but it's a safe bet that there are other members of our crew listening in.

And after the way I acted last night, I'm pretty sure he's washed his hands of me anyway.

Through the headset, I hear him clear his throat. “Okay, once you start your engine, the simulation will begin. You'll have about thirty seconds to pull into pole position before the race starts. You're going to see a sap-load of extra visuals, not just your virtual controls. Through your visor, you'll see a lot of other rigs, cars that aren't really there, even an occasional pileup or caution flag.”

“Got it. I'm supposed to pretend this is real and work my way around them.”

“Yeah, but we're not just going for speed, Phee. This is about strategy and precision. I'll watch for target markers on the track surface. When I tell you there's an arrow flashing on a particular position on the track, you'll need to adjust your route. Just like in a real race, you'll pick up extra points running over those markers.”

I think the holographic markers are lame, but that's how the circuit is run, so I can't argue. If I were in charge, I'd make every rally strictly a free-for-all. Who cares about points? To me, the only thing that matters is who finishes first and who sucks exhaust.

“Still with me?” Cash says.

“Yeah. I'm with you.” Already, my blood is pumping. I'm ready to tear up this track.

“Good. Pay attention to what the rig is telling you too, okay?”

Gil's voice cuts in. “Cash is right, Phee. The goal is to hit it as hard as you can without blowing out your tank, your engine, or your tires. If you need to pit, say so and we'll set you up. I listen in most of the time, but Cash can also relay your feedback, so we can figure out when to bring you in and when to keep you running. You ready, spitfire girl?”

It seems Goose's term of endearment for me has gotten around. “Yes, sir. Absolutely.”

“Let's fire it up, then.”

And so it begins. After switching on the hyper screens, I punch the ignition, roll out, and wait for the first green flag to fall. When it does, I pick up speed and make the first turn. I'm off to a pretty good start and just when I think I've got this down, I get sucked into the second turn magnetic wall. I have to burn my first fuel trigger to launch away and I end up smashing into an imaginary car in the process. If this had been a real race, I'd have knocked both our rigs sideways.

“You've got speed, Phee,” Gil coaches me. “But that isn't always what wins the race. You're going to have to learn when to rein it in or the other cars are going to gang up and force you into the wall every time. Right now, Cash isn't saying much. He's letting you get a feel for the track. But trust me, girl, soon enough he's going to start giving you what for.”

“I'm here,” Cash says. “When you need me, I'll read the pace and help you through the rough stuff.”

I could get all huffy about the way they're babying me, but I'm not completely witless. Every member of the circuit team serves a purpose. Rallies and races aren't just won behind the wheel; they're won by a whole crew of tire haulers and mechanics and grunts, out front and behind the pit wall. It's my job to run like hell, but it's also my job now to listen and learn.

I speed up until everything outside the track blurs into nothing more than streaks of color. After I rack up more laps, Cash starts to coach more, and we pick up target points right and left.

Bear and I always won out by exploiting our opposite strengths. Foresight and reflex, channeled together. He found the safest routes, and I found a way to tear through them. But with Cash, it's different. Not a second of caution between us. His instincts mirror mine so closely, it's rusting scary. We're syncing up like we're wired, his impulses sending a charge through my limbs. The matchup brings an incredible rush, but there's also a warning whisper in my blood. So alike, we must share the same blind spots.

Just when it looks like I'll take the lead, the simulation throws an obstacle my way. Two virtual cars smash across the other side of the track. A yellow caution flag blinks through my visor. Now would be a great time to pit and not lose any ground.

“You're fine on fuel, but how's she running?” Gil asks. “We need to make any adjustments?”

There's not much to complain about; this thing runs like a dream. “It's still a little tight, but maybe I'm just used to my Talon.”

A third crew member cuts in. “Phee's got that reckless streak, she likes it loose around the turns. Maybe adjust the spring rate?”

I'd recognize that voice anywhere, especially through my headset. “Bear! You're here!”

“Uh-huh.”

This race is over, at least for me. Foot to the floor, I ignore the caution flag and bullet around the backstretch, only to slam on the brakes once I get close enough to pit road. After swerving and roaring to a stop by my rig's designated stall, I punch the release on my six-point and jump out of the car.

Bear's standing behind the pit wall with the rest of my crew, so I toss off my helmet and climb over. Once I scramble to the other side, I tackle him. I can tell he's glad to see me, but also horrified at my heart-stopping finish. I look back and see there are only a few inches between the car and the pit wall—I nearly slammed into it.

“I'm sorry,” I blurt out to Gil, who's clearly close to a heart attack thanks to my careless stop. “I'm just—”

“Glad to see you too.” Bear touches my cheek, then squeezes me tight. He's wearing his old clothes and when I take in a deep breath, I smell Mary's kitchen. It's enough to overpower even the stench of my sweat-soaked gear. The scent of burned buttered toast makes me want to cry. I'm reminded once more of the life I've signed away.

I let go of him just in time to force my tears to stay put. I can't lose it or tell him what happened last night. “I'm so glad you're safe.”

“I could say the same about you,” Bear says.

Sunlight haloes his face. I look at him, and it's like drinking in blue skies and fresh air. “How'd you get here so fast? Thought you'd be gone for days.”

“Benroyal's people told me I could have a week off, but I couldn't stay away.”

“Bear! You should've stayed with them as long as you could.”

“Didn't you want me to come back?” he asks. “I was worried about you, Phee. I thought you needed me. Don't you need me to pace you and practice before tomorrow's exhibition?”

“Of course I need you, Bear.” I'd forgotten we were going to have to work this out. Cash is experienced, practically a circuit pro. There's no way I can push him aside, and I'm not willing to toss Bear away either. For now, I need to ease Bear's mind. “I'll always need you. You'll always be my pacer.”

From the corner of my eye, I see Cash has already made his way back down into the pit. Just in time to hear me. He turns and stalks away, and deep down, I know I've brought this all on myself. First I kiss-attack him, then bolt. Now, the second Bear shows up, I all but dismiss him from his job, a job he rocked for me. We were good together, even in our first practice. Even after last night.

“Cash, wait,” I call after him.

But he doesn't stop, not even for a second. He pretends he can't hear me, and I can't blame him at all.

My first race day, and late-afternoon sun bakes
the track. There's little breeze, and the heat tastes like fuel and grit. Gil tells me not to worry about today's exhibition. For the Castran Classic, it'll be me running alongside five other rigs for a mere twenty laps. No one expects any clashes or bumps, just a nice clean show to give the circuit's biggest VIPs a look at the competition. We don't even have to leave Benroyal's arena. King Charlie's hosting it here.

Outside, while my crew adjusts my rig and the officials check their work, I flick through pit rosters and driver profiles and guest RSVPs on my flex. I double-check the guest list and suite numbers.

Abasi's listed as a top-tier guest, along with just about every other significant Chamber or Assembly member. He'll be to the left of Benroyal's personal suite, sitting with James and Prime Minister Prejean. I'm surprised. Since Abasi's shown no love for the circuit, or, for that matter, our prime minister, I can't imagine why they'd want him so close. I look up into the stands, but it's too far and there's no way to see through the boxes' mirrored glass.

“Hey.” I push the flex back into Bear's hands. “I'll be right back.”

He frowns. “Wait. We need to walk through strategy one more time. It's almost go time, Phee. They're going to let the feedcasters in here in less than fifteen minutes. We really should be—”

“I'm just . . .” I trail off. I hate lying to Bear, yet I find myself doing it more and more. “It's nothing. Call it nerves. Gotta unzip and park it one last time before the race. I'll be back in a minute, I promise.”

The boy I used to know would step aside. He'd shrug like my exit was nothing. Instead, Bear crosses his arms and stares me down. Because he knows. Better than anyone, Bear can spot my little tics and tells. I'm a map he memorized a long time ago. I turn away so he can't look at me anymore.

I duck inside and take the long way around the track, avoiding the strand of locker rooms and team pit stalls. After I've skirted most of the action, I take a service elevator up to the top tier of spectator boxes—the warren of ridiculously plush suites reserved for Benroyal and the rest of Castra's finest.

In this hallway, the walls are a mosaic. Tiny bits of flex glass are fused against one another, rimmed with light. Images fade in and out—a history of the circuit glows in a parade of color. I see the first drivers, colonials racing over hundreds of miles to plant their flags on new land. The old routes evolve into high-profile rallies. The corporates devour the sport and institute the first oval course. Sleek rigs careen round and round, going nowhere.

Overhead, a lineup of legendary drivers. My father's portrait, his profile half lit. The final panorama is of the Sixer emblems. Benroyal's lion rises and overshadows everything else.

To reach Abasi's suite, I have to push through a cluster of Sixer underlings placing circuit bets for their bosses. The scene here is far posher, but the action isn't so different from what happens in the bettors' stalls at Benny Eno's garage. Slick bookies scan the wagers, offering odds while calculating their cut of the credits and stocks. Whatever happens today, I hope my driving costs them all a fortune.

A pair of DP guards flank Abasi's box. When I try to stroll in, they stop me. “I'm sorry, Miss Vanguard, but you're not allowed in here. Gold security clearance only.”

Instinctively, I touch my hip. My fingers graze the pocket where I've tucked the stolen flex. Oh, I'm gold clearance, all right. They just don't know it.

I scan the crowd inside the room. Abasi's on the far side, surrounded by well-heeled politicians and their aides. I may not have the clout to get in, but I'm sure as sap not getting turned away without catching his attention. The minute I lean forward to get a better look, the DPs react.

“Hey!” I say. The guard pushes me and pins my arms behind my back. I've got maybe two seconds before his wingman pulls his weapon. A little too loudly, I growl, “Keep your paws off me!”

A murmur ripples through the box and out into the hallway. A pair of bodyguards rush out of the suite, followed by Grace Yamada.

“Stand down,” she commands the officers.

She is ice-water calm. Only the barest trace of irritation flickers over her face, and I'm not sure whether she's annoyed more with me or the DPs.

She waves the guards off. They withdraw and take their places at the door. Grace Yamada turns to me. “How can I help you, Miss Vanguard?”

When I hesitate, she tilts her head, leaning enough that I can almost whisper in her ear.

“I was hoping for a moment with Chamberman Abasi.”

“That would not be wise, Miss Van Zant.”

She knows my real name. The sound of it is a warning, a hammer tap to the sternum. “Perhaps another time,” she adds. “I could arrange another hour of fresh air and we could discuss—”

There's something about her that demands respect, yet at the same time leaves me unbalanced. Grace Yamada is no one to be trifled with. “Please. I have to see him.”

She turns away, and my courage fails. I pivot to leave, but she calls over her shoulder. “Wait here.”

So I wait. A minute, ten minutes. I don't know. I'm cutting it too close to race time. I'm just about to leave, edging past her bodyguards, when someone taps my shoulder, startling me.

The old man's not as tall as I'd expected. “Chamberman Abasi?”

Kindly, he nods. “Toby, I insist. Your friend Grace said you wished to see me?”

My gaze flicks over the hallway. A lone aide trails us, but unlike Ms. Yamada, Abasi didn't bring a pack of bodyguards to shield us. We are surrounded by Sixers, exposed on every side. All this scheming to get here, and now I don't know what to say. I'm not equipped to play the spy. Nervously, I reach into my pocket. “I . . . I have something for you . . . information about—”

Abasi cuts me off with a warning look. His gaze flicks up. No longer than an eye blink, but I catch the signal. Surveillance. Of course. “I'm very glad to meet you, Miss Vanguard. Very glad. In fact, quite honestly, the only reason I came at all was to watch your debut.” He touches my shoulder until my hand drops. “But I am afraid I cannot accept any campaign contributions today. Alas, circuit rules. I would never encourage you to break them.”

“But—”

His smile is old parchment. On his face, a hundred lines, creased and inked. He reaches into his own pocket and pulls out a flex. “But perhaps there is one thing you could do for me?”

I nod.

“My niece, Amisa, would be very disappointed if she found out I met you and did not ask for an autograph. Here, I have today's race schedule, with your picture. Would you be so kind as to personalize a message for her? Here, let me spell her name for you.” He taps on the flex before handing it me.

TA: THIS CARD IS SECURE. TELL ME WHAT YOU WANTED TO SAY. TEXT QUICKLY.

Shaking, I hold his flex and leave the only message I can.

PV: BLACK SAP. BENROYAL IS BEHIND IT ALL.

“Your niece is beautiful. I hope she likes the autograph,” I say.

Abasi looks over my shoulder. I finish texting.

PV: EVIDENCE. I CAN GET YOU EVERYTHING.

“Thank you, Miss Vanguard,” he says, taking back the flex. Casually, he swipes it clean. Like me, he knows how to smile for the cameras. “I know Amisa will be thrilled. Of course, she'll want to meet you someday soon. I'll be in touch.”

Still on edge, I'm down the stairs, round the track, and almost to the pit stalls when I hear the two voices outside the pre-race commotion. Instead of turning the last corner, I press my back against the wall.

“She deserves to know up front.”

“No, absolutely not.”

My brain blinks and I know the voices. Cash and James. Infuriating, these two. Thick as thieves.

James's voice drops to a whisper. I have to concentrate to hear him over the buzz and clang in the pits. “If you tell her, she'll go guns out and get herself killed. I know you've grown partial to her, but this isn't your call. I promised to watch out for her, and right now, that means she's out. I can't risk it.”

“Risk what?” I round the corner, almost colliding with Cash. Of course I don't do the smart thing and keep eavesdropping. Of course my anger and pride get the best of me. Again. “What are you two jaw-jacking about behind my back?”

James looks stricken, then irritated. He's not used to being caught by surprise. Cash is unreadable. Silent and cool.

“Gil's been looking for you for the last ten minutes,” James says, already advancing. “Where have you been?”

“I was looking for someone. Actually, it's none of your business.”

“Did you find him?” Cash asks, but there's no trace of the usual swagger.

“No, I didn't. You mind telling me what's going on? What don't you think I need to know?”

James grabs me by the arm and drags me toward the team stalls. I thrash, but he's a lot stronger than he looks. “You are going to report to your crew and get ready to race this instant.”

“Let me go.” I twist out of his grip and blaze past the first stall, the one with AltaGen's purple logo plastered all over it. Courant is there, grinning as I stalk away. I'm nothing more than a girl on a leash in front of my fellow drivers.

James doesn't follow, but Cash slips beside me, easily keeping up.

“What is going on?” I say. “Don't pretend you're not hiding something from me.”

“Look.” He sounds more weary than annoyed. “I'm going to hang back tonight. Give Bear a chance to pace you.”

“Stop avoiding the question. What were you and James talking about?”

“Nothing. Who were you looking for?”

“No one. Nothing. Tell me, Dradha.”

He sighs. “It's Maxwell Courant. He and the rest of the Sixer drivers are out to put you in your place. Don't expect to get very far tonight, Phee. James didn't want you to worry about it beforehand. Are you happy now?”

We both stop in our tracks, but I don't answer. I stare back, certain he's thrown out an obvious truth to distract me. Cash and I both have our secrets, and I guess neither of us is ready to come clean.

“No, I'm not happy, Cash. I'm not happy at all.”

Goose is furious. While I was shaking hands with Abasi, I missed the pre-race photo op. By the time Cash and I wander back, it's already time to roll out.

“I told them your absence was planned,” Goose says, smoothing the lapel of his crimson jacket. “That you prefer to make your statement behind the wheel rather than in front of the cameras, but I won't make excuses for you again, spitfire girl. You had better impress them tonight.”

“Don't worry,” I lie, “I've got this. Where's Bear?”

“Dependable, that boy. Already at his post.” He scowls at Cash. “I suggest you join him.”

Scolded, we take our places. While Cash scrambles to the pacers' deck, I climb behind the wheel and gear up while my crew makes final adjustments and rolls me onto the track. It's just an exhibition, I tell myself. Twenty laps. We're not supposed to break a sweat or even pull a fuel trigger. My game plan is to slide behind the front-runner until the last second, then break loose just before the finish line.