Tracked (16 page)

I've hit my limit. The track's become a white-knuckle blur and my air hoses aren't working right. It's so scorching hot in here, I think the soles of my feet probably have second-degree burns. And if my pacers don't stop bickering, I'm going to explode.

I take Cash's advice and move toward the inside of the track. I'm able to pull up on Banks, and Winfield moves forward with me, absorbing the space on my right between me and Courant. We four are flying high, leading the pack.

Banks pulls a trigger, but I can't understand why he'd waste the burst. We have three laps to go and he's just going to rocket forward, only to get stuck behind the cars we've already lapped. Now Winfield and I are forced to burn a trigger too, just to battle for lead position.

Courant ducks behind us and we're all trapped at the tail of the slowest group again. Another lap. Two more to go. Every time I move one way or another, Courant and the rest shuffle and dance, pinning me in second place behind Banks. Maxwell makes his move and whips around me.

Cash and Bear argue about routes, and I can't take it anymore—my brain is stringing together the curse words I don't have time to scream. Time has run out. I've only got one more rusting lap. I could win this, if only Courant's gang weren't closed in on every side, all up in my exhaust.

I stare through the windshield. That's it. “I am not looking up the tailpipes of this purple clown car for one more second,” I say.

I lurch forward, giving Courant a warning nudge. He surges forward, breaking from the pack. That's all I need to pass Banks and bust through the rest of the herd. I bump and bang against half a dozen cars—each bone-rattling scrape shoves one more out of the way. Once I clear the lagging horde, I quickly catch up to Maxwell, but he swerves on the second turn, blocking my attempt to take the lead.

I know Bear can read my mind. “Phee, don't do it . . .”

I wait until we're deep in the backstretch. The sky-bridged finish line is seconds away and I'm desperate to earn my place on victory lane. Old habits die hard. I reach for a mechanical trigger stick that isn't there. When I don't find it, I slam my fist against the console, launching two fuel triggers at once.

I'm the assassin's bullet again, and I've found my mark. My rig rockets against Courant, launching him against the straightaway wall. For him, this race is over. I grip the wheel, using muscles I never knew I had, grasping for the strength to keep Benroyal's precious rig on the road. I fishtail and spin sideways, barely recovering.

Stay on the track. Stay on the track. Stay on the track.

Finish line. I can't believe it. I've actually. . . .

Phee! Watch out! Stop!

I don't know if it's Cash's or Bear's or the one in my head, but the voice comes too late. I didn't see the jam of lapped cars leaving the track. I can't even slam on my brakes.

Smash. Tumble. Burn.

I hit hard, so hard and it hurts and I think . . .
yes, I'm going to die
.

I'm on fire.

Smoke everywhere. I'm shattered and shaken, battered and stunned. I can't make sense of this input. I think my rig flipped, maybe once, maybe a thousand times. Blood is rushing to my head; I claw at the straps of my harness. What happened? Which way is up?

Which way is out?

Static fuzzes and pops in my ears and I don't know if it's just my ruined headset or my exploded skull. It's like I'm not really here, this isn't really happening.

I'm hanging upside down and I have to get out. I pummel my fists against my chest until I find the six-point's quick release. It's a fight for inches and gasps of air. Something slices through my suit and tears into my shoulder on the way out, but I'm feeling no pain. It takes me six lifetimes to crawl out and roll onto the scorched ground. After scraping my forearms across the track, I'm on my knees, rising up.

When I stand, the static gradually fades. I'm unsteady, close to blacking out. My blood rushes back too fast. One second I'm blind and the next, I'm squinting against the light. There's a ringing in my ears. Even though I can't hear anything, I can feel the roar from the stands; the rumble pulses through me. Sightless, I should fall, but the energy of the crowd nourishes me. My eyes adjust. I see the blur of faces, the flames on the track, the smoke billowing from my ruined rig. People surround me. My crew. Gil pushes through and shoulders my weight. I lean on him, limping away from the wreck. All the while, he's talking to me, but my brain isn't ready to process his questions.

“If I'd have just had . . . that wouldn't have happened if . . . I need . . .” I shout and sputter. “GET ME A REAL THROTTLE STICK, GIL!”

There must be a microphone in my face. The booming volume of my voice makes me stumble, falling against my crew. Even as it echoes, I hear the mob's answer. Thousands of voices. In the stands, they are calling my name, shouting and chanting and cheering for me.

PHOENIX. PHOENIX. PHOENIX. PHOENIX.

I'm alive and everything is burning bright. Everything is beautiful.

They
vac
me
to
Capitoline
General
North,
the
same
hospital
I woke up in after my arrest. When I begged the medics to let Bear or Cash ride along, they ignored me. The emergency crew wouldn't let anyone else on board, not even Goose. Although the flight rattled my teeth, I feel fine. I don't know why they're getting all dramatic. I wrecked. I rolled. I survived. End of story.

At least Benroyal hasn't come to check on me. Since I'm alive and not permanently disfigured, I guess he can't be bothered. I'm not complaining, either. He's just about the last person I want to see right now.

Dr. Menar, his personal physician, says I've got a mild concussion and a bruised rib. My whole backside—from tailbone to toes—is laced with heat rash, but that's not really an issue. Pretty much every driver overheats during the race, even when they don't flame out in a spectacular wreck. My car's Pallurium roll cage saved my limbs, and my fireproof gear saved my skin. I'm lucky I don't have serious burns. After they wrap my ribs, a soak in a tub of anti-gel will sort me out. I'll be as good as new.

The uni-vac crew already cut me out of my zip-front and now I'm forced to wear one of those horrible gowns again. I lie facedown on the exam table.

“Hold still,” he says, looking me over.

I cuss him out when he cleans the deep gash on my left shoulder, the place the twisted metal cut when I crawled out of my ruined rig. He holds up a mirror to show me the ugly slash
down
the
middle
of
my
corporate
tattoo.
The
Phoenix- winged crest is diagonally cut, completely sliced in two.

“This is our most serious problem,” the doctor says. “I recommend an artificial graft. After six weeks, the skin will be ready for a new mark.”

If King Charlie and his team of corporate vultures think I'm going to accept a patch of synthetic skin and a fresh brand, they're crazy. “Get out,” I yell at Menar. “I don't care about the scar. Let Mary stitch me up.”

I'm on the verge of bugging out when Goose arrives. He fusses and frets over me before pleading my case to Dr. Menar.

“Do as she asks. Today has been stressful enough. We will worry about the brand later.”

Menar frowns. “I should check with—”

Auguste stiffens, then sniffs, as if he has caught a whiff of something especially rank. “Mr. Benroyal does not wish to be bothered with such matters. I am in charge of Miss Vanguard's well-being. Are you deaf? Why are you still standing there? Go do as she asks!”

To my surprise, Menar shuffles off, and Goose leaves instructions with the hospital staff to attend to my every whim. Apparently, I'm a valuable asset and the powers that be will appease me as long it leaves me more docile. It's a load of sap, but I've never been more grateful to my manager.

Bear's mom arrives half an hour later to patch me up.

For the first time in weeks, we've got the chance to talk freely, but Mary is quiet and tense. A quick, careful embrace and she starts to gather what she needs to treat me. Somehow, I thought seeing her would ease the pain of this forced separation. Instead, I sense the gulf all the more. The cage's latch still holds. This close, I'm just reaching through the bars.

“Has there been any trouble? How are you? How's Hal?”

After holding her hands under the sterilizer panel, Mary swabs the area around the wound. “Better than you. We watched the live feed. Those last few seconds nearly gave Hal a heart attack. ‘Would it kill her to be a little more careful?' he says.”

“I'm sorry.” Bracing for another scold, I change the subject. “I need to tell you something. About Chamberman Abasi.”

“Abasi? He's been arrested.” She leans over my shoulder to shoot it up with local anesthetic. Wasting no time, she grabs the threaded needle. “Today. Just before the race.”

“What?” I cringe when she plunges under the skin. “How—”

“Rumor is he was gathering evidence for some kind of public inquiry against Benroyal. Next thing we know, he's charged with treason.”

“I told him the truth. I met him at my first race, and he was going to help.”

Mary flinches. Too many emotions flash over her face. Betrayal. Anger. Fear. Resignation.

“I'm sorry,” I say. “I thought he could do something.”

“He tried, I suppose.” She takes a weary breath. Her lips pull into a taut line of concentration as she begins to stitch me up again. “But he might as well have signed his own death warrant.”

The tears come fast, burning down my cheeks.

“It hurts. I know.” Mary wipes them away with a scrap of sterile gauze. As if I'm crying over the cut on my shoulder and not the brutal slash of bad news.

“Listen to me,” I say. “You have to leave Capitoline. Now. If he has Abasi, Benroyal will interrogate him until he finds out who betrayed him. There has to be someplace you can go.”

Mary shakes her head. “Not without you. Not without my son.”

“I can get Bear's contract canceled. It's my fault he got caught, but Benroyal will let him go if he thinks—”

As she pulls the last stitch, there's a ragged edge in her voice. “Don't take the blame for Bear's part in this. He made his choice, just as sure as you made yours. I wish Bear hadn't followed you, but that's the way it is. That's my son. He loves you, Phee, maybe more than anything.” This time, it's her eyes that shine with tears. “It's no crime to love him differently.” Finishing up, she splays her fingers under the sterilizer and the bloodstains instantly disappear. “You think I don't know both your hearts like the lines on these rough old hands? For years, I've watched your feelings lag behind his, never quite catching up. And you've done nothing but bury your head in the dunes, denying the difference. You have a right to choose your own road, Phee. Maybe it's high time you did.”

“I never wanted to hurt him. I've been trying to spare him.”

“I have to wonder, Phee,” she says. “Who are you really sparing?”

My throat tightens. I'm desperate to throw my arms around her again, but somehow I can't. In this fragile place, I know we'd both splinter and crack. “I'm afraid of so many things.”

“You're
stronger
than
you
think,
Phee.
And
you
can't
give
up.
The
DP
can't
arrest
everyone.
Benroyal
can't
silence every voice. One day, you may find you're not his pawn after all.”

“How can you believe that? I already signed my life away and I'm just—”

“I watched the end of that race. I saw the faces in the crowd,” she says. “You're one of our own. At every turn, the Sixer drivers tried to box you in, but for one glorious moment, you broke loose. The people in the stands, they are battered and bruised, cornered every day by a powerful few. Today, if only for a few seconds, you gave them a taste of something different.”

She comes around to face me, cupping my chin in her hand. “You made them roar.”

I feel the ache that Cash holds on to, the heart-tug thread of impossible dreams. Before I can answer, Menar comes into the room to check on us. I'm told it's time for me to rest and that Mary's cab is waiting. After we say our good-byes, I watch her leave. I brood over everything she's said long after the pain in my shoulder fades.

Back at the Spire, I see my keepers have already been
here. In my master bath, I find a deep metal tub filled with anti-gel. Menar told me to soak for half an hour, and I'm not about to argue with that. Even if it can't numb the grief-sick ache in my bones, the clear goo will heal my burns and erase my bruises in no time.

Crazy how the different by-products of fuel sap can have such opposite effects. Black sap is every addict's favorite brain-burning fix, while pure anti-gel is every doctor's cooling remedy. No wonder everyone fights for control of the Gap. The treacherous canyon is the universe's largest reservoir of priceless ooze. We need the sap for energy, escape, and life.

Hal and Mary would have to scrape and save for a year to afford this much anti-gel. I suppose I could thank Benroyal's refineries for the supply. Or I could curse him for hoarding it all for himself. And I'm definitely more the cursing type.

My flex blinks with a message from him.
Well done
, he texts.
You prove a valuable investment
. Digits, a parade of too many zeroes, flash below his words. I'm worth quite the hefty bonus today, and if he knows what I've done behind his back, he's not letting on. I scowl and toss the flex onto the nearest counter.

Before climbing into the tub, I strip down to my shorts and the compression wrap around my chest. The tight bandage makes an ugly tube top. Then I sink into the vat of soothing miracle sludge. The medicine seeps through my scorched skin and tired bones. The longer I sit, the more I edge toward sleep. I hadn't realized how exhausted I really am—the race and all its aftermath pushed me to the limit. Now I feel the downward slide, my pulse falls into a lazy rhythm.

A quiet knock. I'm so relaxed, it takes me a moment to remember how to speak. “Come in.”

He opens the door. I don't have to turn around and look. I know it's him by the sound of his footsteps.

“They keep telling me you're okay and I need to let you rest, but I couldn't stay away,” he says.

“It's all right, Bear. Honestly, I'm fine.”

He kneels near the edge of the tub. “Are you? How bad is it?”

“It's nothing. A cut and a few bruises.”

He sweeps my hair back and rests his hand at the nape of my neck while he looks at my shoulder. The anti-gel has done its job, chilling my skin. Bear's touch feels shockingly warm. I shiver.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks.

I shake my head. “You could never hurt me, Bear.”

He stares off into space and doesn't answer for a long time. I'm not giving him the right answers.

“It scares me, Phee,” he finally says. “You push so hard. It's like you're not afraid to die, like your life's not worth anything.”

“It isn't.”

“It is to me.” He looks away again. I hear the choke in his voice. “One day you'll go too far and I'll lose you.”

I can see it all over his face. Bear cares more deeply for me than anyone I've ever known. Running down the alleyways of Mercer Street, Bear wanted to shield me from every bully and every danger. The games we played, he always wanted to let me win.

I want to tell him he won't lose me, and that everything is fine, but all I can do is close my eyes and try not to lose it. He kneels, then kisses the skin above my stitches. The touch of his lips is feather light. I should welcome the tenderness, but instead I feel vulnerable and exposed. How can I tell him I see another face in my dreams? How can I tell him I'm falling fast?

Mary is right. I have been sparing myself, lying to hold him here and forcing him to play second-best. If it weren't for me, Bear would have a real chance at escape. He wouldn't be a prisoner in the Spire. I pivot and face him, my hands gripping the edge of the tub. The gel is non-stick, so it leaves no residue on the compression wrap or my bare skin. I suck in a breath as the air hits my back like an icy gust. It takes every bit of strength to look up into Bear's wide, anxious eyes, but I remember what Mary said to me. “I'm not the one for you.” I shake my head slowly. “I'm not.”

He slumps, falling on his heels. “That's not true.”

I climb out of the tub and pull on a robe. This will destroy us. If he cannot be more than he is to me now, I will lose him completely. I could be selfish and keep him close. I could give him just enough.

Never. I would die for Bear.

I have to tell him, even if it tears us apart. When he stands up, I step closer. “It is true, Bear. I don't deserve you. I don't.”

I reach to touch his face, but he grabs my wrist and pulls me against him. There is so much strength just under the surface. I feel the tension as I brush against his body. It's taking every scrap of restraint he possesses to be gentle.

“No. Don't say that. I love you, Phee. Don't you understand?” He cradles my cheeks. “I love you. Every time you get in that rig, a part of me stops breathing. I can't stand the thought of you getting hurt. Every time I see him look at you, I can't take it. I want to . . .”

I pull away. “Bear, don't.”

He tries to choke back angry tears, but it's useless, they slide down his face. Each one is an accusation, piercing me. “And every time I see you look at him, it kills me. Why don't you look at me that way? Why can't I be enough?”

We are both crying now. This time, it's me who reaches out. I wrap my arms around Bear and hold him tighter than ever before. “I'm sorry. It's me. I do love you. I love you so much it hurts. But it's not the same. We can't be together the way you want. You're my—”

He stiffens and pushes me away, holding me at arm's length. “I don't want to be your brother.” Bringing me back, he fists his hands through my hair and kisses me hard, with all the fury he's been hiding inside. “I want this. Everything. All of you.”

I'm shaking and confused and out of control. My pulse is pounding out a million different signals and part of me despairs at what I'm giving up: a perfect, dazzling boy whose soul burns so bright, kindling only for me. But even now, my soul cries out for something else. “I can't,” I manage. “I can't give you everything. I don't—”

“I know. That's why I have to leave.”

“Bear, no, wait. Where are you going?”

He turns his back on me.

After he slams the door, I hear him collapse against the other side of it. Seconds later, I know he's gone, tearing through the apartment. When the front doors latch behind him, I stumble to the bed, clutching a pillow to muffle my sobs. He is not coming back.