Tracked (6 page)

For a moment, Cash and I stare at each other. I hope he can read the silent thank-you on my face. They can arrest me, terminate my contract, do what they will, but I'd sooner be cut loose and tossed in juvie than allow Bear to see himself as anything less than a full-fledged crew member. Cash can call himself my pacer to appease Benroyal and the powers that be, but Bear will always be the voice on the other end of my headset.

“Yeah,” I say to Bear. “I was just saying that I wanted to see the scheme they've got on my rig.”

We've captured Auguste's attention again. He perks up when I mention the vehicle. “Well then,” he says, motioning at it. “Take a peek for yourself.”

Cash and Gil pull the cover forward. It slips off and pools on the floor like a castoff silken gown. It's the big reveal, the moment I've been waiting for, maybe for longer than I'd ever thought. Can a dream sleep for a lifetime, only to surface and breathe the second it comes true?

My own circuit rig.

It's beautiful. Almost my snub-nosed Talon, only the body curves more subtly, and every plane is smooth as glass. All the seams and rough edges are gone, made invisible with body filler and gloss. And unlike the rig I sunk by the docks, this one is drenched in crimson, a red richer than garnet, deeper than blood. The paint detail is gorgeous. Sharp black pin-striping on each side. The air dam—the low, ground-skimming dip of the front bumper—is painted gold. The glimmer gradually fades up into the ruby blush on the hood. The crest over the engine is identical to the marks on my shoulder, but I sense the car and I are well-matched in ways beyond this.

This is how they get you. With metal and gears, the Sixers dangle the hook you can't refuse. They bait the trap with everything you want to taste. And just like that, they have me. I move closer to the driver's side.

“You like?” Auguste asks me.

I've been staring so intently, I'd almost forgotten where I was, and that there was anyone else here. I've been alone with the most perfect rig in the world—one that was made for me.

Bear moves behind me and puts his hands on my shoulders. It's a gentle reminder to speak, but I'm at a loss for words. A feeble “Uh-huh” is all I can manage.

“I think she likes it,” Cash says.

I'm dying to look under the hood, but I want to let
the engine speak for itself. I want to see how this thing handles first. Gil says they still have a few tweaks to finish, but they'll need my input before making any more adjustments to my rig, so I beg for a test drive.

Since I've yet to get fitted for racing gear, it's not easy to get them to roll it out of the garage onto the oval practice course. Even so, I can tell I'm not the only one who wants a test drive, because everyone else on the crew follows us out to the sun-bleached track.

Clear skies. Cool breezes. Perfect day for a ride.

“Listen now,” Gil warns me. He's all squinty eyes and wide nose and gap teeth. “You just take it easy. If something happens and Benroyal finds out I let you open her up without fireproofing you first, we're all out on our exhausts.”

“Just a couple of laps,” I say. “I'll be careful on the turns, I promise.”

He and Cash step back while I slide through the driver's- side window. I'm not used to a rig with no doors, and I'm a little embarrassed when Bear has to give me a hand. Next time no one's around, I'm going to practice until I can jump in like a rally pro.

I pull, and the steering wheel locks into place. Gil hands me a helmet. After I strap it on, I buckle the six-point. I give it a couple of tugs—it's not as tight as it should be. The crew is going to have to make some belt adjustments to accommodate my runty frame. It'll do for now, but when it's race time, when I rocket through the backstretch at well over two hundred miles per hour, I'll need the harness as tight as it can be to keep me firmly in the driver's seat.

I spy an ignition switch on the dash, but that's about it. I flip it on and the engine hums to life. I don't think I've ever heard sweeter music than its low purr. Even so, I've got a big problem on my hands. Besides the wheel, all I see are dead dash screens. And when I reach for the throttle and trigger stick, they're not there.

No stick? How am I supposed to drive without any control, any get up and go? “Um . . . I'm not really sure . . . ?”

Cash leans through the driver's-side window. “What's the trouble, Vanguard? Never worked a hyper-screen setup?”

“No,” I croak.

He smiles; it's an exultant gleam. We're on the same team, but I swear, every time his grin widens, it costs me something. I'm ashamed to admit he's racking up victory points right and left.

“That's all right,” he says. “I can give you the lowdown.” He pulls down my visor and flips a switch below the ignition. Suddenly the dash screens blink to life and jump right out at me. Literally. I flinch back against the seat as if the floating panels are going to bite. I can still see the windshield, but the tachometer and the rest of the gauges and controls hover near the bottom of my field of vision.

In fact, when I turn my head, they move with me. “VR controls?”

He nods.

“What about the throttle?” I ask. “How am I supposed to—”

He gestures toward the console beside my right arm. There's a flat-deck touch screen panel.

“The
center
toggle
is
the
throttle,”
he
says.
“Swipe
it
up
to open.
All
the
way
down
to
choke.
Blinking
circle
at
the
top
is
your
trigger.
You
have
three
bursts
loaded.
Just
press
and
go.”

Even after I've processed his explanation, my right fist wants to close around a mechanical throttle that isn't there. “This is sooo weird,” I say.

Gil shouts from the pit wall. “You gonna sit there all day, or you gonna give it a go?”

“You'll be all right, Vanguard.” Cash slaps me on the shoulder. “Just go for it.”

When he steps back into the safety zone, that's exactly what I do.

I roar out of the pit lane and into the front stretch. I'm not used to the fancy virtual controls, but my feet still know how to work an accelerator just fine. At first, it's not that hard to obey Gil's warning—I haven't quite adjusted to the setup, so I'm content to keep the RPMs in a reasonable range. Reasonable for me, anyway. Anything less than three thousand feels like a crawl.

I'm not exactly crawling right now.

I'm careful around the first two turns. On most real circuit tracks, there are magnetized panels on at least one of the turns. Get too close to the wall, and you end up skidding helplessly against it. The only way to bust free is to burn a fuel trigger. The feature is designed to shake things up on the track, but the mag walls are every speed demon's nightmare. Waste more than one trigger prying yourself free and you're rusting done, at least as far as the standings go. Nobody's ever won without saving those precious fuel bursts for gaining straightaway speed.

I have no idea if these walls are juiced, so I'm not taking any chances. Gil would probably string me up and eat my liver if I wrecked his rig during a test run.

I'm just rolling along when I see the exit tunnel built into the back stretch. Looks like Benroyal's arranged it so drivers can make the third turn and keep driving around the oval or they can exit onto a longer, point-to-point rally course. Every Corporate Cup series has as least two regular lap track runs, but I hate them. What's the point in going around and around in circles?

For
me,
the
real
heart
of
rally
racing
is
the
cross-country course, the traditional, multi-point routes that hearken back to the circuit's earliest days, when the first colonists sprinted hundreds of grueling miles to stake a claim on their own patch of dirt and sand. Like them, I'm aching to run off this smooth track and onto a rough road with plenty of rolling hills and hairpin turns. Right now, it's all I can do not to break for the tunnel. And oh, how I would love to make off with this rig.

But I wouldn't get very far. And I know what they'd do to Bear if I even tried. So I'm forced to honor my word and I make a nice, clean third turn. As I'm speeding through the back stretch, my eyes finally get comfortable with the virtual hyper-screens. I've figured out the throttle, and it's been too long since I've had my foot on the floor.

I need this.

My mind slips into a zone—I wonder if my father felt this same rush, driving the circuit. Even as I roar down this empty track, I can almost visualize the blur of a hundred thousand rally fans, screaming from the stands. I hear the snarl of engines on all sides. I feel the sweatbox heat of the three hundredth lap.

One last turn. Straight shot. I go for one more lap. Then two. Three. Faster. This time, I'll make this rig scream. My hand slams against the throttle deck and I find the triggers.

Ready.

Push.

GO.

Whoa. The bursts are like nothing I've ever felt. The car runs pretty tight, but only a death grip on the wheel keeps me from spinning out of control. I'm banking dangerously close to the wall and it's time to start praying.

Please. Please. Hold on. Yes.

My tires squeal but valiantly grip the track. I've managed to keep it together and make the next straightaway. My heart pounds and this glorious feeling builds and expands, radiating from the fist-sized knot in my core, until I'm as weightless as laughter. I smile, because this is what I was made for. This moment. Right or wrong, this is my inheritance.

Two last white-knuckle turns and I brake hard near the front stretch, engineering a series of hard jolt pirouettes across the blacktop. I spin and spin, but I'm anything but out of control. This is my victory dance.

At the finish line, I skid to a rubber-melting stop. The crew runs out onto the track.

Gil says nothing—I know he's sizing me up and weighing the cost of my reckless speed. Bear and Goose look completely horrified, but I can tell Cash is on my side.

“Vanguard?” Cash says. “That was hot.”

“Seem to know your way around a track,” Gil adds.

Once the engine dies, I punch the six-point release, peel myself off the seat, and slide out of the rig. “Runs great. Spring rate is a little off. I'm tough on tires, so adjust the camber. That's about it.”

I walk off the track. I don't have to look—I can hear the sound of their jaws dropping.

After we drive back to Benroyal's high-rise, I expect Auguste to drop us off, but he takes the elevator up with us. “You tucking us in tonight?” I tease him.

“No, no,” he says. “The fitting. I take no chances. I must make sure the
couturi
ères
are precise.”

I'm not sure about courti-whatsits, but
fitting
is definitely an ominous word. I don't like the sound of this at all. Maybe they're just measuring me for my crew gear? That's what I tell myself, until I catch Bear's uncomfortable foot-to-foot shuffle. Something is up, and he knows it.

“I'm sure Phee is going to love this,” Cash says. “All the dresses and stylists. The shoes. And the hair extensions. Just think of all the super-fun possibilities.”

I am no one's dress-up doll. I turn on Auguste, my manager/white-trouser-wearing yacht captain. “What?!”

Goose rolls his eyes and waves Cash off. “Pay no attention to him, he is joking.”

“Good. He better be,” I say. I'm so worn out from our whirlwind day at Racing HQ, I don't appreciate the heart attack.

“Don't be absurd,” Auguste chides. “You won't meet the hair stylists until tomorrow.”

In my apartment, someone has tidied up. All traces of last night's brawl are gone. The broken table has been replaced and the breakfast dishes I left out have been washed and put away. It seems my corporate prison term includes maid service.

Honestly, at this point, I don't really care who was here, messing with my stuff. I'm more concerned with who is here, messing with me now. I'm ready to tell everyone good night and good riddance. Of course, Auguste will have none of it. Every time I protest, he threatens to schedule additional fittings, and just this one is horrifying enough.

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if there weren't so many people eyeballing me. Including Cash—I cannot get him to leave. When he and Bear aren't exchanging threatening looks, he's gushing with running commentary on each and every outfit the stylists throw at me. At least, I think these two vultures are stylists. For all I know, Phillip, the man in the purple suit, is really the devil and Bijan, the fabric- swatch-bearing bimbo at his side, is his favorite harpy.

I stand here, and I can't help staring at the creamy throw rug covered with a lifetime's worth of too-tight shirts and skirts and hapless halter tops. It's like the Castran Fashion Feed vomited all over the living room.

“I think the poppy red is a much better color for you than the desert mauve. And that jacket has to go,” Cash mocks. “Don't you think?”

Phillip, the eggplant-wearing hell spawn that he is, agrees. He taps his chin. “Hmm,” he says.

He says hmm a lot.

“Hold still, Fiona,” Bijan says. “And stand up straight.”

“It's Phee,” I growl. “My name is Phee.”

“Uh-huh,” she says.

I can tell she's sick of my backtalk. She's getting huffy; her fat-transferred behind jiggles every time she has to push my shoulders back to adjust my posture. She's not the only one who's about had it, though. I'm this close to chasing everyone out, canceling all fittings until further notice.

Bijan has already scanned me with her handheld laser four times. How many measurements of my nearly nonexistent chest does anyone really need? I let Phillip hold things up under my chin. I even let them both drape two dozen cocktail dresses in my face without throwing up all over the silk bodices and strappy shoes.

But I am not trying anything on. No way.

“I don't need these,” I say.