Tracked (4 page)

In Capitoline, if you veer off the good road and exit
onto the Mains, you can cut straight through the jeweled heart of the city, casting your reflection on a million panes of mirrored glass. You can race between the Sixers' industrial palaces. After you marvel at their sterile beauty, you can curse the corporate hands that built them.

If you stay off the good road altogether, and you keep south of the Mains, you can hide in the shadows the skyscrapers cast. You can see the other side of Castra's grandest city, the darker half that's thick with violent ache.

We don't have a lot of daylight left, and now we're on a street so far from the gleam, even Bear and I would watch our backs and avoid the alleyways. Of course, Auguste opts to wait in the car (I can't blame him), but James climbs out after commanding me to wait in the rig.

I'm tired of sitting in here and tired of taking orders, so of course I ignore him. I get one of James's patented dirty looks, but he doesn't force me back inside. I sense I've caught him in a weary moment. For now, this isn't a battle worth fighting.

“Follow me,” he says. “Stay close and do what I tell you to do. And don't talk.”

I don't argue. Getting out of the rig is victory enough.

When I hit the sidewalk, James steers me away from the pawn shop directly in front of us. I sense he's been here before, maybe many times, by the way he makes his way through the bustling swarm. We walk into the Biseran chophouse next door.

The restaurant is a dim, narrow hole in the wall. I can barely breathe for all the smoke from cigarettes and burning fat. Under the stench, the sweet scent of roasted meat tempts me. Even in a place like this, I'm sure I could dine on the tenderest cuts on Castra.

And when I finished my meal, I bet I could slip into some back room beyond the kitchen and find any number of criminals dealing their own wares.

I'm right, of course. James is already pushing his way past the sweat-soaked waiters and smudged-apron cooks, past the chatter and clang of dirty dishes. I follow until he stops at a heavy, worse-for-wear door. No secret knock. No shout through the steel. James just turns the handle and barges in.

The view is pretty much what I expected. We're in a hallway with rooms on either side. On the right, booths full of black sap dealers, measuring doses by the murky vial. The irony never fails to sicken me. The runoff dregs—the by-product of the refined sap that fuels our entire civilization—is also the source of such nightmarish ruin. I've seen it a hundred times, in the eyes of the junkies Mary tries to treat in the clinic. Just one taste and you're hooked. You'll do anything for another brain-burning fix. Doesn't matter if you take it by mouth or shoot it up, the end result is the same. Keep dosing long enough and your memories, your sanity—it's all gone.

The feeds buzz endlessly over the “war on black sap,” but I sure don't see the DP doing much to stop it on the streets. No wonder the protesters rage and babble about conspiracies. Even Mary swears they're onto something—that the government's only cracking down on small-time dealers. For whatever reason, they're all but turning a blind eye. She'd kill me for even walking into this place.

One of the dealers offers a few small vials. I catch the hungry glint in his customers' eyes. One of the sticky-lipped addicts flashes a grin at me, and I spy the telltale rot of his gums—no diluting it, or shooting it into his veins. He's hooked enough to toss it back raw. He looks Castran, but there are plenty of Biseran here, even a few Cyanese too. Strangely enough, outside the dealer's booth, no one is squabbling or mouthing the usual slurs; it's a regular interstellar friendship alliance in here.

We pass the dealers by and duck into a room on the left. I can't believe James would bring us into this place. He points at the farthest corner, at a table on the other side of the room. Although the lights are low, I can make out the ring of faces crowded there. No junkies among them, as far as I can tell. For a moment, all are quiet, intensely focused. Then the silence breaks, and I hear the roar, a mixture of shouts and groans.

Gamblers. Pocket flex cards studded with ever-changing numbers and suits. In a place like this, I should have known.

A Cyanese man and woman—both predictably tall and golden haired—look up and abandon the game. After they clear out, I can have a better view of the table. I see a new face, one that's bronzed and crowned with blackest hair. This player is much younger than the others. Unlike the junkies in the booths, he is clean and clear-eyed. He looks Biseran, maybe half-caste, but somehow he doesn't belong in this dim, suffocating room.

James touches my arm. “Stay here,” he says. “I'll get him.”

I'm not surprised when he leans over the younger gambler, the grinning boy who can't possibly be much older than me. His smile fades when James orders him to leave the table. There's a heated exchange, threats, and sour looks, but I can't hear much over all the noise. The stranger pulls his flex from his pocket, collects his last hand, and taps the stack against his card to settle his account with the house. When he glances at his balance, I see he's furious James picked this moment to pull his leash and drag him away.

Their approach stirs the stale air. I catch the scent of balm leaf. The sweet, light spice tells me he must be Biseran. Which surprises me. Most of the ones who migrate to Castra are hard-luck beggars or toothless addicts. My would-be pacer is neither. He is well dressed and I've already seen his mouthful of pearly whites.

It's only when he moves closer, when he's less than an arm's length away, that I finally recognize him.

“Phoenix Vanguard,” James says. “I'd like you to meet—

“Wait—” I spit out.

“I'd like you to meet His Royal Highness,” James says. “Prince Cashoman Vidri Pelar Dradha, Duke of Manjor, Knight Companion of the Most Noble Order of the Evening Star, of the Royal House of Bisera, Second Son to Her Majesty, Queen Napoor.”

Slack-jawed, I blink, expecting one of them to tell me it's all a joke. Instead, he nods. My pacer.

The Biseran prince.

I can feel my gums start to flap, even before my brain has a chance to process the ridiculousness of this moment. I mumble something, dumbstruck, curse words under my breath. No, not even curse words. It's really just a jumble of nonsense, stuttered consonants and strung-out vowels.

His Royal Highness stares back, amused. When his lazy smile grows wider, the heat works its way up my throat. I can't rusting believe they'd put this preening jackass on my crew. Anyone who watches the circuit feeds knows all about Cashoman Dradha, the runaway-prince-turned- apprentice-pacer. The boy who fled his planet after his father was assassinated, turning his back on duty and country. He is nothing more than a bored, spoiled aristocrat who's here to gamble and play the circuit.

The shock wears off. Mouth closed, arms crossed, I straighten. Now it's his turn. I can see him sizing me up, making his own assumptions. I have no idea what he must think of me in the starved, threadbare state I'm in, and honestly, I really don't care. James clears his throat, and I feel pressured to speak. So I don't.

“Cash will do.” The prince holds out his hand. His grip is too warm and sure. “What's your real name?”

“It's Phe—”

James cuts me off. “Phee will do.”

Cash will not stop looking me over. Scratching his chin, he keeps studying me, like I'm just another hand to be read, then played. “You as good as they say you are?” he asks at last.

I force a shrug, willing myself to stare back and look bored at the same time.

“Okay, then.” Cash's broad smile doesn't match his dark, resentment-colored eyes. He turns on James. “If you and Phee are going to yank me from a twelve-hand winning streak, let's get on with it. To the Spire?”

“To the Spire,” James agrees.

We're headed to the Benroyal building, the tallest
tower on the Mains. Maybe other Sixer giants claim command of Castra's lesser cities, but King Charlie might as well rule Capitoline. They call his place the Spire for obvious reasons—its glass-and-Pallurium frame twists two hundred and thirteen stories high. Its penthouse pierces the blood-orange dusk like the fire-tipped end of a spear.

James taps at his flex, occupied with who-knows-what business while Cash and Goose chat away. They discuss pit adjustments, paint schemes, and track schedules. All the latest circuit rumors and all the new tweaks they'd like to test before this year's Corporate Cup series. Cash thinks he can work me into shape and Auguste enthusiastically agrees. In fact, he has high hopes for a season full of pole position starts.

My manager. This mouthy pacer. We are supposed to be a team, but it's like I'm not even here. I tune them out and watch the sun die a slow death.

The Onyx turns one last corner and rolls into the parking garage under the Spire. It's a long march with a side of small talk before we make it into the elevator. James unlocks it with his flex, and a breath later, we step off onto the 210th floor.

Cool marble tile and silk-draped walls. The foyer's monochromatic—everything is drenched in cream, accented with shades of pewter and gold. It's bright and airy and pretentious as hell. Not me at all.

There are two sets of double doors—one to my right, and one to my left. James points to the ones on the left. “Use your flex,” he says.

I wave it in front of the blinking light above the handles. Sure enough, three bolts snap—one after the other—and the door is unlocked. We walk in, and they all trail me as I scope out my new apartment.

It's not so different from the lobby. Lots of oversized, off-white furniture. The flex glass walls gleam iridescent like mother-of-pearl. At will, I can bring up any feed or application. It's all programmed to respond to a few command words or the swipe of my hand.

Admittedly, most of it's wasted on me. I don't really watch anything aside from racing feeds, but there's plenty of space here, and the kitchen is stocked.

It sure beats the rust out of jail. All I need is . . .

“When is Bear coming?” I ask James.

“Who's Bear?” Cash interrupts.

“Bear is Phee's . . . bodyguard, and he will arrive soon.”

“Well, aren't you something?” Cash looks at me and then turns on our keeper. “James, when are you going to hire me my own special goon?”

So. Cash is spoiling for a fight or trying to get under my skin or I don't know what. But I'm too focused on getting answers to take the bait. “How soon?” I say. “Tonight?”

On the glass behind the living room sofa, James swipes his flex against the wall and calls up a map. A red bull's-eye crawls along the good road just south of here.

“Definitely tonight.” James's earpiece buzzes. He taps it and clears the wall. I wish he hadn't. I want to keep my eyes on that bull's-eye. He walks out of the apartment, leaving us to take his call.

Cash is watching me again. “Don't worry, Vanguard. You're safe in your ivory tower. Nobody's going to get us up here.”

“Look. I'm not worried about my personal safety,” I tell him. “I just want to make sure my friend's okay, if that's all right with you.”

“Finally,” he said. “I've been waiting for some sign of life. The fully poseable girl is actually capable of spontaneous reaction.”

I've got a pose for him—I'll put him on the floor. I lunge, but Goose steps between us. He lays a hand on my shoulder and stabs a forefinger at Cash. “You and you,
avez courtoisie
!
Grace is a virtue.”

“So is minding your own business.” I hold my ground and flash the same grin Cash wore for me on the way out of the chophouse.

James stalks back into the room. It's like his presence changes the air pressure. The tension between Cash and me instantly de-escalates—we don't need Benroyal's right-hand man crawling up our exhausts over a little trash talk.

“I have to leave. Something's come up,” James says. “Auguste, can you stay until Phee is settled?”

Goose shakes his head. “
Impossible
. I realize you all may find this hard to believe, but I have much work to do. The series qualifiers are in a matter of days. If we are to start tomorrow, I must prepare
imm
é
diatement
.”

“Cash,” James says. “Go over the basics with her. Look at this week's schedule. Talk things over, agreed?”

“It's fine,” I protest. “I can—”

“Anything you say, James.” Cash speaks over me. “We got it.”

James takes him at his word, and he's out the door with Goose. I'm alone in my new apartment with Cash. I flop into the nearest chair, sinking so low, the snowdrift of cushions nearly buries me. My would-be pacer is smiling again, but this time he doesn't look one bit scorched. “Well?” I say.

He waits for the sound of closing elevator doors.

“I'm just going to be honest here. I feel for you,” he says. “It's your first night in the Spire and I'm sure it's all a little overwhelming. But I've been up for twenty hours straight and I need to zone out for a while. So now that James has vacated the premises, let's just call it quits until later.”

I really would like to get a handle on things before I crash for the night. It's my future we're talking about. But no way am I getting all angst-y eyed in front of Cash. “Suits me,” I say.

“Good. Get some rest. I'll be across the hall, at my place, but I'll check in later, all right?”

I close my eyes. He can think I'm too tired to answer.

I hear the door close. On my own at last.

As much as I'd like to scope out every inch of this apartment, I'm too numb-toed and tired for anything but a hot shower. I drag myself through the master bedroom and into the biggest bathroom I've ever seen.

I jump in the flex-walled shower, and select the hottest gush I can get, then plant my feet and stand up to the blistering fire hose blast. The purge is enough to break me down. After all I've been through, it's the drench that finally puts a lump in my throat.

I don't know who to trust. I don't know how to reach my only friend. I don't know if James lied to get me here. I've managed to wreck my whole life—my rig, my home, my adopted family are all out of reach now. Tomorrow, I'll become Benroyal's property, taking a driver's mark on my shoulder. Twelve hours from now, the needle and ink will erase Phoebe Van Zant for good.

How could I sign that contract?

Quickly, I reach for my towel before another thought has the chance to plague me. Hanging on the door, there's a downy white bathrobe. There are clothes waiting in drawers and closets. I find a pair of gray cotton pants that fit all right in the waist, but are of course too long in the leg. Although the matching sports tank is also a little big, it will have to do. Either I shrunk in custody, or the Sixers think I'm bigger than I am.

I'm still wet and only half-dressed when I hear the knock on the apartment door. I hustle through the living room to get to the foyer. It better not be Cash. Now that I'm ready for bed, I'm so not up for training schedules and pit rosters. When I answer and open up, it's like someone drop-kicks me, punching out my center of gravity. Relief chases the shock.

There are two DP officers flanking Bear.

“Good evening, ma'am,” one of them says. “Mr. Benroyal asked us to escort him here. Is James An—”

Before he can finish, I yank Bear's arm and pull him inside. “Your services are no longer needed,” I snap. And then, smiling wide, I slam the door in their faces. Surprisingly, they don't beat the door down. Even more surprisingly, I hear the retreat of their footsteps.

“That felt good,” I say.

And now it's Bear's turn to pull on my arm. One whiplash spin and his arms are around me, just as they were on the courthouse tiles. But this time, when I look up, he slides his hands from my waist. His palms cradle my neck, the planes of my cheeks. I'm so raw from the shower; the warmth of his fingers on my jaw is an invasion.

Still rattled, I hesitate. We're so close, the heat in his exhale . . . it prickles my cheek, the edge of my lips. Inside, a part of me quiets and panics all at once. I might as well be drowning again. When our eyes lock, I freeze.

He must sense my confusion. I feel the tremble of uncertainty build in his fingertips. His hands drop and he pulls away.

“Bear.” I don't know what to say. “You're . . . Did they . . . Are you all right?”

He doesn't answer. I want him to look at me. I want to read something on his face, but suddenly his eyes won't meet mine. He stares at the creamy marble floor. “I'm sorry,” he says. “I was worried. I just . . .”

His face is on fire now. He's embarrassed and beside himself and I'm just letting him twist in the wind. “It's okay, Bear,” I say. “I'm glad you made it. I've missed you like crazy. You mean more to me than anyone on three planets.”

I mean every word, but somehow it's my own mind that needs reassurance. It's not a question of how deep my feelings run for Bear. Blood could not knit a stronger bond between us. It is no lie that I love him, yet when I ask myself exactly how I love him, when I question the shape of the space he fills in my heart, I stumble. A handful of days ago, Bear was my best friend and almost brother. But now?

The flutter in my chest—I don't know if it's the first wave of alarm or longing. I thought I knew where we stood. We had plans. A partnership. We'd keep racing and get our own shop and someday, just fall . . . together. But now I see the headlong curve in the arc, the shape of our landing, and don't know if I'm ready to tumble into this so fast. I'd never imagined exactly the moment we'd trade fist bumps for fever sighs, and now I realize Bear definitely has. Maybe he always has.

Suddenly, he takes a step back, and I feel the distance.

I look at Bear again and then remember what I asked James to do to get him here. “Are you all right?” I blurt. “Are your parents—”

“Dad says DPs shook the clinic down, tried to pin some charges on my mother, but after they both signed some papers—actual rusting papers, Phee—they backed down and left. Things are a mess, some equipment was broken, but—”

He doesn't know what I've done. The thought buys me a moment's peace, but we've never been anything but honest with each other. I shouldn't keep this from him. “It was my fault. I—”

“It's not your fault Benroyal wanted us.”

Us.

I could tell Bear that it really is my fault, and that the Sixers couldn't care less about what happens to him, and that they only wanted me to sign their stupid contract, but I won't wound him twice today. “Are you hungry?” I touch his arm. “Do you need to rest? Do you need anything?”

“I'm fine. Maybe I should . . .” He mumbles and tugs at the sweat-stained hem of his T-shirt. “Is there a place I can . . . ?”

I point to the hallway. “Take a right, then two doors and take a left. They've got a room for you too. It's right next to mine. You've got your own shower and . . . even fresh clothes, I think.”

Without another word, he trudges off to get cleaned up. The slump in his shoulders tells me he's lost. Why didn't I reach for him the way he did for me? I don't deserve his goodness. I pushed him away, and I hate myself for it.