Marked

by Jenny Martin

  “Funny,” he says. “No matter where we go, trouble finds us.”

  There’s a glimmer there, in his eyes. A little piece of us, still shining.

  “Trouble finds me, you mean.” I pull on an old smile. “If you were smart, you’d stay away. Ditch me altogether.”

  He’s quiet, and suddenly I’m wrecked. The Bear I used to know wouldn’t hesitate. Never, he’d declare. I’d never leave you. But I’m not sure I know this boy—this man—standing beside me. He turns up the collar of his jacket, scaring off the evening chill. When he finally grins, it takes me by surprise.

  “Maybe,” he says. “Can’t say.”

  I huff. Just a little. “Can’t say? Well, for sun’s sake, don’t reassure me or anything.”

  “Hmm . . .” He strokes his chin, smiling even wider. “Ask me again tomorrow.”

  I laugh, on edge. This new, cheeky self-assurance, I don’t know what to do with it.

  Our eyes meet, and I mark the smaller things; the hundred little changes in him. How much shorter his hair is these days. Military cut, perfectly trimmed. But even clean-shaven, he can’t quite lose the day’s-end shadow of dark blond whiskers. They roughen him up, sharpening his once gentle face.

  He coughs when the breeze sends another cindery plume our way. “Earlier, I stood in the chow line with Yamada’s daughter, Miyu. She seems all right.”

  “Oh?” I strain to keep my voice light. “And what did you two talk about?”

  He ignores my question. Looks me dead in the eye. “Have you decided?”

  “Decided what?”

  “Are you going with her, or staying here?”

  Bear makes it sound like a critical fork. As if choosing one forever excludes the other. “Manjor isn’t so far. Wouldn’t take more than a few days to get there.”

  Just the idea makes him sigh. This look, I know. This is my pacer, trying to talk me out of a rust-fool route.

  “What?” I shrug. “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “It’s not safe in Manjor. You realize how many IP troops have moved into Bisera since the last race, right?”

  “I know that. But we’re talking about my inheritance, Bear. James probably left me the better part of a fortune.”

  “That’s right. A Sixer fortune. Bet the money’s all tied up in trusts and stocks and you’d have to deal with corporates and contracts and never mind the risk of leaving the Strand right now.”

  “We could do a lot of good with those kinds of credits.”

  “We need more than credits. We need allies, and training, and time. We need a safe place to regroup.” With both hands, he points at the charred ground. “This is what we need.”

  He is so sure, and it’s the biggest change of all. This absence of uncertainty. We have traded places.

  “I know you think I’ll always follow you, but I can’t keep doing this. I can’t.”

  “Bear, what is wrong?”

  “You wanted me to leave Castra. You begged me to join this revolution. Well, you know what? I have, Phee. I’m not going to Manjor. Not when I have a job now. Flight command’s clearing me for duty in two more weeks. I’ll have my own fighter and I’ll get assigned a copilot . . .” He trails off, like he’s too strangled to get the last words out.

  Copilot. Partner. I’ve been replaced. Rust, how the notion cuts me to the heart. We stare at each other, both trying to mask our wounds. I am jealous; he is furious and impatient. I swear, he practically growls at me. “I just don’t understand why you’d even consider crossing that border again. Not when . . .”

  “When what?”

  He pauses a second too long. He looks me in the eye again, before finally spitting it out.

  “Not when there’s a billion-credit bounty on your head.”

  I am too distracted to push through the forest of poppies and climb tonight. Instead, I skirt the stalk-line, running my hand along the tangle as I pass. This will be the first night, since arriving, that I’ve abandoned my nightly ritual of visiting the highest blooms. Getting above, finding that place where I can whisper to unfurling petals and all-knowing stars. But I don’t have the energy to spare, not when I’m this furious. I’m exhausted, but there’s no way I’m going to bed.

  At headquarters, Zaide lets me in, no questions asked. But inside, when I ask to see the direct feeds from Castra, the rest of the night crew tries to turn me away, giving me some bull-sap about protocol and how I’m not an officer, and how I’m not supposed to be in the communications room at all, and how about I wait until the morning, when they can check with Hank first. But I won’t leave, and just when the shift leader’s about to call Hank, Commander Larken steps into the hive.

  While everyone else salutes, fists over hearts, I gape at him.

  “You didn’t leave,” I say.

  “I’m staying for the time being.” He says it likes it means a thousand years. And the way things are shaking out, I’m afraid he might be right.

  Zaide clears her throat. “Commander Larken, Van Zant would like to pull up some direct feeds, and they were just explaining Lieutenant Kinsey’s orders. No one but officers are allowed in HQ. Should I call him? Perhaps he’d want us to make an exception?”

  “That won’t be necessary.” He raises a hand. “I’ll take care of it.”

  She takes a step back, affirms. I’m not sure why she’d stick her neck out for me, but I’m grateful.

  “Thank you,” Larken adds. Zaide shoots me a sympathetic look, and I try a little harder to hate her less. No, that’s not fair. I don’t hate her. I only hate the space she occupies. This is what it’s come to: I resent her, the way Bear resented Cash.

  When she and all the rest get back to work, Larken turns. “Come with me.”

  I follow him to a flex glass table, one normally set aside for intercepting and filtering feeds. We take it all in: the official news from Castra, and raw footage from friendlies—hacker groups like BitReaper and the Fist. For weeks, Hank’s kept an eye on communications; no one gets new data in or out of our little valley without clearing it with him first. Sure, we can access transmissions, but HQ screens them. All this time, I thought Hank was protecting the rebellion. Now, I see, he was also protecting me.

  Leaning over the table, Larken signs into the system, disables half a dozen applications, then pulls up a single screen. “Should be able to pick up a few direct feeds from here,” he says, stepping aside. “Find me when you’re done.”

  After he leaves, I sit in the chair. I stay up all night watching the screen, staring at feedcast after feedcast. Zaide brings a cup of coffee, but I leave it, cold and untouched. I don’t need it to stay awake. The rage is enough.

  Back home, I used to avoid too much screen time. Working at the Larssens’ clinic and racing for Benny kept me plenty busy, and even when I had the time, I never saw the point in watching anything but circuit racing. On Castra, the news is always depressing, and scripted Sixer shows are nothing but subtle propaganda.

  But there’s nothing subtle about what they’ve done to me. My family. Hank and a dozen other rebels. To millions, we’re now a pack of bloodthirsty terrorists. Castra’s Most Wanted.

  Sure, I’ve seen most of it before. We knew Benroyal would make us outlaws. But I never expected this latest spin on the story.

  It’s been three months since the prime minister’s disastrous public statement, and I guess Benroyal’s smooth-talking strategists got to work. To say they perfected damage control is an understatement. I watch the old feeds, and see the first story break. Then another and another and another.

  New Evidence in Vanguard Disappearance.

  Circuit Racer Linked to Bombings.

  Phoenix Vanguard: Accomplice or Mastermind?

  Dradha Presumed Dead, Assassinated by Ex-Racer.

  Then, the most recent story. The perfect final blow. False footage of me, s
upposedly recovered from the ambush. The angles are all wrong, and the action’s choppy. The fiery chaos looks all too real, and I could almost believe they actually captured this, then and there, during the attack. Except in this new “footage,” there’s a new Phoenix Vanguard. A slick, digitized copy of me. Same eyes, same hair, same black racing uniform, but there’s a gun in her hand.

  I tense, my nostrils flaring.

  I stare at the screen. Through hopeless smoke, my ringer stands over a kneeling victim, posed to look like Cash. You can’t see his face; he’s mostly out of frame as she raises the barrel.

  It isn’t the jump cut to barren ground as she fires that turns me inside out. It’s the crack of the bullet and the sound of his body dropping. The angry churn in my gut curdles into a full-on case of the shakes. One grainy clip, and they’ve erased who I am. They’ve hijacked my identity. But I don’t stop. I push past the nausea and keep watching. I don’t move or make a sound until I see the last feedcast, recorded only hours ago.

  Riot in Biseran Capital.

  There’s a procession, streaming through the Biseran capital. Thousands have gathered for a beloved prince. When the people surge in the streets, fists raised for their Evening Star, I die with them. They cry out for my blood, and I break, biting down on a sob.

  I log out and shut it all down. When I finally check the time, I see I’ve missed the sunrise.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ZAIDE’S NO LONGER IN THE COMMUNICATIONS ROOM, BUT HER day shift replacement tells me where Larken’s gone. As the sun climbs, I find him outside camp on the Hill of Kings. He sits on a rock at the top of the silt-veined slope, surrounded by the tombs of his ancestors.

  Despite the stubborn flocks of barden and the crusty layers of bird drip on every grave, on this planet, there is no ground more sacred. For centuries, the Cyanese and the Biseran buried their leaders on this height. As angry as I am, I don’t have the right to raise my voice here. Quietly, I sit beside him. “Why do you let them stay here?”

  He doesn’t tilt my way. Instead, he shrugs. “Let who stay?”

  “The birds.”

  He ignores my question. “Did you find what you were looking for at headquarters?”

  I don’t answer at first. Instead, I squint into the morning sun, so bright it makes my eyes water. I listen to the birds. Their cries knit into one scratching, fluttering shroud of grief-song. The sound is oddly comforting. “He’s taken everything from me,” I say. “My home. My birth parents. Cash. But at least I had my identity.”

  “But you were never Phoenix Vanguard. Not really.”

  “That’s not what I mean. I thought once I escaped, he couldn’t touch who I really am. But now . . .”

  He takes a breath, as if to speak, but I’m not finished yet. “You know what the bounty on my head is? One billion credits, as of last week.”

  “And you’re surprised? I’d have thought you’d seen that coming.”

  “I figured he’d smear my name. But I didn’t expect him to put a gun in my hand and make me Cash’s killer. Millions of people think I did it, Larken. I don’t know how to fight this.”

  Larken doesn’t react. Instead, he stares into the bright haze. When his eyes settle on a single distant, openmouthed crypt, it’s like he can see into it, reading some dead man’s invisible approach. “My grandfather Khed II rests there.”

  “Parabba mocks you for it.”

  “And he isn’t completely wrong. My grandfather was insane. Imagine a thousand years of peace, between Cyan and Bisera . . . he helped to destroy that. He plunged us all into the Thirty Years’ War.”

  I pause. The only history I’ve been taught is the version sold on the Sixer feeds. “What happened?”

  “The old man marched across the Strand. Tried to invade the Gap, and the Sixers rushed in to ‘protect’ it for Bisera. Cyan and Bisera haven’t been the same since.”

  I look up at him. “Living here, I think I get it now. It’s not just two countries . . . it’s more like old friends, torn apart.”

  “Old friends . . . and families too.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Your family?”

  “The war dragged on and on. We were blamed for so much. The conflict, the destruction, even the assassination of His Majesty King Mohan.”

  “But Benroyal and Cash’s brother, Dakesh—they were the ones who murdered his father. It wasn’t—”

  Larken cuts me off. “Yes, but my grandfather sneered at Bisera’s loss. In public, he acted all too pleased to see Cash’s father gone. He should have denounced the assassination; at the very least, he should have offered some token of sympathy. Instead, he fueled the rumors, making it so easy to pin the lie on us. And my father . . . he couldn’t handle the pressure or the shame. He gave up his title. Locked himself away in his country estate, abandoning my mother and me. After that, we never fit in. Not even when the Skal finally came to its senses and put an end to my grandfather’s madness.”

  “Your throne, the one with the scar—”

  “The council guard cut the old man down, right there in the tower. They left his chair, as a reminder.” Bitterly, he smiles. “Forgive me, if I’m not eager to sit there and take his place.”

  “Larken, that’s horrible. But they have to know none of it was your fault.”

  A shadow passes over him and for a second, I swear he’s a hundred years older. “They know I’m a madman’s heir, and a coward’s son.”

  The air’s quiet and thick; it’s an effort to suck in a breath. I have no title. I will never sit on a throne or lead a people. But I know what it’s like for Larken, to be abandoned.

  “After my father left, my mother bargained to hold our place on the council. I took my father’s seat. But we were never really accepted,” Larken adds. “The damage had been done. It was too late.”

  “But you stayed behind,” I let slip. “You could have followed your father and run away.”

  He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. That deep sense of duty—it’s written all over him. For a moment, shoulder to shoulder, we sit in silence. He eyes the shifting flock of barden. “You asked me why we let the barden stay,” he says at last. “But they were here first, and they’ll be here after we’re gone.”

  I sigh. “And that doesn’t bother you, on your own holy ground? The barden stink. They drip all over the place.”

  “They also keep the hill clear of things that slither and crawl. They eat pesky groats and wendel, and even their drip serves a purpose. It kills the weeds and fertilizes the poppies.” He’s too diplomatic to let it show, but there’s a slow-blooming smile on his face. “And if the birds seem to prefer roosting on Parabba’s family crypt, and a little extra falls on his ancestors, who am I to argue?”

  I cough, choking on a bit of laughter.

  Larken straightens, and a little of his reserve returns. He’s the commander again. “They stick together, this flock. Drive them away, scatter them a thousand times, and they will migrate back, drawn to each other. They do not surrender. They do not give up their ground.”

  I’m quiet once more. I close my eyes. My city, Capitoline, is light-years away, but I can almost feel its desert fire in the sun-glazed air. “I’ve done everything but hold my ground, Larken. I abandoned my world, and my people. These past three months, all this time . . . I’ve just been hiding out.”

  “You can call it hiding out, but maybe it’s building strength,” he says. “After my father died, it took a long time to find my way. Sometimes, it takes a while to recover. You have to make the choice to come back from it. Come back a little stronger . . . a little wiser . . . and you can show them what you’re made of. Show them who you really are.”

  I freeze, uncertain.

  “Or not,” he adds. “You could just let him define you.”

  My fists begin to curl at my sides, but even as my temper flares, I know that
I’m angry with myself, not Larken.

  “How?” I ask. “You’re the military strategist. How do I take my identity back?”

  “Engage your enemy,” he says, as if the answer were obvious.

  “What do you mean?”

  “First, you’ve got to choose a suitable battlefield. Second, launch an offensive. Quickly, before the enemy has the chance to read your position.”

  I blink. “Are you saying I should leave the Strand?”

  “I’m saying you have options. Remember: The wisest victors act, rather than react. They know when to strike, rather than defend. So you can wait for Benroyal to make the next move, or you can make one of your own.”

  Larken stares me down, so I turn away.

  “Don’t wait too long, Phee.” He stands. His final words fall heavy on my shoulders. “You decide. Don’t let him choose your battleground.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I NEED A SHOWER AND SIX HOURS STRETCHED OUT ON MY bunk, but instead I walk down to the launch yard to find Bear. As soon as I duck into the flight ops tent, Hank waves from his seat on the command platform, then points me in the right direction. “He’s in sim one,” he says. “If you don’t mind standing by a sec, he’s finishing up.”

  I eye the giant gray sphere while I wait. I’m told it’s the largest, most state-of-the-art flight simulator on base, and Bear’s logged about three billion hours in it since we arrived in the Pearl Strand. He’s bound and determined to become a Tandaemo fighter pilot, and I can’t blame him for aiming high. Tandaemo are worthy aircraft. More agile than regular vacs, they’re capable in a dogfight, and can still handle vertical takeoffs and landings.

  And unlike other fighters, they’re set up with two flexible command seats, which can alternate as gunner and pilot positions. At any given time, either partner can switch tasks or take over completely. Which explains the fighter’s name: Tandaemo is a play on the Cyanese word tan, which means “twin,” and daemo, which means “bird of prey.” Not a bad way to describe such a sleek, dangerous vac.