by Jenny Martin
The guard grabs me and spins me around before I can think twice about it.
“You are dismissed.” The judge waves me away.
My counsel never says a single word.
In a daze, I stumble out of the courtroom. It takes all of six seconds for sharp-clawed panic to sink its hooks deep enough to wake me up. I am going to juvie. Then hard labor in the fuel mines on Cyan-Bisera. I can’t move. I can’t think.
I’m free-falling. Away from midnight races at the dunes. Away from lazy Sundays at the garage. Away from my life with Bear.
I start scanning the room, desperate for an exit. I taste the curse words before they fly off my lips, ringing in this echo chamber of a lobby.
“This is bull-sap, you mother-rusting sons of—”
A hundred heads snap my way. From the corner of my eye, I see the elevator doors open. The prisoner inside. He’s so far away. The elevator is packed with guards. His back is turned and the crowd between us is so thick.
There’s this foolish hope—I carry this fragile ember inside me—that it’s him. I’m so, so stupid to think it could be, that I’ll ever see my best friend again. The surge of adrenaline thrums like a distress signal. Please. I need to know it’s him and that he’s all right and that I’m not alone in this terrible place.
In these boots, I can’t stand on my toes, but I will every muscle and tendon to stretch. The effort buys me an inch or so, and I squint to get a better look. He turns, and it’s no mistake. Bear is here. The ember stirs and I’m on fire. Before the guard can react, I rabbit-punch him with both fists, then snatch the boot remote from his hand.
Stunned, his partner reaches for me, but I duck. Twice. I flick my thumb over the flex card to turn the boots off. In a blink, I’m running as fast as my boots will let me, launching away from the fountain’s edge, zigzagging and cutting through breaks in the crowd.
I’ve probably got a handful of seconds at best. Already, half a dozen DP are onto me, pushing their way through the long lines of detainees.
“Bear!” I scream.
He looks my way. When he sees me, his slumped shoulders lift. “Phee?!”
Bear’s escorts had been leading him slowly toward the courtroom, but the moment he hears me, he wrenches free. The force is strong enough to knock two of his captors on their exhausts. They scramble back up, and the other two try to catch Bear, but it’s too late. A beast off the chain, he’s halfway across the room, running like I’ve never seen him.
Someone must have another sync remote. My boots force me to halt. I’m ten yards short, but nothing stops Bear. He practically tackles me, folding me into his arms. I can barely breathe. Not because he’s crushing me (he is), but because I can’t believe my best friend on the planet is alive and well.
I look up, craning to look into his face. Not quite. I reach up and run my thumb over his right cheekbone. For a moment, he takes my hand and holds it there, over a faded bruise. The protective fury—I can feel it roll off him in waves.
“I pulled you out,” he rasps. “Jumped in the second they dropped me at the docks. But they took you away. I thought you were dead. They told me you . . .” he says. “I wanted to die.”
I think of a million things, but my mouth can’t form a single word. I just stand here, wide-eyed, holding on for as long as I can. His grip on me is fierce, but there’s a special tenderness in our meeting too. The kind that comes from years of scouting each other’s routes before turning any corner. Bear has run alongside me all my life.
Circling, the guards have come to separate us. I hear the thump of their footsteps. I feel the pull of my boots. I’m being dragged away, by unfeeling hands and ruthless physics. I see the pain flash in Bear’s eyes, but all I feel is rage.
The DPs take him by the arms.
“Leave him alone!” I say as they drag me away.
No matter how hard they strain, Bear won’t turn his back. One of the guards pulls his stun stick, swipes it to half power and jabs him in the ribs. Bear’s face twists in pain and fury, but the warning jolt isn’t enough. Again, he breaks completely loose.
The unrest is contagious. In the lines, prisoners murmur, a breath away from insurrection. More guards flood the room, pulling their weapons and barking orders. Lock-down sirens blare and blast-proof doors slam into place, blocking the main exits. Our little rebellion has sparked something far more dangerous.
Quickly, four DPs drag me out of the lobby and into a hallway. A glass door slides open and then shuts behind us. I twist toward it. Through the chaos, I can still see him.
I lunge and strain, knocking my forehead against the glass. “Bear!” I scream.
He is coming for me.
I reach for the door, but the guards swarm. One of them bats my hand away. “Back down,” she warns. “Or else.”
I ignore her, fighting hard. There are three DPs on me, and from behind, I hear more running to assist. Bear slams into the door, his palms out, fingers splayed against the shatter-proof surface.
I mimic his stance. All four of his guards pounce on him. When they stun him again, I scream and choke and pound on the doors. Two more jolts, but Bear holds his ground. The tendons in his neck tighten and rise. His jaw is locked and his teeth grind with every puff of strained breath.
“Behave.” The guard tries again. “Stop or we’ll do it.”
“Do what?” I snap, breaking eye contact with Bear.
She taps the glass and nods at a DP on the other side of the door. He acknowledges, reaching into his pocket. My joints loosen and melt. I know what’s in the guard’s fist before he pulls it out.
“Get him to back down,” the woman says. “Or it’s the needle. We’ll pack him off to juvie unconscious.”
I lean as close to the door as I can. These tears are only for him. “You have to stop, Bear. Please.”
He still won’t back off. I have to lie. I have to get angry. “Stop it. Right now. If you don’t go with them now, they’ll hurt me, Bear!” The pain and surprise shows on his face. When the muscles in his arms go slack, when his head drops and he stares at the black and white, I let my palms slide away from his. Limp, I let them drag me away.
CHAPTER FIVE
The room they shove me into doesn’t look like any holding cell I’ve ever seen. I’d thought it’d be some kind of steel box with a table and chair, maybe a sad, lone lightbulb hanging over our heads. I did not expect a polished glass table with built-in flex screen interfacing. The DPs nudge me into a chair and I sink into the plush velvet. There’s a wet bar at the other end of the room, for crying out loud.
This whole room screams corporate. The crystal vases, filled with bloodred Biseran poppies. The chroma-climate paintings that change color with each variation in air temperature. The thick carpet on the floor, sculpted into squares of ebony and cream. It’s a Sixer’s boardroom, not an interrogation cell. I glance back at the door, ready to run at the first sight of a stun stick.
Two men walk in. Both are middle-aged, but one of them is dressed to kill. Black jacket. Kid gloves. Silver tie. Sparkling ruby cufflinks. Never mind the traces of gray at his temples, he is fit and well-fed—a smooth-skinned, golden-haired suit who is so handsome for his age, it’s unsettling. Like he’s not himself at all, but a digitally perfected version.
The other guy is probably almost the same age as his boss, Mr. Sixer, but this one is completely different. At first, I think he’s nothing special. He’s not very tall and his brown hair is common as the coffee grounds on the bar.
It’s the man’s glasses—his specs—that throw me.
Corporates don’t wear them, unless they’re for show. Who needs lenses or shades when your eyes are surgically perfected, enhanced for Castra’s unforgiving sun? Sure, I’ve seen Sixers and celebrities wear them for looks, but these black frames are severe and thick; they do nothing for his who-knows-what-color eyes. I can’t under
stand why he’d hide behind them.
And if he’s security, I’m the Biseran queen.
They carry no weapons, but I’m no more relaxed. The older Sixer has gloves on and for all I know, his lackey’s briefcase is filled with instruments of torture. Maybe an IV line, ready to pump some especially toxic brand of black sap into my veins. I’d trip out on happy hallucinations until my heart pumped hard enough to actually burst. On the streets, I’ve heard rumors about that kind of thing. What a great way to die. Dosed on the narcotic runoff of the same sticky stuff that fuels my rig.
I don’t say a word. I stand up and move to slip past them, but Mr. Specs shuts the conference room door. I hear the lock click. My fate is sealed.
After slumping back in the seat, I cross my arms. Bring it.
Without a word, they both study me. While Mr. Sixer sits and begins to pull his gloves off, Specs sets the briefcase on the table and opens it. His boss smiles placidly.
No stun sticks. No syringes or interrogation tools.
Specs pulls out a single sheet of paper.
Paper. Not a flex screen, which is strange. Hardly anyone actually uses paper anymore. People only buy it for off-the-wire business. Or because they’re nostalgic. And I don’t think Mr. Sixer is the nostalgic type.
Specs lays the paper on the table and slides it across to me.
I’m cautious, but I don’t lie to myself. I want to know what it says. Without touching so much as the edge of the table, I lean over to look.
REGISTER OF CAPITOLINE, SOVEREIGNTY OF CASTRA
CERTIFICATE OF LIVE BIRTH
CERTIFICATE NUMBER: 401-57-410180
NAME: PHOENIX VANGUARD
DATE: APRIL 11, 2375
PRECINCT: 3
PLACE: CAPITOLINE
SEX: FEMALE
MOTHER’S NAME: JOANNA VANGUARD
FATHER’S NAME: THOMAS VANGUARD
There are other things listed, but I don’t read past the names, I can’t see straight anymore. Although the certificate isn’t mine, the details are close enough to spook me. I was born in Capitoline on April 11, and my dad’s first name was Thomas, but Phee is for Phoebe, certainly not something as rusting ridiculous as Phoenix. I’m a Van Zant, not a Vanguard, and I’m not . . .
“Eighteen,” Specs says. He nods at the paper.
It takes me a second, but I catch on. True enough; the printed birth date is one year off, at least from mine. I can’t help but make the mental leap. They are changing my identity. They are here to erase me somehow. My eyes find the door again.
“Some improvisation was necessary.” Mr. Sixer’s voice is every bit as smooth and artificial as his looks. “For our purposes, you can’t be a minor.”
Our purposes. The phrase makes my brain itch. I’ve seen this guy—both of them, actually—somewhere. On a screen, on a feedcast, sometime or another, I’m certain.
I can’t take it anymore. “If you’re here to kill me, just do it already. If not, you can spare me this whole intimidation routine. Why am I here? Who are you?”
“I see,” Mr. Sixer says. “You have a tight schedule? Better things to do?”
An angry heat starts to scorch my cheeks, but I don’t take the bait. I don’t answer at all.
With a healthy dose of respect, Specs introduces his boss. “I am here on Mr. Benroyal’s behalf.”
No wonder they look so familiar. Charles “King Charlie” Benroyal is only the most powerful Sixer on Castra. Forget that Benroyal Corp refines more fuel sap than anyone on three planets. His company hires every last DP cop and interstellar soldier; this guy has his manicured hands in just about everything. Defense. Aerospace. Munitions tech. Shaving cream. You name it, they overcharge for it.
Benroyal is the biggest corporate name on Castra. So of course, it’s the one I most despise. This man and his bespectacled henchman. They must be expecting me to quake in awe; instead, I tap my fingers on the glass for a second and then stand up as if to leave. As if I really could.
“Pity,” Benroyal says, playing along. “I’ve heard you’re the best street driver in Capitoline. I had high hopes for you on the circuit.”
The circuit.
Two words that stop me cold. I sink into the chair for a second time.
The circuit is everything right, a sport fueled by the ideals Castrans prize the most. It’s burning out your last transmission just to make the next checkpoint. It’s leaving your competition choking on your trigger exhaust. It’s trembling in the wake of a champion, but holding steady when you beat him on the next turn.
It’s also everything wrong, a game infected by the sins I hate. It’s taking a corporate mark on your shoulder. Getting your skin inked and your soul scorched with a Sixer brand. Staying on script for live feeds and posing for commercials and showing up for sponsored events. It’s about selling out with a smile.
Just like my father.
The thought makes my empty stomach flip and roil. Excitement. Hunger. Disgust. I taste them all at once. “Who do you think I am?” I croak out.
“We know who you are, Miss Van Zant,” Mr. Specs says. “The question is, who do you want to be?”
I flinch at his question.
“Are you Phoebe Van Zant, the orphaned daughter of a legendary rally champion?” Benroyal’s voice thickens with grand schemes. “Or are you Phoenix Vanguard, the rebellious upstart, the circuit star, the girl destined to outdrive them all?”
Specs, no longer at his master’s heels, pulls a flex screen from the briefcase and lays it on the table. No paper this time. No, this is for real. Two taps and a turn of his finger and the document on the flex is projected across the glass tabletop. The name they want to give me is bolded in every blank. It’s larger than life. My eyes scan the print. I touch the glass and scroll through screen after screen of clauses. A contract awaits my signature.
I shrug.
“You can stay here, take your chances in juvie,” Benroyal says. “You can work in the mines and rot in the Biseran Gap. Or, you can sign with me and leave here today.”
It feels much hotter in here. The therma-climate landscapes tell me it’s not just my imagination. The plum- colored summits on the canvas start to bleed. The fiery veins of orange and red hurt my eyes. I look back at the contract.
My dad once signed one of these. He raced with the best, driving for the tech giant, Locus Informatics. Played this game and look what it did to us. I stood behind the wall, clutching my little emerald pennant, cheering him on while every victory pushed him farther away, turning him into a tense, distracted stranger who spent most of his time on the practice track and at corporate events.
By the time he finally disappeared, he was little more than a shadow on my bedroom wall, a quick whisper before I fell asleep. Somehow, the pressure to keep winning and packing arenas erased him altogether. How can I expect to fare any better? But what other choice do I have? On this planet, you can turn corporate, you can lay low, or you can die.
Laying low is not an option anymore.
“What will it be, Phee?” Specs pulls off his glasses. “We’re offering you a way out. Freedom. The chance to write your own legend.”
He says it like he knows me. And in a way, the look on his face says he does. It’s as if he reads my past—my hesitations, at least. I know now why he wears the lenses. He hides his intent, probably most of the time. Bet he doesn’t like anyone to see the sharpness of his blue-gray eyes. He’s allowing me the privilege, but I do not know if I can trust their smoke-signal gleam.
I don’t even know if I can trust myself to make the right decision. I can turn corporate, or I can rot. And that would be all right, but it’s not just my future, my life on the line. I stop thinking, and just blurt it out. “I’ll sign, but only if Bear is part of the deal too. It’s both of us, or nothing.”
Benroyal nods at his counsel.
“We anticipated that as a possible contingency,” Specs says. “Barrett Larssen can accompany your team, perhaps he—”
Benroyal interrupts. “He can be her boyfriend, her bodyguard, whatever. I don’t care. Just wipe his charges and put him on the payroll.”
A deep breath. I trace a finger over the glass, leaving my mark on the contract. It’s done.
Benroyal turns his gimlet eyes on me. His lips curl in a blistering smile; it’s a victory pennant he’s likely flashed a thousand times before. “It’s just as well, Miss Vanguard. The boy can be our best insurance policy. His pardon will remind you who you work for. After today, I don’t want you to ever forget. You race for me now. I own you.”
Someday, I will claw that smile off his face. I will slash it to ribbons.
CHAPTER SIX
Now that our business in room number one is done, Benroyal can’t bail fast enough. He abandons us in the adjacent hallway, leaving me standing beside his counsel and the DP who dragged me here earlier. Specs puts his glasses back on—he’s quick about it too. I’m certain he feels somehow exposed without them.
And I sense another shift. There was an almost mechanical stiffness in his movements back in the luxe boardroom, but now his shoulders are loosened up, and he doesn’t sound so much like a laser-eyed corporate robot anymore.
After the DPs deactivate my boots, I pull them off and hurl them down the corridor as hard as I can. Specs nods at the DPs, dismissing them. At first, they’re reluctant to leave, but they finally trot away when he waves them off with a less than polite “Thank you, your services are no longer needed.”