Tracked

by Jenny Martin

  As soon as they are out of sight, he puts his briefcase down and pulls a flex card from his jacket pocket. “We’ll drive you to your new home. Benroyal has an apartment arranged. For now, your friend can stay with you.”

  I open my mouth to tell him I already have a place to live, but he cuts me off, handing me the flex. “When you settle in, take a good look at this. Your schedule. Rules. There’s a lot of protocol you’ll have to digest.”

  I pocket the card. Even though the thin screen fits in the palm of my hand, I’m not fooled. I’m sure it syncs up with the mother of all hubs. By now, Benroyal has probably set up a digital locker to store data on everything but my bowel movements. On second thought, he’ll probably want to track those too.

  The man hands me a pair of black leather boots. I put them on. A little too big, but they’ll do.

  “What’s your name?” I ask.

  “Let’s go,” he replies.

  I stare him down, unmoved.

  He picks up his briefcase again and heads for the nearest exit door. “You can call me James.”

  “Mr. James?” It’s like I’m talking to the pinstripes on the back of his suit. My feet are still pinched and numb, but I manage to stand again.

  “No, Phee. Just James,” he says.

  He walks out the exit doors and I follow, even though there are no more arrows on the tiles.

  There’s a boxy rig, almost the size of a tank, waiting at the back service entrance to the courthouse. A sweet, spit-shined Onyx, probably custom made for the likes of Benroyal. Bet the whole frame is armored. Bulletproof windows for sure. James reaches to open the back passenger door, but I flit past him.

  He backs off and lets me grapple with it. It’s heavy, and I have to climb just to get on the step bar. From there, I haul myself into the backseat. The thick scent of new leather and old wine—luxury—assaults me the moment I’m inside.

  James climbs in beside me. We’re not alone. A funny- looking man faces us. He’s wiry all over, from his coarse black curls to his skinny, too-long arms. He sits there, holding a crystal-stemmed glass filled with who-knows-what-vintage. Something burgundy, fragrant and rich.

  And that ridiculous blue jacket with gold embroidered trim—I can’t believe I’ve cast my lot with these corporate goons. Give this one a cap, and I’d swear he’s a yacht captain dropping in straight from the Cyanese Sea.

  “Phoenix Vanguard,” James introduces us. “This is Auguste de Chevalier.”

  Of course it is. I nod, coughing to cover snorty laughter. I run through my options. What do I call him? Mr. Chevalier? Mr. de Chevalier? Or just Chevy?

  The man must have read my mind. “But of course,” he says, dangerously waving his glass. “You must call me Auguste.”

  The accent is so thick, his name comes out as Ah-goooost. My mind can’t quite place the muddled roll of his vowels. I’m guessing he’s not native Castran, or his parents are Earth-born at the very least. Not surprising. With anyone older than thirty-five or forty, there’s always the chance they immigrated here. The Sixers didn’t start turning them away until a nuclear strike toasted Earth once and for all. Happened just before I was born, and now we have so many refugees from Earth’s scattered, broken tribes, I can’t keep track of all the distinctions. Doesn’t matter. Native or not, I decide I’ll just call him Goose.

  “Auguste is your team manager,” James says. “He oversees Mr. Benroyal’s circuit team, and he’s matched you with the right crew chief, pacer, and—”

  “I know how it works,” I say. “And I already have a pacer.”

  My new corporate overlords glance at each other. The uncomfortable looks highlight how little I really know about this whole break-out-of-jail arrangement.

  Auguste clears his throat. “Yes, yes,” he says. “There’s a problem with that.”

  I reach for the door. If Charles Benroyal thinks he can just ignore my only demand, the most important condition, he can forget putting me on the circuit. Without Bear, I will rot in the mines of the Biseran Gap, thank you very much.

  James touches my wrist. “Phee. Wait.”

  My first instinct is to shake him off, but I don’t.

  “What’s the problem?” he asks Auguste.

  “Yeah,” I chime in. “Why isn’t Bear here already? I thought you could handle the sap-holes in the DP.”

  “Ma lune et les étoiles! I like her, James. You’ve named her well, she has spark.” Auguste gulps a huge swallow of burgundy. “It’s not the ‘sap-holes,’ as you say, Miss Vanguard. It’s the boy’s parents. We’ve only just contacted them. The father has agreed to sign a contract, but the mother is un problème. It’s quite stupid, really. But there it is.”

  Oh yeah. When it comes to Sixers, Mary is definitely a headache, quietly fighting the corporate machine every chance she gets. I can only imagine how it went over when Benroyal’s people offered Bear the circuit deal. But surely there’s no way she’d let him face the alternative.

  James pulls his briefcase onto his lap. With a click, it’s open, and two seconds later, his fingers are working over a flex screen. Good. He’s working on it, I’m sure—making our problème disappear.

  “You busted me out, and I’m a minor. Can’t you fix his records the way you fixed mine?”

  “It’s not that easy,” James says. “The DP, the courts, the entire public sector is no problem for Mr. Benroyal. And in your case, you are technically a ward of the state with no one to contest anything. It’s easy to tweak your age. But Barrett’s real parents are around. Ultimately, they can deny consent on any corporate contract. As long as he’s under eighteen, they have a say.”

  I gasp. I can’t believe Hal and Mary would let him go to juvie. “They’d let him rot?”

  He reads something on his flex. “Apparently, they would. My sources report Bear’s parents have already filed a petition with the court. They think they can seek legal recourse to get him out.”

  “Can they?”

  “Not likely. No.”

  I turn to James. “Isn’t there something?”

  Auguste puts down his wine and leans forward. “Listen, I have wasted half a day already on this spitfire little girl. Give them an incentive, James. Apply pressure?”

  I sense an ally.

  James wipes the flex clear and brings up a new screen. “I suppose I could . . .” The glasses come off again and he stares at me. “Do whatever it takes?”

  I see the storm front gather in his gray eyes. This is someone to be reckoned with. He can negotiate anything, I know it. And I cannot abandon Bear. “Yes,” I say. “Incentives. Get them to agree. Whatever it takes.”

  Auguste and I crowd around James. His fingers fly over the screens, the words are a blur, but I start to put the pieces together. By the time I finally read his intent, it’s too late, and I realize I’ve made a horrifying, irreversible mistake.

  With a sweep of his hand, James is finished. “The DP should arrive at the Larssen clinic within the hour. I imagine three counts are sufficient. The drug charges—black sap possession with intent to distribute—will be enough of a threat. They’ll sign. Let’s get something to eat.”

  “Yes, yes,” Auguste says. “Sounds good.”

  I can’t swallow down the acid this time. What have I done? I’m a rusting reckless fool.

  I startle at Auguste’s voice. I must have fallen asleep, but I don’t think I’ve been out that long. We’re still in the Onyx, although we’re not moving as fast. I look out the window. Ahead, a thousand high-rises pierce the hazy sky.

  James touches his earpiece and I realize he’s already on a call. His face colors a shade between annoyed and angry. “Yes, I understand. I realize that . . . but I told you to be there when we arrived . . . No. Not tomorrow. This is important.”

  “Who is he talking to?” I ask Goose.

  “You will meet hi
m soon enough, Miss Vanguard. Moon and stars, that one is insolent. But he is the best. There is no better for you.” Auguste waves at James to get his attention. “Where is he? Can we retrieve him on the way?”

  James nods and reaches for the bridge of his nose. Just when I think he’s going to take his mask off again, his hand drops. “Fine. We’re picking you up,” he says over the line. When the call ends, he still looks pretty scorched.

  “Where is he?” Auguste says.

  “Where do you think?” James answers.

  “Ah.” Goose nods. “Another problème.”

  “Who are we picking up?” I ask.

  “Your new pacer.” James grits his teeth. “He’s south of the Mains.”

  “At the sap house?” Goose asks.

  James answers with a scolding look.

  “So,” I say. “Your plan is to put me behind the wheel, racing between two and three hundred miles per hour, with nothing more than a tripped-out black sap addict to guide me?”

  “When you say it like that . . .” Auguste sighs. “It sounds very bad. But he—”

  “Look. I already have a pacer and I certainly don’t need anyone on my team who is—”

  James shuts me down. “Benroyal agreed Bear could be a part of your team. He never promised he’d be your pacer. We’re picking him up. And you’re going to give him a chance. And that’s the way it is.”

  I know he means business, but I push back anyway. “Or what? You’ll drop me off at juvie?”

  James lowers his voice. He speaks softly, knowing I’ll still read him loud and clear. “Or the DPs don’t just threaten the Larssens, they make them disappear.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  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.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  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.