Tracked

by Jenny Martin

  Maybe he thinks that official-sounding nonsense is a good enough answer to dodge my question, but it isn’t. I decide to get up in his exhaust. I’m pitifully short, but when I lean up to get in his face, there’s no way he can avoid me. “Who was that?” I repeat. “Who was in my rusting room?”

  “Mrs. . . .” He stutters. “Mrs. Benroyal.”

  “What? Are you kidding me? That’s his wife?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he answers.

  “Which one are you?” I ask. “What’s your name?”

  “Kinsey, ma’am. Hank Kinsey.”

  Hank. The only guard Cash trusts.

  I lean closer and spy the edge of the flex card he must have taken from her and stuffed into his right hip pocket. Turns out Mrs. Benroyal is not the only one with a talent for nicking things. I’m no thief, but I’ve seen enough of them at work around Benny’s place to spot their little tricks. I’m streetwise enough to distract the guard with a little shove. “Is she—”

  “Good night, ma’am. Take care.” He backs away, out the door before I can get two more words out of him, but I’ve already palmed the stolen flex, tucking it out of sight.

  Bear and I collapse on a sofa in the whitewashed living room. I’m creeped out enough that I don’t want to go back and lie down in my bed. Bear insists on staying up with me, but I don’t want that either. Why should we both spend the night sleepless and miserable? There’s no chasing him out of here, so we stretch out on the couch.

  I sink into one corner and he rests his head on my lap. I feel the tension in his shoulders, so I run my fingers through his hair until he finally relaxes. This is something I’ve done a hundred times, on nights when Bear cannot sleep. I’ve known him since we were small, and he’s always closed his fists around our worries and kept them close.

  But it’s me who’s anxious now. This place is changing him. Us. Before the arrest, we were inseparable. He’s the same loyal, blue-eyed boy I’ve always clung to, but now I keep pushing Bear away. I care for him. I’d bleed for him. Yet since arriving at the Spire, I can barely look him in the eye.

  My hand slides from his blond hair to the cushion. His eyelids are already growing heavy. He doesn’t notice I’ve pulled away. Good. After tucking a blanket around his broad shoulders, I decide I’ll lull Bear to sleep with the most boring feed ever. Corporate News.

  I gently fish my own flex out of my pocket and after selecting the feed, I turn off all the lights. I keep the volume low and let the talking heads yap softly. It’s the tail end of a financials recap. Sixer stock prices flash off and on below the larger-than-life camera shots.

  “. . . After violent swings throughout the day, stocks ended this afternoon at their lowest point in this year. The Corporate Exchange experienced massive trading as investors scrambled to deal with the fallout of a terrorist attack just east of the Biseran Gap . . .”

  The feed cuts to an aerial shot of the canyon, the red rock gash that runs so deep, it seems to slice Cyan-Bisera apart. In the distance, smoke rises from the torched shell of a building. Soldiers herd sap miners into evacuation rigs. Another refinery bombing.

  I think of my hearing and the judge’s sentence—I could’ve easily ended up in that mob of prisoners. Day after day, they’d lock me into a miner’s harness, forcing me to rappel all the way down into a dark, sticky hole, where I’d hose up raw fuel sap until the fumes finally wore out my lungs and choked me to death.

  Either that, or I’d end up blown to bits in an attack like this, murdered by drug traffickers or Cyanese Nationalists or whoever they’re blaming this time. No wonder Cash left home. His planet’s a war zone.

  The feedcaster continues his canned, teleprompter freak-out.

  “. . . Deep concerns about the interstellar economy have prompted official statements from several corporations . . .”

  The feed cuts to a press conference clip, and I nearly jump out of my seat when I see the next talking head.

  James Anderssen, CEO, Locus Informatics, according to the screen.

  What? If James runs Locus, the company behind every flex network in the universe, he has a lot bigger concerns than jail-breaking circuit crew for King Charlie. I scowl at the feed. My father drove for Locus. I got a life sentence thanks to their rusting “hassle-free” court proceedings. This whole time, I’ve been so suspicious of Benroyal, but now I’m beginning to wonder if James is even worse.

  On the screen, his frames obscure his eyes, but James’s voice carries loud and clear.

  “. . . I spoke with the prime minister today, and I’m told that Benroyal Corp is prepared to deploy an additional twenty-five thousand Interstellar Patrol officers to secure the Gap. We will not back down. There will not be another conflict on Cyan-Bisera.”

  The glasses, the pitch of his voice. It’s all empty talk, and James knows it. I keep waiting for him to ditch the frames and let the audience at home see the truth in his eyes. Nothing is going to get better. Get used to it. Instead, the feedcaster interrupts with another clip.

  “. . . Most officials have released similar statements, but once again, Chamber minority leader Toby Abasi opposes the current administration . . .”

  Onscreen, Abasi is lean but haggard, and I swear his sun-spotted face is as creased and dark as the cloth we use to spit-shine a rig. He looks nothing like the smooth-talking corporate clones who normally dominate the feeds.

  “. . . We should not authorize the deployment of any more troops, least of all Benroyal’s mercenaries. It is one thing to defend our interests, but it’s completely another to hijack control of Bisera, another allied nation. What hard evidence do we have that the Cyanese are actually behind these ‘terrorist’ attacks? Why aren’t we policing the problems on our—”

  A flex message flashes over the walls, swallowing Abasi’s final words. It’s Cash.

  CD: ARE YOU HURT? HANK TOLD ME WHAT HAPPENED.

  I grab my card and delete the message off the walls, keeping our conversation contained on the tiny screen in my hands. Before I can reply, he texts again.

  CD: YOU OKAY?

  PV: FINE.

  CD: ARE YOU SURE?

  PV: CAN’T SLEEP. NO FRESH AIR.

  CD: I HAVE FRESH AIR.

  PV: ???

  CD: BALCONY. TELESCOPE TOO.

  PV: HOW COME YOU GET A BALCONY AND I DON’T??!!

  CD: COME OVER.

  I don’t answer for a long time. I could use a breather, but dealing with Cash again . . . I don’t know. I look down at Bear. He’s fast asleep, relaxed and dreaming at last. I could slip out and get back before he woke—he wouldn’t even miss me.

  CD: ???

  PV: YES.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Feeling more than a little guilty, I slink out and pad barefoot across the lobby. Cash opens his door before I have the chance to knock. Benroyal’s interior decorators aren’t very subtle. While my apartment is awash in white, Cash’s place is a dozen shades of black and gray.

  His bed-head and insomniac stare tell me I’m not the only one who’s been tossing and turning. Tonight, I don’t see a prince or an arrogant rogue. Just a sleepy-eyed boy.

  “Heya,” he says, lowering his voice and leaning in.

  I start to ask him why he’s whispering, but then I remember the possibility of surveillance. The thought of cameras makes my skin crawl. I stay close enough to keep our conversation quiet. “Benroyal’s wife. What do you know about her?”

  He shuts the door. “Well . . . I know she’s messed up in the head. And that she’s James’s sister.”

  That first detail is obvious. The second is a jaw-dropper. “Really?”

  “She’s James’s twin.” He shrugs. “She and Benroyal? Childhood sweethearts.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “There’s nothing ‘sweet’ about Benroyal. You’re telling me he actually—”

  “Oh, h
e loves her all right.” Cash leans against the doorjamb, sidling up. “He’s completely smitten. With her beautiful brown eyes. Her vast fortune. Her half-mad, easily influenced mind . . .”

  “Wait, I thought—”

  “She and James both own Locus Informatics.”

  I sigh, but it comes out more like a growl. Of course. James and his brother-in-law, working together. I’ve been totally played. “My father drove for Locus. What a complete coincidence—Locus manages the courts and Benroyal shows up, right after my hearing.”

  My pacer is quietly laughing at me. “I hate to break it to you, Vanguard, but it’s King Charlie’s universe, and we just live in it.”

  I pull out my flex and image-search James and his sister. Oddly, there aren’t too many of her. Just a few publicity shots of her on Benroyal’s arm, smiling at circuit galas and PR events. Even in the grainy stills, you can see there’s something missing. The vacant look in her eyes. I can almost fill in the gaps, imagining the way she might have shined, but the picture won’t quite come into focus.

  Cash looks over my shoulder. “She looks . . .”

  “Like the ghost of someone else.” I shiver, remembering her voice in the dark. “Cash, does the word Sweetwater mean anything to you?”

  “No. Should it?”

  “It’s nothing . . . nonsense. Just something she said.”

  I follow him through the living room, which is almost a mirror image of mine, a negative snapshot of my cloud- colored space. But here, there are glass doors beyond the kitchen.

  I don’t wait for another invitation. I pull open the doors and step outside. A quicksilver band of Pallurium skims the top of a waist-high, transparent railing. Stepping between two lounge chairs, Cash and I stand against the railing and let the air gust over us. It’s like we’re perched on night’s open windowsill, breathing in the light of the stars.

  “How’d I draw the short straw on apartments?” I ask.

  “I got here first?” He points at the huge black telescope at the end of the patio. “And I like being able to sneak a glimpse of home.”

  Prince Cashoman. I can’t forget that. He hides his accent well, but it’s so obvious that he’s Biseran. I glance at his eyes. Dark irises, charcoal with the telltale golden rim.

  He knows I was staring. “Some say it makes us less than you. Inferior. The first colonists from Earth called us Black-eyed Devils.”

  I can’t deny it, and I’ve heard even worse. This one difference in our genetic code makes the Biserans a target. Never mind that no Castran could see so well in the dark. This gift, the unique glimmer and shadow of their eyes—it makes them a people apart. Prince or no prince, it can’t be easy for Cash, to live here and deal with those kinds of assumptions. Especially when he headlines every gossip feed. Runaway Royal. Rogue. Gambler. That’s all they see in him. For the first time, I wonder if they’re wrong. “Some say I’m nothing but south side trash. Who cares what they say?”

  “I don’t. I’ve learned not to.” He walks over to the telescope. After adjusting the focus, he beckons me closer.

  I lean over the scope. The enhanced view is astounding, as good as any satellite image. I see twin orbs—the moon, lustrous and pale, floats next to Cyan-Bisera. Cash’s home planet is the brightest jewel in any diamond sky, and even through the lens, I can almost feel its silent pull. “It’s so . . . beautiful . . . all that blue water and green mountains and white shores . . . so—”

  “Lush.”

  “Exactly. I know Castra is more . . .” I almost say “civilized” but I know how elitist that would sound. “. . . developed, but still—it’s so dry and ugly here. Why would anyone give up . . .”

  Silence. The trademark grin vanishes.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean—”

  “I know exactly what you meant. I’m a coward. A spoiled aristocrat who would rather play pacer than face my responsibilities to a ruined country. Bisera’s just a haven for greedy noblemen, dealers, and thieves, and I’m no better.”

  “I never said I—”

  “You didn’t have to say anything. I saw it in your eyes the second we met. I guess I hoped you’d be different.”

  “I was completely blindsided that night, Cash. James hauls me into a black sap den and introduces me to a rusting prince. How was I supposed to look at you?”

  “Maybe like you weren’t predisposed to hating my guts. Like you didn’t assume I was a complete amateur, unworthy of two words. That might’ve been nice, actually.”

  “Oh, but you were so warm and welcoming? You should talk, Your Highness. You’re the one who could barely be bothered to get up from the table and meet your new driver. You made it pretty clear we ruined your precious twelve-hand streak.”

  “I was tired. You were a mess.”

  “I was not a—”

  “Look. Just forget it.” He invades my personal space again, his smile coming back out of nowhere, this time lopsided and almost contrite. Almost. I hate the way it moves me. Already, he’s too good at slipping past my defenses. “I misunderstood you, you misjudged me,” he says. “Do-over on first impressions, all right?”

  Fair enough. For once, it doesn’t hurt to nod in agreement. We’re standing shoulder to shoulder, in quiet truce, when he reaches for his flex. After glancing at a text, he quickly stuffs it back into his pocket.

  “Who’s that? Some other girl waiting to look through your telescope?”

  Brazenly, he laughs. “No. If you must know, it was Hank. He asked if you’re okay. Should I text him you’re all right or would you rather I tell him to double the guard because you’re weeping in fear?”

  “I’m fine. Obviously, Your Highness.”

  He texts a quick reply, but makes a show of turning away, just so I can’t read it.

  “Honestly, Cash. How does someone like you end up friends with one of the guards?” I ask. “Or better yet, how does a prince end up in the Spire at all?”

  I’d meant it playfully, but by the look on his face, I can see the question cuts too deep.

  “I am a second son.” Suddenly, there’s a thickness in his voice, a sigh that he can’t let go. “After my father was . . . after he died, my older brother, Dak, didn’t much want me around.”

  “Why?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he says flatly. “Let’s just say I’m no longer needed in the palace. So here I am. Under Benroyal’s protection. Fifty-six million miles from home.”

  Protection. A kinder word for prison.

  “I’m Benroyal’s ward now,” he adds. “Have been since I was thirteen. I’ve apprenticed for three different crews. Cameras and feedcasters always in my face. Bodyguards forever breathing down my neck. Kept me out of the Spire, at least. But two weeks ago, Benroyal calls me back. Tells me he wants me here. Says he’s getting a new driver, and that we’re going to be a team.”

  “Two weeks ago? But I was only arrested last—”

  “You said as much yourself. You know that arrest was no coincidence. Benroyal gets what he wants. You and I are no exceptions.”

  I don’t answer. My mind turns over his words, but I can’t find a single angle that makes any sense. I get why Benroyal might want to keep Cash—the politics of holding him like some high-stakes marker—but I’m nothing. I’m not royalty. Just a street rat racer who doesn’t belong here, least of all on the 210th floor.

  “I’m sorry,” I say at last. “That I’m the reason he made you come back—”

  “It’s fine. It’s done. Besides, I’m the one who should apologize. I didn’t mean to get into it with your friend.”

  “Bear’s just a little protective, that’s all. Practically the only friend I’ve ever had.”

  “I see. Does your only friend know you’re here, with me?”

  I fight the stupid blush creeping over my whole body. Suddenly, I feel g
uilty, as if my two a.m. visit is some kind of terrible betrayal. “No. And he doesn’t need to find out either. He wouldn’t appreciate—”

  “No worries. This will be our secret. I can pretend to hate you in front of him, if you like.” He edges closer—the whisper-light scent of balm leaf drifts my way, and all I can do is welcome the sweetness.

  Before I can answer, a sharp gust of wind blows my hair back, exposing my neck, the site of my fading hospital scar. He stares at me. I feel his eyes mark the spot his lips once grazed with a warning.

  Be careful, he’d whispered.

  The shape of his voice, even imagined, makes me suck in a breath. I didn’t ask for this. I don’t want to feel this way—it’s stupid and irrational to let moonlight soften a stranger’s face into something more than handsome. I can’t look at him anymore. I focus on the railing, where his arm is inches from mine. One careless move and our hands would touch. I can’t let that happen. I can’t allow him to have this power over me.

  The night air is perfect. I look back at the balcony chairs. “Can I just sit here for a while?”

  He nods and ducks back into his apartment. He’s gone for a minute, and when he returns, I’m already settled into the chair with my eyes closed. I feel a soft touch as Cash tucks a wool blanket around me.

  “I can’t stay . . .” I whisper.

  “Just a little while . . .” He sits beside me. “I won’t fall asleep.”

  But I could fall. Out here, I could easily dream.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Too early, I open my eyes. I’m in my own bed, covered in soft wool and the ghost of Cash’s scent. But it’s Bear who is shaking my arm.

  “Hurry and get cleaned up,” he says. “They’re waiting for you downstairs.”

  I sit up and we both stare at the smoke-colored blanket tangled around my hips, the one that doesn’t belong in my ivory room. He opens his mouth to ask the question, but turns away instead. Bear does not ask, because no matter the explanation, the answer would sting. He isn’t one to talk things out, and I’m ashamed to feel so relieved. I don’t want to lie to him, but I can’t volunteer to torture him with details—how, half-asleep, I let Cash pull me into his arms and carry me here, how I let him lay me down and whisper “Sweet dreams.”