Tracked

by Jenny Martin

  “Which way?” I shout through the headset.

  “Go low, pass Balfour,” Cash says. “If he doesn’t move, give him a nudge.”

  Bear cuts in. “Wait. I see a hole. If she goes high, she can—”

  “If she . . . if you go high, Phee,” Cash corrects himself. “Kimbrough and Courant will force you into the wall. Don’t do it.”

  Cash is right. I can’t get sucked into the second- or third-turn mag wall. I pass Balfour. I don’t make it past Kimbrough, but at least I was able to make a little headway. I’m going to have to battle for position an inch at a time, I guess.

  This is going to be a long race.

  Lucky for me, the first time I need to pit for fuel and new wheels, we get a caution flag. Halfway through the race, Balfour hits another rig and spins out of control. When the yellow flag slows everyone down to clean up the track, I race down the pit lane, tires scorched and smoking.

  My crew is beyond fierce—in just under ten seconds, Dev gets my car off the ground, Corky and Josh haul the tires, and Billy and Arad put new ones on. At the same time, Banjo reloads my tank and triggers, locking in new ninety-pound sap cells without wasting a drop. Every movement is streamlined, synchronized, and choreographed. In the time it takes to suck in a deep breath, they’ve got me ready to run again.

  Rust. The green flag just dropped, letting everyone regain top speeds. The rest of the cars still on the track roar past while I’m still in the pit stall. There goes my lead.

  “All clear, all clear. Go, go, go!” Gil signals. And I’m off, punching the accelerator so hard I almost clip Winfield’s back end as I screech back onto the track. My engine snarls as I push hard to catch up with the rest of the pack. When I get there, I’m stuck in the middle draft line of cars. Fallon and Banks are out front while Courant and three of his corporate cronies have me—and Winfield—boxed in on all sides.

  I am so done eating Maxwell’s exhaust. There’s no way to go low. Nobody inside the track is going to let me in. We’re down to the last critical laps of the race and if I don’t make a move, I won’t place at all today.

  “Bonus target, high on the next turn,” Bear says. “Extra points might save you if you don’t finish first.”

  “Yeah,” I shout. “I’m going for it!”

  “Phee, wait,” Cash says. “I’m working out a route, something with Winfield’s pacer. Just hang in there for one more lap.”

  I don’t have time for one more. I nudge Courant. His ugly rig coasts forward just enough to buy me room to pass. When I break high, I realize my mistake. Courant is in league with too many of these sap-holes. Banks moves over to block me, and the yellow rig behind me bumps my tail, driving me farther out. I clamp my jaw shut against the earsplitting shriek of metal on metal as I’m shoved against the wall. I swerve, but it’s too late. I’m fully into the turn and magnetic forces are dragging me to a stop.

  I yell through my headset, “Mother-rusting son of a—”

  “Trigger!” Cash shouts back. “Now!”

  I’m already on it. My fist punched the console before the words made it out of Cash’s mouth. “You tell every one of those pacers up there that their slow-hauling drivers better move out of the way or I will smoke them into the ground!”

  “Take it easy,” Bear says. “Stay focused. Try moving on the—”

  Cash interrupts. “No, stay in the middle. Next turn, go low. Winfield’s got your back.”

  “Who says he won’t leave her hanging out to dry?” Bear growls.

  “He won’t,” Cash snaps. “I know what I’m talking about!”

  I’ve hit my limit. The track’s become a white-knuckle blur and my air hoses aren’t working right. It’s so scorching hot in here, I think the soles of my feet probably have second-degree burns. And if my pacers don’t stop bickering, I’m going to explode.

  I take Cash’s advice and move toward the inside of the track. I’m able to pull up on Banks, and Winfield moves forward with me, absorbing the space on my right between me and Courant. We four are flying high, leading the pack.

  Banks pulls a trigger, but I can’t understand why he’d waste the burst. We have three laps to go and he’s just going to rocket forward, only to get stuck behind the cars we’ve already lapped. Now Winfield and I are forced to burn a trigger too, just to battle for lead position.

  Courant ducks behind us and we’re all trapped at the tail of the slowest group again. Another lap. Two more to go. Every time I move one way or another, Courant and the rest shuffle and dance, pinning me in second place behind Banks. Maxwell makes his move and whips around me.

  Cash and Bear argue about routes, and I can’t take it anymore—my brain is stringing together the curse words I don’t have time to scream. Time has run out. I’ve only got one more rusting lap. I could win this, if only Courant’s gang weren’t closed in on every side, all up in my exhaust.

  I stare through the windshield. That’s it. “I am not looking up the tailpipes of this purple clown car for one more second,” I say.

  I lurch forward, giving Courant a warning nudge. He surges forward, breaking from the pack. That’s all I need to pass Banks and bust through the rest of the herd. I bump and bang against half a dozen cars—each bone-rattling scrape shoves one more out of the way. Once I clear the lagging horde, I quickly catch up to Maxwell, but he swerves on the second turn, blocking my attempt to take the lead.

  I know Bear can read my mind. “Phee, don’t do it . . .”

  I wait until we’re deep in the backstretch. The sky-bridged finish line is seconds away and I’m desperate to earn my place on victory lane. Old habits die hard. I reach for a mechanical trigger stick that isn’t there. When I don’t find it, I slam my fist against the console, launching two fuel triggers at once.

  I’m the assassin’s bullet again, and I’ve found my mark. My rig rockets against Courant, launching him against the straightaway wall. For him, this race is over. I grip the wheel, using muscles I never knew I had, grasping for the strength to keep Benroyal’s precious rig on the road. I fishtail and spin sideways, barely recovering.

  Stay on the track. Stay on the track. Stay on the track.

  Finish line. I can’t believe it. I’ve actually. . . .

  Phee! Watch out! Stop!

  I don’t know if it’s Cash’s or Bear’s or the one in my head, but the voice comes too late. I didn’t see the jam of lapped cars leaving the track. I can’t even slam on my brakes.

  Smash. Tumble. Burn.

  I hit hard, so hard and it hurts and I think . . . yes, I’m going to die.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  I’m on fire.

  Smoke everywhere. I’m shattered and shaken, battered and stunned. I can’t make sense of this input. I think my rig flipped, maybe once, maybe a thousand times. Blood is rushing to my head; I claw at the straps of my harness. What happened? Which way is up?

  Which way is out?

  Static fuzzes and pops in my ears and I don’t know if it’s just my ruined headset or my exploded skull. It’s like I’m not really here, this isn’t really happening.

  I’m hanging upside down and I have to get out. I pummel my fists against my chest until I find the six-point’s quick release. It’s a fight for inches and gasps of air. Something slices through my suit and tears into my shoulder on the way out, but I’m feeling no pain. It takes me six lifetimes to crawl out and roll onto the scorched ground. After scraping my forearms across the track, I’m on my knees, rising up.

  When I stand, the static gradually fades. I’m unsteady, close to blacking out. My blood rushes back too fast. One second I’m blind and the next, I’m squinting against the light. There’s a ringing in my ears. Even though I can’t hear anything, I can feel the roar from the stands; the rumble pulses through me. Sightless, I should fall, but the energy of the crowd nourishes me. My eyes adjust. I see the blur of fa
ces, the flames on the track, the smoke billowing from my ruined rig. People surround me. My crew. Gil pushes through and shoulders my weight. I lean on him, limping away from the wreck. All the while, he’s talking to me, but my brain isn’t ready to process his questions.

  “If I’d have just had . . . that wouldn’t have happened if . . . I need . . .” I shout and sputter. “GET ME A REAL THROTTLE STICK, GIL!”

  There must be a microphone in my face. The booming volume of my voice makes me stumble, falling against my crew. Even as it echoes, I hear the mob’s answer. Thousands of voices. In the stands, they are calling my name, shouting and chanting and cheering for me.

  PHOENIX. PHOENIX. PHOENIX. PHOENIX.

  I’m alive and everything is burning bright. Everything is beautiful.

  They vac me to Capitoline General North, the same hospital I woke up in after my arrest. When I begged the medics to let Bear or Cash ride along, they ignored me. The emergency crew wouldn’t let anyone else on board, not even Goose. Although the flight rattled my teeth, I feel fine. I don’t know why they’re getting all dramatic. I wrecked. I rolled. I survived. End of story.

  At least Benroyal hasn’t come to check on me. Since I’m alive and not permanently disfigured, I guess he can’t be bothered. I’m not complaining, either. He’s just about the last person I want to see right now.

  Dr. Menar, his personal physician, says I’ve got a mild concussion and a bruised rib. My whole backside—from tailbone to toes—is laced with heat rash, but that’s not really an issue. Pretty much every driver overheats during the race, even when they don’t flame out in a spectacular wreck. My car’s Pallurium roll cage saved my limbs, and my fireproof gear saved my skin. I’m lucky I don’t have serious burns. After they wrap my ribs, a soak in a tub of anti-gel will sort me out. I’ll be as good as new.

  The uni-vac crew already cut me out of my zip-front and now I’m forced to wear one of those horrible gowns again. I lie facedown on the exam table.

  “Hold still,” he says, looking me over.

  I cuss him out when he cleans the deep gash on my left shoulder, the place the twisted metal cut when I crawled out of my ruined rig. He holds up a mirror to show me the ugly slash down the middle of my corporate tattoo. The Phoenix- winged crest is diagonally cut, completely sliced in two.

  “This is our most serious problem,” the doctor says. “I recommend an artificial graft. After six weeks, the skin will be ready for a new mark.”

  If King Charlie and his team of corporate vultures think I’m going to accept a patch of synthetic skin and a fresh brand, they’re crazy. “Get out,” I yell at Menar. “I don’t care about the scar. Let Mary stitch me up.”

  I’m on the verge of bugging out when Goose arrives. He fusses and frets over me before pleading my case to Dr. Menar.

  “Do as she asks. Today has been stressful enough. We will worry about the brand later.”

  Menar frowns. “I should check with—”

  Auguste stiffens, then sniffs, as if he has caught a whiff of something especially rank. “Mr. Benroyal does not wish to be bothered with such matters. I am in charge of Miss Vanguard’s well-being. Are you deaf? Why are you still standing there? Go do as she asks!”

  To my surprise, Menar shuffles off, and Goose leaves instructions with the hospital staff to attend to my every whim. Apparently, I’m a valuable asset and the powers that be will appease me as long it leaves me more docile. It’s a load of sap, but I’ve never been more grateful to my manager.

  Bear’s mom arrives half an hour later to patch me up.

  For the first time in weeks, we’ve got the chance to talk freely, but Mary is quiet and tense. A quick, careful embrace and she starts to gather what she needs to treat me. Somehow, I thought seeing her would ease the pain of this forced separation. Instead, I sense the gulf all the more. The cage’s latch still holds. This close, I’m just reaching through the bars.

  “Has there been any trouble? How are you? How’s Hal?”

  After holding her hands under the sterilizer panel, Mary swabs the area around the wound. “Better than you. We watched the live feed. Those last few seconds nearly gave Hal a heart attack. ‘Would it kill her to be a little more careful?’ he says.”

  “I’m sorry.” Bracing for another scold, I change the subject. “I need to tell you something. About Chamberman Abasi.”

  “Abasi? He’s been arrested.” She leans over my shoulder to shoot it up with local anesthetic. Wasting no time, she grabs the threaded needle. “Today. Just before the race.”

  “What?” I cringe when she plunges under the skin. “How—”

  “Rumor is he was gathering evidence for some kind of public inquiry against Benroyal. Next thing we know, he’s charged with treason.”

  “I told him the truth. I met him at my first race, and he was going to help.”

  Mary flinches. Too many emotions flash over her face. Betrayal. Anger. Fear. Resignation.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I thought he could do something.”

  “He tried, I suppose.” She takes a weary breath. Her lips pull into a taut line of concentration as she begins to stitch me up again. “But he might as well have signed his own death warrant.”

  The tears come fast, burning down my cheeks.

  “It hurts. I know.” Mary wipes them away with a scrap of sterile gauze. As if I’m crying over the cut on my shoulder and not the brutal slash of bad news.

  “Listen to me,” I say. “You have to leave Capitoline. Now. If he has Abasi, Benroyal will interrogate him until he finds out who betrayed him. There has to be someplace you can go.”

  Mary shakes her head. “Not without you. Not without my son.”

  “I can get Bear’s contract canceled. It’s my fault he got caught, but Benroyal will let him go if he thinks—”

  As she pulls the last stitch, there’s a ragged edge in her voice. “Don’t take the blame for Bear’s part in this. He made his choice, just as sure as you made yours. I wish Bear hadn’t followed you, but that’s the way it is. That’s my son. He loves you, Phee, maybe more than anything.” This time, it’s her eyes that shine with tears. “It’s no crime to love him differently.” Finishing up, she splays her fingers under the sterilizer and the bloodstains instantly disappear. “You think I don’t know both your hearts like the lines on these rough old hands? For years, I’ve watched your feelings lag behind his, never quite catching up. And you’ve done nothing but bury your head in the dunes, denying the difference. You have a right to choose your own road, Phee. Maybe it’s high time you did.”

  “I never wanted to hurt him. I’ve been trying to spare him.”

  “I have to wonder, Phee,” she says. “Who are you really sparing?”

  My throat tightens. I’m desperate to throw my arms around her again, but somehow I can’t. In this fragile place, I know we’d both splinter and crack. “I’m afraid of so many things.”

  “You’re stronger than you think, Phee. And you can’t give up. The DP can’t arrest everyone. Benroyal can’t silence every voice. One day, you may find you’re not his pawn after all.”

  “How can you believe that? I already signed my life away and I’m just—”

  “I watched the end of that race. I saw the faces in the crowd,” she says. “You’re one of our own. At every turn, the Sixer drivers tried to box you in, but for one glorious moment, you broke loose. The people in the stands, they are battered and bruised, cornered every day by a powerful few. Today, if only for a few seconds, you gave them a taste of something different.”

  She comes around to face me, cupping my chin in her hand. “You made them roar.”

  I feel the ache that Cash holds on to, the heart-tug thread of impossible dreams. Before I can answer, Menar comes into the room to check on us. I’m told it’s time for me to rest and that Mary’s cab is waiting. After we say our good-byes,
I watch her leave. I brood over everything she’s said long after the pain in my shoulder fades.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Back at the Spire, I see my keepers have already been here. In my master bath, I find a deep metal tub filled with anti-gel. Menar told me to soak for half an hour, and I’m not about to argue with that. Even if it can’t numb the grief-sick ache in my bones, the clear goo will heal my burns and erase my bruises in no time.

  Crazy how the different by-products of fuel sap can have such opposite effects. Black sap is every addict’s favorite brain-burning fix, while pure anti-gel is every doctor’s cooling remedy. No wonder everyone fights for control of the Gap. The treacherous canyon is the universe’s largest reservoir of priceless ooze. We need the sap for energy, escape, and life.

  Hal and Mary would have to scrape and save for a year to afford this much anti-gel. I suppose I could thank Benroyal’s refineries for the supply. Or I could curse him for hoarding it all for himself. And I’m definitely more the cursing type.

  My flex blinks with a message from him. Well done, he texts. You prove a valuable investment. Digits, a parade of too many zeroes, flash below his words. I’m worth quite the hefty bonus today, and if he knows what I’ve done behind his back, he’s not letting on. I scowl and toss the flex onto the nearest counter.

  Before climbing into the tub, I strip down to my shorts and the compression wrap around my chest. The tight bandage makes an ugly tube top. Then I sink into the vat of soothing miracle sludge. The medicine seeps through my scorched skin and tired bones. The longer I sit, the more I edge toward sleep. I hadn’t realized how exhausted I really am—the race and all its aftermath pushed me to the limit. Now I feel the downward slide, my pulse falls into a lazy rhythm.