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I've done nothing but think about it since last night, but I don't answer. I stare at the screens on James's table. Two maps overlap, one of Castra and one of Cyan-Bisera. Castra's little more than sea foam and sand, but as I look, I feel the pang. It's a faded world he's asking me to give up, but it's the only one I've ever known.

I glance at the deeper hues on Cyan-Bisera. Rich green and cobalt overshadow Castra's moon-bright shores. The glimmer of dawn touches the glass, and I stare into the shine until my eyes lose focus and the vision blurs. Two planets, superimposed, Benroyal's lion painted under each compass rose.

James touches my shoulder. “If Benroyal hunts down the contacts on that list, Cash will die. He'll be executed for treason.”

I lean over the table, holding my head in my hands. “Tell me what I have to do.”

Breakfast in the sunroom is quiet. Cash is still asleep, and all I can do is pick at my food as the sun climbs behind the flex glass wall. James has a full plate of castraberry tarts, but even he's only sipping coffee. He's on his third cup when the wall blinks, alerting him to an incoming transmission. When he accepts the link-up, the wall frosts into a giant screen, and Cooper Winfield appears.

Coop's smile is a mile wide. “Good morning, Miss Vanguard.”

The familiar nervousness kicks in. I nod.

“Morning, Coop,” James says. “This feed's secure. Phee and I are ready to talk business.”

I nod once more. It's the press conference all over again. I can't seem to get my mouth to work around Winfield.

Coop looks at me. “James had a tempting proposition for me, but he wasn't sure if you'd be on board.”

I hesitate. “On board with . . .”

Coop grins all the wider. “Sticking it to King Charlie, of course.”

I nod a third time. Because right now, apparently, I'm pretty much incapable of doing anything else.

“Phee,” James says. “What we'd like to talk about—”

Coop raises a hand and cuts in. “James here has half convinced me to finally incorporate, put my whole operation on the line against three percent of Locus stock. A big bet. Me against you in the Biseran rally. I win, Benroyal loses, James buys back the wagered shares from me at ten times the price, through Ms. Yamada, of course, and you walk away free and clear. Free and clear and far away, to hear James tell it. Winfield Mechanical survives to fight another day, and King Charlie takes a fall. I reckon that's about right?”

James nods. “That's right.”

“Is that how you see it, Miss Vanguard? I hear you gave up your bid. You gonna be able to convince Benroyal to put you back in?”

I clear my throat, finally mustering the nerve to speak. “Yes, sir. I can. I will.”

“That's all well and good, but what you're asking . . . it's a mighty big risk. How can I be sure this deal won't backfire on me? There'll be a dozen other rigs in that race, and I can't afford to just hand my company over.”

“It's a straight-up wager. You against Phee. Whoever finishes first. Who actually places first and wins out is irrelevant. We've discussed this before. I'll sign a guarantee against your losses. I'm offering to pay you outright, the full value of your entire company, should something fall through. And that's not going to happen, Coop. Phee will not cross that finish line.”

“All right,” Coop answers. “Let's talk, then.”

James nods. “Here's the deal, Coop. This is going to take more than a little finesse, and even then, I'm not sure Benroyal will go for it at all. It's a gamble, and the key is to make it seem like he's—”

“Driving the whole thing,” Coop interrupts. “He's got to feel he's on top of things, all the time, during negotiations. I understand.”

“Exactly.” James takes a sip of coffee, then puts the cup aside. “So here's what I'm thinking. When your broker offers the bet, have him ask for ten percent of Benroyal Corp.”

“Ten percent?” Coop actually snorts. “That's outrageous, and you don't even want his stock to begin with. Benroyal'll take a look at that offer and laugh.”

“It is outrageous. That's the point. Right from the start, he'll think you're only interested in buying into his company. And the ten percent is just to throw him off. He knows Winfield Mechanical isn't worth more than four percent of Benroyal shares, no offense, but your offer will smell like blood in the water. He'll think Winfield Mechanical is desperate for credits.”

Coop laughs. “I am desperate for credits. I can barely hold on to the company as it is. Why do you think I'm even considering this?”

“All the better.” James takes off his frames and rubs at bloodshot eyes. “Desperate men make stupid deals. Let him think he's got the upper hand. If he senses he does, it'll make the bet irresistible. Of course, after you offer the ten percent, they'll refuse, and they'll probably offer something equally ridiculous, say, a half percent of Benroyal Corp. And that's when you ask for Locus. Tell him if you can't have the Benroyal shares you want, you won't settle for less than six percent of Locus.”

“He won't give me that, either,” Coop says. “James, you know he won't.”

“He won't,” James answers matter-of-factly. “He probably won't give you more than one percent. But try your luck, and ask for four.”

“And if he doesn't go for it?” Coop asks.

“No deal if he won't bet at least three percent. And I need that three percent, Coop. I've got to have more shares than Benroyal.”

“I understand,” Coop says.

Listening to them talk stocks is like watching two dune-shadowed jackals ready to pounce. Only this time, I'm afraid for them—Benroyal is no unsuspecting prey. He's the one used to tearing his enemies apart, and I'm no match for him when it comes to shares and percentages. Outside my rig, I might as well be helpless. “What's my part in this?” I ask.

“The best part,” James says. “After you get in that race, all you have to do is die.”

Hank is silent, stoic as I stand in the elevator and
watch the numbers climb. The blinking floors on the
glass. The ticking clock on my flex. Time. There's just not enough.

If I pull this off, Winfield will have to scramble to get Benroyal to take an impossibly desperate bet, and my crew will have six days to pack everything up for an off-planet race, the biggest rally of the season. And I will have a couple of hours to leave the Spire, slipping away to Mercer Street in order to convince Bear and his parents to leave everything behind.

Now I'm left with a handful of seconds before the elevator doors open. We arrive, and they part.

“After you, Miss Vanguard,” Hank says.

A pair of Benroyal's men flank the lion on the penthouse doors.

“Miss Vanguard's here to see Mr. Benroyal,” Hank says. “She has an appointment.”

The first guard touches his earpiece. After listening for a moment, he flexes the doors open and waves me in.

“I'll wait for you here,” Hank says.

The lock clicks behind me. It's quiet. No sign of my mother or the servants who keep this place pristine. Benroyal must prefer his antiques to anything made of flesh and blood.

I've already tucked my own little secret into the waistband of my cargoes. The stolen flex will be my contribution to Cash's cause. This morning, I cut open a seam to hide it. I've ignored the safe mode switch, but I've already flicked the data sync on. No idea how long it'll take for a sync to complete, but it's worth a try. The chance to hand over all Benroyal's secrets—gift-wrapped with a tiny card—is too much to resist.

I look through the arch. Sitting at his desk, he's waiting for me.

“You may come in, Miss Vanguard.”

I step inside. One of his ancient books is open. I stare into the blue-flamed hearth, the wasted fuel perpetually burning.

“I was surprised you asked to see me,” he says. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Take care of my family,” I say.

“I haven't forgotten our bargain. The Larssens are quite well, I hear.”

“It's just that . . . the south side is a dangerous place. Maybe you could—”

“Ah, I see. You'd like me to set them up someplace more suitable, more in line with your new status, is that it? Perhaps a modest townhouse, north of the Mains?”

I nod.

“And why should I do that?”

I let go of all the tension in my body. I am wounded prey. “I'm asking. Please.”

“Is that all? Surely you haven't come all this way only to beg trivial favors.” He pushes his book aside and smiles indulgently, as if he were my best friend or benefactor. Or father. “I am at your service. Do tell. What is it that you really want, Miss Vanguard?”

I'm no good at pretending to break so easily, and somehow, today it's not what he wants. I switch tactics. “I want to win.”

“You have won, Miss Vanguard. I'm very pleased with your triumph at Sand Ridge and I—”

“Put me in the mountain rally.”

He blinks, shocked that I've interrupted. “I think not. The exhibition was embarrassing enough. Despite your last performance, I don't like the thought of a real circuit loss. You've proven a bit inconsistent, and I suspect you need more time.”

“I can win the series and bring home the Corporate Cup. I need to show the others I can compete on any course. It should be my rig pulling into the winner's circle. Every time.”

He pauses. My boasting seems to please him. There's a sliver of real satisfaction in his eyes now. “Ah, and Benroyal Corp at the top of every scoreboard.”

I nod.

He stands up, then moves toward the biggest bank of screens. He swipes away today's feedcasts to uncover the images underneath, the ancient pictures that have become so familiar—the statues, the Colosseum. “You never went to school beyond the eight-year core, did you? No languages or ancient history?”

I shake my head.

“No matter. South Siders need not trouble themselves. Better to focus on the present.” Another flash of teeth. His false smile turns sympathetic. “It's a shame, nonetheless. I've made it a point to study the past. From it, I've learned how predictable most of us are. . . . Look back through thousands of years and you'll see the same desires, the same weaknesses, the same paralyzing fears. Every great conqueror understood how to leverage those driving impulses. But to be truly exceptional, to build a lasting empire, the trick is not to overreach. Do you know what that means, Miss Vanguard?”

Slowly, I shake my head. I don't know how to play this game.

“It means you must never grasp at things you are not strong enough to hold. It is a lesson every good student
of history must learn.” He glances back at his books.
“From Khed II of Cyan, I learned the limits of expansion. From Alexander the Great, strategy. But it's the Romans I admire the most. The emperors managed public relations so well.”

Benroyal knows I'm ignorant and unschooled—at first, I'm sure all his talk is just to remind me. To make me fear him all the more. But when he steps closer . . . I read something else in his face. He craves approval. Allegiance. Admiration.

He slips an arm around my shoulder and I freeze. Terrified, I focus, desperate to control my breathing, the breakneck run of my pulse. When he speaks again, his silken voice rings like an invitation. Listen and learn, it seems to plead . . . welcome to the family.

“Most people require little more than pomp and pageantry—a few holidays, a glittering spectacle, a few vouchers for this or that. It's the illusion that matters.”

“The distraction,” I whisper.

“Inevitably, there are always the few who see through it. But I know well enough how to deal with that.” He pulls up a newsfeed of Toby Abasi. The screen is muted, but I read the captions. Traitor. Terrorist. Call for Execution.

When my breath catches, Benroyal turns on me, tilting my chin to examine me. His touch breaks the spell. Quietly, something new claws its way through my anger and fear. Calm. Self-control. My skin burns and every part of me wants to tear him apart, but for once, I don't let my expression betray me. I can play this game. I can learn from you, Benroyal. My lips curl, and I wear his smile, grinning hard until I'm sure he's looking into his reflection.

His eyes flare and brighten. “Have no fear, Miss Vanguard. I know how to take care of my best assets. I gave your friend a generous leave—and I'm sure I could improve the Larssens' circumstances should you continue to win. You'd be quite satisfied with such an arrangement?”

“I'm happy to be the distraction. As long as it gets me what I want.”

His smile widens. “Your attitude is much improved, Miss Vanguard. Perhaps I should let you go after all. I'd very much like this year's Corporate Cup.”

In the elevator, Hank raises an eyebrow.

“We're in,” I answer.

I don't dare pull out the stolen flex until I'm in the bathroom. Cloaked by steam from the shower, I hold the card and stare at the screen.

DATA SYNC: 91% COMPLETE

Shaking, I swipe through the file names. The sync captured hundreds of documents—maps, formulas, distribution routes, delivery schedules. Benroyal's whole black sap empire is compressed into raw data and images. And best of all, money. I spy the numbers to at least a dozen accounts, and it looks like King Charlie stashes most of his dirty profits anonymously, in banks in Manjor, Bisera's financial center. Makes sense. Every other criminal in the universe hides their credits there, so why shouldn't he?

I can't wait to see the look on James's face. He's going to love this.

After stuffing the flex back into its hiding place, I clean up and go back to my room. Two seconds later, I collapse on the bed. I'm getting another headache and my ears need to pop. I swear, these migraines are getting worse. A fuzzy crackle ebbs in and out, sometimes for a few seconds, other times for a minute or more. With my concussion, Dr. Menar said I might have these symptoms, but part of me is afraid to mention them to anyone.

What if they pulled me from the next race?

I can't risk a last-minute detour before our escape, so I'll just have to ride this out. Palming my own flex, I text Bear.

PV: MEET ME TONIGHT. THE USUAL SPOT.

I wait for his reply. Half an hour. Nothing.

PV: PLEASE.

Ten more minutes drift by.

BL:
WHY?

James made me swear not to breathe a word about our plans, so I can't tell Bear the truth, at least not via flex. Yet, if I can't come up with a rusting good reason, I know Bear won't see me. Not that I blame him. I've been nothing but heartbreak for him and his parents. Even so, I have to make him listen and pace me in the mountain rally. For a dozen years, the Larssens sheltered and cared for me. They protected me. And now, for the first time, I must protect them. I have to get them on the right transport next week.

I hate myself for playing on Bear's emotions. But I'd despise myself a million times more if I left him behind. I'll do whatever it takes to keep him safe, whether he likes it or not.

PV: PLEASE, BEAR. I NEED YOU.

BL: TONIGHT.

I wait at the deli at Picker's Grocery and take in everything that's familiar. I know this place, with its battered glass cases and scarred wooden tables. Crates of spices and pickled pale ochre-root are stacked against the walls. The butcher is busy, cleaving his last cuts for the day. The sound of his knife against the ancient block. A hundred times, I've heard its rhythm.

I lean against the counter until the butcher notices I'm ready to order. When Mr. Neeland looks up, it's as if he doesn't know me. Like I haven't stood in this same spot and ordered a number two special at least a hundred times. I look down at my new clothes—my tank, slim cargoes, and racing jacket. Do I really look so different? Has a little polish and gloss erased the girl who lived on Mercer Street?

Yes. To him, I'm a stranger who's wandered too far south of the Mains. I can tell by the wary pinch around his eyes. His crow's-feet are deep, sun-spotted crackles. “Can I help you?” he asks.

“Can I get a number two? Extra ochre-root, easy on the sauce?”

He nods. I reach for my flex, but pause as a shadow falls on the counter. I feel his presence behind me, the warmth looming over my shoulder. I'm afraid to turn around and see him again.

Bear greets Mr. Neeland and hands over his own flex. “Put this on my folks' account,” he tells the butcher.

I don't argue. It's a matter of pride for Bear and I don't need to flaunt Benroyal's money around here anyway.

“And for you?” Mr. Neeland replies, wiping his hands on his apron. “What're you having, son?”

Bear shakes his head. “Nothing for me.”

After Mr. Neeland swipes the charge against Bear's flex, he stuffs a sandwich and then hands over my order. I forgot to order something to drink, but it's too late. Mr. Neeland has already turned away, scuttling to the back room of the deli. I turn a bit, just enough to catch a sideways glance at Bear. I'm the one who called him here, but now I can't seem to face him at all.