Tracked (9 page)

During our practice interviews, I frown and grumble and cuss a lot. Every time I do, I have to backtrack from
the
beginning
and
answer
the
list
of
questions
again.
By the fifth time, I surrender and smile until my face feels like it's going to fall off.

“Very good,” the evil inquisitors say. “Just like that.”

Just like a sellout.

“Are we done now?” I ask. “I'd like to actually have two minutes to chew my food.”

They nod, backing away like wild-animal handlers. The thought makes me howl with laughter, and I choke on my rice-leaf wrap. I'll never be completely housebroken, and it makes them afraid.

A mob waits for us in the ballroom. Turns out the
media trainers weren't kidding about it being intense. Journalists of every stripe are crammed into this giant hall. On the walls, flex glass panels are framed with gilt scrollwork. Sprays of yellow limonfleur and imported white poppies grace marble-top tables along the periphery of the room. Circuit drivers will be herded onto a dais, three or four at a time, to answer questions. While we wait in the wings, in hallways on either side of the ballroom, live feeds of the action on the floor and the stage flood the screens.

Two minutes until show time.

I look for Eager's face in the crowd, but I don't see my old crew-mate. I'm not the only new driver—on the press conference list, there's at least one name I don't recognize. Maybe, like me, Eager's another fresh recruit, forced to take an alias. He could be here, somewhere backstage. Surely that ambush was not just for me.

The sight of so many jostling reporters leaves me white-knuckle nervous. In a moment, it will be my turn to run this media gauntlet. Cash and Bear arrive, accompanied by six guards from the Spire. At first, I don't understand why they gape at me like I'm a stranger. But then I remember they've never seen me in this gear before.

With Bear, there's a gasp. I detect the wince under his smile—a part of him is wary of my transformation. Am I still the same girl underneath the black armor? In contrast, Cash is all approval. He bares his teeth and bites his lip, all the while stepping back to get a better look. Without apology, he grins and drinks up the sight of me.

I hear the snap of flex cameras as reporters jostle to capture the moment. I'm sure they'll have plenty to say about the way Cash is checking me out. This could be trouble.

Mercifully, Cash steps back. Bear takes his place beside me. “You look different,” he says. “You look . . . dangerous.”

“In a good way?” I ask.

Bear touches the Benroyal logo on my collar. “Is this what you want?”

I don't have an answer. I don't know anymore.

I turn into his shoulder. Bear won't let this go, and he's picked the worst possible moment to hash it out. So many eyes are on us now.

“It's time,” Auguste says.

Even as Bear stands aside, my eyes flick to Cash.

“Don't let them push you around too much, Vanguard,” he says.

I take a deep breath and let go. My security detail clears a narrow path and I follow them all the way to the stage, and then I'm on my own. By the time I make it up the steps, one of the other drivers has already taken his seat.

I know his red hair and freckles and light blue eyes, at least from feeds, anyway. Cooper Winfield may be past his prime and he may not win many races, but people love to watch him. Who am I kidding? I love to watch this guy.

Coop is the last independent driver, the son of a rig parts salesman who to this day still refuses to go corporate or sell his father's company to any conglomerate. Year after year, the Winfield crew manages to roll out on a shoestring budget, with only one or two cars to crash. Every race day, they face down the moneyed elite, high-tech rigs backed by the most powerful men on the planet. The Sixers bid and make their offers, but Winfield Mechanical always refuses to incorporate or sell out. They race, not for stocks, but purely for the glory. How could I not root for an outfit like that?

The corporates hate him, but the rest of us scream his name, from the stands and from our living rooms. Even when ole Coop finishes in seventh place. And now, as unworthy as I am, he sits at my left. Soon enough, he'll be my rival on the track. For the second time today, my hands tremble.

At my right, there is an empty chair. The placard marking the space reads MAXWELL COURANT. I don't recognize the name, but the placard reveals he's driving for AltaGen, the Sixer medical giant. Maybe it's Eager, or another new recruit, plucked from the streets like me. I'm guessing Max Courant is another silly alias, contrived by the same minds who thought up Phoenix Vanguard, the world's most pretentious-sounding driver.

A hand touches my elbow and I realize Coop is trying to get my attention. He actually wants to shake my hand.

“Hey there,” he says, reaching out. “I'm—”

“I know who you are,” I blurt. “You're Cooper Winfield and you're my favorite driver and I've watched the last thirty minutes of the '87 Sand Ridge Rally 400 at least a million times and I can't believe I'm sitting here talking to you and—”

“Well there.” He's laughing. At me. “Nice to meet you too, young lady.”

Mesmerized, I stare back. He is sitting right here. In the flesh. Shaking my hand. I might actually pass out from the sheer brilliance of this moment.

“Um . . . So you must be . . .” He trails off.

It occurs to me Coop is waiting for me to speak. My jaws flap up and down, but I can't quite spit anything out. If you toss me a headset and put me behind the wheel, I'm never at a loss for words. But two minutes in a camera- filled ballroom and I'm hopelessly mute. Rescuing me, Coop lets go and turns my placard to read my name.

“Phoenix Vanguard,” he says. “That's what I thought. So you're the new kid everyone's talking about.”

Surely Coop is just blowing exhaust to put me at ease. I've just about worked up the courage to smile and thank him, but a chair-pulling scuffle and bump distract me.

Maxwell has arrived, and he is definitely not Eager. Without an ounce of grace or common courtesy, he's plopped himself into his seat and elbowed my right arm off the table. Before I can get a word in, he stares me down.

Somehow, I know this guy. I may not recognize the bleached hair or the crazy violet contact lenses, but . . . Did he really shave his eyebrows completely off?

“Watch it, will you?” he says, reaching across me for a glass of water. Not the one in front him. Mine.

I know that voice. Even with the forced accent. Maxwell. I turn the name over and over in my mind.

Winfield is too classy to scowl at him, but his high- wattage smile fades a bit. “Guess we can get this show on the road now,” he says.

A speaker blares and I hear the moderator's voice. For all I know, they're beaming her in from some better air- conditioned, alternate universe. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to this year's pre-series launch. Please text your questions to the registry number for this event, which is now listed on all screens. We will try to get to as many as we can in the next half hour.”

With that, there's a flurry of activity as four hundred reporters fumble over their flexes and race to get in their questions first. An eye-in-the-sky-camera, equipped with a laser pointer, is ready to tag the lucky few who submit the ones deemed harmless enough to answer.

After a few moments, the red light shines on a man in the front row. I recognize the silver-haired suit—he's a well-known correspondent for CSF, Castran Sports Feed. “This one's for Winfield,” he says. “Coop, there are more new drivers this year than ever before, what do you think? Is this year a game changer?”

“Well now . . .” Coop doesn't miss a beat. “No doubt about it, the lineup's different, but I think the infusion of new blood is great. Keeps me on my toes, that's for sure. But as for the game itself? I don't think the circuit ever really changes. I'm betting there'll be the same old rivalries and smash-ups come Sand Ridge. There'll still be plenty of winners and losers, and I just hope I'm one of the former.”

There's lots of murmuring and chuckling from the audience. Coop definitely knows how to work a room. I should be taking notes. I look down at our glass tabletop. Bold as anything, my three “takeaway” talking points blink on and off before my eyes. It's like the PR crew loaded some kind of evil mind control app onto the flex glass. Be a good robot. Stay on message.

The laser chooses the next journalist, a woman with bleach-blond hair piled so high, I can't imagine the next three people behind her can see the stage at all. “Miss Vanguard, can I call you Phoenix?” she says.

Dumbly, I nod.

“Thanks, Phoenix. You're one of the unknowns, the ‘new blood,' as Coop would say. So here's my question. As a rookie, how do you expect to compete with seasoned pros like Winfield, Fallon, and Banks?”

I am not a good robot. Seconds tick by, and it's like I'm paralyzed. Stay calm. Stay on message. “I . . . I think . . . I'm . . . justhappytobehereand . . . I'm not worried . . . aboutmystandingsonraceday.”

Great. I might as well have just announced, to everyone in this room, that I'm completely bugging out. I tug at my uniform's collar. It feels like three thousand degrees in here. I can't rusting breathe anymore.

The reporter breaks protocol and follows up. “So you don't care if you lose?”

I nearly blurt out “Of course I care, you harpy,” but the media training kicks in and I pull myself together. “Absolutely. I'm going to give it everything I've got. I'll do anything I can to win for Mr. Benroyal. I've idolized circuit racers all my life and I'm honored to work with such a capable team, especially my crew chief, Gil Gates, and my new pacer, Casho—”

Just when I'm starting to sound semi-coherent, Maxwell leans forward and talks right over me. “I think what Vanguard is getting around to saying is that she knows it's going to be a rough series for her. We all know she'll be eating my exhaust by the end of every race.”

He did not just say that. This mother-rusting sap-hole upstart thinks I'm just going to sit here and let him interrupt with his stupid jaw-jacking? Under the table, my fists curl. My smile must have fallen away, because the tabletop is flashing urgently: Stay calm. Stay on message. BEMUSED. Project BEMUSEMENT.

I try to smile again, but I can't. I glance at the hall, but I can only find Goose and Cash. Bear has his back turned, he's talking to a couple of suits. They start to lead him away, and I'm furious he'd leave me now when I need him most. Cash looks pretty scorched at Courant. “Rust him,” he mouths, and shakes his head.

Maxwell opens his trap again. “Here's the thing. While I've been gearing up for this year's series, Vanguard's been . . . well, what do we really know about her, anyway? She was part of the UrbanReach program, right?”

I want to clock this guy, right here and now. They want
bemused?
I'll
show
them
some
bemusement.
I'll
be-rusting-
muse this guy all over the place.

Winfield tries to cut him off with an “excuse me,” but Maxwell just keeps flapping his gums. “For all we know, Vanguard's dad is a street cleaner or something. Bet he taught her to drive behind the wheel of a garbage rig.”

Garbage rig. I've heard that exact line of trash talk before, not more than one month ago. I know exactly who “Maxwell Courant” is. Put a helmet on his head and slap an eye-patch over his right peeper and he's still that coward Matias Kirk—One Eye—who fled the street race the night I was arrested. Except now I realize he wasn't running away at all that night. He was in on it, from the jump. He was a plant, a rusting informant. The whole race was a setup. Oh, hell no. I will bury him for this.

Winfield and Courant are arguing, reporters are shouting out of turn, but I can't hear them anymore. I look at Maxwell, and suddenly I'm seven years old, a foster kid standing in the alleyway between the Picker's Grocery and Gold Flake Pawn. Every face I see is a bully, calling me names. And he is the ringleader, the biggest bully of all. In the alley, he drives me into the ground with another open-handed slap, but I just keep getting back up, rising from the dirty asphalt.

I am rising now.

I move out of my seat on the dais, but Coop puts a hand on my wrist to calm me down. I am way past calming down.

Maxwell grins. I see his face plastered across every screen. “So we'll see who flames out on race day.”

“Why wait until then?” I ask. Before he can so much as wet his zip-front, I lean over him and grab his prissy yellow collar. Squeezing hard, I go for the throat with my left hand and pull back my right fist.

My hand feels so good slamming into his face. Pity I don't get the full satisfaction of hearing his jaw pop as his lights go out. The thunder on the stairs, the sound of security guards coming for me, drowns out everything else.

Back at the Spire, Auguste orders everyone out. After
slouching onto my couch, I soak my fist in a bowl of anti-gel. The cool, clear medicine takes the pain and swelling away.

Ironic, really. Hose up all the sap in the Gap. Refine it, skim off the fuel, and you're left with two very different pools of runoff goo. Crystal-clear anti-gel, a regenerative source of healing, and black sap, the murky narcotic that's fried far too many brains.

Auguste sits beside me, and we catch the recap feed on the nearest flex wall. I watch the security team herd me off the stage and out of the ballroom. Apparently, the media goons trained me all too well. Even though I was shaky and scared, that doesn't show up on the feed at all. Shockingly, after the sucker punch to Courant's jaw, I smiled the whole time.

An incoming call preempts the feed. I move to swipe my flex and accept the linkup, but it seems this particular caller doesn't need my permission to hijack my screens. A giant face appears on the wall, canceling the press conference replay.

Rust. Benroyal himself, sitting in the passenger hold of a luxurious vac. Probably flying back to the Spire. “I'm en route,” he says. “The gallery—”

“We weren't sure if you'd still want Miss Vanguard to appear tonight,” Auguste says. “After what happened at the—”

“The gallery,” Benroyal repeats. “Twenty minutes.”

“Yes.” Auguste nods. “Without delay. I shall—”

“Both of you.” And then he's gone. The screen is blank, as milk white as my blood-drained face.

The elevator rises. Up one level, to the floor between my apartment and Benroyal's penthouse. Goose keeps begging me to go back and change into “a more suitable frock,” and I keep shaking my head. I should heed his advice, but I'm in no mood to play dress-up tonight. It's bad enough I'll have to smear on makeup and wear dresses outside the Spire. Besides, if Benroyal's scorched, a silk gown won't protect me. Dirty cargoes are the only armor I've got.

We come to a stop and the elevator opens. The outer lobby is almost identical to mine, only there's one set of heavy wooden doors straight ahead. Two pairs of guards flank the entrance. Hank is one of them.

“Good evening, Mr. Chevalier,” Hank says, then nods at me. “Miss Vanguard.”

“After you.” Auguste urges me forward.

Another guard flashes a flex. The bolts on the double doors open. I'm startled by the mechanical thunderclap. When we step inside, I try not to gasp.

The gallery isn't the usual Sixer space, flex walled and sterile. King Charlie's turned this vast hall into a temple of ancient civilizations, filled with antiques. The walls are swathed in crimson, black, and gold. Overhead, banners hang above the crowd—the red silhouette of Benroyal's lion strikes far above the chatter of guests.

As I follow Auguste, the soles of my boots travel over bare floor and then thick carpets, relics spun from what must be impossibly old wool and silk. Wide-open thresholds surround the airy concourse. There are rooms upon rooms to explore.

All around, Sixers mill in clusters. Women poured into cocktail dresses. Corporate suits packed into every corner. I scan the room and strain to listen for the threads of conversation. They sip champagne and stare at each other's flex cards, fretting over stock prices and gloating over today's conquests.

Far away, I recognize a face. James. He stands on the fringe, a man apart. After he tosses back a drink, a woman approaches him, her security team hanging back. I've never seen her before.

Slim as a bare branch, she wears black while every other woman in the room is a splash of gaudy color. Her gown makes it seem as if she's gliding across the floor. She turns and I see an unexpected flash of skin. Her dark hair gathered, unadorned, at the nape of her neck.

She is the opposite of me. Elegant.

She pulls James aside, and they dive into what looks like an intense conversation. He doesn't even notice I'm here.

“What is all this?” I ask Goose.

“I told you,
ma chère
. Your after-party. To celebrate today's press conference.”

I'm suddenly wishing I'd paid more attention to the schedule on my flex. “Didn't sound like Benroyal was in any mood for a party. Not after what I pulled today.”

“Do not worry, spitfire girl. Better to pull yourself together and hope for the best.” I don't think this little pep talk is for me alone.

“Is he here yet?”

“I don't think so. Everyone's still breathing, no?”

Suddenly, the main doors sweep open. The Sixer gossip fades into a tense, closed-mouth hush. King Charlie has arrived. My teeth cold and on edge, I find myself shrinking back, retreating into the crowd before he can pin me in his sights.

No one says a word. Auguste wasn't joking at all. It's as if the revelers need his permission to exhale.

“By all means,” Benroyal commands his guests. “Carry on.”

The room comes alive again, erupting with murmur and movement. While Auguste has his back turned, I slip into a side room. I feel the change in air pressure. This smaller exhibit is colder, climate controlled to protect the precious relics on display.

I spin slowly, taking in the blood red walls, the endless row of bookshelves, and the spotless glass cases. For a minute or two, I do nothing but stare.

“Take a good look, Phee.”

I turn and find myself face-to-face with James. “I didn't hear you come in. Who were you talking to?”

He ignores my question. “Very few are ever allowed up here. Priceless history. Treasures from Earth and Cyan- Bisera. And all of it locked away from the beggars on the street.”

There's mockery in his words, but I can't tell whether the grudge is directed at me, the uncultured orphan, or at the tyrant who built this museum only for himself. James is baiting me, waiting for an answer, so I pivot, sweeping away to get a better look at what's on display.

I wander past the musty books, skipping the history lessons they offer. Instead, I focus on the big stuff in the cases.

A sculptured bust. Empty eyes. Chipped nose. Curly locks and full lips carved from stone.
Portrait of Alexander, 340–330
BC
, Acropolis Museum, Athens, Earth
.

I don't know who he is, but Alexander was handsome, I'll give him that. I move on to a tapestry mounted on the wall. Ancient Cyanese longships wait to sail away from the ice-kissed fjords of Raupang, ready to cross an endless sea. The detail is so fine, the artist's weave is so vivid, I can make out the faces of the warriors on the decks. I can almost feel the whip of the wind and hear the creak of boats as they drift against their moorings.

Below the framed threads, there's a rough-looking hunk of rock enclosed in a large case. The placard includes a detailed sketch of an outdoor stadium, a setup that looks just like a circuit arena.
Roman Colosseum, Fragment,
AD
80, Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, Earth
.

The next case is empty except for a tiny pile of ash. And when I stand closer to the display, a hologram beams to life—a three-dimensional image of a faded swath of parchment. When James closes in, I ask, “Why am I looking through armored glass at dust? And a blank piece of paper that doesn't even exist?”

“It's the Magna Carta,” he says. “One of Earth's greatest legacies, the roots of a free society.”

I blink. “It's a hologram.”

James sighs with disapproval. You'd think he was my eighth-year teacher, here to school me. Pity there's nothing to be learned from lying Sixers. “It's a reproduction of something long lost,” he says. “Read it.”

“I can't. The words are completely faded. There's nothing but digital shadows left.”

Clearing his throat, he stares at the case. “
‘No freeman shall be taken, imprisoned, disseised, outlawed, banished, or in any way destroyed, nor will We proceed against or prosecute him, except by the lawful judgment of his peers and by the law of the land.'
”

The words stir something in me. The urge to press my fingers against the glass is overwhelming. I lean closer and stare at the illusion. “It doesn't say that. There's nothing there. You're making that up.”

James frowns. “Just because the words have faded doesn't mean they're not there, Phee. Hidden away? Forgotten? Yes. But they exist.”

On this planet those ideas are a joke. This whole gallery is a joke. There's nothing like this anywhere else. No ancient charters. No storied tapestries. Benroyal hoards this beautiful decay, but down below, on the streets, there's no trace of this history. Our walls are crowded with an ever-changing parade of Sixer ads and corporate feeds, and people like me are tried and convicted in the span of a day for crimes too petty to mention. In my world, there is no room for the Magna Carta.

“What's the point in all this?” I growl, wheeling on him again. “Why does he keep all these—”

Benroyal is standing in the doorway.

“Is it a crime to safeguard such dangerous treasures?” he asks.

I don't answer, but I know he's not just collecting for posterity. People like me were never meant to touch this version of history. The feeds, our schools, our museums all tell a different story. Earth wasn't a cradle of art and civilization. Earth was chaos. A broken hell to escape. Thank your lucky stars for Castra and the companies that built it. Be grateful for what you've been given.

I see it now. This room wasn't built to preserve. It was custom made, for Sixers only, with walls but no windows, a place for ideas to die. South Siders like me—we're not supposed to notice. No “free society” or “lawful judgment” for us.

So softly, Benroyal speaks as if he were the most reasonable man in the world. “All priceless things. All that's one of a kind. Everything in this room is mine.”

My right hand twitches at my side. My fingers still ache from punching Courant, but again, they want to curl into fists. “You don't own me.”

James is silent, but there's a low rumble of amusement in Benroyal's voice. “I find it perplexing that you should doubt my word,” he says. “Especially since you've seen how easily I strike a bargain. Some assets are acquired so cheaply.”

Me. Yes. He's right. I was cheap. Weak-willed and pacified by a contract full of lies and empty promises. I'm about to mouth off again, when Auguste interrupts. I've never been so thankful to see him.

He offers Benroyal a glass of wine. Not champagne. Something red, probably a vintage reserved just for him. King Charlie takes the glass and savors the first sip before waving James off. “Go. I have business with Mr. Chevalier and Miss Vanguard.”

James seems reluctant to scatter, and I'm not sure why he'd risk his neck to run interference. He opens his mouth, but Benroyal silences him. “Leave us. Why don't you go upstairs and check on my darling wife? Mrs. Benroyal isn't quite up to entertaining tonight.”

With that, James leaves Auguste and me to weather Benroyal's wrath alone. “I anticipated crudeness, a certain unpredictability in your appearance today.” He takes another drink. “But the press conference was something else altogether, Phee.”

Goose slips into damage control mode. Palms out, he tries to spin the ballroom debacle into something less than a PR nightmare for our team. “Yes, yes, I think we can agree, that was not ideal, but—”

“Ideal? Oh, it's more than ideal.” Benroyal runs a finger over the nearest case. It's a possessive caress I can almost feel. “Since the press conference, her numbers are through the roof, in all target sub-pops. Non-corporates. Sixteen- to twenty-four-year olds. Circuit diehards. They all love her, Auguste.”

“Wait,” I say. “What?”

“You see, we've always rated high among our own, but I've never been able to pull support from Castra's very large pool of . . . less fortunate. But ‘Phoenix Vanguard' and her renegade theatrics just bought me all of Capitoline.”

Benroyal looks at Auguste. “Have you seen the feeds? No one's talking about yesterday's labor riot or rising fuel prices or the latest crisis in the Gap. All eyes are on your rebellious new darling of the circuit.” Far too calmly, he turns to me. “I couldn't be more pleased with your performance, Phee.”

Another protest. Another bombing. Another twenty-five thousand soldiers deployed and no one cares. I've become Benroyal's PR tool, and the realization makes me want to vomit.

Even now, I see the invisible weight slide from Goose's shoulders. He takes out his handkerchief and mumbles something about the heat, but I'm pretty sure the beads of sweat on his forehead have nothing to do with the meat-locker chill in this room. What would have happened to Goose if King Charlie wasn't so thrilled with my “theatrics”?

So much is on the line. Much, much more than I ever realized. If I don't perform or dazzle the press, I'm not the only one to pay the price. The rest of my team answers too. I didn't give anyone else a second thought when I clocked Maxwell, and that can't happen again. I have to protect the people who look out for me. Even if it hurts. “Where is Bear?” I ask.