Marked (2 page)

IN THE INFIRMARY, I SIT ON THE EDGE OF A COT WHILE MARY
rolls a bio-scanner over me. Hal records my blood pressure on the flex screen in his hand. Of course, they elbowed their way through the uproar and pulled me out of Bear's arms like I was a soldier critically wounded in battle. Only there was no battle, unless you count the one inside my head.

In seventeen years, I've bugged out more times than I can count, but I've never short-circuited like this before. Back me into any corner, push me to the edge, and I can fight my way through. Under pressure, I perform. It's the one thing I
can
do. Or could do.

I don't know anymore.

Bear ducks in to check on me, but Mary shoos him out.
For once, he doesn't protest. No longer my satellite, he seems almost relieved to go his own way.
You asked for this,
my heart nags. I don't like the way my stomach twists when he leaves with a casual nod.

Mary returns to the cot. She tucks a strand of gray-blond hair behind her ear, then presses a damp cloth against my forehead. I want to curl into the crook of her arm like I'm six years old again, awake after a nightmare. Instead, I take the compress and edge away.

“What happened out there, Phee?” she asks.

“Nothing.”

“Running off like your hair's on fire? Hauling a rifle forty feet up and taking aim at a random civilian vac doesn't seem like nothing to me,” she says. “Seems an awful lot like something.”

I think about how to reply, but all the possible answers seem as loaded and dangerous as the gun I held in my hands. I can't tell my foster parents how far I've slipped. How lately, I wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in cold sweat. How my throat tightens every time I hear an airborne engine. Worst of all, how more and more often, I see Cash's face in the crowd, even when I know he's gone. To say the words out loud is to open all the doors. I need them to stay shut.

So I don't say anything. When I shrug, Hal kneels in
front of me. The gesture is protective and fatherly, so perfectly
Hal
that I can't bear it. “It's normal to feel afraid. After what you've been through.”

The tremble starts to build in my jaw, and I clamp down hard before it reaches my lower lip. “I'm not afraid. I overreacted. I misunderstood orders. That's all.”

Mary frowns. “Phee, we need to deal with this.”

“There's nothing for
us
to deal with.” I stand up, turning my back on her. I hate the sound of my own voice, so high and tight. I head for the exit. “It won't happen again.”

I rush through the open flaps of the infirmary tent. And that's when I run into the pilot.

The stranger's skinny and shortish, still trussed up in a helmet and flight gear, and she nearly knocks me over. I stagger back, but she doesn't say sorry or excuse me. Instead, her bark is parched and serious. “Are you Phoebe? Phoebe Van Zant?”

My real name, first and last. Hardly anyone here uses it. Like it or not, to almost everyone I'm still
Phoenix Vanguard,
Benroyal Corp's ex-racer. The pretentious alias is just one more thing that sets me apart and makes them wary. Despite everything, my Sixer ties—the fact that I once drove for the corporates on Castra—haven't done me any favors with the band of rebels who're fighting against them.

The pilot's impatient and asks again. “Are you Phoebe Van Zant or not?”

Hal approaches, stiffening up. I sense he's about to move between me and this jaw-jacking runt, but I step up first. “Who wants to know?” I ask.

“It's
me,
” the pilot says matter-of-factly. “You weren't expecting my arrival?”

I skid past annoyed, landing at defensive. “I don't know you.”

The stranger pulls off the helmet, and I realize “me” is a dark-eyed, dark-haired, slim-limbed, sweat-soaked girl, surely no older than I am. “My name is Miyu Yamada.”

Mih-Yoo, she pronounces.
Me.

“Hold up, you're—”

“I'm Grace Yamada's daughter,” she says. “And I have a message for you.”

Stupidly, I blink at her.

“We've been sending coded transmissions for the past two weeks,” Miyu adds. “Perhaps you didn't receive them? Is Hank Kinsey here? I was told Hank might know how to intercept them.”

“Hank is . . .” I pause, completely flustered. “He never said anything about getting messages. I don't know.”

She sighs, then flashes a prim little smile. I get the distinct impression that she'd like to roll her eyes, but that
she's been taught that kind of thing is completely beneath her. The way Miyu sizes me up isn't exactly rude, or arrogant. It's as if she simply knows her place in the world. And I guess when your mother's company controls every Sixer bank from here to Castra, you
own
that place, even when you're dressed like a scruffy vac pilot.

Mary springs on Miyu. “What kind of message? Who knows you're here? How did you know where . . .” The second she trails off, I see what's left her mouth hanging open.

Hank approaches, but he's not alone. Behind him, at least a dozen fully armed Cyanese soldiers march our way. I don't recognize any of their faces, but the way these men and women tower over everyone else tells me all I need to know. So many silver stars, stitched into formal dress blues. Not a worn-out, stubbly chinned rebel among them.

No, these guys are official, pressed and polished.

Hank's arguing, trying to get them to halt, but they brush him off, which is a sight to behold in itself. Hank is no small man, but these men and women are all seven-foot-tall, golden-haired, jack-booted giants. So easily, they outpace him. And they are headed straight for the infirmary.

Too late, I see that they are headed for
me.

Miyu steps aside; her shrug might as well say
Hey, don't look at me, I just got here
. Before she or Hal or Mary or
anyone else can say another word, two of the soldiers—a Cyanese man and woman—flank us and take me by the arms.

A third soldier, one with an elaborate bird of prey embroidered over his heart, moves out of the pack. He must be Hal's age, or close enough. There is no gray at his temples, or deep lines on his face, yet there's something in him that speaks of weary time, long-stretched. He is different from the others, and it's not just the thread of his jacket.

“Ms. Vanguard?” he asks.

The shoulder-length waves of his hair shine a deep gold, and his eyes are a dark, dark blue—a color stolen from battles at sea, all smoke and drowning and night. I drop my chin, focusing on the white-winged barden stitched into his coat.

When I don't answer, he tries again, “Or would you prefer ‘Ms. Van Zant'?”

I hate the alias Benroyal chose for me, but I decide to let it go. “Either is fine.”

“I'm Commander Larken,” he says.

“Commander Khed Larken,” Hank adds, catching my eye.

Khed.
I'm certain I've heard that name before.

“Would you accompany me to the armory, Ms. Vanguard?” the commander asks calmly.

Hal stands behind the tight circle of soldiers. “Does she have a choice? Is all this really necessary?”

“If you'd be kind enough to excuse us,” Larken says, ignoring Hal. He looks at me. “We've come for Phee's hearing.”

Once, maybe two years ago, when I first scored a spot on Fat Benny's crew, I took a race out in the boonies west of Capitoline. Bear and I didn't know what we were in for, and we ended up getting completely off course, on the far end of Piper Dunes. I will never forget the dip in the road, the one I never saw coming.

The thing is, you hit a ramp fast enough, and it's like the world opens a trapdoor. A second after the bottom drops out, you soar. Suddenly, you're flying and your stomach hits the roof of your mouth. When your rig hits the track again, you know the jolt's going to crack your jaw.

Standing in the doorway of the infirmary, I'd just begun to sense the fall. But now, getting marched across the courtyard, catching the heat of a hundred stares as they lead me toward the armory, I'm barreling off the edge of the dock.

Our escort turns Hal and Mary away, but Hank stays at my side as we sweep toward the biggest brick-and-mortar building in the whole camp. “This is standard procedure,”
he reassures. “They just want to ask a few questions. Nothing to worry about.”

But when we reach the armory, and the soldiers usher us inside, I know Hank is sparing me the truth. This isn't a friendly, fact-finding meet and greet. This is an inquisition.

We step into the concrete-floored building. On any other day, I'd see a barely organized warehouse, jam-packed with supplies and armaments and everything else we don't have room to stow in the mess hall or infirmary. But it's all vanished. Not ordered or tidied up.
Gone.

Except for one empty chair, which has been placed in the center of the room. And I can rusting well guess who it's for.

As for everything else, all the rows and piles and boxes of powdered milk and magma launchers and vac engine parts have been inexplicably swept away. Must've been a good day's work for at least a dozen soldiers to clear everything out. The emptiness is more than spooky. It's as if the rebels decided to call it quits.

Hank stays close as the guards escort me farther into the room. By the far wall, a dozen more Cyanese officers stand in quiet formation. Around the lone chair, they've created a wide-arcing ring marked by a six-inch band of mirror-polished metal. The band's smooth-edged and flat. A shimmer flickers through it, like it's alive. Like it's not
really metal plate at all, but a narrow stream of liquid light. It's then I stop moving.

If I let them push me into that chair, their questions will test all my locked doors. They will want to know about the ambush.

I don't want to go back there.

One of the soldiers touches my elbow, and I stiffen. Doesn't matter that I know I'm overreacting. I pull every muscle taut and try to ride it out.

Hank reads the tension in me, but says nothing. Commander Larken towers over us, and as he leans down to look me in the eye, it seems to take a lifetime to stoop low enough. “I stand with you,” he says.

Bidram arras noc.

He doesn't say them in Biseran, but these are old words. Powerful ones. And Larken speaks them in the most honorable way, exactly the way Cash would. If panic were venom,
these
are the right words to draw the poison from my heart. For a second, I close my eyes and remember Cash's face, the fierce nobility in it. This same nobility lives in Larken. He is the kind of man Cash will become . . . if he's still alive.

“I know what you've been through.” Larken pauses. “What you and your friends have done for this rebellion.”

“So why am I here?”

“There are others who need to hear your story. Will you speak to the Skal?”

“Who is that?” I ask.

“
We,
” he corrects, “are the nine. The sovereign council of Cyan.”

Of course.
Khed.
My mind reaches back to a conversation long ago, one with Benroyal. He'd tried to school me, listing off the names of ancient emperors and royals, but at the time, I wasn't interested in his little history lessons.
Alexander the Great. Khed II.
Now I wish I'd paid more attention. Larken is more than a soldier. He's one of Cyan's leaders, from a long royal line.

I turn on Hank, and mentally, I'm already clawing his eyes out. I cannot believe he didn't tell me that the Skal—the rusting high council of Cyan—was planning this hearing. But before I can open my mouth to growl at him, Larken gestures toward the chair.

Hank's eyes plead.
Please do this. Please.

Quietly, I leave the edge of the circle and follow Larken to its bull's-eye center. I sit in the chair. They stand beside me.

“Phoebe Van Zant,” the commander calls out. “Present for official hearing.”

My name rings like a signal. An eye-blink later, the armory disappears.

THE RING ON THE FLOOR EXPLODES; A THOUSAND BLADES OF
light pierce the air and search every surface. For a moment, I'm blinded. When my eyes adjust, the pinpoints arc and crisscross, slicing through each other faster than my vision can track. The air vibrates. It's not something I hear. It's something I feel in my sternum.

And then the thrum is gone. When I stand again, I'm trapped in a stone-walled chamber. Larken and Hank are still here with me. A ring of carved thrones surrounds us.

I look at the council members sitting in them. Some are dressed in ordinary clothes. A few wear uniforms, like Larken's. All wear capes, though: heavy, map-colored cloaks that speak of different provinces. One is a deep, silky green, another gray, brown, magenta . . . somber shades trimmed in
fur or braid-work or barden feathers. My eyes trace the circle, and it's pretty much hard looks and stony lips all around.

At last, I spy the ninth council throne. There's a cloak here too, resting on its arm, but the chair is empty. A huge, ugly, splintering gash mars it. Instinctively, I touch the scar at the nape of my neck. It's as if the sight of the broken seat made it throb.

“It's all virtual?” I ask Larken.

He nods. “Multi-dimensional streaming. MDS.”

We call it “slipstreaming,” but on Castra, immersive sim tech is corporately controlled, and the Sixers jack the price up, selling “slip time” by the second. Growing up, virtual holidays weren't exactly in our price range, so I've never experienced slipstreaming outside of quick, walk-through ads. Here, on this scale . . . it's pretty amazing.

I goggle at the high windows and vaulted ceiling. “Nice. Hard to tell none of it's real.”

“To the contrary, Ms. Vanguard. This hearing is very real.”

I snap, looking for the voice. One of the council—a gray-eyed, gray-robed man—has spoken. He's not the oldest in the circle, and he's not the youngest. That place surely falls to Larken. But Gray's eyes are the sharpest. The cold, spittle-lipped trill of his voice tells me he's the one I should fear.

An older woman next to him answers with a dismissive
wave.
“Parabba.”
From the impatient lash in her tone, she's either invoking his name or cussing him out. “We haven't even started, and you're already throwing daggers.”

Across from them, another woman interrupts. “Precisely so, Agna. Shall we proceed, Commander Larken?” She is beautiful. Luminous, and so pale you'd think she'd just spent the last year trapped in ice. But there's a terrifying edge in her shine too.

“Yes, Vilette,” he says, bowing respectfully.

“By all means then.” Vilette raises an eyebrow, then smooths out her moss-dark robe. “Let us speak plainly, that she may understand.”

Larken straightens. “I call the Skal to order.”

They answer in unison.
“We are the Skal-rung, the nine, the host of Cyan. We tend the coast, the mountain, the plain, and the tower. We defend all therein.”
There's a weary reverence in the words.

“And we stand?” he prompts.

“We stand as one.”

“And we fight?”

“We fight as one
.
”

“And we fall?”

“We do not fall, nor fear. We do not shrink.”

Then, silence. I've witnessed something private and sacred, and now the quiet burns.

Larken takes his place beside the empty throne, but the sight of him beside the broken seat makes my gut twist. It's then I know. It wouldn't matter if he were really there, in the tower with the others. It wouldn't matter if the throne were unmarked. Larken doesn't
sit
on this council. He doesn't, because the wood-splintered scar can't be repaired. He will never quite belong.

Gray Eyes clears his throat, then jerks his chin at Vilette. “Well now, you're the one harping about wasted time. Are you going to get on with it? Ask questions or not?”

She ignores him, her eyes still fixed on me. “Tell us how you came to the Strand.”

“I don't know where to start.”

“Start at the beginning.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

I blurt the first things that come to mind. “My name is Phee. Phoebe. My circuit name was Phoenix. I drive. I crewed for Benny Eno in Capitoline. I live . . . I
lived
in apartment 533, 4911 Mercer Street South. I've been arrested once. I've wrecked three rigs. Tommy Van Zant is my father.”

I stop. I've run out of easy things.

Other members of the council press for more. “What about your time in the Spire? You drove for Benroyal?”

“We need to know about the tracker,” another demands.

“What happened to Prince Dradha?”

“Tell us about the attack.”

I don't need to look up to know they're still staring.

Larken shifts, and gives an encouraging glance. He is soft-eyed and compassionate. But I don't know what the rest of them want from me. I don't understand any of this.

“I can't . . . I don't know . . . I blacked out.” I stumble. “When I woke up . . . I don't remember.”
Lies.

“You remember nothing?” Gray Eyes prods, his eyes hateful and disbelieving.

I look away. “Why am I here?” I ask quietly. Six months ago, I would have roared.

“You dare to question the Skal?” he spits. “You're here because the tracker in your neck brought an army to the Pearl Strand's edge. Because you bungled a mission we were foolish enough to support. The blood of a Biseran prince is on your hands! You brought on that attack, and now—”

“That's enough, Parabba,” Larken growls, but the damage is done. A murmur ripples through the circle. I strain for the thread of their whispers, catching only a handful of words.

Unreliable. Unstable. Liability.

To Gray Eyes's left, another councilor speaks up. “How can we be sure she didn't know about the tracker? Or that she's telling the truth?”

The old woman, Agna, barks out a laugh. “You must be joking. Look at her. This wisp of a girl? If she's Benroyal's spy, I'm the prime minister of Castra.”

A few guffaws. More than a few nods. An inch of breathing room.

But Parabba is far from finished. When he sits up, it's like watching an old hound snap to attention.

“Oh no, she's not a traitor. No, it's worse than that. She's a fool. Nothing more than a reckless simpleton.”

I bristle. “I'm not a—”

Teeth gritted, Parabba cuts me off. “A few precious years of peace, hard won, between our world and yours. And you've brought Benroyal and his whole forsaken army to our doorstep. You cost us the Biseran prince and ruined our plans.” He points a crooked forefinger at me, then looks to the council, scanning each member in turn. “Mark my words, she brings disaster.”

Vilette shakes her head. “Benroyal's grown too powerful, and she's not to blame for his bloodshed. And we cannot abandon these rebels or hand her over to him.”

“We should never have gotten involved,” Parabba growls. “We should never have armed those rebels and
provoked the Sixers. The treaty between Cyan and Bisera is fragile enough.”

Larken turns, squaring up against Parabba. “Bisera was our strongest ally for over a thousand years, before the Sixers swarmed this planet. Benroyal and his kind are to blame for the tensions and the treaties and the whole sap-stinking Thirty Years' War. They're the ones who want to keep us divided. And if you can't see clearly enough to remember that, Parabba, then you're the bigger fool.”

The old man rises from his seat, shutting him out. “Here is what I see: Every day that we harbor this girl and shelter her friends in the Strand brings us closer to war. They will come for her, and then they'll come for us. Benroyal. The Sixers will swarm our borders until Cyan's rimmed in blood. I will not break the peace with Castra and Bisera for this!”

“No, you won't break peace, Parabba.” Larken sighs. “You'll keep it until we're too weak to bleed at all.”

“I'll not take judgment from the likes of you. Your grandfather was a madman, and your father was a disgrace,” Parabba roars. “Khed IV, indeed. Spawn of a treacherous line. Don't talk to me about blood.”

The council erupts. Half the circle springs up. Everyone's talking all at once and waving arms and shaking fists. Bickering in their language and mine, they fight to be heard.

“Parabba's a fool—”

“—can't afford another war.”

“—can't afford to cower.”

“If we stay out of—”

“—let the Biseran deal with this.”

“Send her back. Send them all back.”

Every shout breaks like a wave. Inside, I'm fighting to keep my chin above the surface, which seems to rise an inch every second. I am too insignificant, too paralyzed, too rusting
powerless
to do anything to stop this.

I look up into the hologram's illusion, and see the windows of the tower. The sills seem to narrow, shrinking the threads of light streaming through. Outside the chamber, a burst of wind shrieks. It whistles, rattling the glass. My ears twist the gusts into faraway cries.

Cash. My father. James. They are dead and screaming.

My chest tightens and there's no more noise. Just the black, soundless throb of my heart as it shoves the words up my throat and into my mouth. Each one tastes like a withered match. I can't hold them in anymore.

“ENOUGH. That's enough!” I shout. They stop. Hands frozen in mid-gesture, mouths slack with surprise. Larken is waiting for something. So I give it to him. To the whole rusting council.

A deep breath, then my voice is a strange, deep crackle.
“I sat here and listened to all of you promise to stand and fight together as one. You swore an oath to defend your world, but it's all just words. Cash believed in you, and trusted you. He risked everything.”

“Prince Dradha is dead,” Parabba says. “His rebellion is a failure, and we've risked enough on rabble-rousers.”

“You've risked
nothing,
” I snap.

“Careful, girl.” Agna's eyes narrow, searching me. “You go too far. We've done much to aid the young prince's cause.”

“And look what has come of it,” Parabba scoffs. “Oh yes, your great plan to push the Sixers back. I warned you all, and now they're practically marching at the border!”

Another burst of outrage. Again, I shout to be heard. “Don't you understand? This is what they want!” When they quiet, I add, “You might as well be signing one of Benroyal's contracts. You're taking his deal.”

That scorches them well enough, but I don't let up. “You are. You're playing into King Charlie's hands, move by move.”

Parabba shakes his fist at me. “You little . . . you insolent pawn, how dare you—”

“
I'm
the pawn? You all sit in your tower, silent, while King Charlie reaches for your world. You sit back while his armies patrol the Gap and guard the drug labs and keep
the slave labor in line. You say,
Poor Castra. Poor Bisera. That'll never be Cyan.
” I turn slowly, meeting every pair of eyes. “But you want the truth? If you keep fighting amongst yourselves, with the rebels, with Bisera, you're finished. Benroyal will take you apart piece by piece. Gut you like a salvage rig, from exhaust to engine. The way I see it, you've got two choices. You can make peace with your deal, or you can quit jaw-jacking at each other, and stand up to the Sixers.”

Agna guffaws. “You can't be serious, girl. Are you suggesting we simply declare war, at your word, and start a revolution?”

An old spark flares, fed by defiance. “Do whatever you want. Send me back. Extradite me into Benroyal's hands. I don't care. All I know is, I'm not taking his deal anymore. You can all stay there and sit in your tower. But me? I'm not going down without pushing back.”