The Ward (4 page)

I’m thinking of Aven, and it helps. Gives me courage. She may not be blood, but she’s family—my sister. I reach for the penny around my neck. Three years, and the old coin has started to feel lucky, though that was the opposite of the point.

“You never did.” He scowls, then nods to a few bystanders watching our tiff.

Crowds of people have started to line the perimeter, all gussied up for the postrace party at the Tank. Girls in short skirts, braided hair coiled high on their heads. Guys in their best patched-up denim. Pleather jackets on both.

I wave big. People come for this part of the show too.

“Then why do I always win, Kent? Can’t blame it on the mobile; you’ve got a fancy postflood Honda and I’ve just got a Rimbo. Must be the driver.”

Through a smirk, Kent spits, “You’ve got no place in the races. No reason to be here. Go work a sickhouse, or the rooftop planthouses with everyone else.”

I turn to face him. “You don’t mean everyone else. You mean the girls.”

“We all have our jobs.” He shrugs.

“Tell that to my fans. They’d be mighty disappointed if I just disappeared.”

“I’m willing to take that risk—one of these days, I’ll see that you do ‘just disappear.’” Kent takes one last lingering look that makes me flush with anger. “Poof,” he whispers into my ear.

He’s all talk, you know he’s all talk
, I tell myself as he laughs, but this I know: say something enough, eventually you’ll try and make it true.

2

1:15 A.M., SATURDAY

W
alking toward Benny, I don’t even feel the tap on my shoulder. Only when this guy gets right up in my face do I stop. Look at him. His coat ain’t patchy, his hair’s too short to get mussed, and his face is too clean. He’s an outsider, no doubt.

I check his neck, and sure enough I see a small, adhesive patch there—the K-dot. It’s white, too, so he’s only just arrived. Each day, the dot gets blacker, until it’s totally filled in, and you know the medicine’s all used up. You’ve got no guard against the Blight.

No one round here takes it, though. It only works for about five consecutive days, and if you try wearing another one right away, you start going loopy from the side effects. Not really useful if you value a little thing like sanity. That’s why none of the locals wear ’em.

“Sorry to bother you, but it’s getting down to the wire,” the guy says. He’s young, not much older than me, but the way he holds himself—tall and self-assured—makes me think I could be wrong. Pointing to the Empire Clock, “I need to speak with you.”

“Who, me?” I ask, looking at the clock myself. Still fifteen till the flags go down.

“You’re Miss Dane, correct?”

When I laugh in his face, he seems genuinely confused. Like people come up and talk to me sweet every day. No one but Chief Dunn uses my last name. “I’m a representative of the United Metro Islets’ Division Interial—”

Cutting him off, “
You’re
with the”—I whisper the next word—“Blues?”

I’m shocked; the Blues are never out and about in the Ward. Only a few days a month, they’ll slap on a K-dot and arrest some contagious folks for violating Health Statute One. They call it “policing the neighborhood.”

I give him the up-down, not even bothering to hide my disbelief . . . or my disapproval. The boy is lanky, reason enough to be suspicious.

“Officer Justin Cory, miss.” He shifts his slick tasseled shoes and grins when he looks down at his poorly endowed arms. “Thanks for the vote of confidence in DI lawmen.” Flashing me his badge, “I’m just preliminary recon, only here for a few days. No need for brawn,” he adds, excusing his lack of muscle.

There is no excuse for lack of muscle, in my humble opinion.

I keep my mouth shut and continue to give him the stink eye, not out of unfriendliness though. More out of professional interest in seeing how he acts under stress. He seems like the type who’d wither.

Justin looks down at me, his baby blues caught like a gnat in a bug zapper, and he goes quiet. Then he stays quiet. I wave my hands a bit, trying to shake him out of his brain lapse.

I was right. He’s a witherer.

When he remembers what he came here for, he stammers, “I . . . uh, we need you to deviate from your intended route.”

I laugh. Maybe he’d like a pummeling instead. “No way. The route is set, and if I deviate, I lose.”

His face is blank as a fish’s.

“Money,” I clarify, expressing the obvious. “I’ll lose lots and lots of money. And with the way your guys pay me, I really can’t afford that.”

Neither can Aven, though I leave her out of it.

Justin nods. “That’s why we are prepared to offer you generous compensation. We have a lead on a freshwater source, and you’re headed in that direction anyway. Throw the race, survey Quadrant Nine, and you’ll get what would amount to your winnings, plus some.”

Tempting.

I don’t like what a loss will do to my rep, though. I’ve worked long and hard, and not to mention, I’m sixteen, a girl, and five foot two. It was a full year before people started taking me seriously. To lose my first race in nearly three years? That’s no easy thing.

Then Aven, nothing but a skeleton with skin, appears in my head. What am I thinking? Of course I should do this. It’s money, for us. And who says I have to lose? I’m good, right? Prodigy and all that. If I buy all that junk about
believing in myself
, then this should be a breeze. I just have to reroute and scan quickly, get back on track, and watch my competition eat water.

I can do this. I can still win. And get twice the earnings.

For just a moment, I’m delirious. All that green . . . Aven and I, we could eat like queens for a month. I wouldn’t have to ration out her pain meds.

“What if I don’t find anything?” It’s a distinct possibility . . . likely, even.

“You will still be compensated for your effort.”

I can handle that.

I look around the rooftop, watch the circling onlookers as they check out the dragster’s mobiles. Then I realize something strange—I’m under the DI’s thumb, whether I like it or not. So this whole game of him asking me? Well, it’s a charade. This isn’t a conversation, though it may look like one.

I don’t have a choice.

“Fine. Where do I pick up the money?”

Justin exhales, as if he’s relieved. Excited, even. “Where will you be later?”

“An after-party. Postrace shindig at the Tank—”

“Perfect,” Justin says, cutting me off. “I’ll meet you there.”

I shuffle my feet, considering. It’s convenient, sure. My bookie usually meets me there to pass along my winnings from the race. I’d be killing two birds, but it’s not ideal. If I do lose, I’m going to have to go to a damned party afterward. In front of everyone. May as well dress myself in rotten tomatoes, I’ll be so tyrannized.

Only one answer: I just won’t lose. “Very well, sir. If you’ll excuse me . . .” I say, pointing to my mech, nearly invisible, hiding under my X19 postflood Rimbo Steamer.

“Sure, sure. Good luck—I hope the search proves fruitful.” He pauses, almost awkward, then turns on his heel to join the rest of the crowd.

Fruitful? Who says that? What’s that even mean?

Shaking my head, I jog to meet my mech. “Benny!” I yell, forcing my mind back into gear, because a nagging guilt has started to put me on edge.

I can’t tell him about the route change. He’ll want to know why, and that’s a can of worms I have to keep airtight—my being a mole is supersecret. No one likes the DI, no one likes people who work for the DI.

Which means I have to spring the change on him during the race, at the last minute. He’s going to love that.

“How’s it lookin’?” I ask his shoes, poking out the side of my Rimbo.

My mobile’s not the swankiest of the bunch, but I think it’s as dapper as can be. Even with the out-of-fashion delta configuration: one wheel up front and two in back. More dangerous than the Derbies’ four-wheelers, I’m proud to admit. And it runs off the brackish river water. Engine works fine, but you have to unclog it from time to time.

“All’s dandy, boss.”

“Good, good. You checked the boiler? Blow out the salt accumulation?”

Benny slides out, and the blast radius of his Einsteinesque gray hair nearly has me on the floor doubled over in a giggle fit. “What do you take me for?” he huffs, but I can’t take him seriously, not with his hair, looking like he stuck his finger in an electric socket. I swear, he hasn’t cut it once these last three years.

“Just covering my bases, taking precautions,” I answer, laughing. “I know you’re the best of the best, Benny.”

I glance around the rooftop once more, this time looking for that infamous copper head of hair belonging to my bookie. “He’s not here, is he?” I ask, wishful.

Some might say it’s bad form to bet on oneself. In legit sports, it’s even illegal, as there’s the possibility that you might throw the race to fix the outcome.

In wall racing, no one throws the race. Throw a race, you could die.

“Derek has, not once, been present for a race. And yet you always ask.” Benny throws me a look, one that makes all the blood rush to my cheeks. “How curious.”

I hide my face.

I think the only person who doesn’t know I’m somewhat, only slightly, infatuated with Derek . . . is Derek. “Just asking,” I drawl.

“Course you are. No . . . Derek did help out with a few things before you got here, but he left early. As usual. He said he’d be at the Tank later, also as usual.” Benny passes my utility belt for me to put on.

Great. One more reason I have to win. Can’t have Derek see me like that, a loser, tail between my legs. As I buckle my belt,
Focus
, I remind myself.

Running through the list, I feel each pocket and strap to make sure everything is there: Canteen, check. Flashlight, check. Lighter, check. Protein bar, check.

“You’re awesome, Benzy. Stuck under my Rimbo for hours making sure that she’s all fired up and ready to go.” I pat my belt. “
And
you even make sure I’m fed.”

“Damn straight, I’ve been here,” he says in his ragged old way, then waves a wrench at me.

In the distance, the Empire Clock sounds. Along the perimeter, even the fans are getting fidgety, checking cuffcomms and whatnot. They’ve grown silent.

It’s nearly time.

With Benny’s back turned, I circle my mobile to do one last thing before the race. At the front wheel, I take a quick swig from my canteen and kneel. Make like I’m inspecting the headlights.

From my bra I pull out a small, DI-issued freshwater detection light filter—it turns any freshwater pockets I might run into a neon purple. Don’t have to take samples or anything. I carefully fix on the filter and take a deep breath.

This is just like any other race
. With one foot on the front hood, I hop into my Rimbo through the scratched moonroof and close it above me. In the pit, the first thing I do is sync my headset to my cuffcomm so Benny and I can communicate.

“Good to go,” I tell him, once I hear static. Then I say, “Patch me in to her, would you?” He knows who I’m talking about—this is tradition.

Moments later, Aven’s voice is in my ear.

Bubbly, she says, “Good skill, Renny,” and I smile as soon as I hear her. Either she’s got more energy today, or she’s faking it for my sake.

She doesn’t have to, though. After my month of DI training was up, I came back. Searched every sickhouse in all six residential quadrants. It took months. Gave me the worst memory I’ve got: Aven, ragged and too thin, but worst of all, she was alone. Every time, it slices me open.

And still, I would do it all over again.

“See you later, Feathers,” I say into the microphone, and then the line cuts out.

In front of me, Neela, Kent’s girl, arranges herself in the middle of the four mobiles. She stops between Jones and him, and winks. Leans forward to give him an eyeful—her dress is less dress, more handkerchief. I bet Kent doesn’t know that her breasts aren’t naturally that gravity defying. Or maybe he does.

What nonsense.

To keep from gagging, I repeat my personal racing rules over and over again in my head, even though I don’t need to.

Get your ass in one piece from A to B—now to Quad Nine. However your heart desires. Easy peasy. Keep to the walls and roofs. Water skip only when need be. Get your ass in one piece from A to B, keep to the—

The checkered flag is down.

3

1:30 A.M., SATURDAY

I
push the neon-green button—DETATCH—and in an instant, my Rimbo jolts forward, speeding down the roof, the momentum sucking me backward into the seat. The next thing I know I’m halfway down, followed by Kent, Jones, and lastly, Ter. Not too surprised by that; Omnis are decent out of water, but he’ll pick up speed in about thirty seconds. For the time being, I’m leading.

But I haven’t had time to come up with a new route that gets me to Quad Nine, then back to the last roof.

All four of us are approaching the ramp that will send us over the edge of the roof and onto the next building of our choice. I’d bet good money Terrence is going to dive straight for the water. Kent’s Honda steals up behind me and I swerve closer to the outside of the roof.

The bastard.

Not only would my metal be crushed if we were to have a collision, though I’m sure that’s his intention, everyone knows the first roof is a grace period. You don’t mess with other mobiles until you’re off the first roof. Too many people watching. Spectators have died that way, found themselves up close and personal with a fresh set of tires.

Not that Kent cares about racing etiquette.

All the Derbies would rather make mush of me than watch me win again, and if that means killing a spectator or two, I guess he’d be fine with it. He’s also probably tired of losing. Looking for a change of pace.

But he isn’t going to get it. Never had the brains for this sort of thing. Racers need to prepare ahead of time. Maybe that’s a little-known secret, though it seems fairly obvious. It’s even Benny’s favorite mantra: “How can you get where you’re goin’ if you don’t know how?”