“You’re going great, girls! Real great!” Harlan called as he came hurrying across the asphalt.
It must have been the tenth time he’d said it since they finished the first stage of the Widowmaker. Almost like he couldn’t believe it himself. By now, as the sun touched the ocean behind the rotted tips of submerged tower blocks, Cassica and Shiara were tired of it.
They stood in a compound in the hills overlooking the city: Lost Angeles, all broken and overgrown and laid out before them. Scaffolding sliced up the ruddy yellow light, casting spiderwebs of shadow; garages and tents surrounded them; fenced areas divided racers and press, VIPs and spectators. Another place, another media carnival; in three days it would be gone, leaving only debris behind.
The journey from the bayou in Pacifica’s drowned south had taken three hours. They were still waving to the crowds at the finish line when their car was taken away by teamsters, and the contents of their garage—Maisie and all—were packed up in trucks for transport to the next stage. Cassica, Shiara, and an overly excited Harlan had traveled with them, in a convoy of camera-laden jeeps and other vehicles.
They rested and talked tactics on the way, in the back of their own bus, while their injuries were treated by medics. Cassica’s throat was still purple where the swamp man’s fingers had gripped, but they’d given her an anesthetic spray to kill the pain and a stylish neckscarf to cover up.
Eventually news came in of other racers finishing. Five cars hadn’t made it: ten people dead or out of the race. Kyren came in third, Sammis sixth. But thanks to their map, even their closest competitor was two hours behind them. A two-hour head start on the rest of the pack.
That was when Harlan started to believe he might get to keep his fingers.
Shiara kept a close eye on the teamsters as they backed Maisie out of the truck and drove her into the garage area. She was itching to get going. A two-hour advantage was all well and good, but she’d need every minute of time if she was going to get the Interceptor into shape by tomorrow. Harlan’s fevered optimism only annoyed her; if not for him, they could have simply switched to a new car for the second stage. But Maisie, for all the fondness Shiara bore her, was just not fast enough for the Widowmaker.
Harlan seemed disappointed by their lack of response to his encouragement. He squeezed the fingers of his left hand with his right—a habit he’d picked up over the last few days—and tried again. “I got good news!” he said. “The sponsors are going crazy! They’re so keen, I reckon I can presell an endorsement contract, get you a deal to advertise some products after the Widowmaker’s done! Moolah, see? With a handshake advance I can get us the money by tomorrow, we can bring in a new car and—”
“We don’t need it tomorrow, we need it now,” Shiara said. “I gotta fix up that Interceptor and I got only the barest of kit to do it with. Can’t even take the parts out of Maisie, since the damned thing’s so newfangled, most of ’em won’t fit.”
“You can do it,” said Cassica. “You always could spin gold out of junk.”
Shiara was reluctantly pleased by that. Their differences lay unresolved, but Cassica’s faith touched her. “Well, I’m gonna see what I can do,” she muttered grudgingly.
Harlan flapped in the background. Once, they’d hung on his every word; now they barely managed to be polite. “I’ve got a meeting with Dunbery Hasp himself!” he declared desperately. “The big cheese wants to see me tonight! That means you caught his eye! Good things are gonna come from this, just you wait!”
But they didn’t trust him anymore, and no assurances would change that. They only had themselves to rely on.
“I gotta get workin’ on that car,” Shiara said. “Gonna take me all night if I’m lucky.”
“Need a hand?” Cassica asked.
“No, no, no!” Harlan cried. “The sponsors! The world’s press is here, girls, and they want to talk to you! Listen, even if you don’t win, play your cards right and there’ll be chat shows, game shows, reality television … I can practically guarantee you a diaper advert right now!”
Shiara gave Cassica a weary look. “You go,” she said.
“You sure?”
“It’s your thing, not mine. I’ll get started on the car. You just make sure to come when you’re done, okay?”
Cassica held her gaze for long enough to ensure that Shiara wasn’t playing the martyr. Then she nodded. “I’ll be as quick as I can.”
Harlan led her off toward the press area, where newsies waited to fall on her like wolves. Shiara stood alone for a time, gathering herself, her shadow long on the asphalt. Then she headed off to the garage, where her work awaited her.
Cassica followed Harlan in a strange daze. She was both hyper-alert and not quite there. Everything was sharp and clear, sights and sounds and smells as fresh as if she were experiencing them for the first time. Yet she felt out of control, as if everything were sliding beneath her feet, carrying her in a steadily accelerating landslide toward some jumbled and frightening end.
She closed her eyes, saw the swamp man’s warped face in shadow, lit from behind by the hovercam’s light. She smelled the moldy stink of him, felt his hands at her throat.
Her eyes snapped open and her heart lurched as if starting from sleep. Just for an instant, she’d felt herself falling into the silent black and jerked back from the precipice.
Shiara seemed unfazed by their encounter with the swamp man. She thought nothing of the fact that she might have killed someone. To her, it wasn’t even a person, only a thing that was attacking her friend. There was no question of guilt or shock. Cassica wished she could be like that, to roll with the punches the way Shiara did, but she just couldn’t.
She knew what dying felt like now, and it leaked out all over her thoughts. How could anything possibly ever be the same?
Harlan was babbling at her shoulder, but she didn’t listen. Ahead, the newsies thronged behind a gate. The other racers were still on their way from the bayou; the press had Cassica to themselves for now. Her feet carried her toward them. It seemed a fool’s dream to turn back.
Hours passed in a blur that felt like minutes. A parade of faces, smiling at her. She smiled back and answered their questions, the same questions over and over. She said words that meant nothing and offended no one. Shiara had been right: she’d been trained, though she hadn’t known it. No hint of the real Cassica showed through as she chatted and smiled and said what she ought to. Even when they asked her about being strangled by the swamp man, she gave them a fiction. If there were words to describe it, she didn’t know them.
And then, as she was pushing her way from one camera to another, Kyren came out of the crowd, took her arm, and pulled her aside. So quick was he, so sure, that she was snatched out from under Harlan’s nose. By the time anyone realized she was gone, she was already out of sight.
Behind a stage, he pressed up against her, his body close and his forehead touching hers. The heat coming off him woke her up, made her breathing heavy.
“Look at you,” he said.
“Look at me,” she agreed.
“You killed it out there. I gotta watch out for you.”
“Maybe you do.”
He kissed her, hard, and it was like dark fireworks behind her eyes.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said, quick and eager.
“I’ve got interviews.”
“Who cares? So have I.”
Who cares? It seemed so obvious to her then. What did it matter? What did anything matter? She was alive. She was winning. Nobody could command her.
Her fierce smile was answer enough for him. They hurried away and thought of nothing but each other after that.
Shiara was sweaty, angry, and deep in the guts of the Interceptor when she heard the door to the garage squeak.
“And where in hell have you been?” she cried as she turned on the newcomer.
Sammis Rye wore an expression of amused innocence. “Hey, sorry. Took a wrong turn in the swamp.”
Her anger went out, smothered by embarrassment. “Thought you were someone else.” She noticed he was holding a pair of steaming mugs.
“I figured that.” He looked around the garage. A toolkit yawned beside the opened shell of the car, its contents scattered about. The air reeked of oil and burnt solder. “You missing your driver?”
“Driver, manager … I’m alone here!” She tossed her wrench to the ground with a clang. “Cassica was meant to come help when she was done interviewin’, but it looks like she’s got better things to do. I ain’t askin’ much, just a little frickin’ support now and then! Reckon it’s only me doin’ anythin’ to help us win this race, and I’m the only one who don’t want to win it!”
“You don’t want to win?” A line creased Sammis’s brow. “Sure doing a bad job of losing, though.”
Shiara laughed. She hadn’t meant to confess that—exasperation had driven her to it—but it was a relief to say it aloud.
He held up one of the mugs. “Coffee?”
“You bring that for me?”
“Thought you could use it. I got with milk or without.”
“Long as there’s caffeine.” She wiped down her hands on her overalls and walked over. Past time for a break anyway, and his thoughtfulness surprised her. She didn’t know what she’d done to deserve it.
They leaned up against a worktop together and regarded the Interceptor.
“Croc did that?” he asked, indicating the massive dent in the flank.
“It was a big croc,” she replied. “More like an alligator, actually.”
“There’s a difference?”
She gave him a look. “You are a Greenbelt boy, aren’t you?”
“Can’t help it if I come from a place where not everything wants to kill you.”
“Well, lucky you.” She sipped her coffee, then said, “Glad you made it through.” It sounded awkward to her ears.
“Me too,” he replied. “So what’s the story with you and your driver? It’s all over the television.”
Shiara sighed. Of course it was. She checked the room for cameras, but if they were there, she couldn’t see them.
“I think it’s just you and me,” said Sammis, catching her thought. “Can’t promise, though.”
She sighed, wondering whether she should say anything. But she wanted to unburden herself, and Cassica had abandoned her. Why not him?
“Ah, I dunno,” she said at last. “You ever feel like you spend too much time doin’ what other people want and not enough doin’ what you want?”
“Story of my life,” Sammis said.
“Riskin’ my damn neck and I don’t even want to go to Olympus,” she said.
“Well, that’s good to hear. Me either.”
“You serious?”
“You said it yourself: I’m a Greenbelt boy. Hills and lakes, trees and sky. What would I do up in space?” His tone was light, and she wasn’t sure if he was taking her seriously.
“What about your partner?”
“Haven’t asked him. What about yours?”
“She’s my best friend. It’s her dream, winnin’ the Widowmaker. I ain’t gonna be responsible for ruinin’ it.”
“And I don’t want to disappoint my daddy. But what if you do win?”
“Maybe I’ll sell my ticket.”
“Oh, you been talkin’ to the Cussenses? You know they’ll only buy two tickets together, right? So either you go with Cassica, or she has to stay.”
“So I’ll sell it to someone else.”
“Nobody sells a ticket to Olympus,” he scoffed. “Never been done. A few people made out they’d sell it if they won—rebel types, you know the sort—but when it comes to it, they all cave. I mean, it’s Olympus, right?”
“Well, maybe I’ll be the first.” She looked him over. “What if you win? You gonna go to Olympus the way your daddy never did? Leave everyone behind and go live among the stars?”
“Nah,” said Sammis with a grin. “I’ll sell it.”
She hit him on the arm, and he spilled his coffee and laughed. “Hey, watch it! Hot!”
“Ain’t we a pair?” Shiara mused fondly, sipping her drink and smiling.
He bumped her with his shoulder, a playful nudge that made her melt. “Reckon we are,” he said.
They shared a companionable silence, full of possibilities. Then Sammis motioned at the Interceptor. “You gonna get her runnin’ in time, you think?”
Shiara shook her head. “Not without a miracle. I don’t got the parts and I can’t make ’em with what I got.”
“What do you need?”
“Head gasket, stabilizer links, new windows—though that’s the least of my worries. I scavved the safety limiter off Maisie ’cause the Interceptor’s was shot, but most of her stuff I can’t use. Couple of new shocks, flywheel—”
“Make a list.”
“What for?”
“I’m the son of Dutton Rye. We were fightin’ off sponsors before I even got on the track. I got enough spares to build ten cars.”
“You’re gonna give me your spares?” She gawked in amazement.
“I’d give you a car if it wasn’t against the rules. I’ve got six.”
She just stared at him. “You do know we’re meant to be rivals, right?”
He shrugged. “Make a list,” he said again. “I’ll get ’em sent over. One thing, though: there’s a price.”
Ah. Here it was. The catch. Shiara’s face hardened with suspicion. “What price?”
“You gotta let me help you fix her.”
That wasn’t what she expected. “You wanna, er, help?”
He spread out his hands. “I’m no tech, but I can do my bit. Hand you wrenches and such.”
She searched his face for a trick, found none. He rolled his eyes. “Just say yes,” he told her.
“Yes?” she ventured.
“So make a list!”
They worked into the small hours, and though Cassica never arrived, Shiara didn’t care. She was enjoying herself too much. The threat of tomorrow was forgotten; she fixed the Interceptor just for the challenge of fixing it. Sammis kept her company, chattering and joking as he handed her tools and held things in place. She laughed more than she had in days.
At times, it felt like it used to in her father’s auto shop, when she and Cassica spent long nights tinkering with Maisie; but then she was touched with guilt, as if she were betraying her friend by sharing such moments with another.
She waited for Sammis to reveal himself, to drop the front and take off his mask. Surely he wasn’t actually like this? This honest and decent and funny, this kind, this right?
But down in her belly, she didn’t believe he was faking, and it made her loose and warm and a little giddy. More than anything, she just couldn’t believe her luck.
When Harlan arrived, it came as a rude interruption. He threw the door open so that it clattered against the wall, and tottered in. One look told Shiara he was drunk. He focused puzzled eyes on Sammis, then found Shiara.
“Oh,” he said, in a tone of surprised disapproval.
“Having fun?” Shiara asked him poisonously.
“Meetin’ with clients, you gotta drink,” he said, stumbling in. “Need to talk to you. Alone.” This last was directed at Sammis.
Sammis forestalled Shiara’s protest. “Reckon we’re about done here anyway,” he said. He gave her a wink. “See you tomorrow.”
“Today,” she corrected him.
He checked his watch. “You’re right. I need my beauty sleep.” He nodded at Harlan as he passed. “Mr. Massini.”
Harlan didn’t reply, just watched him with boozy suspicion as he left. Shiara crossed her arms angrily. His intrusion had burst her bubble.
“You let a rival get his hands on your car?” Harlan asked, appalled.
“If it weren’t for him, this car wouldn’t be runnin’ at all,” Shiara replied scornfully. “Don’t need to remind you who got us into that situation.”
&
nbsp; It took a moment for that to compute. Harlan decided not to argue further. “Anyway, forget all that. I got something to show you.” He blundered over, tugging out a map from his pocket, which he laid on the worktop next to her. She didn’t recognize it at first; it was like no map she’d ever seen. Then she realized what it was: an aerial photo of Lost Angeles.
“Taken only yesterday,” Harlan proudly declared. “Forget all them old, out-of-date maps the others are using. This one’s fresh, up to the minute! And look!” He traced along a red line that had been drawn on it like the solution to a maze. A route through the city. “You think the powers that be gonna plan a race without knowin’ what the Howlers are up to in there? Trust me, they know every hideout, every ambush, every base. And this …” He stabbed the map with his finger. “This is the safe route through.”
Shiara studied it. It didn’t seem possible that they’d be handed such a break a second time. “How did you get this?”
“Old Harlan ain’t so useless after all, is he?” Harlan crowed. “You made quite an impression with your run through the bayou. The people are cheering for you now. And what makes the people happy makes the big cheeses happy.” He leered and a wave of whiskey came on his breath. “Somebody up there wants you to win.”
“Dunbery Hasp? Did he give you this?”
Harlan just tapped the side of his nose. “You been given a leg up, girl. Just you be sure to take it. Memorize that route. Burn it. Come the mornin’, there’ll be cameras. Don’t let ’em see.”
Shiara couldn’t take her eyes from the map. “They want us to win? Ain’t this cheatin’, though?”
“It’s the game,” Harlan said impatiently. “And if you ain’t playin’ it, someone else is.”
“So it is cheatin’, then.”