The scene was hellish. A burned land crawling with lava; infernal peaks; ash-black skies that flickered with lightning. Devil’s Basin.
The shifting earth and scalding geysers had already claimed two racers by the time Lady Scorpion caught up with Pott. She snuck in under cover of the fire and smoke, while Pott and his tech were busy negotiating a tricky series of ridges. By the time they saw her, she was already on them. Out of the black she came, a dirt-streaked mass of armor, engines howling.
Pott should have tried to outrun her in his agile Pioneer, but perhaps he feared the lava more than he feared the Lady, and he tried to evade instead. This way and that he skidded and swung, hoping to dodge her stinger, knowing she only had one shot at him. But Lady Scorpion picked her moment and nailed him, cool as you please.
The hovercams zoomed in hard as a metal spear fired from Lady Scorpion’s roof-mounted cannon and sliced through the air, a long cable uncoiling behind it. It punched into the Pioneer’s fuel tank, a thousand volts surged invisibly down the cable, and Pott and his tech disappeared in a blast of flame and twisted metal.
The cooks and busboy cheered; Beesha held her cheeks in horror. Lady Scorpion drove on, the cable detaching and falling away. The blazing shell of the Pioneer rolled to a halt behind her.
“Gotta love that Lady!” one of the cooks cried. The hovercams moved in close. Through the smoke and fire, you could see glimpses of the blackened bodies inside. Cassica couldn’t look away.
That was how it was on the Maximum Racing circuit. Not like the backwater races she and Shiara competed in. Official races had Wreckers, drivers whose only purpose was to take out the other participants. In the Outer Leagues you’d face no-name psychos whom the general public had never heard of, but the top racers in the Core League competed against famously deadly Wreckers like Lady Scorpion. The stakes were higher, but so was the glory.
Cassica stared at Chabley Pott’s burning body. She wouldn’t have got me, she thought. I’d have beat her. And she wished for the day when she’d be able to prove it.
The door to the kitchen burst open and Gauge loomed. “Hoy! Anyone doin’ any work in this joint? Got a group on table three gonna turn cannibal if we don’t feed ’em soon!”
Night was almost upon Coppermouth as Cassica headed home. She took the path of the old aqueduct, which ran parallel to the highway but not too close. Many times she’d been warned about walking the highway on her own. Easy for someone to pull up and snatch you. They’d all heard the stories.
Most nights Gauge drove Cassica and Beesha home, out of concern for their safety, but tonight he had a date with Con Witler and he needed to wash up. Cassica didn’t mind. The day had left her in a pensive mood, and she wanted the walk. Ever since they won that race, there had been something up with her, some unresolved feeling that had yet to make itself known. Strange that she’d had the dream again that morning. She hadn’t had it for a year, and she’d thought it gone forever.
The rhythm of her steps lulled her, and her mind soon drifted to breezy fantasies about Kyren Bane. He’d won the race with ease—more than a pretty face, then—and that meant they’d be seeing more of him. Maybe he’d make it to Olympus. He had the look of a Celestial; he’d fit right in.
To her left, the land reared up, a great ridge dark against the purple dusk. Above, stars, like someone had spray-painted the sky with light. Some of them moved steadily, restless orbital weapons left over from the Omniwar, dead death machines that once had destroyed whole cities with lances of fire from space.
At times like this, with the light behind it, you could see the dust blowing off the ridge. Dust from the Rust Bowl, seeded with microscopic metal-eating nanobots that corroded everything they settled on. It got into your lungs, killed some, weakened others, and left the rest unscathed for reasons no one really understood. Just part of life’s lottery in Coppertown. Shiara accepted that, as she accepted many things Cassica couldn’t. But Cassica couldn’t bear to feel so helpless.
When the time came, she cut back to the highway. The town and the lake lay on the other side. As she approached, she spotted a convoy coming and waited at the roadside to let it pass. She stood with toes almost touching the tarmac, closer than she ought to, the way she liked it. She wanted to feel the speed, the shove of air as they went by.
The bikes passed first, flak-jacketed men with shotguns on their backs flashing across her field of view. An instant later came the cars, windshields hidden behind mesh grilles. Then the armored trucks, three of them, punching past her, hard enough to make her stagger. A horn blared, a warning or a greeting, and she laughed at the noise, delighted by the chaos.
Their taillights dwindled, the turbulence calming in their wake. Cassica brushed the hair from her face and watched them until they were out of sight. She dearly wished she could go with them, away from here, away to the cities and green places and distant lands. Away from the slow creep of days and the same unchanging faces.
She was too fast for this town; it couldn’t keep her. Winning that race, she’d shown them that. And yet nothing was different the day after. Escape seemed as far from her as ever.
She dreamed of racing, but a dream was all it was. Shiara worked miracles, but they’d never have the money to build a car quick enough to compete. They’d never find a manager or a sponsor out here, where government barely held and civilization only existed by the will of good people.
A shadow touched her heart, and she wondered where she’d be in twenty years if Coppermouth kept her. Those the dust lung didn’t get were got by the drink, like Shiara’s brother Patten. He was someone who couldn’t be confined, like Cassica was, and it drove him crazy in the end.
She crossed the highway and followed it on the other side. The town twinkled to her right, becoming beautiful as night hid it. By the time she saw the auto shop, her mood had lifted a little. She’d lost her parents but gained a family. In Shiara, she’d found the kind of friend most people only wished they had. Coppermouth would never excite her, but it would care for her, as it cared for all its people. This town had its troubles, and there wasn’t much by way of luxury to go around, but they had a roof over their heads and food in their bellies, and they got to race every once in a while. All in all, there were worse places, worse outcomes for a life.
The lights were on over the auto shop. Melly would have dinner on the table and they’d be eating without her; Blane was particular about his mealtimes, and the walk had made her late. It didn’t matter. Melly always saved her a plate.
The rattle of keys announced her arrival as she worked her way through the locks on the reinforced side door. She sprang up the stairs two at a time—she never could just walk up steps, it seemed so ponderous—and found her way to the kitchen, drawn by the smell of stew.
She was aware of a silence ahead, but Shiara’s kin weren’t big talkers, so she put it down to nothing much. It was only when she came to the doorway that she stopped. Every face turned to her: Blane, Melly, Creek, Shiara, and the stranger at the table. They’d been waiting anxiously, she realized with a thrill of dread. Waiting for her.
The stranger’s suit was new: pin-clean, stiff-shouldered, and one size too big. He was long-bodied and thin of frame; his shirt stuck to him where a little potbelly pressed against it. His hair was black, receding in a widow’s peak, slicked back along his skull. Sweat glistened on his brow, and it gave him a sheen, a slippery look. A hard man to lay a hand on.
He stood as Cassica entered, extended his hand. “Miss Cassica Hayle, I reckon. My name’s Harlan Massini. It’s an honor to meet you.”
It took Cassica a second to realize he wasn’t mocking her, and to remember her manners. She shook his hand uncertainly; it was surprisingly dry. “Well, likewise,” she said.
“You ought to sit down,” said Blane, and Cassica did so. Harlan settled himself after.
Melly started fixing Cassica a plate from the pots of stew and tuber mash on the table. It was her habit to take refuge in routine wh
en she was perturbed. Most days Melly was a jolly, bustling sort, plump and warm, plain and clucky. But some days you’d catch her staring into nowhere as if shocked by the grief the world could dole out, stunned by the memory of the children she’d lost. Those days, she was like an automaton.
There was an atmosphere in the room. Melly’s kitchen was usually a place of ease, made warm by the memory of meals from the flaking stove and conversations around that scratched old wooden table. But the presence of Harlan made it otherwise. No longer was it their domain, no longer a place of safety. Just by being here, he was taking it from them and making it his.
“Quite a race you drove yesterday, Miss Cassica,” he said in a lazy coastal drawl. “You and Miss Shiara. It’s been longaday since I saw daring and invention like that. To overcome the limitations of your vehicle, to outrace opponents in superior cars … that’s the mark of champions.”
“Mr. Massini is a racing manager,” said Melly quietly, as she put Cassica’s plate in front of her.
Cassica was no longer interested in food. Her stomach flipped as she realized that this stranger wasn’t here to deliver terrible news but possibly, just possibly, the opposite.
“Indeed I am,” said Harlan. “Racers are my game these days, but I got my start in entertainment. Perhaps you’ve heard of Liandra Kesey?”
Creek coughed into his stew in surprise and looked up from his food for the first time since Cassica had arrived. Even Creek, who paid little attention to Celestials, had heard of Liandra Kesey. She was a diva, an icon, her image and influence so pervasive that Cassica had long become sick of her. Her songs were played endlessly; her picture was everywhere, inescapable. Her opinions were eagerly received and recycled by a generation of young girls; by wearing this dress or that she could kill or cause a craze.
“You manage Liandra Kesey?” Cassica asked.
“Managed,” said Harlan, brief regret creasing his eyes. “It’s a manager’s fate, you see. I found her when she was nobody. I took her to the top. But, up there”—he pointed skyward and lifted his gaze—“there’s no place for me. I make Celestials; I don’t desire to be one. My place is here on Earth, finding people like you. My calling, if you will.” He picked up his spoon. “This is a wonderful meal, Mrs. DuCal. Delicious,” he said, though he hadn’t tasted it yet.
“Why don’t you speak plain, Harlan?” said Blane. “Tell Cassica what you told us.”
“Plain-speaking folks, that’s what I like about a town like Coppermouth,” Harlan said with a wide smile. He turned to Cassica. “I came here with a proposition, that’s all. I’d like to be your manager.”
Cassica had guessed that was coming the moment she learned of his trade, but it still rocked her to hear it.
“Twenty-five percent,” said Shiara, ever practical, bringing her down to the ground. “That’s what he wants.”
“Yes, and not a cent up front, not a cent of risk on your part,” Harlan cut in smoothly. “I only take a cut of the money you make, so you can be sure my every waking hour will be dedicated to making you that money! And seventy-five percent of something is a whole heap better than a hundred percent of nothing, am I right?” He didn’t wait for agreement. “Now, what I’ll give you first and foremost is my endorsement. I’m sure you know you can’t be registered for an official Maximum Racing event without a guild-accredited manager. After that, what you get is the benefit of my extensive experience, contacts built up over many years in the field. I’ll open doors for you that you can’t open yourself. I’ll introduce you to the people you need to meet. Not to mention the considerable financial capital I’ll be investing in order to get you to the big leagues. That’s how much faith I’ve got in you. I know talent when I see it, and I see that you two have it in spades!”
Cassica was wearing a dazed smile. Shiara seemed less taken by his speech. “Maisie’s shot,” she said.
“Who?”
“Our car,” said Shiara. “She needs repairin’.”
“Maisie!” Harlan cried. “That’s darling! What a name!”
“It sounded classic,” Shiara said with a shrug.
“Can you fix her?” Harlan asked.
“She can fix anything,” said Cassica, thumbing at her friend. She was eager to reassure him, to make up for Shiara’s inexplicable wariness.
“See, the reason I ask is there’s a satellite qualifier in two weeks at Ragrattle Caves, not a hundred Ks from here—”
“I ain’t heard of that one,” Blane interjected. He’d been sidelined from the conversation too long and Cassica guessed he was feeling cut out. He was the head of the household, his word the most important, and though no one had mentioned it again, he was still sore from what those bikers had done the day before.
Harlan sensed it and addressed him directly, playing to his ego, but his words were angled at Cassica and Shiara. “The qualifiers you see on prime-time television, those are for Core League racers with big sponsors. The corps buy you a place on the grid, you show off their advert, see? Now, ordinarily I’d fix new racers up with a big sponsor and buy us one of those places, but a deal like that takes time we don’t have. It’s only luck that brought me here to see these girls win, and if we want to make something of this, we’ve got to motor!” He leaned over the table, bringing them all in. “Now, I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, while those glitzy qualifiers are playing out, they run a whole bunch of satellite qualifiers in the Outer Leagues. They only show those in the dead of night, so most of them, people don’t even know about. Ragrattle Caves is the last one of the season round here. If we’re quick on the paperwork, I can endorse you as your manager, and I’ll put up the entrance fee. If you get a top-three place, you get a free pass to the last proper qualifier in Anchor City. And you’ll have sponsors lining up then!”
“You want us to go straight for the Widowmaker?” Shiara cried. “Shouldn’t we be, I dunno, payin’ our dues in the Outer Leagues first? Racin’ against that level of opposition?”
Cassica stared at her friend in exasperation. She couldn’t understand why Shiara might have an objection.
“Why bother?” said Harlan. “You’ve got the ability, and you’re the perfect age to go to the top! Listen, you ever wondered why hardly anyone out there on the track is much more than twenty? Because the others have either won a fortune and retired, or they got too slow. You know, they reckon teenagers have twenty percent faster reactions and are inclined to be thirty-five percent more daring than a driver in their twenties. True fact! From scientists! On the circuit, we got a different way of putting it: ‘Twenty-six, out of tricks!’ So you better get started, girls!”
“What about Dutton Rye?” Shiara argued. “He went on for years.”
“That old warhorse? Well, there’s always exceptions. And he never won the Widowmaker, did he?”
There was a clatter of cutlery, loud enough to silence them all. Melly was staring down at her bowl, her hand trembling. She folded it in her lap with the other and said nothing.
Blane said it for her. “Kids die in the Widowmaker. Kids die in the qualifiers. This ain’t some badland runaround like Jessen Plains. They got Wreckers in those things. These are our girls you’re talkin’ about.”
Harlan paused to survey them all. “I won’t lie to you. You’re too smart for that,” he said, somber now. “Maximum Racing is dangerous. One in ten racers don’t make it to the finish line most races. Come the Widowmaker, it’s one in four. But those who don’t make it, I’ll tell you this: most every one should never have been there in the first place. Kids pushed onto the track before they’re ready, long shots put in to make up the numbers.” He sawed the air with his hand, face screwed up in disgust. “This business is full of amateurs and sharks, unscrupulous managers, taking a gamble with some precious kid’s life just so they can get a payday. Well, that’s not how I do it, Mr. and Mrs. DuCal. That’s not how I do it, Cassica, Shiara!” He ignored Creek; Creek had no influence and wasn’t worth his attention. He raised a finger.
“But those racers who have talent, those who are given the best equipment and the best advice … well, their odds are very good indeed.”
His confidence smothered Blane’s objections. He had no footing for an argument. It was Harlan’s world, his word.
“And I’m sure I needn’t remind you of the prizes!” he said, his face lighting up, addressing Cassica and Shiara now. “The glittering prizes that await the skillful and the brave. Money enough to keep you and yours in comfort for the rest of your lives. Money to improve and expand this wonderful business you have here, or to move elsewhere if that’s your desire. Money to enjoy yourselves. And if you should win the Widowmaker, ah, if you should do that! The greatest prize of all awaits. Two tickets to Olympus!”
He sat back, spreading his hands slowly like a sunrise, eyes distant as if he could see it all, the future coming real before him. “You’ll be Celestials,” he said, his voice building in volume as he spoke. “Your faces will be in every zine. Viewers will thrill to footage of your races. A generation of young women will be inspired by your courage. Up there on Olympus, you’ll dine on foods you can’t even imagine, wear dresses of diamonds and silk. You’ll be among legends. You’ll be legends!”
Cassica was dizzied by a sudden, violent expansion of her horizons. It had all come on her too fast. Not twenty minutes ago, her dreams of escape had been idle fancies. She’d never been more than a half day’s drive from Coppermouth, and what she’d seen there hadn’t been much different. The wider world she only knew from television. The endless forests of the Greenbelt, the towering spires of Anchor City lured and intimidated her in equal measure. It wasn’t just a matter of getting up and going. She had no savings; nobody did. Without family, without connections, without support, she couldn’t imagine how she might begin to live in such places.
But this stranger at their table had changed everything.
“We gotta think about this,” said Shiara.