But Shiara remembered the race at Ragrattle Caves. The chaos, the speed, the screams as racers plunged to their deaths and singstone stalactites crashed down around them. The bubbling pool that almost boiled them alive. The Rhino.
The world on television scared her. It was a stark glittering land of wild glamour and danger. Celestials in sparkling dresses and fabulous cars; lowlifes jacked on drugs, waiting to take you down. A parade of stars hanging over a junk heap. Small-town folk warned their children about places like that. You could trust your own kind, they said, but you couldn’t trust anyone from the cities. Deceit was in their blood.
And yet that was where the races were. Real races, not dirt-track boondock circuits or barely regulated suicide runs. Races with an audience of millions. A place where you could show the whole world you were good enough.
She thought of the faded billboard overlooking the Point. RUTTERBY LAKEYNE DRINKS FAZZ! She wondered if one day it would be her and Cassica up there. Wouldn’t that be a thing?
“It won’t be like that last race,” Cassica had told her. “Up there in the big leagues, they don’t aim to kill half their racers. Viewers get squeamish: the sponsors don’t like it.”
“Uh-huh,” said Shiara, sarcastic. “Remember the Slaughter Year?”
“I don’t, and nor do you. But that’s history, and they learned from it. You heard what Harlan said. If you’re prepared, if you’re good enough, you’ll make it through. And we are good enough!”
But there in the sun by the river, it seemed crazy to dream of leaving this place for the unknown perils of Anchor City. This was an honest town with honest folk. A simple life, but a decent one, with a family that loved her. Her future laid out, fixing cars for Daddy, and later for Creek. It wasn’t glamorous, but then, it wasn’t likely to be fatal either.
There was a splash and patter as Cassica pulled herself from the water and up onto the ledge where Shiara lay. She came padding over, dripping, wiping water from her face.
“You been lolling about up here long enough,” said Cassica. “The boys want a game of duckball and we need another player.”
“I’m alright here. Don’t even like duckball.”
“You’re making it sound like I’m giving you a choice,” said Cassica, a mischievous grin spreading across her face.
“You better not!” Shiara warned, seeing her intention. Then she shrieked as Cassica squeezed out her hair all over her, splattering her with water.
She sprang to her feet, laughing. “You gonna frickin’ pay for that!” she cried, but Cassica seized her by the arm while she was off balance and started dragging her toward the river.
Though she was stronger than Cassica and she really didn’t want to go in the river, she let herself be pulled, squealing in outrage all the way while the boys in the water laughed along. You couldn’t say no to Cassica when she was in this kind of mood. By the time they reached the lip of the ledge, Shiara had given up resisting.
Cassica took her hand, and their eyes met. When the two of them jumped, they jumped together.
As night approached, fires were lit on the scrub-covered hillside, and they lounged around in towels, drying themselves. Someone played a guitar nearby, and the distant, sad howls of jackwolves drifted down from the ridge.
Shiara, cross-legged, gazed into the flames. Cassica sat close, leaning her head on Shiara’s shoulder, her eyes closed. A rare moment of stillness. There was something childlike and trusting in it that touched Shiara.
Cassica had never been officially adopted, since there wasn’t much use wasting time on legal matters in Coppermouth, but she was as close as kin nonetheless. They had the thoughtlessness of sisters: affection came easily to them, but they were apt to take each other for granted, because they both felt, deep down, that the other would always be there.
Except suddenly that wasn’t true anymore. For the first time, Shiara faced the possibility that her best friend was going to leave.
No, she thought as she stared into the snapping fire. Ain’t just a possibility. It’s certain.
Over the last few days, they’d talked of nothing else but going to Anchor City. Sometimes Cassica got impatient, wanting a decision from her, and then they argued. She said Shiara was holding them back, that this was the chance of a lifetime. Shiara couldn’t disagree. When Cassica calmed, she apologized and told Shiara she didn’t mean what she’d said. But she wasn’t being honest with herself. She meant every word, and she was right, and Shiara felt terrible for that. Yet still she feared to leave the world she knew for the dangers of the unknown.
Then, last night, Shiara had come to a realization, one so sharp it pricked her from sleep. She sat up quickly in her bed and looked across the moonlit bedroom to where Cassica slept, as if Cassica had spoken it aloud.
Cassica was leaving, with or without her. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but eventually. If Shiara refused to go to Anchor City, Harlan would offer to take Cassica alone, find her a new tech to pair with. Cassica might stay out of loyalty, but the damage would be done. Coppermouth only held her because she’d never seen a way out of it. This town was a cage to her, and Harlan had thrown open the door.
Sooner or later, in a few days or a few years, Cassica would go. And if Shiara didn’t go with her, she’d be left behind.
The crunch of boots caused Cassica to stir against her shoulder. Card was approaching, skirting the firelight. He was carrying his goatherd kit, a whistle round his neck and a shotgun in his hand. He squatted down in front of them, putting the gun across his knees.
“I oughta be off,” he said to Cassica. “Jackwolves are apt to snatch a kid this time of year, and old Karby’ll rip me a new one if I lose any.”
Cassica gave him a drowsy smile and a nod. “See ya,” she said.
Confusion flickered across his face. He wanted a good-bye kiss, perhaps; he wanted her to express regret that he was leaving. But they were things he couldn’t say without embarrassing himself now, so he stood up stiffly. “Uh-huh,” he said, by way of a farewell; then he headed off up the hill into the dark.
Shiara felt a little sorry for him. He didn’t know Cassica like she did. All his efforts to keep her were wasted. She was already detaching herself, readying to leave him behind. He wasn’t part of her future. Too late, he’d realized he wanted to be with her, but she was already leaving in her mind.
Shiara was seized by that dreadful feeling again, the same one that had woken her in the night. One day, the same thing would happen to her, and she’d be left alone in this town. That idea frightened her more than anything.
In that moment, the decision was made. She’d rather be with Cassica anywhere than without her in Coppermouth.
Cassica was looking up at the ridge, her face lit by the fire, hair unbrushed and tangled, her eyes far away. Shiara followed her gaze. There, in the last light, the dust was visible as a sifting haze, blowing off the Rust Bowl over the town. The killing dust that had taken Cassica’s mom.
“Let’s do it,” she said.
Cassica’s head snapped around to face her. “You better not be kidding me,” she warned, excitement and hope in her voice.
Shiara let out a long breath. It felt like a weight had lifted. The decision was made. She smiled. “I ain’t kidding. Let’s do it. Let’s go to Anchor City.”
Cassica let out a strangled cry of joy and disbelief, and pounced on Shiara, bearing her to the ground in a hug. “Yes! Yes! Yes! You’re the best!”
Shiara laughed and struggled. “Alright, alright, it ain’t that exciting!” she protested, even though it really was.
“We’re gonna be famous!” said Cassica. “You and me! You and me!”
You and me, thought Shiara. And it felt right.
The days following their arrival in Anchor City were fast and dizzy as first love. The streets amazed them: the people without number, the din of hawkers and traffic, the fizzing neon signs scrawled across the night. The energy was overwhelming. They went to bed excited and talked
into the small hours, and all their talk was of the city, and what a place it was. They could scarcely believe they’d once considered staying at home.
Harlan was often absent—“Cutting deals, girls! Lots to do!”—so they were left to their own devices for the most part. They used their time to explore, walking the boulevards beneath the billboards where Celestials advertised scents they could only imagine, foods they’d never heard of, cars of impossible beauty. Shiara kept a lookout for Rutterby LaKeyne, but while there were advertisements for all kinds of fazz, different Celestials held the bottles now.
They toured the shopping districts, marveled at fantastic confectionaries, and Cassica tried on dresses when she dared. They felt like intruders then, guilty in the knowledge that they could never buy such finery. With Cassica’s encouragement, Shiara tried a few herself, but she felt awkward and her reflection was unfamiliar. She preferred to stand by while Cassica twirled before the mirror, enjoying her friend’s pleasure. Cassica wore the clothes like she was born to them.
Afterward, Cassica insisted they go to an auto parts showroom so Shiara could run her hands over the latest intercoolers and gearboxes. It was a sore test of Cassica’s patience, but though she drummed her thumbs against her legs and flitted about like a bird in a cage, she protested that she was perfectly content until Shiara had mercy on her and they left.
On their fourth day in the city, they awoke to find a note in an envelope pushed under the door of their room.
“ ‘Meet me at twelve-o, Reunification Plaza, by the statue of Wolkerston,’ ” Shiara read aloud. “ ‘Harlan.’ ”
“He surely is a mysterious sort,” Cassica observed, twining her fingers together over her head as she stretched.
“He’s left us more money too,” said Shiara, pulling out a handful of notes.
“That’s breakfast taken care of, then.”
Their hotel and the area surrounding it were not as glamorous as the shopping districts. There was a bare, unfinished look to the buildings, and the people were coiled and unpredictable. They hung on corners dicing, or moved in furtive groups, and there was a watchfulness about them that Cassica found predatory. More than once they’d been catcalled and had quickened their step to escape. Another time they’d been followed for half a dozen blocks before they came to a busy street and their pursuer gave up. “It’s just for a few days,” Harlan told them. “Only till I get something fixed up.” But they were having such a good time, it didn’t occur to them to be worried.
They found breakfast at a street stall and sat outside eating rabbit skewers and spiced eggs with the space elevator rising above the buildings nearby. There was hardly any place in Anchor City you couldn’t see it, dividing the sky, casting a narrow shadow to the horizon and beyond: a massive cable fifty meters across, stretching upward, thinning and thinning until it was lost to sight.
Somewhere on the edge of space, the Celestials lived in a vast and wondrous habitat, far from the cares of those beneath. The technologies that built and maintained that place were beyond the understanding of the greatest minds of the day. It was a relic of the old world that had somehow survived the Omniwar, a place of almost unimaginable luxury, where every whim was catered for. You could have your food prepared by the greatest chefs alive, wear clothes tailored specially for you by leading designers. Concierges waited on your command; everything was at your disposal. Nothing was ever less than fabulous. There, the most famous and popular people in the world mixed and mingled, while their lives, loves, and losses were chronicled daily for the earthbound on Celestial Hour.
They called it Olympus.
After breakfast, Cassica and Shiara took the bus into the city, where they wandered the streets until at last they came to Reunification Plaza, a pillared circular expanse of stone, garden, and glass. Tourists roamed between monuments commemorating heroes of the Reunification, when the world dragged itself out of the mire of the Chaos Age and the four great nations that shared the continent came to be. On the floor was a map cut from bronze, showing the divisions. Pacifica dominated the west coast, Kurtisland the north and center, while the Eastern Seaboard Confederacy had everything on the other side of the mountains. Texico took the south, all the way down to the half-drowned and storm-lashed wastes of Panamania.
“Don’t you miss Card?” Shiara asked, as if reminded by the map that there was a world outside Anchor City.
Cassica looked back at her friend, who was regarding her with one eye asquint against the bright midday.
“I really don’t,” she said, and she put her arm round Shiara’s shoulder and gave her a squeeze. “I got you.”
Twelve-o came about, and they headed to the statue of Wolkerston, which stood on a pedestal on the edge of the plaza where the road ran close. Shiara reckoned he was some kind of general by the gun he carried and the way he was standing, but Cassica didn’t care much for history. They watched the road instead, remarking on the cars that passed. Never had they seen such a variety of vehicles until they came to Anchor City; back home, everything was rugged and functional, built for strength over beauty. They even spotted a Celestial car, one so sleek and sculpted it might have been designed by some alien engineer, moving silently among the traffic.
The snarl of an engine distracted them, and a Braxford Interceptor pulled up to the sidewalk. Harlan leaned out of the window and grinned.
“Hey there, girls! Like the ride?”
Shiara was already hurrying up and down excitedly, examining it from all angles. The bodywork was bright red and flowed like a wave over the wheels. Large-bore turbo exhausts shone in the sun. It sat low on its chassis, purring with power. Cassica could tell just by the sound that it had a monster of an engine, and it made her heart flutter.
“Tell me that’s for us,” she said reverently.
“Want to take her for a spin?” Harlan asked.
Cassica and Shiara locked eyes in a frozen instant of joyous disbelief. Then they squealed like children and jumped into each other’s arms.
The speedometer edged into the red as the Interceptor tore down the straight, turbos blazing. Cassica held on to the wheel, calm as a stone on the outside, quivering with excitement within. Shiara, in the seat next to her, had a great big smile plastered over her face. She scanned the gauges on the dash, eyes greedy for information as she scribbled down notes on a pad. “The stresses this thing can take are insane!” she yelled.
“How long do you think I can go before the turbo explodes?” Cassica asked happily.
“We’re not even near the cutoff point,” Shiara replied.
“Turn off the safety limiter! See how far we can push it!”
Shiara gave Cassica a look. Cassica grinned. “Kidding!” she said. Back in the days before safety limiters were introduced, racers used to regularly blow themselves up by overheating their turbos.
She cut their speed and swung into a series of turns. Floodlights blazed as they passed; behind them, the space elevator was a string of white dots against the dark, ascending to infinity. Night had crept up while they’d been putting the Interceptor through its paces, yet it seemed as if they’d only just got here.
The track lay inside an empty stadium in the heart of the city, a snaking loop of tarmac used for time trials, junior qualifiers, and other motorsports less lethal—and less popular—than Maximum Racing. Today was a designated practice day, and there had been two dozen cars out on the track, testing their engines and race setup before retreating to the pits to make adjustments. Most had left by now, but Cassica and Shiara’s thirst was undiminished. They could have gone till dawn, if the track didn’t need to close.
They pulled into the pits and backed the Interceptor in next to Maisie. Harlan had hired them garage space at the track for the week leading up to the qualifier, so they moved the old car in with the new to allow Shiara to run comparisons. Maisie looked shabby and battered next to the Interceptor, but Shiara intended to tinker with her anyway, when she got the time.
“What
’s the point?” Cassica asked when Shiara said as much. “We’ve got the Interceptor now.”
Shiara shrugged. There was no point. The Interceptor was superior in just about every department. But this was Maisie, the car Shiara had built and rebuilt a dozen times. She was a comforting habit.
They climbed out of the Interceptor’s cockpit, removed their helmets, and began poring over Shiara’s notes, looking for ways to improve. Harlan was elsewhere; once he’d gotten done basking in their gratitude, he’d gone to the bar, leaving them to speculate how he’d laid his hands on such a fine vehicle. As ever, he’d been evasive when they asked.
“You’re the talent,” he told them. “All you need to worry about is racing. Leave everything else to me.”
Shiara could barely wait to let the engine cool before she opened the hood and started fiddling. Cassica read out numbers from the notepad. She’d only gotten a few lines down, when she noticed someone watching them from the garage entrance, a boy of seventeen or so, dressed in racer leathers and leaning against the jamb.
“ ’Scuse me,” he said once he saw she’d noticed him. He had a flat Greenspan drawl, from north Kurtisland. “Just came by to see who it was throwin’ that Interceptor round the track all day.”
He approached them and extended his hand. Shiara noticed he offered it to Cassica first. Everybody did.
“Name’s Sammis,” he said.
“Cassica,” she replied and shook.
He offered his hand to Shiara. He had a broad, easy face, plump in the cheeks, with a scattering of freckles across his nose. Shiara looked at her hands helplessly: they were streaked black.
“Oh, I don’t mind a bit of grease if you don’t,” he said, so Shiara shook with him too.
“You a racer?” Cassica asked.
“Driver, yeah. My tech’s elbow-deep in our car right now.” He looked at Shiara. “You guys love to tinker, don’t you?”