“Close call!” the announcer shouts. “Entry Nine almost didn’t make it out of that one!”
Another drone guns for mine, attempting to ram it out of the street path. I turn my drone’s nose up. It shoots high into the air before it arcs down, several paces ahead of my attacker, faster and more stable than any drone should be going.
Now people standing around are looking at me with startled curiosity. I’m moving my way steadily up the ranks now as the engine builds in strength. There’s an audible shift in the audience as people start to take notice of how my drone is performing.
A larger drone edges dangerously close to mine. One of its wings scrapes against the edge of my wing. I careen wildly away from the others and go spinning out of control. Cheers and gasps go up.
Pull straight, I tell myself frantically.Pull straight!
The engine stalls for a split second before it roars back to life. I push it as hard as I can—and the sheer momentum forces my drone’s center of mass to steady itself again. There’s an ugly tear along its side, but it still dives back into the fray.
We’re almost three-quarters of the way through the race map now. Only a few more streets to go before all the drones arrive back here in the plaza. Near the beginning of the map, several police drones have activated, their sirens flashing as they struggle to keep up with the racers.
My engine heats up until I can see the blue glow of it hot in the edges of my vision. I focus on the turns. Another drone tries to take me down. The ones ahead of me are forming a barrier. But I force mine up, its body arching over everyone as it sails onward, engine glowing, passing them up one by one.
The finish line approaches in a blur. I can hear the buzz of thedrones as they come back around into the plaza where we are. The other drones are behind mine now. I smile in the clear, my drone edging on—until it finally hurtles across the last marker hanging over our heads. It wins by a good length.
The crowd around me bursts into chaos. There are enraged gamblers shouting at the announcer to throw the game. Others are already calling for bets on tomorrow night. I steer my drone back to the plaza, navigating it to my side before shutting its engine down. It lowers itself carefully to the floor of the clearing, then turns off as I pick it up and put it in my backpack. Other racers around me shoot me ugly glares while they each collect their drones as they come hurtling back one by one into the plaza’s center.
I can’t help smiling a little. I may not have my brother’s charisma or cool factor or resilience. I may not be able to find my footing at my university. But in this—in making things, in finding a way to create something that works—I know I’m good. I know I can win.
A rough hand suddenly grabs me by the back of the neck. Not something I’d expected to feel as the winner of a drone heat. I feel myself lifted right off the ground and shoved roughly forward as a flashlight beams right into my face. Glowing spots explode in my vision. I put my hands up instinctively to block the light.
“Eli Whitman,” a woman snaps at me. Beside her, a man is holding Pressa firmly by her arms.
It’s the tense look on Pressa’s face that chills me.
“You funding this race with counterfeits?” the woman asks me. As she does, she tosses Pressa’s envelope of corras to the ground.
“Counterfeits?” I manage to say.
Pressa shakes her head. “I didn’t know they were counterfeits,”she argues. “They were approved right at the window! Your own guy held them up to the light. Someone’s framing us.”
But the woman just glares at her. “This race is forfeit,” she announces. A roar erupts from the stands—outraged gamblers who’d bet on me, smug viewers who’d lost money on the race. “You need to repay in real corras right now, plus double for a penalty.”
Pressa glances at me, warning me to stay out of this, before folding her arms across her chest and looking at the woman. “And if not?” she says.
“Did I say that was an option?” the woman asks, and the man grabs Pressa’s arms, pulling them back so hard that she screams.
“Hell on earth!” my friend spits out. “I didn’t know they were damn counterfeits! Let me go, and I’ll get you your real money, I swear it. Or cut it from our winnings. We all know who won tonight.”
They don’t look amused by her words. For an instant, I think about bringing up my own bank account—but anything I send them down here will be tracked to my real identity. They won’t accept something that isn’t untraceable cash. “Come on,” I start to say to the man and woman. “She already said she didn’t know.Ididn’t know. I’ll withdraw from the race, okay? Let her go. We’ll come back with the money in an hour.”
Pressa curses at me. Her eyes are wide with anger. “Shut up, Eden,” she snaps. “I’ll handle this. Don’t withdraw!”
But they’re not listening to either of us anymore. The man starts dragging Pressa away—and in his hand, I see the glint of something sharp and metallic. Ice grips my heart in a vise.They’re going to kill her. Already, the audience—excited at the thought of blood—have risen to their feet, their shouts reaching a fever pitch.
“I can pay,” I start to shout. Even though I don’t know what I’d do to stop them, I lunge forward, ready to yank Pressa out of their arms if I have to. “I can pay!” I say again. “I have the money in my account. I just need a way to get it to you untraced. Please, I—”
Then, without warning, the plaza goes quiet. It’s as if a switch just turned everyone off.
The woman and man halt too. Pressa blinks, as confused as everyone else. I look around, trying to understand what has just happened.
Everyone has stopped to stare at a figure that has appeared from one of the other halls with several men on either side of him. He waves them off. Then he’s walking toward us, and as he goes, anyone around him quickly steps aside, lowering their eyes.
The figure is a man, and at first glance he doesn’t seem like much to look at. He is slender, even delicate, and young, his skin so pale it catches the red hue of the bulbs overhead, his hair thick and midnight black. His suit’s perfectly tailored and neatly pressed. He moves with surgical grace. His gaze is fixed easily on me, but there is something about his expression that makes me shrink instinctively away.
I can sense the way this man’s presence tightens a noose around the air, the way it makes the entire audience just a little bit tenser. This is someone that everyone here fears. Pressa and I exchange a quick, uncertain glance.
