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A smile spread across her face as she looked out over the mottled purple-and-green curve of Belethea below, and she let out a triumphant whoop. Her body twisted among the frenzied clouds, and her racing heart soared, a wild laugh shaking her heaving chest.
“Belethea has never won the race royale, but they’ve never had you.”
Ezren grabbed a long, chunky sweater off the clothes-strewn floor and threw it on over the tank top and tights she’d slept in. Then she snagged her pack and her goggs from her desk, littered with about a dozen other electronic trinkets, cups, and exercise bands. She dashed in and out of the tiny, shared bathroom, pausing only briefly to knot her mousy hair atop her head. Oh well, at least she didn’t get a grade for personal appearance.
Ezren shrank just a little more at all the “ations” he volleyed at her like little spitballs of disappointment.
With her gone, Coach Bhatt retired to a different system, and his mother finally off his back, he’d effectively been cut loose. Free. But also directionless. With nothing to anchor him here, it should’ve been the perfect time to step away. And yet, without those forces of motion in his life pushing and pulling him in different directions, he seemed to have lost any kind of momentum, instead freezing in place exactly where they’d left him.
Simon Grady—his contemptuous dark eyes passing over Foster from under his meticulously styled curls—and
Foster looked over to where a live holopro of Warner Calderon, founder and organizer of the Belethea Race Royale, CEO of Calderon Industries, and the owner of the Belethea national team stood in front of the room in a spotless navy three-piece. At 102 years old, he almost certainly never went topside anymore, but his old-fashioned brass goggs still nestled in his thick silver hair like any true Belethean.
He knocked his knobby fists together three times in the race royale’s signal. “Into the churn!” “Into the churn,” the room echoed dutifully.
“In the past, Belethea has recruited athletes through a system of networking. We don’t want athletes who are here because of who they know. We want Belethea’s best, regardless of their resources or connections. Everyone earns their keep here, and everyone is going to work hard.”
This year would be different than the last one—than the last ten. For better or for worse… and most likely for worse. So did he want to be a part of it?
Her oversized goggs dangled around her neck, and her long white coat hung to her knees on her short stature. The same diminutive stature she’d given to her daughter, but more graceful than Ezren’s square frame. She tugged on the edges of her short brown bob, her intelligent cobalt eyes reflecting the storms she studied. The same eyes Sam had, just edged with lines drawn from years of laughter… and maybe a few of grief.
While Ezren dreamed of horizons and mountains, Davis dreamed only of more stars.
“We’ve got to put one foot in front of the other. Day by day. Every step is a win, no matter how small.”
While they didn’t offer near the protection of the nanite topsuits, he didn’t blame them. The nanites cycled through the bloodstream, harvesting energy from the user’s cells to increase athletic performance and enable self-repair, extracting a steep toll on the body. They gave a big stamina boost, but without extensive acclimation training, they could easily do more harm than good. It was one of the main reasons royalers had to be between eighteen and twenty-one. It was the only age window when they could wear the royale topsuits almost indefinitely. After that, the extended nanite drain could
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Whoever that holologger was obviously didn’t know Sylvia. If anyone threw chaff at her, she’d stuff it back down their throat until they choked on it.
She curled her hands into fists and knocked them together three times. “Into the churn!” “Into the churn!” the crowd echoed, their calls scattered on the wind.
But even though she was gone now, he knew it was Vieve who held him here. Her unyielding drive to find the heart of the churn and stand on the podium—their shared dream of bringing honor to their planet instead of humiliation. Even if he didn’t believe in that fantasy anymore, being here was the least he could do for her. His goodbye.
Thankfully, his helmet and goggs obscured most of his face, so although they could see his eyes, they wouldn’t be able to make out the utter disdain oozing out of his pores. But if he didn’t say something, Sylvia was liable to murder him on goggcam… which might finally give her the VSoc boost she was looking for.
Hopping to his feet, Foster followed her stare to where a figure in a horrifically old-fashioned royale topsuit barreled across the plain toward them. She moved unnaturally fast for the obvious amount of bulky weight hanging on her limbs. Pumping her arms furiously, the massive crack in her helmet glinted as she closed the distance. But her goggs couldn’t hide the sheer determination in her night-black eyes, the crew and press scattering before her magtrain of metal-coated fury.
Casolla help him, she was a chaffing force of nature. And she was tiny.
Though she couldn’t remember his name, her alleged partner cut an impressive figure in his form-fitting teal-and-black topsuit. His broad shoulders and a muscled chest balanced well atop long lean legs that probably put him around 6ʹ—more than a full head over her. Though his helmet obscured everything except his clear goggs, she could make out the incredulous expression on his face. Yeah… he obviously had a little higher expectations than the rampaging mess that was her.
The guy made a noise as if to say something, but Ezren didn’t have any more time for words. She grabbed his arm and yanked him after the disappearing royalers.
Ezren peered into his visor to try to get a sense of his expression but could glean nothing from the stormy green-gray eyes within.
The Guy: Well, I’ll be chaffed. Nine left. Not bad, new girl.
The guy snatched the rear wheel, and he leaned in close to her, yelling this time over the crashing thunder. “This is a stupid idea!” “This whole race is a stupid idea!”
“You’ll have to lean into me!” he shouted, his body pressed against hers. His chest pushed against the back of her head, his legs against her legs. Ezren’s mouth suddenly went dry as it truly hit her what they were about to do. “Is this a bad time to tell you I’ve never terrasailed before?” “All you have to do is hold on. And if you’re the praying type… well, it couldn’t hurt.” She found herself laughing instead, the complete absurdity of it all overcoming her. The thrill of the storm and the adrenaline and the open sky coursed through her electrified nerves, tingling across her skin. The
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He leaned forward, resting his chin on her head in a pathetic effort to protect her as Belethea’s icy bullets pattered against the mesh of his racing suit.
He didn’t know where Sylvia had found this girl, but she had to literally be from a different world.
That made sense. Most of the royalers had a specialty—the
the legs, the wheels, or the fists. At least now he knew she was mortal.
He peered into her midnight eyes for a better diagnosis, but she met his stare with clarity. “Yes.”
He turned to the right ring, and his eyes met the cool hazel glare of none other than Simon Grady. Bex turned from watching Talmadge’s brawl to face Foster with her white brows drawn low over her hard stare. Well, that settled it then. They were totally chaffed.
Her hands curled into fists as the straight-backed girl—Gunderson, they’d called her—gave her an icy blue death glare. Her partner stood casually beside her, slinging his own chilled glower at Sterling.
Grady turned toward her, blinking quickly with surprise. And then, strangely, he laughed.
He gently guided her by the arm, a lazy smile in his voice. “In case you missed it, that was the royale part of the Race Royale.”
“And team number two is… Hart/Sterling!”
Well, that was not the race he’d expected to run. In fact, that was unlike any race he’d ever run.
Now here he was, lungs burning after a—no kidding—six-mile sprint to the finish line. And this no-experience, heavy-suited late-starter had come in second.
This girl did not pull punches, she did not step back, and she would’ve powered to the finish even if she’d been in first. And there’d been a part of him that had wanted to see what she could do. What they could do.
He stepped in front of her, shielding her as best he could from the handful of fans and reporters jockeying for an interview.
Fully revealed, her black coffee eyes, underscored by dark circles against her pale skin, darted around the room. Her round lips pursed, and she rubbed at her nose with the back of her glove. Here, she showed none of the confidence and daring she had on the surface. In the light of the afternoon, she seemed small, and, well… kind of cute.
He turned and headed to his own locker room, mulling over the mystery that she presented. Talent like that didn’t just pop out of the ground like belweed. She was strong, and she knew Belethea’s temperament even better than he did. That took experience.
He rushed through his shower before pulling on a surprisingly grease-stain-free pair of cargo pants, a t-shirt, and his usual bomber jacket. He passed a hand through his brown hair, still wavy with the damp, and called it good enough. After all, if he tried too hard, someone was sure to notice.
She wore a baggy, oversized sweater over a pair of leggings and gray mag-trainers, her wet hair hanging just past her shoulders.
Foster leapt to his feet, getting between Ezren and the tension that rippled from Talmadge’s rigid stance.
“She’s the best recruit Belethea has seen in years, and if you don’t take her, you’re absolutely out of your mind.” Ezren’s cheeks glowed scarlet, and she buried her face in her hands while Talmadge’s fists turned white-knuckled at his sides, his eyes practically bulging.
If she said no, he would probably never see this girl again. And he was surprised to find, for whatever reason, that bothered him.
But this girl didn’t seem to walk away from anything, and he definitely didn’t want her to walk away from him.
He’d said she should come…and she had the strange feeling she could trust him.
Of course, there was no way around Belethea’s churn belt back then, so they had to run, climb, drive, and fight through the storms to Belethea’s equator.
