Rebel (Legend, #4)(17)

But he’s already shaking his head at me and handing the drone back. “You must be new here,” he says with a laugh. “No patron, no race. I don’t care where your name is.”

“But if you just let—”

Any sympathy for me now leaves his eyes. Annoyed, he waves for me to exit the line. “There are people behind you,” he barks, gesturing for the next person to step up.

“Wait!”

I slacken in relief as Pressa emerges from behind the gamblers and heads to the table. As usual, her persona down here looks completely different from what I’m used to seeing of her at the university and her father’s shop. She’s in a long wig, for one—bright blond, a startling contrast from her black, bobbed hair—and sporting a pair of fake pink glasses that make her eyes look abnormally large. She flashes a frown at the man.

“I’m his patron,” she says, taking out a sealed envelope and sliding it over to him.

He seems to recognize her, because he grunts in acknowledgment before tearing the envelope open. Inside is a stack of corras, clean and crisp. He holds them up to the light, then nods and pockets the envelope.

“You’re official,” he says to me, and barely a few seconds later, he nods up to the racer names displayed in the rotating virtual menu. Over my head, a blue light goes on, indicating me as one of the entries. As if in unison, people around us turn to look at me.

“Do you wait in a corner and just watch me until I look like I’m about to do something stupid?” I mutter to Pressa.

She smiles at me and loops an arm through mine. “I don’t have to wait around very long for that,” she replies. “You’re welcome for saving your ass.”

“Where’d you get ten thousand corras?”

She shrugs. “Not important. Been saving up. If your drone’s as good as you say, we’ll earn it back after the first race.” She peers curiously at my backpack. “Care to show me what you got?”

Up on the wall, the countdown has moved down to three minutes, and most of the standing area around the clearing is packed. I can already see the racers lining up in the center, some of them doing last-minute tinkering on their engines.

As we reach the other racers, I show my drone to Pressa.

Compared with the other models here, it’s easily the smallest, maybe the tiniest size that could qualify for these races. But it makes up for any fragility with speed. The engine coils in a perfect circle underneath the drone, and when I flip it on, it glows with a faint blue light.

Pressa makes an impressed sound at it. “Pretty design,” she says, admiring its swept wings. “Efficient. Can it survive a hit, though?”

I shake my head. “If one of the others bumps into mine, it’s game over.”

She gives me a withering look. “I thought you said it was amazing.”

“I don’t intend on letting anyone get close enough to touch it.”

She throws up her hands, but I can see the light in her eyes, the hunger for how much we could potentially win. “All right,” she concedes. “I’m trusting you.”

Overhead, the neon-red bulbs dim, brighten, and dim again, alerting the audience that the race is about to start. I squeeze through the throngs until I’m standing to one side of the arena, on the side closest to the other racers.

One minute until the race begins. Like the rest of the crowd, I reach a hand out in front of me and toggle my virtual-sight settings. To watch the entire race unfold, you log onto a channel being recorded by a default drone that follows the official racing drones. Its footage will play before your eyes as the drones zip through the Undercity’s streets, as if you’re racing along right behind them.

I try to keep a calm expression as people in the audience stare at me, murmuring under their breath. Adrenaline pumps fast in my veins, dulling the thoughts that usually plague me when things are too quiet, and I smile. All I can concentrate on is the thought of winning the race. This, in its own way, is freedom.

Ten seconds before the race starts. I see Pressa moving through the crowd with her head ducked down, trying to be discreet. At the same time, she sends me a message that appears in white letters before my eyes.

Good luck, skyboy.

The other drones lift up into the air, the hiss of their engines filling the space.

As the audience chants uproariously for their favorite picks, I quietly turn on my drone and warm up the engine. In my view, I see its stats go live, a scroll of virtual blue letters and numbers in the side of my vision.

The lights overhead flash once, brilliantly. At the same time, a loud pop like a gunshot echoes from the speakers overhead.

The race has begun.

Every drone darts forward. A huge cheer goes up.

I toss my drone into the air. It glints once. The engine hums into high gear.

“Do your thing,” I murmur at it. Then I wave my hand once.

My drone turns in the direction of the others and jolts forward. Suddenly, in the center of my vision, a live feed from the channel appears as if I’m actually riding on my drone. I focus on the video now, steering my drone into the alleys of the square that will lead out into the streets. As all of our drones zip out into the city, they leave behind them virtual trails of bright colors.

From the side of the square, the announcer gives a whistle. “Keep an eye on Entry Nine!” she exclaims. “That’s a pint-size drone with an engine unlike anything I’ve ever seen!”