Rebel (Legend, #4)(18)

A burst of cheers and boos comes from the audience. I just grit my teeth and continue. Through my view of the channel, my drone arcs hard around a street corner, narrowly avoiding a collision between two others as it skips ahead. People walking in the streets glance up with startled gasps—two auto-trucks almost hit each other as the drones cut through an intersection. Onlookers who had been gathering through the city in anticipation of the race cheer loudly.

I dart a glance at the crowds in the square where I’m standing. Pressa’s nowhere to be seen.

One of the other drones swivels in midair and swings sharply toward mine.

I barely dodge it. My view whirls as my drone tumbles, diving low until it’s skimming right over the ground. It almost crashes right into the steel post of a food market vendor. People on that street scream as my drone clips in between jumbles of legs before it finally emerges back over the street.

“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 the drones 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. I didn’t know. I’ll withdraw from the race, okay? Let her go. We’ll come back with the money in an hour.”