Rebel (Legend, #4)(9)

Her voice turns harder at this. She knows there’s nothing I can say in response to that, so I don’t. What right does a privileged skyboy have to tell Pressa about what they should be doing in the Undercity? Besides, I know what it’s like. The rules are different when you’re poor.

“What are the details of the drone race?” I ask instead as the street we walk through narrows. Here, the graffiti gets denser, paint layered over paint until the walls are blanketed with it.

Pressa pulls out a wrinkled, folded piece of paper from her pocket and shoves it at me. I shake it open and read it.

DRONE RACE

SEMIFINALS at MIDNIGHT

8 RACERS, 8 DRONES

CASH ONLY, 100 CORRAS BET TO ENTER



Pressa glances quickly back at me. One side of her lips tilts up in a smirk. “You still thinking about entering your own drone in this?” she asks.

Races like this are never strict. If you show up with a drone last minute and impress the organizers, they’ll add you into the heat. I nod, then pull the circular engine out of my backpack again and hold it between us. “I want to test the efficiency of this engine, anyway,” I say as I hand it to her. She curiously turns it over in her hands.

“What’s it do?” she asks.

My words turn eager. “I’m trying to get it as close to a perpetual energy machine as possible. See this battery? It’s double the efficiency of the battery that runs my Sky Floor home and ten times as powerful, so I’m going to retrofit it onto a drone, and it’ll shoot the whole thing forward up to two hundred miles per hour—”

She looks at me skeptically. “Get outta here.”

“Numbers don’t lie. If it works like I think it will, I’ll design a bigger version to help power buildings in the Republic.”

“Already getting ahead of your internship, aren’t you?” She raises an eyebrow and shakes her head at me. “You and that bleeding heart of yours.”

“You’re the one willing to risk your life for your dad.”

She shoves me, and I laugh at her. Then she gives me a questioning look. “Won’t you risk losing your internship if you’re caught racing down here?” she says. “Your brother’s gonna kill you if he finds out what you’re planning, you know.”

Daniel. The mention of him clouds my temporary good mood. “He’s not going to know,” I say with a shrug. “Even if he did, he’s not going to be able to stop me.”

Pressa and I stop in front of a tiny shop crowded with people. She raises an eyebrow at me. “Listen, I’m serious. Your brother’s an AIS agent. That’s not nothing. If he tracks you down at a race, he might bring other agents with him and arrest people left and right. I can’t afford that kind of hit.”

“He’s not going to stop us,” I reply firmly. “Now stop worrying about him, and start fantasizing about what you’ll do with a hundred thousand corras when we win.”

Pressa searches my gaze, then decides against arguing. “If we win,” she says.

“When,” I insist again.

She grins at me, then looks back at the crowd as everyone pushes toward the front of the shop. Here, there are no virtual overlays. It’s too dangerous to run drone races on the Level system. So at the front of the shop stands a tall man so lanky that he looks like a moving skeleton. He’s taking cash bets from people and writing them down on paper.

Pressa has no qualms about waiting around patiently in line. She shoves her way forward just like everyone else, snapping at people who are putting in their bets too slowly. Finally, she gets to the front and takes out a wad of cash from her jacket.

She shoves it at the tall man. “A thousand corras,” she says to him, then nods at me. “On this guy.”

The man eyes me skeptically. “Who the hell are you?” he grunts.

I swallow, then raise my voice to match Pressa’s confidence. “I’d like to enter as a racer,” I say.

A look of amusement crosses the man’s face. He somehow has the grace not to laugh at me. Instead, he just shrugs and jots down a note in his book. “You got a drone ready?” he says.

“It’ll be ready by the time the race happens.” I take a deep breath.

He doesn’t ask for more info. If I can’t follow through, we’ll be the only ones who lose money, anyway. He pockets Pressa’s wad of cash and nods at me. “You’re in,” he says. Then he loses interest in us and waves at the crowd behind us. “Next.”

We both step out of line as the people behind us push forward. Judging by how many bettors there are, this is going to be a big race.

When we manage to get out of the throngs near the shop and head back the way we came, Pressa nods at me. “I’ll be at the race tonight about half an hour before it starts,” she says. “You can’t be late, all right? My money’s on you, and if you’re late, they’ll start without—”

“Have I ever been late to a hangout with you?” I reply.

She smiles a little at that, then steps closer to me. Her hand brushes my arm. “No,” she replies. “And I expect you to keep it that way.”

I put both hands over my heart and flutter my lashes once at her. “You know I love you,” I reply.

She rolls her eyes, but her smile doesn’t waver. “I gotta go help my dad at the shop. See you later, skyboy.”