Somehow, I get the sense that she also thinks there’s more to winning this race than meets the eye. But for now, that’s my job. And if we win, Pressa’s father can get all the medication he’ll need for the rest of his life.

Pressa nods at me. “Good luck,” she says, flashing me a brief grin. “Not that you need it.”

I don’t know why I feel compelled in this moment. Maybe it’s the flush of her cheeks, or the fear pumping through my veins at the thought of losing this race. But I suddenly lean toward her and, when she doesn’t back away, give her a light kiss on her cheek.

“I’ll do my best,” I say. It’s amusing to see a look of surprise on her face for the first time. Her eyes are bright and wide.

Then she smiles and shoves me toward the racer lineup. “Yeah, you better,” she calls over her shoulder as she heads back into the crowd. I watch her go until I can’t distinguish her from the mass of onlookers.

The red lights overhead flash again. Everything in the space tenses. I turn my view onto the channel that will follow the track of this race, then brace myself in the line and turn my eyes to the starting path.

Then the starting sound goes off. My drone flies out of my hand to hurtle forward, nearly lost in the blur of others. Cheers explode from the audience.

I tune out the mystery of my patron. I tune out what Pressa might be thinking about me or where she is in the crowd. I forget about my brother. All I do is focus on the track.

My engine, now warmed up, moves faster than ever. It glows a fierce blue-white as it curves around the end of one alley branching off from the square, clipping past two other drones to take an early, easy lead before vanishing around the intersection.

From the stands come shouts of surprise—but unlike at the semifinals, there are no grumbles. No angry calls at me. It’s almost as if Dominic has stopped anyone from wanting to antagonize me.

Drones close in from behind me, seeking to knock me out or catch me off guard from both sides. But I’m too far ahead now, and they can’t catch up. We hurtle through the narrow streets of the city—past one intersection, then another, through a food market, down an alley winding around a series of smoke-spewing factories.

This time, I’m better at steering my drone. It zips sideways through a small crack in a wall, narrowly staying on track while cutting short the race path by a hair. One drone manages to close in behind me. I veer my drone up, tricking it into following me, and then suddenly dive down toward a busy street of stalls selling fabrics and pots. At the last second, I pull my drone level again. But the one following me can’t do it fast enough. Its wing catches the side of one of the stalls, and it goes careening out of control, smashing into the side of a building in a shower of sparks and metal.

The people on the street let out startled cries. It’s all I get to see before my drone leaves the scene behind to dart through the rest of the track.

There are no other challengers that come close this time. My engine churns faster and faster, its glow intensifying. My heart feels like it’s close to bursting. This is exactly how I’d envisioned it working. It’s perfection.

The entire race felt like a blur of seconds. Then I’m already hurtling back toward the square, leaving a trail of virtual neon blue on the race path behind me.

My drone zooms back into the square, winning by a handy two lengths. The crowd explodes. I can feel hands slapping my shoulders hard. A ringing fills my ears as the plaza catches the fever of a hot race. Everyone is on their feet. Vaguely, I register Pressa shoving me in excitement as my name appears at the top of the rankings again.

The rush of the win is so strong that I feel dizzy from the glow of it. I close my eyes, relishing the feeling, not wanting it to end. Everything is a haze around me—the roaring stands, the virtual numbers hovering in the center of the arena, shifting in real time as they declare me the winner.

Then the red lights in the plaza flicker. The audience looks up, momentarily confused. They’re supposed to flash only when the race begins and ends. Delayed reaction? But right as I think it, they flash again—then flicker out completely.

I blink in the new low light. Everyone breaks into a buzz. Already, some people start making a beeline for the exits as whispers lace through the crowd that the event’s been compromised. The police are here! The guards are coming! Clear out!

Somehow, my eyes catch a movement that’s all too familiar to me—the sight of a silhouette high up against a wall, perched with perfect balance. I see the figure against the massive circuit-breaker board that I’d first seen situated at the entrance to the plaza. Even though I can’t make out anything but his outline, I recognize him immediately.

My brother is here.

DANIEL

Usually, when I’m in the Undercity, I’m doing a sweep with my fellow AIS agents. I’ve definitely shut down illegal gambling and drug operations and all sorts of other cracked businesses before, as well as closing down unauthorized, makeshift elevator stations built out of old sewage tunnels.

But tonight I’m alone, masked, and hooded. I look like one of the hundreds of gamblers that roam this place.

It’s obvious that this side of the Undercity is the worst side—rows and rows of tents line the walls along the narrow, dark streets, and vendors stand outside forlorn, empty shops, watching me as I pass their storefronts.

Here, in this outfit, I go back to my Lake routine—hunched shoulders, listless gaze. I’m careful to keep a lookout for anything suspicious while at the same time not making eye contact with anyone. It seems to work okay. People think I belong down here, someone who’s clearly used to walking rough streets. But it still puts me on edge.

I didn’t come to Antarctica just to return to living like a street orphan.

What the hell is Eden doing down here again? The thought rings through my system like a warning bell. He’s the smartest damn kid in his entire university. He’s got an internship waiting for him back in the Republic. He’s got friends. He’s got everything he needs.

Why is he here? Why can’t I understand him? Why won’t he talk to me?

His location now takes me to a small, unremarkable bar. The bartender gives me a hostile look. This kind of place should be intimidating for most people unused to being down here, but I’ve seen plenty worse than this.

“What’s going on in there?” Jessan says over our line.

I observe the bartender’s posture, then everyone else in this space. “My guess is we need a password to get through,” I whisper. “Can you scan the outside perimeter for anything behind this building?”

“Looking now,” she says. I step out of the bar and into one of its narrow side alleys.

At first, it looks like any other dead-end street—a narrow space packed with garbage bins and wads of trash strewn all over the place. But when I walk closer to the back wall and run my hand along it, it feels thin and hollow. On the other side, I hear the sound of raucous cheers. There hadn’t been a doorway to this in the bar, at least that I could see. This is some kind of shoddy, makeshift wall separating the main streets from a hidden space.

I glance up to see where the back wall ends. It extends up maybe five or six floors, a crumbling brick surface bordered on either side by dilapidated apartments.