Jessan comes up to me as I watch the director go. “I think we’re narrowing down where the drone race’s final is happening,” she says to me, sending me a virtual map of the Undercity.

“Yeah?” I answer.

“Yeah. It might be the same place as the semifinal. We’ve pinpointed a few scattered crowds idling on the sides of the streets. Looks like they’re waiting around for drones to pass through.”

“Then it’s happening very soon.”

She nods. “It’s too hard to track the drones, since they move so fast. We can only rely on the gathered crowds.”

“Once those spectators catch on that they’re being watched, they’re going to scatter in a second.” I force myself to turn away from the crime scene. “Show me where the crowds have been spotted.”

As I start to follow Jessan away from the crime scene, I bring up my directory of names and instinctively pick out Eden’s account to send him a message. But he’s offline again, the tracker on his system disabled. Barely a day since our argument, since he almost got a knife to the stomach down in the Undercity, and he’s already at it again, off to do hell knows what. I sigh. What do I have to do to force him to stay put—tie him down in a chair?

Maybe he’s back home, I tell myself. Or out celebrating, as he should be. Today had been his last day of classes, after all, and he could be out with his friends, laughing his head off in some Sky Floor bar.

If I track his location and find him again, he’ll know. And that won’t get me anywhere with getting him to open up. I take a deep breath and try to ignore the nagging feeling in my gut.

But all that swirls through my mind are memories of the days when Eden was lost to me, when the Republic had taken him somewhere and I had no idea where he was. All I remember is seeing him stumble forward through the ash and fog of war from the hospital, and me scooping him into my arms.

Screw this. I give in to my worries, then tap on the icon for Eden’s location. My AIS privileges let me bypass permissions, so that I can track him without his consent.

A small loading icon swirls in the center of my vision as my system traces him.

Ahead of me, Jessan pauses to bring up a virtual map between us. “See?” she says. “We’ve noticed hints of drone spectators crowded along these locations. It’s not much evidence to go off of, but it puts the rough estimate of where the race is happening tonight right … here.”

She points to a spot on the virtual map.

At the same time, my system finishes tracking where Eden is. His location dot appears, bright red, over almost the same spot where Jessan is pointing.

I blink, then frown and shake my head. “Hang on a sec,” I mutter, reloading the geolocator. “I think my system glitched. Show me where the race is on the map again?”

Jessan brings it up again, while Eden’s location also refreshes.

This time, there’s no mistaking what I’m seeing. A sudden wave of dizziness sweeps over me. Eden is exactly where Jessan’s finger is pointing.

He’s down here in the Undercity. And he’s at the drone race.

EDEN

 

The semifinals of the drone race may have been crowded, but that was nothing compared to tonight.

People squeeze into the already-tight plaza until it’s fit to burst. Those who live in the dilapidated apartments surrounding the square watch from their windows. Some of them look like they’ve charged money for other spectators to come watch from their balconies, because there are packs of people dangling off the side of the upstairs ledges, their legs swinging. Shouts fill the air.

Apparently, word has spread through the underground circles that a last-minute entry surprised everyone and won the first heat last night.

Now I crane my neck, looking through the crowds for any sign of my new patron. Beside me, Pressa keeps my drone tucked securely under her arm and pushes us through the throngs. She impatiently brushes strands of her blond wig from her face as she goes.

“Hey, move out of the way!” she snaps at two large gamblers blocking our path. “You wanna bet on last night’s champion or not? Then let him through so he can set up!”

Barely five feet tall, and yet the people move aside for her, letting her cut a swath through the crowds. I admire the way she throws her shoulders back, and I’m grateful to follow in her wake.

In the center of the square, the virtual display hovering over the space now shows both a countdown clock to the race and a list of tonight’s contestants. Half of the racers have already gathered on the line. I notice a few glances cast in my direction—but this time, the racers look wary. When I meet their gazes, their eyes dart away.

An uneasy feeling churns in the back of my mind. There’s something about the man who became my patron that has reverberated through this space. In some ways, he reminds me of Daniel—he has a natural-born charisma. I think about how he seemed to recognize me in a way that most others never have. And his interest in my drone’s engine …

Pressa nudges me, jolting me out of my thoughts. She nods toward the crowd. “There he is,” she murmurs.

His presence is undeniable. The crowd parts without question for him as he makes his way to the plaza’s clearing. Unlike many down here, he’s dressed in crisp, almost harsh attire, whites and grays underneath a long black coat. Premature silver peppers his hair and stubble. He seems imprevious to all the commotion around him, and indifferent to those watching him walk.

When he sees me, though, he quickens his steps.

“Good to see you here, Eli,” he says to me, resorting to my false name. His eyes dart to Pressa, who still has my drone under her arm. “And all ready to go.”

“Almost,” I reply. “What happens tonight if we win?”

“If we win, you get a pot ten times larger than the one from last night.” Dominic smiles. “That’s why we’re all here, isn’t it?”

“And if we don’t?” Pressa asks.

The man doesn’t seem concerned. “If you don’t, I’ll stay your patron.” He glances at me. “There’s promise in that engine you built. We can do a lot with it, beyond entering it in illegal races like this. I think you’re destined for more.”

Destined for more. I can’t help but feel that same sense of pride welling up in me again. Daniel spends his days worrying more about whether or not I’m alive than what I’ve been working on. The other students at my university couldn’t care less. But Dominic’s words make me stand a little straighter.

“Sounds like a plan to me,” I say to him.

Dominic glances up at the virtual countdown hovering over us. We have five minutes to go. “Then you’d better get to it,” he says to me, and before I can ask him anything else, he’s turned his back to me and stepped toward the crowd.

Here and there, I notice guards in suits watching him, paying attention to his every move. It’s an unsettling contrast to the easy way he talks to me.

Then they’re calling my name to the line, and I return my focus to the race. Pressa’s arms are folded tightly over her chest, and every muscle of her body is pulled taut. She steps closer to me as if to give me a good-luck hug, but stops short, so that we just idle there, with a narrow sliver of space separating us.