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!”
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.