Pressa’s been gambling on the races for years. Several months ago, she told me about them, and I went with her to watch a race without telling my brother about it.
I loved them immediately—the homemade ingenuity, the way the drones are usually pieced together haphazardly out of spare parts, some of them sleek and small and fast, others large and heavy and menacing. They tear down the streets at a hundred miles an hour, and when I watch them, I can’t help but be impressed that something so fast and dangerous can be made just by putting together metal scraps from the Undercity’s junkyards.
Now Pressa and I emerge from the elevator onto the grungy ground floor of the Undercity and head toward where she lives, a tiny, ramshackle apartment above her father’s apothecary.
“How’s your dad feeling today?” I ask Pressa as we pass through a food market on our way there. “We’re not bothering him, are we?” We move in and out of the smoke from open grills. Over each food stand hovers virtual text telling me what they’re serving. My system automatically translates some of the foreign text into English. KEBABS. SUGAR CANE JUICE. CORN SOUP. FRIED DOUGH.
Pressa shrugs, trying not to look concerned. “Don’t worry about it,” she replies. “He’s having a pretty good day today. He’s probably downstairs in the apothecary right now.”
Technically, her father’s apothecary is as illegal as the drone races, although Ross City’s too lazy to do anything about it. If your Level is below a 7, you’re not allowed access to regular health care. Antarctica claims it’s because if your Level is that low, you can’t be trusted not to use the drugs for illicit purposes.
So Pressa’s dad runs an apothecary where he sells all kinds of dried herbs and natural medicines that are unapproved by the authorities. It’s not really the best option for the poor, but it’s better than nothing.
Pressa stops on a smaller street branching away from the marketplace, then guides us through the maze of graffiti walls and cracked ground before we finally emerge on a different street.
Her father’s apothecary sits on the corner of this intersection, its window barred with rusted iron and its door ajar. It’s a dingy and dirty place, the kind of shop you’d never see in the Sky Floors, where you can have things like toothpaste and shampoo and medicine delivered right to your doorstep just by saying the items out loud.
But the sight of the apothecary still makes me smile. The lights on inside give it a warm glow. As I step in, the familiar, medicinally sweet smell of licorice fills the air. Next to a potted bamboo plant, a lucky porcelain cat sits on the checkout counter, its painted face bobbing back and forth. The aisles are crowded with shelves of cardboard boxes, each with something scribbled on them in Chinese—raw aconite for treating arthritis, ginseng, ephedra stems, rhubarb roots. On and on.
We make our way to the front counter, where an old man’s chatting with several customers. Beside him is his assistant, a lanky boy named Marren, who’s helping to fill a paper bag with various herbs. The customers pat the man on the back, then wish him well before they leave.
Marren sees us first. He waves, then gently taps the old man on his shoulder. The man’s head jerks up—he peers around the store before his eyes settle on us. He breaks into a smile.
“Well,” he says, giving me a wink as Pressa slides over the counter to give him a kiss on his cheek. “It’s the skyboy. How are you, Eden?”
I smile. “Doing well, Mr. Yu,” I reply. “Pressa says you’re feeling good today.”
“Did she, now?” The man raises a graying eyebrow at his daughter. “You don’t think I always feel good?”
She just rolls her eyes at her father. “Never seen such a sickly guy in so much denial.”
Mr. Yu gives me a mock-pitiful look. “My daughter wounds me every day,” he laments. Pressa gently punches his arm.
He does seem stronger than usual today. His back is less hunched, and his skin looks like it’s got some color in it. Pressa says he has a disease that has been slowly eating away at his muscles, but it’s the kind of thing that you need a Level of at least 25 for in order to treat properly at a hospital.
The herbs Mr. Yu sells don’t do his condition any good. That’s why Pressa gambles. The amount of money she needs in order to get illegal doses of the medicine that’ll actually save her father is so exhorbitant that even Daniel doesn’t make enough to afford it.
“What brings the skyboy down to the Undercity this time?” Mr. Yu says to me.
“Eden’s going to show me how he put together his latest gadget for his Robotics class,” Pressa tells him as she takes my hand and drags me away from the counter.
Mr. Yu brightens at that. “Oh! Great!” He gives me an approving nod as two more customers come into the store. “You know I always appreciate you sharing your Ross University classwork with Pressa. Keeps her out of trouble down here.”
I’m not the best liar, so instead I just give Mr. Yu as toothy a smile as I can manage before Pressa drags me through the apothecary’s back door. By the counter, her father turns his attention to his new customers as they all greet one another enthusiastically.
“Mrs. Abesman!” he exclaims, giving her an affectionate hug. “It looks like my aconite tonic is working wonders for your arthritis. No, don’t worry about paying me back right away. Take your time. How’s your son?”
His voice fades away as we exit out into a back alley.
“Are you ever going to tell your dad how you’re getting some of his medicine?” I ask Pressa as we walk.
“Are you out of your mind?” Pressa replies over her shoulder. “You know how he’d react if he knew about the races?” She turns briefly around to make a mock face of horror. “I’ve spent my entire life trying to protect you from the dangers of the Undercity! You don’t understand how dark it can get. They’ll bleed your wallet dry. They’ll kill you!”
“I mean, he’s not all wrong.”
Pressa shrugs and keeps walking. “Listen, if you don’t learn to take your chances down here in the Undercity, you’ll get walked all over. Besides, it’s not like we have much of a choice. Dad’s Level isn’t gonna get any higher.”
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.