Tracked by Jenny Martin

fact, when I turn my head, they move with me. “VR controls?”
    He nods.
    â€œWhat about the throttle?” I ask. “How am I supposed to—”
    He gestures toward the console beside my right arm. There’s a flat-deck touch screen panel.
    â€œThecentertoggleisthethrottle,”hesays.“Swipeitupto open.Allthewaydowntochoke.Blinkingcircleatthetopis your trigger. You have three bursts loaded. Just press and go.”
    Even after I’ve processed his explanation, my right fist wants to close around a mechanical throttle that isn’t there. “This is sooo weird,” I say.
    Gil shouts from the pit wall. “You gonna sit there all day, or you gonna give it a go?”
    â€œYou’ll be all right, Vanguard.” Cash slaps me on the shoulder. “Just go for it.”
    When he steps back into the safety zone, that’s exactly what I do.
    I roar out of the pit lane and into the front stretch. I’m not used to the fancy virtual controls, but my feet still know how to work an accelerator just fine. At first, it’s not that hard to obey Gil’s warning—I haven’t quite adjusted to the setup, so I’m content to keep the RPMs in a reasonable range. Reasonable for me, anyway. Anything less than three thousand feels like a crawl.
    I’m not exactly crawling right now.
    I’m careful around the first two turns. On most real circuit tracks, there are magnetized panels on at least one of the turns. Get too close to the wall, and you end up skidding helplessly against it. The only way to bust free is to burn a fuel trigger. The feature is designed to shake things up on the track, but the mag walls are every speed demon’s nightmare. Waste more than one trigger prying yourself free and you’re rusting done, at least as far as the standings go. Nobody’s ever won without saving those precious fuel bursts for gaining straightaway speed.
    I have no idea if these walls are juiced, so I’m not taking any chances. Gil would probably string me up and eat my liver if I wrecked his rig during a test run.
    I’m just rolling along when I see the exit tunnel built into the back stretch. Looks like Benroyal’s arranged it so drivers can make the third turn and keep driving around the oval or they can exit onto a longer, point-to-point rally course. Every Corporate Cup series has as least two regular lap track runs, but I hate them. What’s the point in going around and around in circles?
    Forme,therealheartofrallyracingisthecross-country course, the traditional, multi-point routes that hearken back to the circuit’s earliest days, when the first colonists sprinted hundreds of grueling miles to stake a claim on their own patch of dirt and sand. Like them, I’m aching to run off this smooth track and onto a rough road with plenty of rolling hills and hairpin turns. Right now, it’s all I can do not to break for the tunnel. And oh, how I would love to make off with this rig.
    But I wouldn’t get very far. And I know what they’d do to Bear if I even tried. So I’m forced to honor my word and I make a nice, clean third turn. As I’m speeding through the back stretch, my eyes finally get comfortable with the virtual hyper-screens. I’ve figured out the throttle, and it’s been too long since I’ve had my foot on the floor.
    I need this.
    My mind slips into a zone—I wonder if my father felt this same rush, driving the circuit. Even as I roar down this empty track, I can almost visualize the blur of a hundred thousand rally fans, screaming from the stands. I hear the snarl of engines on all sides. I feel the sweatbox heat of the three hundredth lap.
    One last turn. Straight shot. I go for one more lap. Then two. Three. Faster. This time, I’ll make this rig scream. My hand slams against the throttle deck and I find the triggers.
    Ready.
    Push.
    GO.
    Whoa. The bursts are like nothing I’ve ever felt.