I couldn’t decide what to do with my hands. Rivallman had finally taken me up to a double-sided balcony, half inside the garage and half overlooking the spaghetti-space-rally track. We stood garage side while Sarge and Kal busied themselves below with their armored jumpsuits, a brisque and grim familiarity to their methodical movements. The corn-shuck of straps cinching into place filled my attention. I resisted the urge to clench my fists. It’d been too long since I’d heard from Ava and the others. That was, of course, by design. Lack of contact protected the secrecy of our collusion and therefore protected the other team in case things went sideways. Things like this always seem to go sideways. And yet I couldn’t help but envy their position—everyone had a part to play, an active one, too. My part involved standing awkwardly and watching Sarge and Kal prepare to risk their lives for information that might prove outdated, worthless.

But besides my discomfort regarding the stillness of my hands, my desire to tap my foot, wring my hands, etc. I actually felt surprisingly clear-headed. The adrenaline had, today for some reason, converted primarily to a keen alertness. I felt Rivallman’s eyes on the back of my head. I did my best to stand professionally, calmly, without resorting to a military stance.

A pearly-robed assistant approached Rivallman, leaned and whispered in his ear.

“Put it through,” Rivallman said. He looked in my direction and I quickly turned my attention elsewhere. “Interesting,” Rivallman muttered to himself. “Keep me updated.”

My pulse pounded in my temple. I wondered if Rivallman could see it as much as I could feel it. Surely, this man was a busy one. The “keep me updated” situation could be anything. And yet…

We pivoted the other way. The glorious stream of laser-line racing ships paraded from Rivallman’s garage out into the fareway below, joining the other racers. Freelancers, clans, subclans—the mix was chaotic and marbled. I swallowed. The bigger the race, the more dangerous it got. The less room for error, the greater number of unknown factors involved. How do you know the guy in front of you doesn’t have a faulty transistor? That his radiator’s not about to overheat, blowing both of you skyhigh?

I get shivery just thinking about it. I can’t imagine the steel nerves Sarge and Kal must have, their hands steady on their controls. You’d think combat would have sharpened my nerves, and in a way it did, but in another way it fried them. I could handle doing something. But this standing around made me irritable.

They lined up. The parade crouched, ready to spring. Engines roared and rumbled, grew quiet. The horns blared, once, twice, thrice. Then a lone pistol blank, and the world beyond the balcony turned to inscrutable steam, smoke, and unrequited speed.