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“Who are you?” a voice asks. I jump and look to see a boy in a tuxedo sitting on a rock amidst the garden’s trees. A holo plays in his irises. I recognize his strange eyes and his dusty gold hair, and for a moment I think I’m looking at the Reaper himself. But he’s a child, one I’ve only ever seen on the HC and from a distance. I look at the ground.
“Lyria, sir.”
“The foxwalker.” I’m surprised he knows me. “I’m Pax.”
“I know, sir.” It’s a false humility, introducing himself. He’s the most famous boy in the Solar System. The bloodydamn First Child. Head’s as bare of sigils as his father’s.
“Sir.” He wrinkles his nose. “Don’t start with that.” I bend awkwardly at the waist, forgetting I should bow even though he’s a boy. “Or that!”
“Sorry.”
“Can’t be helped, it seems. Were you lot watching the race?”
“The race?” I ask. He taps the corner of his eye. “No. I mean the others were. Don’t know slag about races.”
“Really? Well, time for an education, I think!”
“I really should just—”
“Oh, Uncle Kavax can stand a moment without the beast.” He smiles sincerely. “Please. It’d be nice to talk about anything but politics. Mother makes me sit in on those little councils of theirs. Had to listen to Senator Caraval for two hours yesterday. That man can bloodydamn talk.”
I flinch.
That is not his word.
He pats the bench beside him. I awkwardly join, fearing what Bethalia would say if she walked in, but I can’t very well say no. He switches the feed from his eye back to his datapad and then into the air. Ships suddenly fill the garden. The cherry racer is still out in front, darting between three star constellations suspended above the Hyperion cityscape. A pack of other ships follow in a tight line. “The Circada Maxima,” he says over the roar. “I begged Mother to let me go, but she said it would be bad form to miss Quick’s birthday. And a security risk.” He points at the cherry racer. “That’s Alexia xe Rex. Best pilot in the Solar System.”
“I thought Colloway xe Char was the best,” I say.
“The Warlock? Psh. You’re brainwashed already. Pity.” He examines me with a wide smile.
“I heard Char has one hundred and twenty-six kills.”
“If we’re counting kills as skill…sure, he’s good. Class to himself. But he’s a gunslinger. Rex is a ballerina. Both outliers. Both artists, but…here, here, watch this turn. Most’ll ease up on the accelerator so they don’t crash into the wall. But they lose speed. She’ll cut her rear engines, shunt power to her starboard thruster, and then pump the energy back to the rear, all without stalling or blacking out. Watch.”
I watch him.
He’s not like any boy I’ve ever known. He’s aware of himself. Who he is. Who his parents are. I think he knows how nervous I am. So he goes out of his way to be kind, cheery. But if he really was so chummy with servants all the time, he’d be watching in the break room, not skulking here in the garden. But in the race he loses the self-consciousness and the boyish energy bursts out, reminding me of my brothers.
We watch as the cherry racer speeds toward a huge white pylon. Behind the pylon is a floating wall on the edge of the racecourse. All the other ships slow to take the pylon turn. But Rex’s banks around the pylon, arcing like a kite on a tight line, and then rockets back the way it came, rounding the obstacle in a blink. “Hohoho,” Pax cheers. “That’s flying.”
His enthusiasm is infectious and I find myself cheering with him as the cherry racer speeds across the finish line several minutes later, the rest of the pack trailing far behind.
“So?” he asks.
“She’s good,” I admit. “But I still like Char.”
“Because he’s handsome.”
“No.”
“But he is.”
“Maybe you think he is….”
“Funny. Then why?”
“My brothers are in the legion. Infantry. Anyone who takes Society rippers out of the sky has got my love.”
