Born Hero Page 20

  Mercy pursed her lips, then said, “But he’s not the enemy.”

  “You just told me that he was loyal to Blythe and that there was no way to bribe or seduce him away. Not to mention he believes in Blythe’s cause wholeheartedly. What else would you describe him as if not our enemy?”

  Mercy shifted on her stool and buried her nose in the blanket—David’s blanket. There had to be another way, one in which David didn’t get destroyed in the crossfire. But how? How could anyone turn a sincere young man? Then Mercy had a thought and said, “He would never willingly betray the man he knows, but if he were to suddenly believe that Blythe was a villain, perhaps he would. David operates off conscience. If serving Blythe suddenly bothers his conscience, he would switch sides.”

  “Mmm … perhaps. But why do we have to have the boy on our side? True, he would be a grand ally, but destroying Blythe is the victory we need, and right now we are losing. We need to take what we can get.”

  “Because every time we try to destroy Blythe, David foils us. You said so yourself. I’ve watched David make Blythe, and he is the only one who can bring him down.”

  “Possibly, but even if that is true, we’ve already dragged Blythe’s name through the dirt and David remained loyal.”

  “Not we—you. You have yet to allow me to soil the good Blythe’s reputation. If I do it, David will turn. I promise. And once he turns, he will tear Blythe’s campaign to the ground.”

  “We are running out of time on this one, Mercy. We have half a season before the census. If you fail, we won’t have any other chances.”

  “If I fail, there is always Plan B.”

  The man in the shadows steepled his fingers at that. “Francisco, are you prepared to step in if politics fail us?”

  Francisco broke his silent vigil and grunted.

  The man in the shadows looked back at Mercy. “What did you have in mind?”

  Mercy folded her arms beneath the blanket and started speaking. The man in the shadows rose and at first paced his usual route, but as she continued, he slowed and then stopped, facing her with his hands on his hips.

  Once she’d finished, he nodded. “You have a devious mind, Ms. Lorraine.”

  BORN HERO

  “Are you nervous?”

  David tried to relax as he tightened his gloves. He wasn’t about to turn around, not in his present state. Nervous was an understatement; he was terrified.

  “I’m fine,” he said before clearing his dry throat.

  He fumbled with the strap on his helmet, as the snaps were elusive to his gloved fingers. He really should have put his gloves on last. He felt a steady hand on his shoulder squeezing through his flight suit. David clenched his shaking hands at his sides and put his head back as he let out an unsteady breath. The Taumore Season air might have been crisp, but all he felt was sweat pouring down his brow. It was a sunny, brisk day, the first of the Golden Days. He looked over the top of his skiff at the fifty identical ones beside him.

  “Father, I … I’m scared. I can’t stop shaking. How am I supposed to fly if I can’t even hold my hands steady? How did you and Grandfather do it?”

  David envied the other boys’ laughter as they squeezed into flight suits, strapped on helmets, and checked over their skiffs. They seemed excited while he felt terrified. Every other cadet participating in the race was at least three cycles older than David—older, bigger, and smarter—and every one of them had an entourage of well-wishers. As he watched them, one of the older cadets, David Harris Ike, nudged some of his friends, Jerome and Conroy, and pointed at David with a sneer. David Harris was the academy favorite. Before David had arrived, he’d convinced a good many people that he was the grandson of the famed Admiral Ike. He was quite humiliated when the true heir of the Ike legend enrolled in the academy this season.

  David—younger, smaller, and … less intelligent—only had his father with him at the starting line, no friends. His mother couldn’t watch such “reckless endeavors,” as she called them. Even now she hid behind the stands, praying for the race’s cancellation. His grandfather was too old to meander among the skiffs at the start line, so he waited in the stands for David’s father to return. Of course it took longer than half a season to make friends, and he was the only freshman cadet daring enough to participate in the annual academy skiff race. Most boys waited until their sophomore or junior cycle before entering. It was no wonder why the other racers had friends and well-wishers.

  David’s father turned him around and stared through his visor into his eyes, squeezing both of his shoulders as he did. His father’s brow furrowed as he reached for words.

  “Don’t think about the finish line. Don’t think about the victory. Stop thinking about the end of the race and start thinking about right now.” He pulled David’s helmet straps down and snapped them beneath his jaw, tightening it to his head. “Think about how much you love to fly. Think about the wind in your hair and the tingle in your stomach. Think about your skiff as it glides through the air. If you think about those things, you have nothing to be nervous about, but if you divide your mind between the technicality of flying a skiff and the glory of victory, you’ll only fly half as well as you could.”

  David nodded. “I want to win so bad, though. You won your first academy skiff race, and so did Grandfather. I’d be ashamed to break the tradition.”

  “We were two cycles your senior. Never you mind about that. No matter what happens today, your mother and I and your grandfather couldn’t be any prouder. Understand?”

  “Yes, Father,” David said, lowering his head.

  “Good. Now let’s do one final check. Hop in.”

  David climbed over one of the low-profile pontoons and slipped into the confining cockpit in the middle of the racing skiff. It was the school’s skiff, all blue with a single engine and a polymer frame—older but light, agile, and quick as lightning. David shifted in the cockpit. The designers had sacrificed many of the common comforts, such as pad seating, in favor of a utilitarian design. The burner was only a few inches behind his head, and at full burn it rattled his seat something fierce. At least he didn’t have to worry about getting cold. The skiff looked a bit like a dinghy, except for an air intake where the nose would be. The sleek pontoons followed the curvature of the slim cockpit, pointing out the back on either side of the single turbine.

  David’s father began calling out the preflight check: “Tail. … Flaps. … Burner. … Thrust nozzle. … Good. Good.” They continued like that, checking and rechecking the machinery until the academy administrator called for noncompeting personnel to clear the starting line. David’s father reached over the right pontoon and gripped David’s shoulder through the small window in the side of the cockpit.

  “Remember the family motto: Look where no one else is. Do that and nothing will ever surprise you.”

  David nodded, faced the signal steam, and focused his mind.

  “Jeshua be with you, my son,” his father said with one final squeeze, and then he was gone.

  The rest of the boys cleared the start line, patting their fellows on the back with whoops and hollers. The crowd cheered so loud from the stands, David could hardly hear the hum of his skiff’s burner.

  Each cycle the academy selected a random location within the Houselands and constructed a skiff-racing course. Each cycle presented a different type of course with different types of challenges. Last cycle’s was on the Alönian coastlands, where cadets battled against strong ocean winds; the cycle before that, the marshlands of House Franklyn. This cycle the academy outdid themselves. It was as if they knew David was competing, and they wanted to test his mettle at the House Hancock canyons. All the school skiffs were affixed with altitude governors, forcing them to stay within the confines of the canyons.

  The race constructors marked out the raceway with green and red smokers—green meaning the correct direction and red meaning … death. It was a good thing too, because the redstone cliffs and caves were a maze of dif
ferent paths. No one knew the exact path the constructors plotted through the canyons because the academy commandant concealed the raceway and allowed no practice runs. This forced the cadets to balance speed with caution. While no one had died during the academy skiff race in a while, it had been known to happen in the past.

  David wasn’t concerned about the canyon path, or the caves. He knew how to handle a skiff. What bothered him were the geysers. He’d read about the Hancock canyons and how many of them boasted powerful geysers that rocketed spurts of steam hundreds of fathoms into the air. If a blast hit his skiff, it could superheat his pontoons and send him soaring out of the canyon.

  “Cadets, take your marks,” a race official announced over a loudspeaker.

  David and fifty other pilots heated their pontoons and in moments rose ten feet into the air at the starting line. A few overeager lads heated their pontoons too much and the official had to wait for the cadets to level off their airships before he could start the race. David eyed the signal steam. It flashed red for now, but as soon as it flashed green, the race would begin. From his ten-foot vantage point, he could see the entire plateau that held the start line and the stands of onlookers, as well as the edge of the canyon and the drop-off beyond. All vegetation ceased at the top of the canyon walls, and only a few vines dangled beyond. From there smooth, stratified walls disappeared into endless canyon depths. The Alönian rains had washed out these canyons thousands of cycles before. Any vegetation unfortunate enough to take root along the canyon floor during Taumore Season either drowned or washed away beneath fathoms of raging water during Úoi, Swollock, Prumuveour, and Derecho Seasons. This left smooth, redstone walls that flowed and rolled like ocean waves throughout the canyon.

  “Steady, lads, steady,” the race administrator called from his loudspeaker. “We will only begin this race once. All false starts will be immediately disqualified.”

  David blocked out everything around him, save for the flickering red puff of steam.

  “On your marks. Get set.”

  The announcer paused for a dramatic moment, a moment that felt like an eternity. A moment in which a twigjumper decided to land on David’s windscreen and crawl around in random circles. David pursed his lips and looked around the annoying bug at the steam signal beyond. Four cadets panicked in that moment and powered their skiffs past the start line. Some of the observers moaned or gasped. A few snickered.

  “Well, at least I can’t take last place anymore,” David mumbled to himself.

  He ignored the twitchy cadets and kept his eye on the flashing red steam. It flashed green at the exact moment the announcer shouted, “GO!”

  David slammed the throttle down as fast as he could, along with forty-six other skiff pilots. He rocketed forward a few feet in front of the others thanks to quick reflexes. The unwelcome twigjumper blew to the edge of his windscreen, where it clung for a few heartbeats before the wind tugged it free.

  David knew that there were two schools of thought about beginning a skiff race. Elevation presented a unique advantage. Gliding above competitors could make the difference between winning and losing when the race got tight. At the same time, pushing a skiff to higher elevation would cost speed. Most competitors balanced between the two, racing forward at best possible speed while nudging the burner and gaining precious fathoms along the way. David chose the more reckless school of thought, directing all power to his single engine. He inched farther and farther ahead of his competitors as he approached the edge of the plateau. To all observers it appeared a foolish move. This racecourse demanded elevation for victory, as the bottom of the canyon was narrow. Let them think him a fool. He knew what he was doing.

  He angled his skiff toward the giant steam signal, glowing green into its vaporous heights. David checked above him, where a few other skiffs glided a fathom or so behind. It would be tight. He pushed so hard on the thrust control that he thought it might break off, but he needed every last possible foot if this was going to work. Then he raced over the steam signal only a few inches above the disk-shaped unit that dispersed the steam and projected the light. The light winked out as his skiff covered the projector, but then he felt his craft buck as the steam’s updraft pushed his little airship up, giving him another twenty feet of elevation and matching him with the other racers.

  One skiff bumped into his rear as he ascended in front of it. The crowd roared, some cheering, some booing. Strictly speaking, this was a no-contact race, but accidents did happen, and technically he bumped into David. For a moment he thought he could hear his father bellowing “That’s my boy!” but then his skiff shot off the edge of the plateau and he felt gravity tugging him into the canyon as the governor engaged and the burner shut off.

  David’s skiff plunged forward, leading the pack as they dove into the chasm. The smoothed redstone walls rose hundreds of fathoms into the air, and David had a slight bout of vertigo as his ship tilted forward and he looked the entire distance to the rugged canyon floor. Lines representing thousands of cycles of rock strata shifted like pink waves of water as he soared past them. David laughed as the wind howled over his skiff and the cockpit hummed: a sure sign of terminal velocity.

  As he neared the canyon floor, the governor disengaged, and David turned his burner to full power, heating his pontoons as much as the altitude governor would allow. He leveled off about twenty fathoms from the canyon floor—not a lot of room to work with. He could almost feel the other skiffs rumbling behind him. He wanted to look back, but the canyon narrowed ahead and he needed all his concentration forward. David leaned left and right inside his cockpit, anticipating each turn as he guided the skiff between the close walls. Two skiffs could barely fit abreast. One skiff edged up beside David, but he nudged it back at the next turn. All was going well … until the canyon opened up. A skiff bumped David on his starboard pontoon. As David scowled over at the other pilot, he saw a distinct red stripe on the skiff and realized it was David Harris. The older cadet backed his skiff off, cocking his helmeted head as if to taunt David. At that very moment another skiff crashed into his port pontoon, knocking him toward the canyon wall. David had two choices: slam into the smooth rock wall or cut thrust. He cut thrust, and David Harris and two other skiffs, clearly Jerome and Conroy, shot over him.

  A dozen other skiffs zoomed past as David struggled to get his airship under control. Once he leveled off and reengaged his thruster, he was somewhere in the middle of the pack. He could still see David Harris’s skiff where it flew in a V formation with Jerome and Conroy, barring anyone else from passing him. David cursed himself for falling for the oldest trick in the book. If he’d kept his mind on the race, he probably would have seen through that. But at the same time, David remembered his father’s advice: Don’t think about the victory; think about now.

  David watched the racers in front of him turn to the left and drop into a cave at the base of the canyon wall marked with green smoke. He held his breath as he banked his skiff and charged into darkness. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust as the cave ceiling blocked out the sun. But once the darkness swallowed the sun, glowcrystals illuminated the cave walls, casting a dim light. He rounded corner after corner, each one reflecting a faint green light. The cave opened into a giant chamber, the entire floor covered with spiky green glowcrystals. If he’d had the time, David might have admired the scenery. As it was, he heard a few skiffs impact against the cave wall at the opposite end of the chamber and knew he was in for some sort of challenge. He saw why as soon as he turned out of the underground cavity and into a tunnel. Several skiffs collided with each other as the chasm narrowed into a skiff-wide passage. David guided his skiff over the others, following the glowcrystals along the narrow passage until he saw a sparkle of sunlight in the distance. He aimed his skiff at that point and increased to full thrust. The sparkle grew, and after a few moments his skiff shot through the cave opening, kicking up a dust trail at the low altitude.

  The cave spat David’s skiff out into a
giant redstone basin, with grandfathom-high canyon walls encircling the depression. David looked across the basin and saw a dozen skiffs racing toward the opposite side where the bowl split into three caverns, the center one marked with green smoke. Even as David watched, leaning forward and focusing on the other skiffs like a voxil stalking prey, a geyser exploded a hundred fathoms ahead of him, giving him a start as rocketing steam and sulfur erupted into the sky, carrying an unfortunate skiff with it. The skiff shot into the air and spun as the pilot cut thrust and guided it back to the ground. The other skiffs veered around the geyser. David almost followed suit, but then he had a thought. He angled his skiff right over the place where the geyser exploded and prayed he was right. David figured that a geyser only erupted when the pressure beneath the ground built to a crescendo. That meant he had at least a few minutes, probably, before the next explosion. Not steering around the geyser would let him pass at least two more cadets, so it was worth the risk. As David passed over the place, he smelled the distinct scent of rotten eggs. He held his breath and chanced a glance down at the bubbling crater. The center was already bulging in anticipation of another eruption. He breathed a sigh of relief once he passed over the crater’s other side, but stiffened when the geyser burst only seconds after his crossing. It was probably best not to tell his mother about that part of the race, if he ever wanted to race again.

  Only eight skiffs remained in front of him as David soared to the other side of the basin and angled into the cavern on the opposite side. As he entered it, he saw the leading skiffs: David Harris and his two cohorts still flying the V formation.

  The cavern wound through the redstone canyon, a little stream trickling along the base. David cut every corner, banked every turn, and squeezed out every bit of thrust he could during the straightaways. He passed another two skiffs in the cavern, outmaneuvering them in the tight confines, leaving only half a dozen in front of him. As they exited the cavern, green smoke directed the racers toward a winding canyon. David couldn’t be sure, but he suspected this was probably the final portion of the race, though it seemed a bit mundane. Even as he had the thought, a geyser exploded a few feet to his right. The wave from the blast rocked his airship, but nothing more. If it had been bigger … Well, it hadn’t been, so what did it matter?