TO CHRIS AND CONOR, FOR BELIEVING IN IMPOSSIBLE THINGS. FOR THAT, AND FOR INFINITELY MORE, I LOVE YOU. CHAPTER ONE I pace the garage like some crazy-eyed wind-up girl. It''s too late to back out of the race, but I can''t afford this. The extra fuel. The new wheels. The trouble if we get caught tonight and get picked up by the jackals policing the streets. Or even worse, if Hal and Mary find out we''re blazing right through the middle of town .

I can''t believe I let Benny talk me into this. My crew boss is probably upstairs right now, his belly pressed against the desk while he approves every bet and rakes in all the credits. Sure, he''s got his hands full too. I''m not the only one risking my neck tonight. Somebody has to keep the Domestic Patrol quiet and off our backs. Someone has to manage the web of bribes and favors that keeps the garage doors open and all our engines running. For the moment, all that dirty work has paid off. It''s packed.

Benny''s shop has become the biggest hive of lawless gear-heads and gamblers in Capitoline--their flop-sweat stink taints the familiar, welcome tang of leather and fuel and degreaser. Seems everyone''s itching to hang around and get a taste of the odds. There are always credits changing hands in the dingy betting stalls, but right now, the garage is so busy, you''d almost think this was an actual interstellar circuit race, with pro drivers and corporate stocks on the line. It''s enough to put me on edge. There''s too much money floating around over this race, and like Mary always says, where there''s money, there''s Sixers. And where there''s Sixers, there''s trouble. At least for the likes of me. Like most South Siders, I don''t care too much for the six corporations who helped colonize this planet for profit.

The Sixers might as well rule Castra, and the squeeze they put on the rest of us makes it pretty hard to breathe. Break their laws, complain about working for next to nothing, and you''re blotted out like a stray drop of fuel sap. I swear, one false move and . If Benny hasn''t paid off their hired goons in the DP . I can''t think about that right now. I have to escape the noise and get on the road. Before I change my mind. I move back and forth across the length of the place, past my crew-mates and rivals, between the bay doors and the crowded odds booths and the rickety stairs going up to Fat Benny''s office.

I don''t stop to talk to Eager or Harkness as they slouch against their spit-shined rigs. No high fives or friendly trash talk before we gear up to run against one another. We''re past that now--too close to go time. At this point, all I can do is count down the last few minutes in quick steps and shallow breaths. I don''t stop moving because I can never shake the bone-deep tremble in my limbs before any race, let alone one this big. If I win tonight, outrunning every decent street rig on this side of the planet, I get double my usual share. Benny''s never split the take fifty-fifty before. I''ve been racing for him for two years now, since Bear and I turned fifteen and could quit school for good, and he''s never offered this kind of cut.

And I haven''t questioned it, because every driver knows the deal. You pay your dues, running for the best crew boss who''ll take you on. You start out sweeping floors and cleaning parts until they let you behind the wheel. If you''re lucky, you work your way up and out and maybe someday you save enough to build your own tin-roofed shop. That''s the way it works. Benny Eno gave me his best rig and a choice spot in his garage, and in return I''m supposed to keep handing over the biggest cut of the winnings for another two years. I can live with that if it buys Bear and me a chance for something more, a real shot at making a living on Castra, this dust speck of a planet. And if it puts a little more food on his parents'' table and keeps the landlord from rattling their clinic doors, that''s more than good enough.

That''s all I''m asking for. A little less trouble for my foster family. I walk to the center of the garage, where the floor is permanently sticky, sap-stained by all the fuel that''s been loaded into rigs over the years. My sleek black Talon''s up on the lift and Bear is standing underneath it, double-checking adjustments on the vehicle and noting everything on the razor-thin flex screen in his hand. Suspension sensors calibrated. Check. Fuel cells loaded. Check.

High speed triggers set. Check. If I squint, his face softens and it''s as if we''re six years old again, sitting in emptied surgical supply crates, pretending to race circuit rigs and fly fighter vacs. Even then, he was always the navigator, and I was the pilot. That much hasn''t changed. I drive. He paces the routes, squawking through the headset and watching out for me at every turn. I guess you could say we''re still playing that game.

Bear withdraws, quietly tying himself into the kind of knots only I can untangle. When he turns on me, I catch the twitch rippling through his shoulders. My own satellite, he drifts closer than anyone else is allowed, and I have to look up to meet his ice-blue eyes. But it''s not so bad to stand in his shadow. Most days, it''s a pretty safe place to hide out. "Everything looks tight, Phee. You''re good to go . if you still want to do this.

" His last few words curl like a question. I don''t answer, for the same reason I''m ignoring the pile-up of Mary''s frantic texts on my flex card. ML: WHERE ARE YOU? WHAT TIME ARE YOU COMING HOME? HAL AND I ARE WORRIED. I tune it all out because it costs too much to argue. I don''t want to hash this out with Bear again or lie to his parents. So I stuff the blinking flex deeper into my pocket and jerk my chin at the lift. "Bring her down. Let''s roll out.

" Bear nods. He starts to answer, but stops when my flex buzzes once more. I don''t need to pull it out to know who''s sending the message. "You have to tell them something," Bear says. "They''ll figure out we''re here, anyway. You remember the last time you ignored her texts?" "All right," I say. I don''t need a reminder. I remember exactly what happened.

Mary wasted forty precious credits on a cab, rode all the way over here, and pounded on the bay doors until her knuckles split and every one of Benny''s goons had a good laugh at her expense. But like it or not, she knows nothing will keep me away from the shop. We need the money. The waiting room''s overrun with the throwaway poor, the people who can''t afford the fortune it costs to get even the most barebones care at a Sixer hospital. And if you''re a protester who needs patching up after the DP knock you senseless? Forget it. Walk into any emergency room and you''re as likely to get arrested as get stitches. Better to take your chances at a back-room clinic like the one the Larssens run. I look at Mary''s latest message.

ML: BE CAREFUL. BE SAFE. TELL ME WHEN YOU''RE COMING HOME. I start to delete the message on the tiny screen, but the blink of the words reaches something in me. Hal and Mary will always worry. And I will always disappoint them. For better or worse, I am still my father''s daughter. He may be gone, but I can''t resist racing any more than he could.

Even so, the least I can do is give the Larssens, my almost parents, one night''s peace. I can pretend nothing''s at stake and I''m not in any danger. I swipe my thumb over my flex to reply. JUST RUNNING SOME TEST LAPS OUT AT THE DUNES. WON''T BE TOO LATE. DON''T WAIT UP. CHAPTER TWO Out on the street, I am small. My legs aren''t long enough to win a sprint and I''ll never have enough meat on my bones to scrap my way through a fair fight.

Good thing Bear stays close. Anywhere this side of the Mains, his six-five frame is enough to scare off trouble. It''s enough to make most guys think twice about wolf-whistling or grabbing at me as I move through the crowd. It doesn''t really matter that Bear doesn''t have a taste for violence. With his broad shoulders and his stoic face of doom, he looks like he does, and that is enough. My crew has done their job. Ahead, my Talon''s polished, parked, and ready to go. After pushing through the last of the bystanders, I snap on my gear, slide into the driver''s seat, and buckle the six-point.

Here I don''t need to be tall or strong. My hands are just right to grip the fuel triggers and my reflexes are quick enough to burn off the competition. Behind the wheel, I am fierce at last. Bear steps back from the car, but his voice fuzzes through my headset. "I still say watch out for Eager, maybe even One-Eye." Eager may be a worthy crew-mate, but he lost his edge three match-ups ago, and I''m certainly not scared of One-Eye, the stupid alias Matias Kirk has taken to street race. He can try to look tough and wear that patch all he wants, but we all know he''s still got two good eyes and half a brain. Lame new nickname, same old pain in the exhaust.

As little kids, Matias and I tangled plenty, but I''ve never seen him behind the wheel before. Bet he''s just a sellout, another wannabe driver angling for a corporate circuit contract. Doesn''t matter. Most of the pro-racing hopefuls flame out or disappear soon enough, too scared to run anymore. I give ole One-Eye two weeks. He''s no threat. He won''t be any different. Besides, no one on Castra--nobody on this whole planet--has a ride that matches my sweet black Talon.

With no restrictor plate and the right burst of fuel, I''ll blow past the other cars like my wheels are on fire. I know when to drop the hammer. I''ll let Eager lead until the last mile, but once we clear Merchant''s Plaza, once we near.