Echo Nova

"Keep the camera on me!" I shout into the disk microphone on my collar as I race toward the edge of the roof, the cold rain pounding against my visor. If I die tonight, I want to make sure it’s captured on video.

"Oh, is that what I’m supposed to be doing?" Garon’s voice buzzes with static in my helmet’s embedded earpiece.

The helmet isn’t what it used to be. Whoever owned it before me probably tossed it in the dumpster after the statistical display stopped working. At one time, the visor might have shown me the distance to the edge, the wind speed, and the angle at which I should jump.

But through the rainy night, I only see the edge of the roof rushing at me and, beyond that, the lights of the city. I can’t see where I’m going to land, but I don’t care. All I need is the flashing red dot of Garon’s black-market cam hovering in front of me. I pretend the city lights are all shining down on me, waiting for a show.

So I give them one.

My left foot hits the lip of the roof, and I launch myself into the air. This will be the image everyone remembers after the race—the Red Dragon, clad in black leather with stitched flames and a crimson dragon’s head painted on his helmet, legs pressed together but arms outstretched like wings, riding the wild night.

But if my gravboots don’t activate, it will be the last time anybody sees me alive.

I kick the heels together as I plummet toward the next building.

Nothing happens.

Uh, Dash . . . Garon says.

I pound the boots together again, my form forgotten as death stretches out its arms in the shape of a concrete roof, waiting to embrace me.

C’mon! I slam the boots against each other.

The energy clicks on seconds before I crash. It’s happened before, but never from quite so high.

Still, my body knows what to do. I was born for moments like this, the rush of adrenaline, the reaper’s cold breath on the back of my neck. The pulse from the boots feels like a cushion of energy beneath my feet, padding my fall. I pull myself into a ball and roll as I land.

The boots deactivate.

Nothing feels broken, and in a flash, I’m up and running. Garon, tell me you got that!

I’ve heard that the corporations watch race vids to scout talent, that winners sometimes get asked to audition as timestars. Probably just rumors, but it’s always in the back of my mind when I compete.

Nope. Garon gives a nervous laugh. I decided to cut my losses and move my cam to another racer.

I smile as I jump to the next roof, doing a quick flip over the short distance. So your camera is way behind me, then?

Actually, somebody is about to cross paths with you.

The city lights reflect off a green jumpsuit streaking across a higher roof on my right. I curse the moment I see her. The Serpent. She’s beaten me more times than I care to remember, though I’m pretty sure Garon keeps a running tally. I’ve never seen her—or any of the other racers, for that matter—without her helmet. Rooftop Ralf says it’s better for business if we never take them off. It’s easier for the fat cats to place their bets and gulp down drinks if they don’t have to see our faces when we die.

The Serpent uses her gravboots and repulsor gloves to glide down to a roof ahead of me. Her tech is better than mine, which makes me resent her even more.

But she’s a straight runner—no style, no showmanship.

Not like me.

Think you can catch her? Garon asks.

I pick up speed. Forget caution. Forget form. The Red Dragon is famous for stunts, but if I lose another race, the gamblers will stop laying credits next to my name.

My boots pound the rooftop as I dodge between antennas and ventilation shafts. The Serpent pauses to look in my direction, a mistake I’ve never seen her make before. She’ll regret that. I gain two steps on her.

She turns and starts to jump for the next building, but her boot slips before she can launch. Her feet slide out from under her, and her back slams against the edge of the roof.

A wave of heat rushes through me as she starts to go over. We’re at least ten stories up. If she isn’t hit by a gravcar on the way down, the street will finish the job.

Her green glove grasps the roof’s edge as I rush toward her, preparing to leap over her body.

Then it happens. The thought of my little brother.

Knox.

I know my kid brother isn’t watching. Rooftop races are illegal and broadcast on a short-range pirated signal. The cops don’t bust us up unless the money gets big enough to grab their attention. They couldn’t care less if a few of us kids from the Dregs kill ourselves to entertain our betters. The people watching are probably screaming for me to blast right past her, a few secretly hoping I’ll step on her fingers.

But what if Knox did see this? I already know I don’t have a choice.

The others are closing in, Garon says as I skid to a stop at the edge of the roof. If I lose, it’s his money, too, but I can tell by his voice he’s not trying to talk me out of it. I reach over the ledge.

What are you doing? The Serpent clutches my outstretched hand even as her voice conveys disbelief, as if saving her life might somehow be a trick. Can’t say I blame her. More than likely, she’s from the Dregs too. We don’t trust people we don’t know, especially when they say they want to help us.

I have no idea. I pull her up onto the roof as the rain continues to fall. I half expect her to sweep my legs out from under me and take off running, but instead she kneels, chest heaving as she tries to catch her breath.

I take off again. Garon, how far behind did this put me? No other racers are in sight, but that means nothing. Rooftop races run from one point of the city to another; racers choose their own route. The only rule—don’t touch the ground.

I’m about halfway to the finish point. The others could have easily passed without my seeing them, even if I had been looking.

You’re behind, Garon says.

I leap off the corner of the roof toward a taller building on my right, angling my body. My boots take three diagonal steps up the wall before I launch myself to the left, flipping sideways in the air. I land on another roof below and keep running. How far behind?

The pause in his voice tells me the rest. We’ll get ’em next time, Dash.

A wave of anger rushes over me, so hot that I expect the raindrops hitting me to become steam. I don’t blame myself, or even the thought of my brother. It’s the Serpent’s fault for putting herself in a position where I had to save her. If she can’t handle the race, she shouldn’t be out here.

I sprint toward the next rooftop and jump, catching the lip with my hands and pulling myself up. Any chance I can catch them?

Not unless you . . . Garon’s voice stops, but I know what he was going to say.

Catch the train. It’s a crazy idea we’ve kicked around while shooting baskets on cold nights to avoid going home. We agreed it would be the coolest move ever, if I could pull it off.

We also agreed that it’s basically suicide.

I’m doing it. The adrenaline almost lifts me off my feet as I change direction. I sprint to the other side of the roof, then jump down to the next building. It’s a long drop, but not so much that I need my gravboots again. I hit the surface and roll. Can you track it?

Dash, this is a bad idea.

Garon, I’m doing it. I jog to the edge. If the train were close, I would hear it. I have at least a few moments. You can either help me time the jump and give me a slim chance to survive, or you can leave me on my own and tell my parents why you brought their son home in a bucket.

Garon is quiet. Maybe he walked away from the controls. Maybe he’s finally had enough of me forcing his hand.

But I know better. Garon would never leave me behind. It’s his best and worst quality. He’s quiet because he’s tracking the next skytrain that will come along this route.

Twenty-three seconds, he says.

The city of Azariah stretches out in front of me—a menagerie of lights and sounds and flying machines. Far below, people hustle through the rain. A few stand still like they have no place to go. I’ve watched them many times, seen the expression of surrender on their faces, always swearing that would never be me.

The brightest light shines from a screen mounted on the side of the city’s tallest building—Dominus Corporation’s main offices. On the screen flashes the timenet symbol—a four-pointed star with curved lines pulsing away from it, as if the energy is an echo of the star itself. The symbol precedes every timenet broadcast to remind viewers that they’re watching a program set in the past.

The screen shifts to a broadcast on the Dominus Corp. timenet channel from the P-2200 time segment, meaning it’s 2200 years behind the present. A news ticker crawls along the bottom of the screen, reporting the same old stuff—Dominus stock is up after opening yet another portal to the past for mining natural resources, a group of exile terrorists have been arrested for trying to hack an Intellenon timenet feed—but my eyes are glued to the show. In this particular series, the timestars are modern athletes sent back to Ancient Rome to train and battle with gladiators. It’s one of my favorites; I wish I could sit and watch.

Ten seconds, Garon says.

I imagine the gamblers screaming at the holoscreen right now at Rooftop Ralf’s speakeasy, wondering if I lost my mind. They might be taking bets on whether I’m about to jump off the building and end my miserable life. I wouldn’t be the first.

Five seconds.

I steel myself against the fear trying to creep into my mind. I’m the best rooftop racer this city has ever seen. Even if my record doesn’t support it, I know in my gut it’s true. The rest of them will see soon enough. They’ll cheer for the Red Dragon.

They’ll cheer for me.

Go! Garon shouts.

I jump, forgetting about form as I stretch out my arms and legs. The skytrain appears around the side of a nearby building like a long, silver eel swimming through the night. I pray that the electromagnets in my gloves work better than my gravboots.

Everything seems to slow down as I fall toward the oncoming skytrain. The sounds of the city fade away—everything but the hum of the train and the throbbing of my pulse.

I slam onto the train’s roof. The breath puffs out of my lungs. My body explodes with pain, but my maggloves activate, and I hold on. My muscles scream at the abuse, but I manage to pull my feet up into a crouch while keeping both palms against the roof surface. I can almost hear the gamblers cheering as I ride the steel beast toward glory. After this, maybe Rooftop Ralf will start taking me to the big-money races. I know he has connections that he doesn’t share with us. He says it’s for our own good, but I’m tired of everybody else deciding what’s best for me.

Dude! Garon yells through the earpiece with an enthusiasm I’ve never heard from him. That was incred—

My maggloves deactivate. I cry out as the train slips beneath me, and I tumble backward along the roof.

A raised metal ridge hits me in the shoulder. I grasp it with my fingertips, holding on with every last ounce of strength.

Garon yells through my earpiece, but I can’t tell what he’s saying over the mechanical roar. The metal ridge carves into my fingers. Why did I do this? I don’t want to die. I’m not ready to die. Who will take care of Knox? Who will take care of my parents?

The train whizzes between two buildings. If I had been able to maintain my balance, I could have leaped onto one of the buildings and run to the finish line. As it is, I don’t think my fingers would let go even if I wanted.

There’s a stop ahead! Garon shouts. Hang on!

The train slows as it turns a corner, moving away from the finish point, away from my chance at victory.

Within seconds, it stops next to an apartment building. A grated platform extends from its doorway out to the train. I should be happy I’m still alive as I drop onto the grate and make my way into the dim hallway.

But all I can think about is the loss.

Rooftop Ralf’s place occupies an abandoned building with a faint chemical smell that gives me a headache. It used to be some type of manufacturing plant until most of the production jobs were moved to the past. Normally any buildings like this in the Dregs are taken over by vagrants and drug addicts, but Ralf carries weight in this neighborhood. People respect him.

A large bar occupies the building’s center, surrounded by mounted monitors and several high-top tables made of polished wood that look out of place amidst the rusty steel walls and stained concrete floor, which is littered with torn betting slips. The gamblers don’t dare leave an electronic trail. I spot a few red slips—my slips—strewn about, but not nearly as many as I would expect.

More people should have lost money on me tonight. I shake my head as my gaze goes to the light in the window of Ralf’s office, which is an elevated room in the corner. The building is empty except for Ralf, so I pull off my helmet and carry it under my arm as I climb the stairs.

The door to Ralf’s office is open. He’s hunched over a mess of papers on his desk. I make my steps as loud as possible on the metal stairs. Ralf has little reason to fear anybody, but sneaking around in the Dregs can get you shot. There are enough people tweaked out of their minds to put everybody—even the kings of this jungle—on edge.

Still, I’m not sure he hears me. Ralf?

You’re out, Dash, Ralf says without turning around.

I freeze. Out? How can I be out? Did you see what I did? Nobody’s ever done anything like that. It would’ve been the highlight of the year if my tech hadn’t shorted out. Maybe we can talk to someone about a sponsorship, you know? So I can get some new—

Ralf whips around, his face contorted with anger, though his voice remains calm. There isn’t going to be a next time, Dash. I wish I could say I can’t believe you did something so stupid as jumping onto a skytrain. The problem is . . . I totally believe it.

I laugh a little. Ralf’s right about that. The Red Dragon is fearless. It’s part of the brand I’ve built for myself. I want people to be excited about betting on me, so I do crazy stuff to win races—jumping from the highest places, swinging from cables, whatever I can do to get more attention.

And it’s working. At least, I think it’s working. The Red Dragon is popular on the underground vidstreams. I wish people knew it was me, but sharing my name is against Ralf’s rules.

It’s not a joke, Dash, Ralf says. I should have seen it coming, but I kept hoping you knew your limits. I’m not going to have your blood on my hands. You’re out.

My frustration wraps around my gut like a hot coil. C’mon, Ralf. You can’t seriously be this hypocritical. Everything we do is dangerous. For crying out loud, we’re jumping off buildings. Don’t pretend like you care about us.

Ralf stands so fast that his chair nearly topples over. His fists are clenched.

My fear dissolves into guilt. I know I crossed the line. Rooftop races are common all over the US. I’ve never been anywhere other than the Dregs, but I know from the vidstreams that most organizers treat their racers like garbage.

For all his faults, Ralf’s never cheated me out of money or even encouraged me to compete. The rumor is he knows that if he doesn’t operate the races, somebody worse would fill the role. Rooftop races are actually one of the safer ways that teenagers in the Dregs can earn money. The elite love dropping big credits to see us risk our lives. Ralf does what he can to protect us.

Ralf, I’m sorry, man. I hold up both palms in a sign of contrition. But you can’t take this away from me because I jumped a train. You and I both know there are no rules out there.

The anger melts off his face. Ralf sinks into his chair. It’s more than the train, Dash. The gamblers don’t trust you anymore.

What? That doesn’t make any sense. I just proved that I’ll risk my own life to win. Like I said, if my tech hadn’t failed—

Oh, the skytrain jump was a big hit, Ralf says, but helping the Serpent . . .

I feel like I’m going to collapse. "This is because I helped her?"

It cost you the race. Gamblers don’t care much for self-sacrifice. They love the spectacle; nobody puts on a better show than you, I’ll give you that. But they love winning more. I can’t run racers that nobody bets on. You understand that, right?

I don’t respond. I should thank him for everything he’s done for me, but I’m too angry. I rush out of his office, down the stairs, and toward the door of the building.

Dash! Ralf calls after me.

I look back at him.

Ralf stands at the top of the staircase. What you did for her . . . that was a really good thing. Don’t lose that part of yourself.

An apology begins to form on my lips, but the sound of a door creaking open stops the words in my throat.

A man in a black suit strolls into the building. His dark hair is perfectly styled—a razor-straight part and not a single strand out of place. The suit is tailored for his frame. His shiny, spotless shoes tap on the concrete floor as he approaches.

He smiles, his eyes combing my leather suit with its stitched flames. His eyebrows lift with curiosity, but he flashes a confident smile. Hello. Aren’t you the Red Dragon? He has the face of a man in his twenties—no lines or wrinkles—but his voice seems much older. He extends his hand to shake mine, revealing a wristwatch with a black leather band, a white metal face, and Roman numerals. I’m surprised that someone so rich would wear something so archaic.

This is fortuitous, he says. I’ve been wanting to meet you.

I return the smile without knowing what I’m doing. Yes, my name’s—

Ralf’s footsteps echo throughout the building as he hurtles down the staircase. Get out of here, Dash.

I blink at Ralf. What? Why?

Ralf reaches the bottom of the stairs, walks over, and grabs my arm. We’ll talk later. He ushers me to the door, then returns to the man in the suit.

My fingers swipe the disk microphone off my collar. Garon, I whisper into the device, you better still be listening. Patch the feed from the collar mic through to my earpiece. I’m not wearing my helmet, so I have no idea whether he responds.

I drop the disk on the floor, walk outside, and immediately crouch beside the door. The rain has stopped, but the streets are soaked, leaving a haze of steam rising from the surrounding Dregs and distorting the city lights.

I put my helmet back on. I hear Ralf’s voice. —not sure if any of my racers are ready for this type of thing. Why are you interested anyway?

I need new blood, the man in the suit responds. My other timestars are becoming a bit . . . troublesome.

Yeah, I saw that your big name got himself into some serious trouble, might even get exiled to P-100. Is that true?

My skin crawls at the mention of P-100. It’s the time segment where the worst criminals are sent to rot, though rumors of other things that happen there are a favorite topic among Dregs kids trying to scare each other.

But I’m still hanging on the word timestars. For years, I’ve dreamt of starring in one of those timenet programs where they send people back into the past to have adventures.

The investigation is ongoing, the man says as if it’s a frivolous detail. Regardless, it’s time to give someone new an opportunity. The public loves that, Ralf. It reminds them that anything is possible, that no matter who you are, you can make a better life. Don’t you think that would resonate with your racers?

A chill runs over my skin. It’s like the man is speaking directly to me.

I’ll think about it. Ralf says it as if he doesn’t have much of a choice.

That’s all I ask. Tell any interested applicants to be at the platform near the docks at sunrise the day after tomorrow. The suited man’s voice grows louder as his steps echo off the floor. He’s getting closer, and I doubt he would appreciate being spied on.

I run off into the night, my adrenaline overcoming my weariness from the race. I nearly collide with an old man stumbling down the street.

Sorry. I sidestep to avoid him.

He reeks of liquor and grumbles words I don’t understand. I’m used to seeing men like him. People in the Dregs drink to forget that time is against them, that they’ll never ascend to the kind of life that is illuminated on screens and holograms all around. We’re born here, time passes us by, and we die here. If we’re lucky, we end up no worse than we began.

But as I jog toward home, the pain and soreness from the race long forgotten, one thought fills me with such energy that I feel like I could fly.

This could be my shot.

A timestar.

My parents are asleep by the time I sneak back into our apartment. Like most people in the Dregs, they work long hours at the local factory and only come home to sleep a few hours before going back to work. Even with both of them working double shifts, we can barely afford to feed ourselves after paying rent. It’s one of the reasons I spend my nights jumping between rooftops.

Our apartment isn’t much more than a steel box divided into a few rooms by thin walls and surrounded by other steel boxes—way too many people crammed into not enough space. My father says there are blessings in the anonymity, but I think he’s trying to make the best of a terrible situation.

Besides, my little brother deserves better.

Our apartment’s living room is cramped, to say the least. A dingy breakfast bar separates it from our tiny kitchen. A green secondhand couch squeezes next to the folding table where we eat dinner.

When I open the door to our room, Knox sits up in bed. His leg braces lean against the wall next to his pillow.

Why isn’t the holoscreen on? I whisper as I toss my jacket onto the nightstand and climb into my bed.

I was waiting for you, Knox says, but I know that isn’t the whole truth. He doesn’t enjoy the timenet as much as I do, but he never complains when I turn it on.

Holoscreens are the sole luxury we have in the Dregs. The government uses them to communicate with people, so it’s law that at least one be installed in every room of a home. If there’s ever an emergency, instructions appear on the screen, but the orders are always the same—Stay in your home. We never mind when that happens. It’s not safe to go outside anyway, especially for Knox. I hate that he has to grow up here.

When I touch the control pad on the wall next to my bed, the holoscreen lights up with the timenet’s echoing star symbol. The glow reflects off his braces.

How are they? I ask, nodding at the metal contraptions.

Knox rocks his head from side to side. Joints are getting a little loose again.

I nod. The leg braces were a gift from Rooftop Ralf, who despite my best efforts, wouldn’t tell me where he got them. They’re rusted and rickety, but I’m grateful to have them. Still, it angers me that our society can travel back in time but won’t help my little brother put one foot in front of the other.

I’ll tighten them tomorrow. I use the control pad to search through the timenet for videos. There are thousands of choices in the catalog, but I prefer the livestreams. At this time of night, the corporations don’t bother to edit the footage, which makes it feel more like you’re actually there alongside the timestars.

I flip to the livestream of the gladiator show on the Dominus Corp. channel. Right now, the fighters are eating breakfast before the day’s training begins. Most people consider this the boring part, but I could watch it for hours, thinking about how incredible it would be to travel back in time and fight against echoes while millions of real people in the present cheer me on.

How was the race? Knox asks. He’s not paying attention to the show.

Eh, it was okay.

Knox offers an empathetic sigh. You’ll win next time.

Yeah, next time. I keep my eyes glued to the holoscreen. I hate when Knox knows I failed.

At least you looked good, Knox says. The Red Dragon persona was his idea, and he stitched most of the flames and dragon designs onto my costume. The kid is talented, but he’s also arrogant in his skills as a designer.

I love that about him.

Got that right. I jump from my bed to his, being careful not to land on him. Knox