'Henry, watch out!'

And the crowd goes wild as we whizz around the corner—nearly hitting Saffron, swerve Henry!—a bunch of racers—novices—scattering as we burst through their midst, drones knocked clean out of the air. The breeze whips through my hair and my eyes begin to stream.

But there it is—the finish line. So close. . .

'Hurry, Henry, c'mon!'

His motor whirring with effort, Henry zooms forwards; I pinch my knees tighter together, flattening myself as much as I can as we soar over the audience.

'Almost—there—almost—'

No! From out of nowhere, Quail drops down in front of us. His drone, Edgar, spits a trail of black sludge behind him, right in my face.

'Ugh!'

The finish line is too close, we'll never beat Quail now—

'Yeesh, Henry, is this stuff toxic?' I spit out a mouthful of sludge as the crowd gasp, a noise of collective heartbreak for my about-to-be-stolen victory. . .

Beep-boop. Henry's light sensors flash double-red: negative.

'Right.' I grit my teeth. 'Ready to knock this asshole out the sky?'

Bee-dee-boop! Two blue flashes: game on.

'GO!' I yell and with a high-pitched stream of beeps and squeaks—watch your mouth, Henry! —we dive, a stomach-lurching nose-drop. I glance up; Quail is turning, desperately trying to see where I've gone, taking his eyes off the prize for a fraction of a second too long. . .

'Now!'

I slam on the breaks; Henry shoots up like a cork exploding from a bottle. Our velocity exactly on point. I look up just in time to see Quail's eyes widen in horror—oh heyy, buddy—and we crash with full-force straight into him.

There's a horrible crunch of metal and limbs. Flailing, smashing together—Henry judders and jolts beneath me. It takes all my skill to keep my feet on the handlebars and knees tucked in. Then I open my eyes: Quail is spiralling, Edgar totally out of control, before crash-landing on the sand of the arena floor.

Henry and I breeze past the finish line, my arms outstretched in victory. And the crowd? They go nuts.

Hah! Like there's a drone-rider out there that can take me and Henry down.

We land with a soft flump on the sand and I jump off Henry; he takes off again over my head as I'm immediately mobbed by my gaggle of dronies. Yup, that's right. There's a word for drone groupies—and I have them.

'Ohmigod, wow, Rai, you're such a good pilot!'

'Can you take me riding one day?'

'Can I touch it? I mean, him? I mean—ah, I'm sorry, I sound like such a fanboy—'

And Henry saunters down reluctantly, letting his adoring fans reach towards his little round body, all sleek and shiny. Aw, hell, I sigh. They're breathing all over him. I'll have to polish him all over again.

'Nice one, Rai.' Quail finally hobbles over, Edgar tucked under his arm; he gives me a rueful smile, dabbing his nose with the back of his hand. 'You sure screwed me over, didn't you.'

'Sorry about your nose.' I offer him a tissue from my pocket, but he just laughs and wipes his nose on his sleeve, smudging blood across his chin. I get it; after all, cuts and bruises are the signs of a good rider. This isn't a sport for the delicate.

'Meh, it's okay. What's a bit of blood between racing buddies.' He claps me on the back and we leave the stadium together, Henry zooming after us with a stream of beeps and stutters. Quail leans in close to my ear. 'I'll get you back next time.' His breath tickles. I flinch away, giving him a playful shove on the arm.

'Keep telling yourself that.'

We chat as we hand in our racing IDs to the front desk; the Dennydome's like our second home, we know it like the back of our hands. It's the biggest semi-pro stadium in the world, only a little smaller than the professional stadium, the Ultimate Dennydome, in the heart of Singavere. Our capital city. I've been lucky enough to be part of the YDA—the Young Droners Association—since I was twelve, making it onto the Lares Youth team in less than a year. To fly for my team is the greatest honour. Quail flies for Ra Youth and we've competed against each other for years. Messing with each other after a race is par for the course and this evening's no different. We hang out until the city is almost ready to switch on the Night-Sky; we run outside just in time to watch.

I love the sunset. It's my favourite time of day. There's something kinda magical about it, you know? We squint upwards, hands over our eyes, as the speakers announce, 'Light's out everybody, and have a wonderful evening!'. And just like that, the pale blue sky melts into a deep cerulean. Shadows of city-drones flying to their stations circle above us; AI vending-machines glow from inside, illuminating the sweets and goodies in their bellies; and spot-lights line the pavements like a catwalk, so we can all make our way home safely in the dark.

I wave goodbye to Quail along Helium Street, crossing the road to Titanium Bay. A squiggly knot burrows in the pit of my stomach and my face—this is so embarrassing—I can't wipe the smile off it. Titus is going to be so pleased with me! Just imagining his pleasure makes each of my steps that little bit faster. Clicking my tongue, I clip in my headphones back in after having taken them out for the game—two neat studs that nip onto each tragus—and hum to myself as I saunter down the street, one hand on Henry's lower handle. Just to keep him close.

'Hi, Rai!' A stranger waves at me from across the road. 'Good night!'

Blossom, my headphones chirp, pausing the music. 'G'night, Blossom!' I wave back and we continue on our way. The air is cool and crisp; so nice that I decide to stop by an AI vendor before going home. I'll pick up a treat for the others with my winnings.

'How may I help you?' the robotic voice chimes. Its head, face adorned with an artificial smile, cocks to one side as it wobbles on top of the vending machine.

'Three packs of choco-pods, please.' I lean forwards so the vendor can scan my retinal-chip; there's a flash of red light, I blink and payment's complete. I rub my eye; it's getting kinda sore. But that's not weird or anything; one in a thousand people have retinal sensitivity. I stash the pills in my pocket and race Henry home.

'Hey, Auden.' I nod to our gate keeper as Henry flies clean over the gate, presumably to show off how much better than me he is, obviously.

'Evening, Master Rai.' Auden tips his hat, his face scrunching into my favourite crinkly smile of his. Crinkly faces are the best, don't you think? Most faces in Singavere are so smooth, so well designed, it's kinda difficult to tell what's real and what's fake. 'Race went well, I gather?'

'Couldn't have gone better!'

As per routine, I hold his ancient phone-thingy up to my reti-chip, and within a millisecond, they're synced. Auden umms and aahs as he watches the blow-by-blow download of my performance on his cracked screen.

'Clever boy. Lord Titus will be proud. So, you're through to the quarter-finals?'

'Semi's!' I puff my chest out proudly.

Auden guffaws. 'Oh, to be young and riding about on drones. Wish I'd been able to do that at your age. Get on with you, I know the Lord is waiting.'

A stab of something icy shoots through the pleasure in my gut. Ahh. I shake my head, hard, and the feeling vanishes. Just like that. A grin spreads over my face like it left. 'Sure thing, Aud. See you later!'

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

'Night, Master Rai. Be careful now,' Auden calls to my retreating back; for a second, I think he sounds kinda sad. But with another shake of my head, the feeling is gone. I run up the long, paved driveway carved through thick, lush hedgerows—a labyrinth hiding Titus' vintage car collection—and in through the front door.

I musn't keep Lord Titus waiting. 

*

Just to be clear—so, you know, you don't get the wrong idea or anything—Titus, or I should say, the Lord Titus of Titanium Bay, isn't my dad. We're not even related. He's my guardian, but like, that isn't unusual. When the FUTURE government took over, they formed a new capital, my home, Singavere, out of all the victims of the nuclear wars. Since there were so many orphaned kids and broken families, it made no sense for people to live in traditional units. You know; two parents, two-point-five kids, whatever.

We created a holistic society far away from the bitter warmongers in the rest of Tellus. I mean, we get on okay with the other Huans, I guess, like the Singwari and the Haoshi, but the rest? Well, you just don't know who's part of RESIST. 

Guardians like Titus take in orphaned wards and General Jinaka's government supports their living costs; man, Jinaka's such an awesome guy. He really gets what it feels like to be one of the people. He comes to all the races, sometimes even the semi-pro ones, too. He visits scholars in the Academies and apprentices like me in the Guilds. He tours countries like Amariland and Caeltanica, handing out ration tokens to beggars on the streets. He loves all the people he serves and wants to be a part of them. Of us.

Lord Titus has seventy wards, at last count; his mansion grown to seven stories tall with two underground basements, one of which is mine, Buffalo and Cherry's workshop. The ground floor and first two floors are for Titus and clients only, but the other four are split between the seventy of us. We each have our own room and everything. Sometimes it can be a little tricky finding each other, though. 

'I'm home!' I burst into the entrance hall, flinging my satchel to the floor. Henry's perched on top of my head; he always acts a little skittish at home. To be fair, you need your wits about you. Living with sixty-nine other wards definitely has its pros and its, uh, cons.

'Hey, Rai-ro.' Dove sticks her tongue out at me as she jumps out from a side-room with a clack of her silver-studded boots. 'Titus is freaking out! He wants to know how the race went. What took you so long?'

I delve into my pocket and with a flourish, produce a pack of choco-pods. Dove's eyes bulge.

'Oooo, gimme, gimme!' 

I toss the pack to her and with a well-practised rip, she tears the packet with her teeth and jerks her head back, knocking back the pods in one gulp. Her pupils pulse; a sure sign of a sugar-high.

'Nice.' She grins. 'More please!'

'Nope! Not 'til you clean Henry's charging station. It's all messy again.'

'Aw, man, you suck.'

'I make it worth your while.'

She sticks her tongue out again; this time, it's coated in chocolate. 'I do it for Henry 'cause he's worth ten of you.' She reaches up to tickle Henry's round front panel, and he scoots upwards over our heads with a string of angry beeps.

'Spoilsport. Anyway, babe, buzz for Titus before he goes out.'

'Will do. See ya later.' We do our signature fist-bump and head our separate ways; Dove to the door—I guess she has a client—and me to the lift. As I wait, I tap my forehead above my left eye twice, firm and fast. At once, Titus's voice floods my headphones.

'Finally! Come to my office on the sixth floor.'

It cuts off just like he's hung up the phone. But obviously he didn't, 'cause, you know. Phones are for old people and resisturds.

By the time I reach the sixth floor, that funny feeling is starting to creep back into my chest, but I keep shaking my head and it's fine, it goes away. Instead, I smile. And the more I smile, the happier I become. He's gonna be so proud of me!

Titus's office is the first door on the left; I buzz the intercom and speak into it, my voice a little high.

'Hello?'

'Enter.'

Titus's office is fancy. It's got a white leather-look sofa sprawling the length of the back wall, which itself is made entirely from glass. It overlooks the gardens, which are programmed to grow whichever plants Titus likes in whatever weather he wants. In the winter holidays, he always makes it snow; we build snowmen and snowballs, and lie on our backs catching snowflakes in our mouths. He has a huge white desk with an aquarium inside; sometimes, when he's feeling generous, he lets us feed the fish. When he's pissed, sometimes he threatens to feed us to the fish, but, I mean, I'm sure he's joking. Most of the time.

Everything about the sleek, crisp room makes me feel even more conscious of my sweaty, dishevelled hair and sandy shorts. I try to brush the sand off without him seeing, but of course, Titus swivels his chair around to face me at exactly that moment. Damn, he must think I'm such a scruff. But if he does, he doesn't say. His porcelain features remain as serious and composed as ever, but there's an extra twinkle in his cool grey eyes that I know is just for me.

'Rai. I heard on the grapevine you did rather well?' Listening to his voice is like bathing in warm honey. It's so inviting, you want to dive right in and never climb out. I nod eagerly, tapping my eyebrow so he'll know I have it recorded.

'Not just well, Titus. I won!'

Titus's composure breaks; a chuckle emerges from the pit of his stomach and he rises to clasp me tight on the shoulder, his crystal-white suit crackling as his limbs unfurls.

'So, we have a champion in the making. My, my, is there no end to your talents, my boy?'

My cheeks glow even hotter. 'Erm. . .'

'Your last report from Guild Master Song was glowing: she said your mechanical skills exceed apprentices with years more experience. You're winning more and more races each season—and that's not to mention your other little trick.'

I cast my eyes down. My face is burning. But that little shard of ice . . . it's starting to creep back.

'Let's see it, then.' Titus smiles. I step closer, letting him gaze right into to my eyes so our retinas scan. Soon enough, he adopts the glazed-expression of someone watching a video behind their eyes.

'Nice.' Smirking, he syncs our retinas so I can see the bit he's referring to. It's the crash with Quail; I can't help laughing. I knew he'd appreciate that. 

Finally, his eyes focus back on mine. I clear my throat. 'So, er, Dove and Auden said you were looking for me?'

'Oh, yes. I wanted to find out how your race went.' Titus presses his fingers, tucked as always inside gloves of finest white silk, to his pursed lips. 'But something else did come up, as it happens. Another little job for a boy of your skills.'

I swallow. A job. Okay, but what kind. . . Henry comes to rest on my head again. I feel the slow, gentle hum of his body through my hair. It's exactly what I need; the icy shard in my stomach just shattered into a hundred beads. It must show on my face.

'Oh, come now, Rai. Don't look so worred!' Titus stands, takes me firmly by the arm, and walks me over to the window. We watch the deer outside lollop across the grounds. I know he can feel me shaking. 'Rai.' He cups my cheek, stroking it with his thumb. The fabric is so soft. 'It will be okay. I promise.'

'But what if—?'

'I know your last client . . . got a little out of hand. But I promise that won't happen again.'

'But that's what you said the time before last. . .'

'Excuse me?'

There's a bite to Titus' tone that makes my heart stop. A flash of steel in his usually calm eyes—I try to cringe away, but Titus holds on firm.

'I—I'm sorry, I didn't mean—'

'Oh, Rai.' His eyes are mellow as always. Maybe. . . maybe there wasn't actually ever a flash in them at all. 'It's okay, I know you didn't mean that the way it sounded. You're a good boy. You always do the right thing.'

'I—I try. But, I can always do better—'

'And you will, my boy. You will do magnificently.' Titus lets out a long, weary sigh, then guides me back to the sofa. We sit, and he lounges beside me, one hand resting lazily in my hair.

'I know you don't much care for my clientele. I can't say I'm particularly fond of them myself. But not everyone is as fortunate as we are. Not everybody has access to our internal climate; most people suffer constantly from the toxic rain. You're a lucky boy, Rai, born to a lucky society, but you know I always say—'

'We must not take luck for granted, but share it where we can.' I can echo Titus's catchphrase by heart.

Titus laughs. 'Well said. So, if those in the lesser societies don't have access to clean water, wouldn't you say it is our common duty to provide?'

'Yes,' I admit, not quite meeting his eyes. 'But—but there are official routes, aren't there. . ?'

'Of course. But the authorities don't always provide families with enough. You know that.'

I say nothing. I've heard it all before.

'Can you really begrudge people wanting a little extra?'

'No,' I whisper. 'It's the other stuff I don't like. . .'

'Yes, well. I know.' Titus clears his throat and gets to his feet; I get the distinct impression I'm being dismissed. 'But you had a choice. Never forget that. You chose this path; your clients live hard lives and these are desperate times. There's no shame in what we do, we're just here to make people happy. Besides, you know the drill: seventy wards don't feed themselves, however much General Jinaka kindly gives us. We have to follow the money. Now go and get changed and cleaned up, I want you in the hallway in twenty minutes. We've got a wormhole to catch.'

I've been excused. 'I'll be as quick as I can.' I bow my head in respect before practically racing for the door. Henry squeaks in protest as he speeds after me.

Soon, I'm safe in my room, knelt on the lush carpet with my head in my hands. My eyes are heavy and I feel sick to my stomach. I don't want to go. My last client was so dirty and smelly, and . . . well. . .

All I ever wanted was to give people something beautiful. But for some, beauty is never enough. People think they can take, and take—

Beep? Henry floats in front of my face, one of his handles rising to brush away the lone, fat tear that rests on my cheek.

'It's okay.' I laugh despite myself, patting Henry between his top handlebars. His lights flash bright blue. 'I know the drill. Anyway, it's good to help people, Henry. You know that.'

With a sigh, I pull myself to my feet and wander into the bathroom, letting the tap pour a steady stream of crystal-clear water into the deep, hollow tub. Kneeling in front of it, I strip off my blood-stained t-shirt and lean forwards, closing my eyes. Letting my hands hover in front of me, feeling the steam rise up to my fingertips. The aches and pains of the race melt away, and the anxiety and nerves of what's about to happen wash over me, until my mind is completely at sea.

I wait, silent and still. My fingers twitch, navigating the steam. Reaching . . . further into the calm. Into the peace.

Into each and every drop.

Soft.

Relaxed.

A solitary splash.

And when I open my eyes—the tub is no longer full.

It's empty.

And surrounding my hands—in halos of twisting, tumbling swirls—are great, azure rings of water.

A warm glow of pure happiness engulfs me, overwhelms me; with a laugh that dances like droplets off of a waterfall, I let the swirls embrace me.

They are mine to weave, mine to control, mine to dance with.

Water is mine.