April 19th 2161

Zaharah leaned on the mast of the Godsworn Hurakan as the luxury cruiser swept them away from the 700 towards the National Regatta site. Beyond the boats rail, the remnants of old Nassau rose from the north horizon. Jagged pieces of stone stuck up from the water like a memorial to days gone, their tips tinged orange by the setting sun. The hum of the boat mingled with the breeze and the salty rank of the black waters.

Her legs burned as she shifted, but it was the good kind of burn. The kind that reminded her she'd left it all on the Pocking Pitch. A perfect game. The opposing team had scored no points off of her. She'd pocked a perfect game. The white-whale she'd been chasing since she joined the junior pocking league in middle school. A feat thought impossible until Darron Gardiner accomplished it in the Men's league ten years ago. And now she got her name etched on the halls of pocking history.

Zaharah scrolled through her messages, hundreds of them from fans of the team. Some congratulating her while others shared highlights of the game. One contained a screenshot of the main page of the 700 Guardian.

A black and white rendition of her likeness sat juxtaposed to a column of text, helmet hung from one hand while the other dragged her braids from her face. She was side-eyeing something out of frame. Zaharah Cyan: The Future of the Regular League? the headline read.

An article by Sports editor Lori Walkine, sure to be a shit show since she wasn't one to mince words. Even when Zaharah was in fine form Ms Walkine had some salt-filled tirade to get off her chest. Zaharah didn't read it. Nothing short of a nuclear apocalypse could kill her high right now.

An email alert sprung up on her dashboard. From the President of the National Pocking League. Notice of contract termination, the subject line read. Her body went cold, a feeling amplified by the constant wind. Contract termination? She hit the alert, and the email popped up.

Dear Miss Cyan,

We regret to inform you that you contract has been slated for termination upon its completion on August 3rd. The League thanks you for your invaluable contributions and unwavering support and looks forward to your continued success. All questions or concerns should be forwarded to the Office of Team Affairs.

Sincerely,

Dr. H. Eneas, President, 700 Pocking League.

Zaharah vision tunnelled, the boat and black waters fading away and leaving only the glowing screen of her phone. Terminated from the league. She'd feared this might happen a few months ago when there'd been complaints and accusations about her arm giving her an unfair advantage. Her metal arm. That was twice as heavy as a normal one and slower to react. She pocked with her left, nondominant, hand for that very reason.

All those congratulatory messages, well wishes, all the hype and excitement were meaningless now. She wasn't riding her high anymore. Eneas' email had shot her from the sky and she was spiralling into the abyss.

A cold hand landed on Zaharah's shoulder and she jumped, expecting a slimy sea monster. Instead her eldest sister, Malaika stood over her. Her dreadlocks dripped, and a towel hung over her shoulders.

"Good lord, don't scare me like that," Zaharah said.

Malaika grinned their father's grin, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Sorry about that. Mom asked for you."

"Okay." Zaharah tucked her phone away. "You headed in too?"

"Nah. Gonna get a couple more reps in. Mom's might kill me for breaking her sacred family vacation laws but whatever." She shrugged a shoulder and traipsed off towards the pool.

Zaharah sucked in a breath to compose herself and took the steps behind the metaphorical wheelhouse into the belly of the boat. Metaphorical, since the ship could be controlled remotely from any of the panel's within. Their uncle spared no expense when it came to his flashy toys. Dad had thrown it into autopilot before retreating to his office to break Mom's Sacred Rules of Family Vacation.

The cherry scented halls were a welcome smell after the rank Atlantic. Her bare feet were soundless against the polished wood floors. She padded down the narrow walkway to the stern. The scents of fried fish and guava duff pulled her towards the galley where her mom and Quelle hung over the stove while Nyah peeled and sliced plantains by the counter. Even with the four of them, the galley felt crowded.

A breakfast bar sat in the middle of the room, surrounded by counters, an oven, a stovetop and a rack of assorted appliances. A wood shelf hung over it, stock with bottles of wines and spirits. All of which tempted Zaharah with promises of reprieve from her soon to be pockingless world. She took a seat on a stool and snagged a piece of crawfish from a nearby platter.

"I wanted to show you some of the new sportswear." Her mom passed her a tablet. The main page of the Bohi Blakk website was displayed on the screen, advertising new additions to the sportswear line. A compression shirt with Power Plays emblazoned on the front—a trademark for Zaharah in the pocking community—and another with Artful Dodge in flowery calligraphy.

Would those terms die with her career or would someone else pick up the mantle and run with it?

"You don't like them?" Mom's voice cut through her thoughts. "I was going to ask beforehand, but I thought it might be a nice surprise."

Zaharah put on the best smile she could manage. "They're great mom. I love 'em." No need to tell mom right away that all that her hard work would go to waste.

"Hey Z, did you see that Guardian article?" Quelle asked, all but shoving her screen at Zaharah's face. "The future of the regular league. Question mark. The fuck is that supposed to mean."

Nyah snort-laughed, her eyes not crinkling quite as much as her twin's. Then again, she wasn't as much of a workaholic. She brought the bowl of sliced plantains over to the stove. "It doesn't mean anything, Quelle."

"I went to school with this bitch, and she always had some snide shit to say. Let me catch her out one of these days. I'll snatch her by that dry ass weave and give her something to write about." She ended her tirade by stabbing a plantain slice and depositing it in the hot oil as though it was the decapitated head of Ms Walkine.

Their mother breathed a sigh. "Raquelle... Please." She took her tablet and shut it off, the screen melting into the console in a shower of pixels.

Zaharah shrugged. "It doesn't matter."

"What do you mean it doesn't matter?" Raquelle squinted at Zaharah. "Spill. What's up with you?"

"Noth—"

"I'm not hearing that. I know that face." She pointed a carving fork at Zaharah. "Start talking."

Zaharah took out her phone and flashed the email from Eneas. "I just got an email from Eneas. I'm being dropped from the regular league. My contract is up in August and they're not going to renew it."

A ripple of silence fell over the room, amplifying the sizzle of the frying plantains and the hum of the boat's engine. Nyah took her phone and scanned the email, lips twisted into a scowl.

"Are you fucking serious?" Quelle asked, breaking the silence. "They can't just do that."

"Actually, they're well within their rights to, so long as they're not in violation of her contract. And from what I remember, they're not." Nyah took a seat at the table. "But it was pretty shitty of him to drop this on you now. Have you told your coach? The team?"

Zaharah shook her head. "We just came off a big win. I don't want to ruin the mood." She didn't know how to feel. Sad would be a good start and angry would be a good finish, but the two clashed inside her and left her feeling defeated. "I don't even know what to do at this point."

Mom gave her shoulder a squeeze, her eyes filled with sympathy. "All of this will still be here when we get back from Regatta. For right now just... control the things you can."

"Oh I know what to fucking do." Quelle marched over to the panel by the door and punched the screen with her fingers as though it had offended her. A moment later, their dad's face popped up on the screen, with Jade and Skorpi in the background "Dad, I'm taking a pod back to the mainland."

Dad scrunched his brow, looked towards their mother, then back at Quelle. "Wha...? Why?"

"Because I need to find Eneas and bust his fucking knee caps. Could you believe that bloated, self-serving troglodyte dropped Zaharah from the League? He's been making bank off of her for years with all those endorsements."

Their father held up his hands. "Pump your brakes, Quelle. No one's going back to the mainland and no knee caps are getting bust tonight. Not by Cyan hands at least."

"But—"

"Raquelle. You know I appreciate you looking after your sister but you can't throw your fists at everything." Dad gave her a look that dared her to push the issue. But she grumbled and went back to the plantains instead. "Zaharah. Come meet me in the office please."

"Sure." She slid off the stool and made her way through the hall again, only stopping to shut her phone off. Those congratulatory messages would only feel patronising now.

Zaharah stepped into the office and her eyes immediately went to the painting on the opposite wall, hanging just above the cabinets. A perspective study featuring the downtown skyline with the Cylean Cybernetics building as its centrepiece. She'd had plans to toss that one out, but her uncle got a hold of it, and it wound up here instead of the trash where it belonged.

Dad sat behind the desk, sleeves of his crisp white shirt rolled up to the elbow. The blue glow of the computer screen reflected in his glasses and tinged the grey bits of his cornrows. Skorpi sat on his charging pad next to the console, eyes blinking green and blue.

"Hey." Zaharah pulled a chair up to the desk. "Where'd Jade go?"

"Went to her room to catch a couple rounds before dinner," he said without looking up from the screen. After a few beats of silence he looked up from the computer. "We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."

Her shoulders slumped with relief. "Thanks." She nodded to the computer. "You tinkering with Skorpi again?"

"His majesty is installing new software," Skorpi said in that obnoxious posh accent they'd given him.

Zaharah groaned. She liked him better when he didn't talk.

"I'm just updating his AI, to make him compatible with this." Dad rolled to the cabinet in back and pulled a sleek black case from the top drawer. "Consider it your present for playing a perfect game this afternoon." He set the case on the desk with the opening facing her.

Zaharah popped the single gold latch. Nestled inside was a bionic arm as sleek and black as the velvet interior it sat in. She picked it up, turned it over in her hands, examined the buttons along the forearm. It felt a tad heftier than the one she had on now.

"It has a built-in computer," dad explained. "A flashlight in the index finger, pepper spray in the thumb. It can act as throw away debit card, a wireless scanner—"

"But I just got this arm last month though," she said. "And it works just fine without all those useless... features."

"I know, but I've been dabbling with the thought of adding more... advanced programming to your arm for a while now."

"I'm not your lab rat, dad."

He laughed. "No, you're not. You're my favourite daughter. That's why I only give you the best."

She rolled her eyes. "You call all of us your favourite daughter."

"Because it's true. You're all my favourites. Even Skorpi..." he patted the little mechpet on the head, "...is my favourite daughter."

Skorpi gasped, his eyes turning pink. "Y-your majesty. I'm flattered."

Zaharah laid her cybernetic arm on the table. "Fine." When her father got into Mad Scientist mode, there was no changing his mind. He often did such things for no real reason—at least that was what it looked like to them—and Zaharah had long stopped trying to figure out the inner workings of his psyche. If mom, who'd been married to him for some thirty-odd years couldn't figure out how that crazy mind of his worked, the rest of them didn't stand a chance.

Dad reached behind him to open the cabinet, but his hand stopped short when his phone rang. He frowned at the name flashing across the dash. Aleesha Sanders.