The Dome

by Camille Picott

We wordlessly head out of the media room. It’s easier to pretend I didn’t just have a near meltdown if everyone else pretends with me.

  Outside in the hall, one of the mercs detaches himself from the wall and steps in front of us. He sizes us up with one look, then jerks his chin over his shoulder.

  “Follow me,” he says. “I’ll take you out.”

  He leads us through the twisting granite hall. A set of double steel doors appears at the far end of a long corridor. As we approach, the doors beep and slide open, revealing open air and blue sky—the first I’ve seen since I woke up from the tranq.

  Another merc saunters into the Fortress. He has salt-and-pepper hair, a white soul patch, and a dark mole next to his left eye.

  “Captain Maxwell,” says the merc leading us. He tips his chin in greeting and steps to one side, making room for Maxwell to pass.

  Taro and I follow suit, stepping to one side of the corridor. As Maxwell nears, I notice an odd, familiar smell to him. I try to place it. As I do, Riska leaps off my shoulder.

  With a growl, he streaks straight at the captain.

  With an inarticulate yell, I grab Riska by the tail and yank him backward. As I do, a stream of venom sprays from his mouth.

  8

  The Dome

  THE MERC LEANS SIDEWAYS, avoiding most of the venom with chilly calm. A few droplets hit the shoulder of his uniform. Smoke drifts up from the fabric as the venom eats clean through the fabric.

  Riska snaps his wings shut and growls as I squash him against my chest.

  Venom dribbles from his teeth. I angle his head so the droplets hit the stone floor. Tendrils of smoke rise up from the ground.

  “Calm down, boy.” I rub his head, heart hammering in my chest. Riska has never attacked for no reason.

  The merc glares at me and Riska through narrowed eyes, assessing us.

  “Captain Maxwell.” Taro steps forward, forming a wall between us and the merc.

  Maxwell shifts his focus away from me. “Hudanus.” He greets Taro with a sharp nod.

  “Did you just arrive in the Dome, sir?” Taro asks.

  “Mind your own business,” Maxwell snaps. “You might be Mr. Winn’s pet hero, but I still outrank you.”

  With that, he continues his saunter down the hall. Riska growls again.

  “What was that all about?” Taro asks.

  I shake my head, giving him a wide-eyed look to convey my confusion. I stroke Riska’s head, but he doesn’t stop rumbling until Maxwell turns a corner and disappears from sight.

  “There you are!” Kerry appears from around the same corner. She hustles to catch up with us. “Are you two ready for your first view of the Dome?”

  She barrels past us without waiting for an answer, heading into the open air beyond the double doors. Our merc escort shrugs and disappears back into the Fortress.

  I give Riska one last pat before transferring him back to my shoulder. His tail lashes, but he doesn’t growl or try to dive-bomb anyone. His dislike was apparently for Maxwell alone. Something must not be right about that man. I don’t know what it is, but I’m going to find out.

  “This way,” Kerry says, gesturing to me and Taro. We follow her and find ourselves ejected into the shining, sunlit air of the Dome.

  “Whoa,” I breathe, halting mid-stride at the sight that greets us. Thoughts of Maxwell melt away.

  Before us, a large animal raises his black-and-white striped head, gazing at us. His ears swivel in our direction and he gives a luxurious yawn.

  Riska rumbles, digging his claws into my shoulder.

  I stare at the creature, words catching in my throat. I’ve never seen a real horse, but I’ve seen enough pre-’Fault movies to guess the creature in front of me is roughly the same size. His body is covered in striped fur identical to Riska’s. That’s not the only thing identical. A pair of translucent black wings graces the animal’s back—although his wingspan looks closer to twenty feet, not the four-foot span of Riska’s.

  “That’s, like, Riska to the power of ten,” Billy says, coming to stand beside me and Taro.

  I’ve been so busy staring I didn’t notice that the rest of the group joining us. I avoid looking at Hank, keeping my gaze on the giant animal.

  “That’s an Aircat,” Dad says from behind us. “Riska’s predecessor and my invention.” The pride in his voice is unmistakable. “This is Global’s answer to the gasoline shortage. Aircats will give our merc corps mass mobility, something other merc corps don’t have. They’re fast, strong, and have the endurance of horses. They’re more agile and versatile than any electronic vehicle will ever be. They’ll make cities much easier to patrol and protect.”

  Dad walks straight up to the beautiful Aircat. The animal leans into his hand as Dad scratches him between the ears. Riska lets out a sound that’s half growl, half yowl.

  “Dr. Hom, they’re amazing,” Hank breathes.

  “Sissy, can I have one?” little Timmy asks, clutching her hand.

  “No, silly,” Hank replies. There’s a softness to her voice I’ve never heard before. “These belong to the mercs.” She tousles her little brother’s hair with her free hand.

  Seeing Hank interact with Timmy blunts the edge of my anger. How can I blame her for wanting to take care of her family?

  Riska hisses at something to my right. I turn and see a dozen more Aircats lumber around a corner. They’re accompanied by black-clad mercenaries who are each adorned with a neural net.

  I press one hand against Riska’s back, worried he might freak out again and attack another mercenary. He rumbles, ears swiveling in the direction of the Aircats, but doesn’t try to attack.

  “You’re lucky,” Kerry says to us. “Aircats are usually reserved for mercenaries, but since they’re the only way in and out of the Fortress, each of you gets to ride one back to the Village.” She waves her hands at us, shooing us in the direction of the big animals. “Go on. There’s one for each of you.”

  “The only way in and out of the Fortress?” I murmur to Taro. “What’s she talking about?”

  “Look where we are.” Taro cups my elbow, leading me around the Aircats.

  That’s when I realize we’re on a massive stone ledge a good hundred feet in the air. I’ve been so enraptured by the sight of the Aircats I hadn’t even taken the time to study my surroundings.

  The Fortress is built into a mountainside, as I had guessed. The faceted glass ceiling of the Dome sparkles overhead. Flurries of snow swirl against it, looking almost like clouds against the backdrop of a blue sky.

  The ledge we stand on extends into the open air for two hundred feet. There’s no railing, no rampart of any sort to keep anyone from falling off the edge. Behind us, only the double steel doors hint at the massive internal structure that make up the Fortress. There are no stairs of any kind; as Kerry said, the only way in or out is by Aircat.

  “Sulan,” Dad calls. “Over here.” He gestures to an Aircat.

  A thick mercenary woman sits on its back, the lights of the neural net dancing around her head. I exchange a glance with Taro, then head to the Aircat. The woman grabs my hand, pulling me up behind her.

  Riska snarls and jumps off my shoulder. He whizzes overhead, growling. At first I think his agitation is directed at the merc woman. I tense, ready to grab him out of the air again if necessary. But Riska doesn’t attack.

  After a moment, I realize his hostility is directed at the Aircat. He circles close to the animal’s head, delivering a steady stream of growls.

  The giant animal flicks his ears in Riska’s direction. Other than that, it ignores him. Riska is like a cat squawking at a horse.

  “Good thing the Aircats aren’t as feisty as your Risk Alleviator,” says the merc woman. “A thousand pounds of attitude would be more than most of us could handle. Hang on.”

  Lights flare around her neural net. The Aircat trots forward, picking up speed as it goes. At the last moment, the beast throws open its wings and leaps off the edge.
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  My stomach rises into my throat as we swoop downward. I dig my nails into the stiff black fabric of the merc’s jumpsuit. The Aircat beats its wings, halting our descent and propelling us up, up, and up.

  We fly along a mere twenty feet below the top of the Dome. It arches above us in glitters of interconnecting glass hexagons. Snow swirls against the glass, gathering in powdery puffs until they get too heavy and slide away. The humid warmth of the Dome interior is an odd juxtaposition to the snowy Alaskan wilderness that surrounds it.

  I turn my gaze downward, trying to take advantage of my aerial view.

  The Dome is a string eight biodomes. They are connected in a sinuous line that hugs the side of a natural mountain. The squadron of Aircats flies through the biodomes, carrying me and my friends away from the Fortress.

  Just below the Fortress are men and women in bulletproof jumpsuits. They walk in and out of a six-story cinder block building. Splayed around the building are lush fields of grass dedicated to training. They contain sparring pits, obstacle courses, and shooting ranges. The staccato of gunshots makes the Aircat swivel its ears.

  I can hardly wrap my head around all the green grass. I guess when you’re in the middle of a snowy wasteland it’s pretty easy to get water. Mom used to tell me about a time when lawns were as common a sight as asphalt and concrete, but I’ve never seen green grass before. It’s beautiful to behold. Much nicer to look at than fields of dry brown grass covered with refugee lean-tos.

  Past the merc headquarters and training fields is another cinder block building. It’s surrounded by men and women in dark blue polos. Many of them wear white lab coats over the polos. That must be the laboratory where Dad and the other scientists work.

  It’s where I’m destined to spend my life.

  Next come rolling fields of livestock. There are honest-to-god animals. Not brainless lumps grown in vats, but real animals—pigs, rabbits, chickens, ducks, pigeons, and goats. Are they for eating? The only times I’ve ever eaten a real animal was at Christmastime, when Global sent home a ham or a turkey.

  Past the livestock is sprawling farmland. There are orchards. I’ve never seen fruit and nut trees before, except in pictures. There are also plowed rows of crops, all of them bursting with plants I can’t name. It’s so strange to see food growing.

  Among the fields and orchards are people in green polo shirts. These are people like Hank’s parents—people that are neither scientists nor mercenaries. Where will Hank’s little brother end up? In the lab like his big sister, or in the field like his parents?

  We at last reach the far end of the Dome. Below us is a scene straight out of a pre-’Fault suburbia movie.

  There are rows of tidy houses, each of them painted in a muted color scheme. Rosebushes and green grass grow in the front yards. Long green belts roll out behind the houses, all of them dotted with picnic tables, arbors, and play structures for younger kids. Fronting the houses are streets of gravel. In the center of the town is a big grassy field with a baseball diamond, a football field, and an outdoor amphitheater.

  “This is the Village,” the merc woman calls to me over the beat of the Aircat’s wings. “It’s where all residents of the Dome live.”

  I glance across the squadron of Aircats and catch sight of Hank’s face. She glows with pride as she gazes down at the Village. Her hard work has landed her family in this place. The Village is more than a dream come true. It’s a memory of better days that are long gone for the rest of the world. Even I can see that.

  For some reason, Hank’s joy leaves me feeling empty. It’s undeniable that Global has created a utopia for us. Why can’t I look at the Village and feel happy? When I look down at the cute houses and pristine lawns, why do I feel trapped?

  9

  The Duffel

  OUR HOUSE SMELLS NEW.

  Having spent my entire life in the same apartment, I never imagined new had a smell. It’s a combination of the fresh cream paint covering the walls mingled with the cloying aromatics that waft up from the light brown carpet.

  The scents make Riska’s nose twitch. They make me wish I had a surgical mask.

  I stand with Dad in the living room of our new two-bedroom bungalow. On one wall is a giant picture frame displaying the Global Arms logo.

  There’s no kitchen—all food is served in a centralized cafeteria—but there is a glass slider that opens onto the green belt in the back. Dad’s room flanks the left side of our living area; my room flanks the right. There’s a tiny bathroom for us to share near the entryway. If you don’t mind the complete lack of color and the giant Global logo in your face, it’s a pretty nice place.

  “Sulan?” Dad puts an arm around me.

  I close my eyes and lean into him, grateful at last to have some privacy. Riska purrs, rubbing his head against my cheek.

  “How are you holding up?” Dad asks.

  “I miss Mom. I miss her so much.” My voice cracks. Tears leak down my cheeks. I don’t bother to wipe them away.

  “Me too, sweetie.” He squeezes me tight. We stand like that for long moments. Dad taps a single finger rapidly on my shoulder, the odd pattern a sign of how distraught he is.

  I sniffle, wiping my tears on his shirt. I feel so empty and lost.

  That’s when I spot the black duffel bags sitting in the entryway. Three of them.

  One for me, one for Dad, and one for Mom. Tears well in my eyes again.

  Dad follows my gaze and gives me another squeeze. “Do you want to look inside it?” he asks. “See what she packed?”

  “No.” I stare at the bag. I’m afraid if I open it, my carefully erected emotional dam will burst and result in uncontrollable sobbing. I’m not ready to confront my feelings. They’re as big and scary as Imugi.

  “Can Riska really run upside down on ceilings?” I ask, desperate to quell the ball of emotion threatening to explode.

  Dad blinks at me in surprise. “What makes you think Riska can run upside down on the ceiling?”

  “Claudine showed footage of him at the press conference. Was it real?”

  “Most likely,” he says, speaking slowly, as though choosing his words with care.

  “Supposedly the footage was from our rescue. She said our extraction team retrieved it from the ship.”

  Surprise is evident in his eyes. The look disappears almost immediately, replaced with a guarded one. “That wasn’t footage that I caught on any of my cameras,” he says at last.

  “If you didn’t get it, where did the footage come from?”

  He shrugs and shakes his head, his expression turning inward.

  There’s something—or a lot of things—he’s not telling me. The certainty of this makes me snappish.

  “What else can Riska do that you haven’t told me about?”

  Dad looks at me in silence. He sighs, shoulders slumping. “Riska was designed to keep you safe. That’s all I can tell you, Sulan. I’m sorry.”

  My anger shrivels up, replaced with exhaustion. I’m too tired and wrung out to be angry with Dad.

  He must see this in my face, because he reaches out and pats my shoulder. “Why don’t you get some sleep?”

  I nod, giving him a long hug before trudging off to my new bedroom.

  ***

  I dream of Imugi.

  In my dream, I run down a black tunnel. Tears streak my face. My lungs burn and my legs ache. Imugi, in his serpent form, pursues me.

  “You are mine, Sulan,” he hisses. “All mine.”

  His voice turns into long coils of blue rope that settle around me. I sob as the ropes cinch tight around my legs. I hit the ground with a scream.

  Imugi bears down on me, blue serpentine face twisted into a dark grin. He looms high in the tunnel, fangs barred.

  Just as he lunges for my throat, I wake up. My real-world scream echoes in my ears.

  Riska sits next to me on my pillow, fur fluffed and ears flat on his head.

  Pushing away the disturbing scraps of the dream, I thr
ow off my khaki-colored bedspread—complete with an embroidered Global Arms logo in the bottom left corner—and stalk into the living room.

  I flop onto a dark gray sofa and rub my eyes. I’m exhausted. Back in San Francisco, I’d go into Vex when I couldn’t sleep. Not an option here. We aren’t permitted Vex equipment of any kind, except in the Fortress.

  On the coffee table is a stack of pre-’Fault paperback books. Mom and Dad had a small collection of real books in San Francisco, but they were old and I wasn’t allowed to touch them. I stare at the ones stacked on the coffee table, then reach over and flip through them.

  William Shakespeare. Emily Dickenson. Jane Austen. Mark Twain.

  Twain. Tears fill my eyes. Gun loves old books and old writers. He even created a Vex Axcent that he named after Mark Twain, which he used to save my life when I was captured by the League.

  Something in me wilts. I wish I could see him again. He’d cheer me up. Those few seconds in the press conference today weren’t enough.

  I shove the books back onto the coffee table, angrily swiping at the tears in my eyes. I don’t need to feel sorry for myself.

  Riska flaps into the living room, gliding in a large, lazy circle. He lets out a small mew and swoops down. I expect him to land on my shoulder, but instead he lands on the black canvas duffel Dad left sitting on the floor next to the sofa.

  Mom’s duffel bag. The one she packed for the Dome. Everyone was given a single black duffel for our move here. We could bring whatever we wanted—minus Vex devices—so long as everything fit in the bag.

  My heart pounds as I stare at the nondescript black bag. I flash back to one of the last times I saw Mom. She sat in the middle of our San Francisco apartment, surrounded by mounds of stuff. She picked through it, trying to figure out what to bring to the Dome. I remember the way sunlight painted one side of her face with yellow light and the way stray wisps of black hair escaped from her bun.

  Finally alone with a chance to process my feelings in privacy, I’m overcome with a desire to see what Mom packed. I grab the bag handles, grunting at the unexpected weight and dropping it. I don’t bother trying to lift it a second time. I grab one handle and drag it across the floor into my bedroom. Riska maintains his perch on the bag, swiveling his ears at me as he rides along.