I flick on the switch to my bedroom. It’s a small ten-by-ten room with the same cream walls and light brown carpet as the living room. There’s a narrow twin bed, a bedside table, a desk, and a closet filled with Global-issued clothing.
I shut the door. Riska hops to the floor and sits beside me as I open the bag.
The first thing I pull out is one of Mom’s black tank tops. I bury my face in it and inhale. It still smells like her. I pull it on over my Global pajamas and hug myself.
I continue to rummage through the bag. There are more clothes. I pull out a puffy white jacket and matching pants. They look like cold weather clothing. Maybe Mom was worried about the Dome’s structural integrity?
Underneath the cold weather gear is a smooth wooden box. I haul it out, nestle it in my lap, and flip back the lid.
Inside are pictures. Stacks and stacks of pictures. My mouth sags open as I see a picture of Mom holding me as a baby.
It’s a professional picture, the sort taken with good lighting and a fancy backdrop. Pink, squinty, and wrinkled, I couldn’t have been more than a few days old. Mom is heavier than I’ve ever seen her, but as she cradles me, her face is … radiant.
I flip through the pictures. More of me as an infant. There are several taken in the hospital delivery room with Mom and Dad. Some of Mom and Dad loading me into a Global van for the ride home. Others of me getting a bath. Pictures of Mom cuddling me on the couch, in a rocking chair, and on the bed. She looks so happy.
My throat constricts. Riska leans against my hip, purring.
I pull out another stack. I’m older in these pictures, maybe two or three. There are at least a dozen photos of me in the kitchen, playing with empty plastic cartons and wooden spoons. On the back of one are the words First Steps written in Mom’s familiar handwriting. This is followed by pictures of me tottering around the apartment, grinning with foolish, toddler pride. There are even a handful of photos of me sitting on the toilet. The back of one of these says, Sulan is potty trained!
Tears dribble out of my eyes and I pull out more pictures. Lots of me and Mom: the two of us cuddled on the bed, reading books on her tablet; dumping cans of food onto plates as we prepare dinner; and blowing dish soap bubbles at each other in the kitchen.
Tears flow freely now. Hands quivering with emotion, I reverently pull out picture after picture. I spread them around me in a giant arc, soaking in the images:
Mom pushing me in an infant swing that hangs in the bathroom doorway. Me taking a bath in—of all places—the sink. Me and Mom in matching hats made of construction paper. Me, hiding under the kitchen table with tomato sauce all over my chin.
And then me, about eight years old, dressed in Mom’s old Global merc uniform. I stand in the kitchen, grinning, brandishing Dad’s shaver like it’s a gun.
I remember that day clearly. I discovered the uniform in a trunk in my parents’ closet. I had been so proud when I put it on, even though the arms dangled to the floor and the legs had to be rolled up. I rushed into the kitchen to show Mom, certain she would be proud to see me in her uniform.
I remember the look on her face, and my confusion at her silence. I’d had to prompt her to take the picture. Even back then, she’d wanted to keep me from a mercenary’s life.
A sob catches in my throat.
Riska’s ears prick forward. He flaps over to the window and mews. I glance up at the black square of the glass. Taro’s face emerges from the gloom, framed in the window.
“Taro?” I swallow my tears and get to my feet. I fiddle with the latch, trying to figure out how to open it; I’ve never lived in a place with windows designed to open. It takes a minute, but finally the latch comes free and the window swings inward.
“Are you okay?” Taro asks, seeing my face.
I blink away tears, trying not to sniffle. “What time is it?”
“A little after midnight.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Dad had a directory in his desk showing where everyone lives. I came to check on you.”
“Check on me? Ever heard of a front door?” I do my best to wipe my face dry with the back of my hand.
“I didn’t want to wake your dad,” Taro replies. “Can I come in?”
10
Ink
TARO BOOSTS HIMSELF OVER THE WINDOWSILL and lands lightly on his feet. When he looks up at me, there’s concern on his face.
I should be embarrassed, but I’m not. I’m too caught up in the stream of my raging emotions. Besides, Taro came to my room. I’m allowed to cry in my own room.
“What … what are all these?” Taro asks.
“My mom …” I glance toward the mess and see a picture of me and Mom with Vex headsets on. “I was just looking at these pictures. Mom packed them.”
I sit down inside the arc of photos, my eyes roving across them. Taro crouches down across from me. He doesn’t say anything. His eyes drink in the smiling pictures of me and Mom together.
“I can’t even remember the last time we smiled together,” I whisper. “All we did over the past few years was fight.”
“Sulan …” His dark eyes are soft with empathy.
“How—how do you do it?” I whisper. “How do you get through your days without her?”
“At first,” he whispers, “you just go through the motions. It’s hard. I won’t sugarcoat it for you. I … ran a lot in those first few weeks after her murder. I ran until my legs collapsed. Sometimes I ran until I vomited. Or I’d work out with a punching bag. I’d hit it until I couldn’t lift my arms. Then I’d kick it until my shins and knees bled.”
He reaches out with one hand, extending it over the photos. He touches my face with the tips of his fingers. His hand unfolds, fingers spreading out to cradle my cheek. I close my eyes and lean into his strong fingers. Touching is such a strange real-world thing to do, but I find it comforting.
Taro steps over the photos, kneeling beside me. He’s so close I feel his body heat.
He pulls an ink pen out of his pocket and takes my left hand, cradling my wrist. The bandage around his missing finger brushes my skin. He leans forward. For a panicked moment, I think he’s going to try and kiss me. But his eyes are focused on my arm, not my face.
He places the pen between his teeth and pulls off the cap. His writing hand rests on my palm, pen poised over my forearm. The tip of the pen comes down, and he starts to draw.
His hand moves with the surety of an artist. He draws on my skin, sketching lines that come together and form the face of my mother. Mom’s expression is one of focus and determination. It’s how she looked back on the League freighter before she was killed. Her black hair is tied back into a bun. Her eyes are fierce, her jaw set.
Taro leans back, recapping the pen. “So you won’t forget what she looked like that day she came to save you.” He doesn’t let go of my hand.
Something inside me snaps. I start to shake. Tears overflow down my cheeks.
Taro’s arms come around me. I stiffen in surprise for an instant, then fall against him and sob into his shoulder. He holds me close as I weep. He strokes my damp hair with strong, gentle hands. I can’t remember ever feeling so wretched and so safe at the same time.
“She made me mad all the time,” I say into his shoulder, forcing the words out between sobs. “The last time I saw her, back on the ship, we had a fight. I’m still angry at her.”
“Do you love her?” Taro’s warm breath feathers my ear.
“Yes,” I wail, without hesitation. “I loved her. I love her, Taro. I love her!”
“That’s all that matters. All the other stuff doesn’t mean anything in the end. Hold on to the love.”
If possible, I cry even harder. Images of my last few months with Mom flash through my head. The two of us arguing as I begged her to teach me self-defense; her catching me watching Merc reruns in my bedroom, our discussion disintegrating into another yelling match as I accused her of leaving me defenseless; our last epic fight ov
er a gun; and the wounded anger that hung between us on the League freighter.
And despite all that, I ache for her. I ache, and ache, and ache.
Mom.
I don’t know how long I cry. It seems like years. Somehow I end up in Taro’s lap, my face buried in his neck. I cling to him like he’s the only thing in the world that exists. He rocks me back and forth, arms tight around me.
At last my tears slow. My breath evens. I raise swollen eyes to look at him. He smiles at me, brushing away my tears with his thumb. His fingers cradle the back of my head.
Some vague part of my mind registers his close proximity. Under normal circumstances, being this close to someone would make me uncomfortable. Especially when that someone is a teenage boy. But in this moment, his presence is all I want.
I rest my cheek against his shoulder. To my horror, I see snot on his neck. I sit up and wipe it away with my hand. I rub the gunk onto my pajama leg.
“Sorry,” I mutter, running my hands over his skin one last time to make sure I got everything. “I didn’t mean to—”
He catches my hand in both of his and squeezes. “It’s okay, Sulan.”
Our eyes meet.
I hiccup and look away. I slide off his lap, laughing weakly at myself. “Sorry to fall apart like that.”
“You had to let yourself fall apart with someone. I’m glad it was me. I’m glad it was here, where you have some privacy.”
Warmth courses through me. I let my hand relax in his grip. It’s the only part of him I still touch.
Then I see Riska. He’s sitting, of all places, on Taro’s shoulder. With his tail curled around Taro’s neck.
Riska never, ever, sits on anyone except me and Dad.
“Do you feel better?” Taro asks, his free hand petting Riska’s tail.
“Yes,” I say, surprised to find that I really do.
I eye Riska, waiting for him to move onto my shoulder. He doesn’t. He just gazes at me and purrs.
“Do you want to go to the gym tomorrow? Hit the punching bag for a while with me?” Taro asks.
“Yeah.” I tear my eyes away from Riska. “It would be nice to hit something.”
“It’ll make you feel better. I promise.” He gives my hand one last squeeze and releases it.
“Do you think …” I take a breath. “Do you think you could be my training partner? I don’t have a sparring partner anymore.”
“Yeah.” A smile flickers across his lips. “Yeah, I’d like that.”
Something in the way he says this makes heat creep up my cheeks. I turn away and gather up the photos. Taro helps. He doesn’t say a word when he sees my naked baby pictures. My esteem of him ratchets up several notches.
11
Real-World
WHEN I STEP OUTSIDE the next morning to head to the cafeteria, I find Taro leaning against the side of our pale blue house.
“Hey,” I say, surprised to see him. “What are you doing here?”
“Thought we could walk together to breakfast. That okay?”
“Yeah, sure.” I’m more than a little happy to see him. Though I’d never admit it aloud, I feel cleansed by last night’s crying. Taro’s friendship in that fragile moment meant a lot to me.
He pushes off the wall and takes a step toward me. As he does, Riska glides off my shoulder and lands on Taro’s.
“Woah.” He shifts his balance as Riska settles into place. He lifts a hand to pet him. “Hey, boy.”
I don’t know how to react. Part of me feels betrayed. Another part of me is embarrassed. It was okay last night, considering what happened, but Riska shouldn’t still be snuggling up to Taro.
Ignoring the uncertain fluttering in my stomach, I cock my head and say, “I guess he likes you.”
“Guess so.” Taro smiles at me as he scratches Riska under the chin. Riska’s eyes narrow into contented slits as he purrs.
It’s almost more than I can stand. “Do you know how to get to the cafeteria?” I look away. As if the gravel road under my feet is really, really interesting.
“Yeah. I studied the maps Dad has of the Dome. It’s this way.” He gestures to our left.
We set off through the Village, passing dozens of adorable pastel bungalows and pristine front yards. We merge onto a main boulevard and join a stream of people, all of them on foot and heading in the same direction. There are people in gray, green, blue, and burgundy polo shirts, and mercs, who stand apart in their sleek black jumpsuits. Taro and I get lots of stares.
“Are they staring at us because they know who we are and what we did to the League, or are they staring because of Riska?” I whisper to Taro.
He shakes his head. “Don’t know.”
I crane my neck, scanning the blue polos and hoping to catch sight of some of my classmates from Virtual High School. I do spot a few kids from VHS, but they’re all younger first-year kids I don’t know well. Daruuk Malhotra is out here somewhere. He’s my only chance of getting into Vex and seeing Gun.
We follow the crowd, which leads us to the Village cafeteria. It’s as cute as all the buildings in the Village, if considerably larger. It’s a wide structure painted yellow with white trim. The huge double doors are a cheery bright red, the only patch of vibrancy on all the buildings.
It’s so strange to be outside, walking around freely, even if that outside is technically in a huge biodome. I was never allowed outside our apartment in San Francisco. It was too dangerous. The only outside time I had was in Vex.
“What is that smell?” I ask. Riska glides back to my shoulder, nose twitching as he sniffs the air.
“Smells like food,” Taro replies.
“Food?” I echo. “What kind of food?” It doesn’t smell like anything I’ve ever eaten before.
“Could be real bacon,” Taro says. “Dad bought some once for my birthday.”
“Was that before or after you became a vegetarian?”
Taro’s expression is flat when he answers. “After. He can’t stand the fact that I don’t eat meat.”
I raise an eyebrow at him. “Is that why you became a vegetarian? To piss off your dad?” It’s the sort of thing I would have done to get even with my mom, when she was still alive.
“Maybe.” His expression doesn’t change, but I see a glimmer of amusement when our eyes meet.
As we near the cafeteria, the crowd around us condenses. People push in on all sides as they funnel toward the large double doors. Strangers press against me as they jostle by. A myriad of smells assault my nose, the jumbled scents of all the different people.
The close proximity of so many makes my hands sweat. I stop in the middle of the road and wipe them on my pants. My heart beats harder than necessary considering I’m not even moving. People grouse in annoyance as they stream by me on both sides.
“What’s wrong?” Taro asks.
“I’m trying to decide how hungry I am.” I swallow a lump of anxiety. “They’re … too many people here. I think I’d rather be hungry.”
“You don’t like crowds?”
“I … don’t know. I’ve never been in a real-world crowd before.” I fight the desire to extricate myself from the mass. Riska meows and flattens his ears.
Taro gives my upper arm a squeeze. “It’s okay. You just need to get used to being around real-world people. Come on. It’s not that bad.”
I nod. Taking a deep breath, I grit my teeth and take several steps with the mass of bodies moving through the double doors. That’s when I spot Nichomas Youngblood and Crystal Lark.
“Hey, I know them!” I say to Taro, pointing. “Those are my friends from Virtual High.”
He smiles at my enthusiasm. “Let’s see if we can catch up with them.”
I keep my eyes pinned on my friends as Taro and I weave toward them. For the first time in my life, I’m grateful minors aren’t allowed to alter Vex avatars; if we’d been allowed to tweak our avatars with Axcents, I wouldn’t have a chance at finding my friends. As it stands, both Nichomas and C
rystal look like they do in Vex. Nichomas is tall and broad-shouldered with shaggy black hair. Crystal is slender with blue eyes and pale skin.
“Sulan!” Crystal spots me and waves her hand. She taps Nichomas on the shoulder, who grins when he sees me. The two of them push through the crowd in my direction.
In almost the same instant, the smiles freeze on their faces. I barely register the change in their expressions when a baritone voice from behind draws me up short.
“Hudanus,” the voice drawls. “I see you decided to grace the Dome with your presence.”
I sense the sudden change in Taro. His dark eyes become hooded and distant. All expression vanishes from his face.
Through the shifting mass of people, I see Crystal tug on Nichomas’s shirt. She mouths the word sorry at me. They both duck into the crowd and disappear.
Beside me, Taro turns around slowly. Though his stance is casual, I see the slight shift in his balance. Every muscle in his body is poised for a fight.
“Van Deer,” he replies, voice flat.
A teenage boy in a merc jumpsuit saunters forward. He has cropped blond hair and the chiseled face you’d find on a Greek statue. He’s good looking and clearly knows it. He oozes confidence and charm, which immediately sets me on edge. Riska rumbles, shifting into a crouch on my shoulder and flicking his wings.
Fanning out in a semicircle behind the boy are five other merc kids, all of them in black jumpsuits. They are clearly part of Van Deer’s posse, his backup. From my experience with Gun in the Cube, only bullies need backup.
“Hello,” Van Deer says, making eye contact with me. He extends his hand. “I’m Jason Van Deer.”
Taro tenses beside me.
“Hey,” I reply, folding my arms over my chest. If Taro doesn’t like this guy, I have no interest in making friends with him.
“You must be Sulan Hom,” Van Deer says, as though he’s just figured it out. “You’re too pretty to come from Virtual High.” He gives me a winning smile, as if this is supposed to be a compliment.
The Dome Page 6
