The Dome

by Camille Picott

  I ignore her and volunteer to make an extra Vex appearance when Kerry gets a last-minute request from a virtual elementary school. I give a speech on the importance of studying and working hard for good grades. The irony is not lost on me.

  The extra work only distracts me for a short while. When it’s over, I’m left to question all the beliefs I’ve ever had about myself, my mother, and relationships.

  The bag of brining salt remains stashed under my bed. Here I am, moping over a boy when I should be hunting a potential League agent. But I can’t bring myself to deliver it to Uncle Zed without Taro.

  I remember the feel of his arms around me when I cried over Mom that first night in the Dome. I remember the way he held me when he kissed me outside the cafeteria. His arms were a nice place to be. More than anything, I find myself wanting to be back in them.

  I lie in bed with Riska on my chest, pondering the idea of taking the next step with Taro. Does he even want me anymore, after all the things I said? Would being his girlfriend really be a bad thing? The concept terrifies me in ways I can’t articulate.

  “I need to talk to him,” I tell Riska. He purrs and fans open his wings. “I need to make things right with him. Somehow.”

  33

  Three Inches

  I RESOLVE TO TRACK TARO DOWN the next day and talk to him. Not wanting to approach him in public, I get up early and go to his house. Riska purrs the entire way there, the end of his tail twitching and tickling the back of my neck.

  As I arrive at his house, I wonder if this entire venture is a stupid idea. What if he wants nothing to do with me? What if he won’t speak to me? Does he even consider me a friend anymore? Something akin to self-pity settles on my shoulders.

  Don’t mope, I berate myself. Riska mews in my ear.

  I lose my nerve and walk straight past Taro’s house without stopping. I continue on, as if I’m just out for a morning stroll. Riska growls at me.

  I circle around the block. Panic sets in. What if during my stroll Taro leaves his house and I miss my chance to talk to him? How could I be so stupid?

  In the two minutes it takes me to walk the rest of the way back to his house, I focus on ignoring the flip-flopping of my stomach. I have to go through with this. I have to try and make things right with Taro. Even though I don’t have a clear idea of how to do that. But I can’t fix anything if we don’t at least talk.

  Heart pounding, I force myself to walk up the path to his house. I raise my hand to knock. Before my knuckles connect with the door, it swings open.

  “Sulan?” Aston towers over me, muscles bulging in his sleek black jumpsuit.

  The sight of Taro’s father makes me fidget. I shove my fingers into my pockets.

  “Hi,” I say, not knowing what else to say. “I—I was just coming to see Taro. Is he here?”

  Aston gives me a quizzical look. “He’s in the shower. You can wait inside if you like.” He steps aside, gesturing for me to come in.

  The inside of Taro’s house is the same as mine, right down to the colors. Aston escorts me to the seating area. At first I think he’s going to let me wait alone. Instead, to my surprise, he sits down on the sofa across from me. I’m careful not to look in the direction of the bathroom, where I can hear the water running as Taro showers. I fiddle with my hands and study the fabric of my khaki pants.

  Aston is the first to break the uncomfortable silence. “Does your father ever tell you how much you look like her?”

  He doesn’t have to say who her is. Some of my nervousness fades.

  “We don’t talk about her,” I reply, shaking my head. “We don’t talk much at all, actually.”

  I don’t know why I said that last part. It sounds like Dad and I don’t get along, which isn’t true. I hastily try to backtrack. “He works a lot.” I flick a quick look up at Aston. “What was Mom like? I mean, when she was a mercenary, what was she like?”

  He studies me before answering. “She was a gifted fighter,” he says at last. “A natural. There was never a weapon or fighting technique she couldn’t master.”

  I nod, remembering the old Morning Star and Black Ice reality shows. My mother had been Morning Star, my childhood idol. Because of the masks worn on the show to conceal identities, I hadn’t known the truth about her until recently. Aston had been her partner, the two of them still famous in some circles. Mom had been so strong, so deadly. I’d always wanted to be like her.

  “She could have worked for any mercenary corps in the world,” Aston continued. “But that life was never for her. She only did it to survive. As soon as she had her chance, she got out.”

  I stare at him, stunned. I’ve never heard this before.

  “What—what do you mean?” I ask.

  Aston shrugs. “Once she had saved enough money to live comfortably, she retired. She asked me to retire with her, but I could never give up the fight.” He gives me a small, sad smile. “Unlike her, I was made for this life.”

  “She didn’t like being a mercenary?” This doesn’t fit with the sleek, strong image I have of my mother. I’d seen her handle a shotgun as if it was an extension of her arm.

  “It was just a job to her. A means to an end.” This time, his sad smile stretches up to his eyes. “It wasn’t her, though to watch her fight you’d never know it. Being a mercenary didn’t define your mother. She was strong-willed, determined, brave, and decisive. Both in and out of uniform. I see a lot of her in you. Did the two of you butt heads a lot?”

  A strangled sound escapes my lips. “All the time.”

  He chuckles. It’s a fond laugh, not a cruel one. I find myself craving to know more about Mom—to know everything Aston knows. I open my mouth to ask about their time on Merc, the old reality Vex show that made them both so famous.

  Before I can speak, the bathroom door swings open. Taro steps into the living room, bits of steam wafting out behind him. His cropped black hair glistens damply. His eyes widen at the sight of me.

  “Sulan?” He stares at me in confusion. “What are you doing here?”

  “I, uh …” Words die on my tongue as my brain scrabbles for footing.

  Aston clears his throat and rises from the sofa. “I’ve got to report for my shift in thirty minutes. You kids have a nice morning.” Without another word, he strides out the door.

  Taro and I are left alone with each other. I stand there in awkward silence, both relieved and terrified to see him. I open my mouth to say something—anything to keep him from walking away from me.

  “What do you want, Sulan?” Taro’s expression is guarded and distant.

  “I was looking for you. I mean, I was hoping we could talk.”

  “Okay.” He puts his hands in his pockets and looks down at the carpet. “What did you want to talk about?”

  “I, um …” I struggle to come up with an answer that won’t make me look lame. Several excuses tumble around in my head. I hadn’t planned anything past this moment. I could say I wanted to practice for our Vex appearance later this week. I could ask if he’s heard from Billy or Uncle Zed, or even Daruuk.

  Riska cocks his head at me, pricking his ears forward. I make an incoherent sound of frustration in the back to my throat.

  Truth. I’m going for truth. Taro means too much to me. I have to try and fix this.

  “I don’t like fighting with you,” I say in a rush. “I hate this.” I gesture to the space between us. “It’s just—I mean—I want to say I’m sorry. And you were right about my mom …” I trail off, realizing I’m babbling and making no sense.

  Taro raises his chin to look at me. When our eyes meet, the resentment rushes out of him. His shoulders slump, the mask slipping from his features. In that moment, I see the hurt I caused him. And this time, I understand it. It echoes the loss I feel.

  “It’s my fault,” he whispers, running a hand through his wet hair. “I—I felt something when I kissed you.” His face reddens. “I thought you felt it, too.”

  God, why did Hank hav
e to be right? I shift, heart pounding.

  “Taro, I—”

  He cuts me off. “You don’t have to say anything. I overreacted. I’m sorry. You don’t want a relationship. I can respect that. Your friendship is more important to me than anything else. Can we just forget what happened the other night?”

  This is my chance to deny everything. To take everything back to the way it was a few days ago. Except my world a few days ago was based on misconceptions and, I realize, a denial of how much Taro has come to mean to me. I don’t want things to be the way they used to be.

  Admitting that causes a chasm of fear to open up inside me. I force myself to step closer to it.

  Taking a deep breath, I summon every scrap of courage I have within me.

  “I—I felt it.” My voice is a hoarse croak. I clear my throat and try again, speaking more loudly this time. “I felt it too, Taro.”

  His head snaps up. He crosses the room, closing the distance between us in three long strides. For an instant I think he’s going to sweep me into his arms.

  But he doesn’t. He draws to an abrupt halt, leaving only three inches of space between us. We stand there without touching. The clean scent of him fills my nose.

  I have never felt so small and vulnerable in my entire life. Even the terror I felt as a League captive feels puny compared to what I feel now.

  “I’m confused,” I whisper, daring to look up at him. “I don’t want to be without you. Without us. I just don’t know what to do about … the rest of it.”

  He hesitates, then puts his arms around me. The last three inches between us disappears as he draws me close. I lean against his chest and close my eyes, drawing comfort from his presence. Images of Mom bombard me.

  Being a mercenary didn’t define your mother, Aston had said.

  A few tears leak out of my eyes. What defines me? I don’t even know anymore.

  For so long I wanted to be like Mom, but now I feel like I never knew her. Or maybe I did know her. The mom I remember was brave, determined, and strong-willed, just like Aston had said. Maybe there were two moms: the one I saw every day, and the mercenary I daydreamed about. Confusion boils inside me.

  Taro presses his lips against the top of my head in a soft kiss, drawing me back to the moment.

  “I’m your friend, no matter what,” he says, wiping my tears away with his thumb. “We can figure out the rest as we go. It’s okay if you’re not ready for a relationship.” His voice drops to a whisper as he adds, “I’m just glad you felt something, too.”

  His understanding and acceptance nearly make me sob in relief. After a moment of hesitation, I reach up and loop my arms around his neck. Taro makes a soft sound of contentment, his arms tightening around me.

  Riska’s purr is thunderous. He twines himself around us, walking back and forth between our shoulders.

  “Can—can we just be Taro and Sulan again?” I falter, worried this might hurt his feelings. “That didn’t come out right. What I mean is—”

  He lifts a hand and cups the side of my face. “I am very happy to be Taro and Sulan again.”

  “Thank you,” I whisper. Where moments before I had felt small and terrified, I now feel safe. How could I go from one extreme to the other in a few heartbeats? “Thank you for understanding.”

  We stand like that for a long time, just holding each other. Riska settles with his hind legs on my shoulder and his forelegs on Taro’s shoulder, purring nonstop.

  I feel like I could stay like this forever. Except my arms start to go numb. I shift, trying to get comfortable. Taro steps back, ignoring Riska’s irritated growl as he’s dislodged. His hands linger on my shoulders before falling away.

  “So, um.” He clears his throat. “You should know our plan worked. The entire merc school thinks we’re a couple, thanks to Van Deer. He told everyone about seeing us together the other night.”

  I laugh, smiling to show him everything is okay. Because, finally, everything is okay. “It does give us a credible cover story if we’re caught out in the middle of the night again.”

  He tilts his head at me. “Do you have the brining salt?”

  “Riska brought it back to my house. It’s stashed under my bed.” My voice drops to a whisper when I add, “I—I couldn’t bring myself to take it to Uncle Zed without you.”

  His eyes light up. He caresses the side of my face again.

  “Should we go visit Uncle Zed tonight and make our trade?” he asks.

  I nod. “Definitely.”

  34

  Proposal

  UNCLE ZED ANSWERS ON OUR THIRD KNOCK. He cracks the door open and peers at us with narrowed eyes.

  “Do you have the goods?” His eyes dart back and forth as he scans the street behind us.

  “Yeah,” Taro says. “Are you going to let us in?”

  Zed spends several more seconds scanning the street, then nods. He steps back to allow us inside.

  “Let’s see it.” He closes the door behind us and locks it. He’s added two extra deadbolts. And managed to get his hands on a thick closet dowel, which he’s drops into place over the door. No one will be getting inside here anytime soon.

  If possible, the living room is even messier than it was the last time we saw it. The Project Renascentia board has been expanded to another large piece of cardboard, this one hanging on the wall next to the door. Notes are taped haphazardly to it, black lines crisscrossing the board in a tangled interconnectivity.

  I wonder what Billy’s mom thinks of this mess. If she works as much as my dad, she probably doesn’t spend much time here. Or maybe she’s just used to her half-mad brother.

  “Let’s see it,” Zed repeats, pacing back and forth in front of us—quite a feat, considering he only has about three feet of room.

  Taro produces the bag of brining salt, which we picked up at my house on the way here. Zed snatches it out of his hand, peering at the contents. He sticks his finger inside, then rubs the tip of it against his tongue.

  “The real deal,” he mutters, closing the bag and stuffing it into his pocket. He wades into the maze of stuff, still muttering.

  “What about the mercenary shift schedule?” I call after him.

  “Morning Star?” Zed lifts his head to stare at me. He blinks, shakes his head, then moves further into the mess. He rifles around in a box before producing a rumpled sheet of paper covered in something that barely passes for legible handwriting.

  “Is this it?” I ask, taking the paper from him. I was expecting something more official like a computer printout, or at least something with the Global Arms logo.

  “That’s it.” Zed turns away to sort through what appears to be a pile of secondhand shoes. As we watch, he stashes the bag of brining salt in a boot with pink and blue rhinestones.

  I spread the paper over my leg, trying to smooth out the worst of the wrinkles. Taro leans in. The two of us scan Zed’s atrocious handwriting.

  Maxwell—Schedule is scrawled at the top. Underneath is a list of dates and times.

  I point to the times. “Are these the start times of the shift?”

  “Yeah.” Taro runs his fingers down the list. “Looks like Maxwell’s day shift rotation goes for another two weeks.” He looks up at me. “We have to wait for him to go onto the graveyard rotation.”

  “Two weeks?” I shake my head. “We can’t wait that long. We have to find another way.”

  This time, Taro shakes his head. “No. We have to be patient. There are too many people out during the day. It’s too risky. We can’t get caught.”

  I know he’s right, but I don’t like it. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and Claudine will send him out sooner.”

  “Maybe. We can—”

  Taro is cut off by a rapid banging on the front door.

  “Hom!” a voice shouts. “Open up! I know you’re in there!”

  Uncle Zed moves like lightning, diving behind a box of tools. He emerges seconds later, wielding what looks like a homemade spear. The shaft is
a thick piece of wood that’s been whittled away with a dull knife; the tip is made from one of the forks Zed stole from the cafeteria.

  “Hom? Hom!”

  “Daruuk?” I glance at Taro, who shrugs.

  “Zed, it’s Daruuk. Can I open the door?” I wait, watching the older man.

  He scuttles out from behind the stack of boxes, spear in hand. He crouches to the side of the door, then nods at me as if to say, You can open the door now. I’m ready to stab your friend.

  “It’s just Daruuk,” I say in a loud whisper.

  “Commies are tricky,” Zed replies. “We can never let our guard down.”

  “You can’t stab Daruuk.”

  Zed just stares at me, eyes bright white inside a face of camouflage tattoos.

  “Hom!” Daruuk yells. “Do you know how hard you are to find? Open the door!”

  “Daruuk, calm down,” I call, moving to the door. “Stop banging. Are you alone?”

  “Of course I’m alone,” he snaps. To my relief, he does lower his voice. “Do you think I would trust civilians with my mission?”

  I watch Uncle Zed, gauging his reaction. The muscles along his neck and shoulders relax. There is recognition in his eyes as he watches the door. He still hasn’t lowered the spear, but he doesn’t look ready to impale Daruuk on the spot.

  I cautiously lift the bar off the door and open the multiple locks. Taro inches a few steps closer to Zed. The older man flicks his eyes at him, then resumes watching the door.

  “No sudden movements,” I call, then slowly turn the knob. I crack the door open just a few inches.

  Daruuk’s scowling face peers through the crack. “Will you let me in?” he growls. “Do you know what is befalling my faithful citizens while the three of you reenact spy games?”

  “Uncle Zed?” I look over my shoulder at him.

  He rises out of his crouch and nods at me. I open the door the rest of the way. Daruuk shoulders his way in, kicks the door shut with his foot, then rounds on me.