The League

by Camille Picott

  Whatever’s landing on our rooftop is drawing their attention. The refugees move under bare-boned trees and over brittle grass, most with hoods and hats to protect them from the sun. They gather at the edge of the park, staring and pointing. Most of them have makeshift weapons: broken bottles, stout branches, and rusty blades rummaged from the local dump.

  Someone bangs on our door. I drop into a fighting stance, fists ready. Even though it’s pretty hard to get through the building’s merc team, I don’t want to assume anything.

  “Who’s there?” Mom calls, pumping the gun and bracing it against her hip.

  A strong, muffled voice replies, “Global security, Mrs. Hom. We’re here to escort you to the Livermore compound.”

  Something’s not right. The voice on the other side of that door is definitely male. Captain Clay, whom I’ve seen Mom talk to on her tablet, is a woman.

  “Where’s Captain Clay?” Mom asks.

  “Change of plan,” the voice replies.

  Mom drops into a crouch. The expression on her face is enough for me to know I should be worried. I make a dash into the kitchen and grab a knife. Any other time, I’d never get away with this, but Mom isn’t focused on me right now.

  “I’m not opening the door for anyone except Captain Clay.”

  There’s a pause. Then the voice says, “Li Yuan, it’s me. Open up.”

  For a split second, Mom’s eyes widen in surprise. Then she pads to the door and punches in her security code.

  A dozen mercenaries swarm into our living room, each dressed in a black Global uniform embroidered with the company logo. Every last one bristles with weapons: automatic rifles, grenades of various types, knives, submachine guns, pistols, shotguns. It’s like seeing my Cube weapons locker come to life. With so many weapons and people in our tiny living room, there’s barely room to twitch. Several of them cast wide-eyed looks at Riska.

  The merc leader is the biggest man I’ve ever seen. He looks like he could single-handedly take on an entire army. He has dark hair and dark skin. High cheekbones give him an elegance that’s at odds with his gigantic bulging muscles. He’s incredibly handsome, even though he’s extremely old—at least forty, maybe even forty-five.

  “Aston,” Mom says, addressing the big man. “Where’s Clay?”

  He hesitates for a brief second, then says, “The League attacked two Global families. Clay was already airborne and got redirected to one of the scenes. I was next on the flight deck, so Mr. Winn sent me to pick you up.” The words are delivered by Aston with flat, emotionless precision.

  “Who was attacked?” I ask, feeling my stomach flutter.

  “Don’t—” Mom begins, but Aston is already speaking.

  “The families of John Simmons and Agnus Long,” he says.

  It takes a heartbeat for me to fully register his words.

  John Simmons: Hank’s dad.

  Agnus Long: Billy’s mom.

  Hank and Billy. Two of the smartest kids in school. My friends.

  I whirl on Mom. “You tried to hide that from me,” I say, fury lacing my voice. “My two closest friends, and you didn’t tell me!”

  My legs feel weak. Riska whines, drawing more wide-eyed looks from the mercs. I suck in a breath, willing myself to keep it together.

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Mom says. “I didn’t want to worry you.” She squeezes my shoulder, but I shake her off with a glare.

  “Are they—are they okay?” I’m afraid to say the words, but I have to know.

  Aston shakes his head, his gaze softening as he looks at me. “I haven’t received any updates from Global on their status.” Then he adds gently, “There is speculation that you might be the next target.”

  His words send strength into my limbs. I tighten my grip on the knife. I have trained for this.

  “What are we waiting for?” Mom snaps. In her anger, I see how afraid she is for me.

  “Luggage,” Aston barks.

  “Yes, sir,” two mercs reply, snapping crisp salutes before darting toward the three regulation Global duffels lined up in front of our couch.

  A third merc joins them, reaching for the last bag. He looks about my age, but he must be at least eighteen if he’s a merc.

  “Captain Hudanus wants you with the girl,” says one of the older mercs, taking the duffel bag from the boy. “Best if you keep both hands free.”

  “Wouldn’t want to disappoint the almighty Black Ice,” the boy mutters, scowling over his shoulder at Aston.

  I freeze. My mouth goes dry. I turn to face Aston.

  “Black Ice?” I say hoarsely. “Are you the Black Ice?”

  He raises an eyebrow at me and nods.

  I could not have been more awestruck if God had walked into my living room.

  Everyone bustles out the door. I’m anchored in place, unable to peel my eyes away from Black Ice—from this man my mother so casually addresses as Aston.

  “You can ask for his autograph later,” says a dry voice in my ear.

  I jump. Standing at my side is the merc boy. The sight of someone so young decked out with weapons is stunning. His eyes have a slant to them that hint at Asian heritage, and his nose is perfectly straight. His skin is dark. He’s tall and lean with close-cropped black hair. There are two smudged ink drawings on the backs of his hands.

  “My name is Taro.” He eyes Riska, who sits on my shoulder and purrs like a miniature thunderstorm. “I’m assigned to you. Come on, let’s get to the roof.”

  “Do you know how lucky you are?” I say, wondering at his bitterness toward Aston. “So many people would die for a chance to work under Black Ice.”

  The boy shrugs. I let him usher me into the hallway and up the stairwell. Part of me realizes I should be sad about leaving the only home I’ve ever known, but between news of the League attack on Hank and Billy, my own danger, and the presence of Black Ice, I can hardly think straight.

  Mom climbs the stairs beside Aston. I can’t hear what she’s saying, but from the look on her face I’d say she’s having an argument with him. She must know him from her old merc days. I can’t believe she never mentioned him to me.

  “I’m surprised you know who he is,” Taro says, indicating Aston with a nod of his head.

  “Are you kidding?” I reply. He frowns at this, but I’m too starstruck to pay any attention. “I’ve watched every episode of Merc, and every episode with Black Ice and Morning Star at least five times. I’ve even watched all the deleted footage that never made it to—” Taro’s derisive snort makes me bristle. “Black Ice and Morning Star won Merc five timesin a row. No other merc pair has ever won more than once. Lots of people study their episodes.” Riska’s purring has completely stopped, his fur puffing up against my cheek.

  “Mercs in training study their episodes,” Taro replies. “I didn’t figure a girl like you would be into that sort of thing.”

  Riska growls, showing his teeth to Taro. “What do you mean, a girl like me?”

  “You know, a smart girl.”

  “Who says I’m smart?”

  “Everyone.”

  “Everyone?” Riska takes a swipe at Taro. “Who’s everyone?”

  Taro deftly avoids Riska’s claws. “What’s up with your pet?”

  “He’s cranky,” I snap. “He’s doesn’t like it when people say I’m smart.”

  Taro gives me a level, inscrutable expression and says nothing.

  I take several strides past him. Smart. Like that’s all I’m good for.

  Riska directs a string of hisses at Taro. I scratch between his ears, encouraging him.

  My eyes go to Aston’s broad back. I’ve always wondered what Black Ice looks like. Now that I look closely, I recognize the shape of his build. Even though he’s twenty years older, he’s maintained his physique.

  I scan the rest of the Global mercs, wondering if Morning Star might be among them. But no, none of the women here is old enough to be Morning Star; most of them look like they’re in their midtwe
nties. Morning Star would be older, like Mom’s age.

  We’re nearly to the roof when I notice Riska’s ears prick forward. His nose twitches as he sniffs the air.

  At first I think he smells the open sewage from the refugee camp. A second later, a deep whooshing pulses through the stairwell—the same sound I heard earlier outside our window. I emerge into the fading sunlight. Riska lets out a yowl, and my jaw falls open.

  Three things the size of a small school buses hover above the roof. They’re covered in thousands of tiny scales that glint black-blue in the dim light. Dark, leathery wings beat against the air—the source of the whooshing noise—sending dirt and debris flying in all directions. The creatures have powerful haunches and forelegs, with tails nearly twice as long as their bodies. The faces are wide and reptilian. The large eyes seem disconnected; they swing in opposite directions, looking left and right at the same time.

  Dragons? I wonder dumbly. But that’s impossible. Dragons don’t exist.

  Except I’m staring at three of them.

  11

  Gav

  This is why the refugees were flocking toward Pinnacle. The dragons make tight circles over the rooftop, their blue-black wings beautiful in the fading sunlight. The shape of the wings is familiar, elegant and leathery, just like a bat’s. No—just like Riska’s. Only a thousand times larger.

  I can’t suppress a sudden grin.

  “Dad,” I say.

  “You recognize your father’s handiwork?” Taro asks.

  “Of course. What are they called?”

  “Green Assault Vehicles. Gavs for short. They’re biological flying tanks.”

  “Tanks? You mean, people ride inside them?”

  Taro nods. “The Gav is the first in Global’s latest line of weaponry. The brand is called Green Combat—weapons that can be grown, rather than manufactured.”

  No wonder Mr. Winn is shipping all his scientists out to live in a fortified compound. No wonder he’s cutting off all communications with the outside world. It has nothing to do with our safety. This is revolutionary tech. Everyone is going to want it. The compound is as much to keep the intellectual property in as to keep threats out.

  I look at Riska, realization dawning. “He’s a Green Combat prototype,” I say to Taro, who’s watching me. “Dad calls him a Risk Alleviator.”

  “You think we’re going to see flocks of miniature winged tigers when we get to the compound?” Taro asks.

  “Maybe,” I say.

  “Sulan.” Mom motions to me over the heads of the mercs. She’s standing at the front of the pack with Aston.

  As I make my way toward her with Taro on my heels, I glance up and see several news helicopters hovering a safe distance away. Reporters crouch in the choppers’ open doors. They release a horde of media drones. Two dozen yellow-gold discs zip toward our rooftop, weaving around us like miniature flying saucers.

  “The news is recording all this?” I do my best to ignore the drones.

  “Mr. Winn is banking on it,” Taro replies. “Today is the first time he’s let Gavs fly in public airspace. News of them will be all over Vex in a less than an hour.”

  “So not only are we at risk of being attacked by the League, but we’re part of a publicity stunt.”

  What about Hank and Billy? Are they caught on camera as they fight for their lives against the League? Riska’s fur bristles.

  We reach Mom. She’s on high alert. I can tell by the way her eyes move, by the way she stands with every muscle poised on the brink of action. She looks like she was born in her uniform. This is who she is, right down to her toenails. The woman who runs Pinnacle HOA meetings is a ghost by comparison. It’s hard to believe Mom’s spent the last sixteen years of her life trapped in an apartment raising me.

  Mom’s hand comes up to rest protectively on my shoulder. One Gav angles toward the roof. The mighty flap of its wings pulls moisture from my eyes and makes me squint. The drones buzz away, leaving an open space around the landing area.

  As the Gav nears, an awful aroma fills the air. It smells like rotting trash. I wrinkle my nose. For all the work that must have gone into the biological tank, you’d think someone could have addressed the smell.

  The Gav touches down delicately, the stink intensifying. Its huge haunches curl up beneath its body. Its front talons make clicking sounds against the roof. The wings fold neatly onto its back. My mouth drops open as the scales on the right side of the creature slide back, revealing a dark interior.

  Inside stands a merc with a cap of wires covering his head. Lights on the cap flash and blink.

  “That’s a neural net,” I exclaim.

  “That’s how he drives the Gav,” Taro says.

  I’ve learned about neural nets in school, but up until now all the research has been weak. Or so I thought. Hank would go nuts if she saw this.

  A shiver of fear runs through my belly. She’ll be okay, I tell myself.

  “Load up,” Aston says.

  As we move toward the Gav, Taro murmurs, “Do you know how to use that thing?” He gestures to the kitchen knife gripped in my hand.

  “Well enough to defend myself if I need to.” I take a step away from him, just in case he’s thinking about wrestling it away from me.

  A furrow appears between his brows.

  I flip it three times in my right hand, then switch it to my left hand and repeat the move. The Touch pills have paid off; my hands and fingers move as if I’ve been flipping knives since I was five.

  “If you like it,” I say, “I’ll trade you. How about my kitchen knife for a few of your grenades?”

  I mean it as a joke, but Taro’s gaze slides past me toward Golden Gate Park. There is a slight widening of his eyes.

  “Get down!” he shouts, and hurls himself at me.

  I have just enough time to squawk before he knocks me flat onto the rooftop.

  Two bright smears of light streak overhead. They collide with the two airborne Gavs and explode. Even with Taro on top of me, I feel the heat of the missiles’ blast all the way through my boots. There’s nothing but roaring in my ears. Biological matter rains down—blood and innards and indefinable muck. The smell is worse than ever—like garbage, fecal matter, and copper all rolled together. Riska is in a panic, flapping and yowling. He yanks against his harness, which is wrapped firmly around my hand and wrist.

  I wriggle out from under Taro and get to my feet. Riska is nuts, fighting me every step of the way as I reel him in. I open the front of my jumpsuit and jam him inside. He yowls as I zip him in. The tight fit of the suit squashes him flat against me, but at least he won’t be able to get out. I leave just enough of the suit open for his head to poke out. He hisses at me, wriggling futilely.

  Mom looms protectively over me and Taro. Blood and guts cover her head and most of her torso, though she doesn’t seem to notice. She looks like a demon—a powerful, kick-ass demon.

  “Aston,” she says. “Give me a gun. Now.”

  Aston pulls out two OS-15 handguns and tosses them to her. She catches them and flicks off the safeties.

  “Sulan, stay close. Come on.”

  I grip my kitchen knife and drop into a fighting stance beside her. Taro flanks me on the other side, a gun balanced easily in his hands. Aston is in front of us. As a unit, we move toward the remaining Gav, our footing precarious on the guts and other biological matter splattered across the rooftop. The rest of the mercs make a circle around us, weapons held at the ready.

  A helicopter rises out of the park. At first I think it’s another news chopper, but then I see the missile launchers mounted on the stub wings.

  “Run!” Mom cries.

  I break into a sprint—and immediately sprawl across the rooftop, sliding across Gav goo. I’m not the only one. Taro hits the ground beside me, while in front of us several other mercs go down.

  The helicopter reaches us. Men zip down on cables and land on the roof. They’re wearing dark-blue ski masks and bulletproof jumpsui
ts, the Anti-American League insignia embroidered on the breast. The Leaguers land on the roof between us and the Gav.

  Taro and I scramble to our feet. My mouth is dry. I can hardly breathe. The nearest soldier leaps at me, and I freeze.

  Taro steps smoothly in front of me, catching me in his left arm as he fires the gun with his right. He’s beautiful when he moves, like liquid light. The Leaguer goes down, but three more replace him.

  “Stay behind me,” Taro says.

  I wrench myself free as the three Leaguers attack. I summon my Touch training and aim a kick at a hand with a gun. My foot connects with just enough impact to deflect the gun aimed at Taro’s face. The bullet flies harmlessly away. Taro swings his gun and knocks out the next man. Mom appears at his side, firing her gun into the third man.

  “Sulan,” Mom says, “follow me!”

  The gunfire is deafening. My mind spins, and I’m trying to look everywhere at once. The knife handle is slippery in my grasp. Adrenaline courses through my bloodstream like a cannonball. My heart pounds so rapidly my chest hurts. Media drones weave in and out of the action.

  I take a step after Mom, and the tide of battle shifts. Leaguers are all around me, fighting hand-to-hand with Global mercs.

  I’m face-to-face with a man who zeroes in on me. From the sudden crinkling around his eyes—the only part that’s visible through the ski mask—I know he’s smiling. There’s a small mole next to his left eye that wrinkles with the smile. He grabs me, whirls me around, and pins me against his chest. I smell sweat and cigarettes.

  I scream, absolute panic gripping me as he raises a tranq gun toward my neck.

  Thank goodness for the hundreds of hours spent training with Gun and Touch. My subconscious kicks in, knowing exactly what to do. My knife plunges down, slicing deep between the knuckles of his left hand.

  He curses, grip loosening for an instant. It’s all I need. I jerk free and stumble away, struggling for balance.