The League

by Camille Picott

  I spot Mom several paces to my right, her arms rock-steady as she fires straight at an oncoming rush. Several Leaguers go down, blood fountaining from their heads.

  The scene is sickening. Blood and brains ooze across the ground. Unconscious and dying bodies pile up like logs. Riska mews. My grip on the kitchen knife gives way, the blade slipping from my shaking fingers. Riska’s claws tear at my chest and abdomen, but I barely feel the pain.

  Two bodies tumble to the ground in front of me. I see League blue and Global black, and hear a voice I recognize—

  “Run, Sulan!”

  It’s Taro, pinned beneath a man. His breath is cut off as the Leaguer delivers a string of punches to his ribcage.

  The sight of him jars me out of my paralysis. Without thinking, I unzip my uniform. Riska bursts forth in a flurry of claws, streaking straight toward the Leaguer’s face. His claws rake across the man’s nose and mouth.

  Taro bounds to his feet, grabs me by the arm, and hauls me toward the Gav.

  “Riska!”

  I’ve lost my grip on his harness. He attacks the Leaguer again. His claws catch on the blue ski mask, pulling it off. I see an Asian man beneath the mask, shouting as blood runs down his face.

  And then something happens that’s never happened before. Riska opens his mouth in a hiss—and a stream of whitish liquid squirts out of his mouth. It sprays the Leaguer right in the eyes.

  The man shrieks incoherently, falling to the ground and clawing at his face. Blood runs from both eye sockets. The skin of his face erodes, as though it’s being eaten by acid. Riska hisses again, spraying more liquid over the man’s face and hands. The Leaguer screams and screams.

  My mouth falls open. Riska leaves the man writhing on the ground and zips toward me. Every strand of fur stands erect on his small body. He lands on my shoulder, wings poised for flight. He looks at Taro and growls.

  “No, Riska,” I say. “He’s a friend.” I raise one hand and tentatively touch his fur. He leans into my touch, but his fur doesn’t lie down.

  “That’s, ah, some piece of security,” Taro says, staring at Riska.

  I shake my head, unable to find words. Why didn’t Dad tell me Riska can spray venom? Why would he omit that detail?

  “We’ve got to keep moving.” Taro takes me lightly by the wrist, pulling me forward once more. We fall in behind Mom and Aston.

  Mom’s lost one gun. She alternates between kicking, punching, and shooting. Her body is a black blur. Aston’s got two guns, and he does his own share of kicking and punching.

  Their movements are seamless, complementary, like dancers sharing a single mind. Mom drops down to kick the legs out from under a Leaguer. Aston towers over her, shooting down two more before they close in. A woman lunges for Aston’s exposed midsection with a knife, but Mom pops up to intercept her, driving a shoulder blade into her gut and tossing her into three other oncoming Leaguers, all of whom go down in a tangle of arms and legs. A brief space opens up around us.

  There’s a blur of motion from the helicopter. Something black spins through the air and wraps around my knees. I topple forward with a yelp, arms outstretched. I glimpse a thick black bola cinched around my legs like a constrictor. Then I hit the rooftop, landing hard on my stomach.

  The tide of battle has carried Mom, Aston, and Taro away. I’m stranded in a tiny bubble of inaction. Fighting surrounds me. Black and navy-blue uniforms meld together amid a cacophony of gunfire, clashing knives, and media drones.

  Riska hovers over me, flapping his wings and trying to look everywhere at once. His leash dangles in the air. A Leaguer darts toward me. Riska dive-bombs him and sprays venom from his mouth. The soldier drops, tearing at his ski mask and screaming as the venom soaks through to his skin.

  I allow myself to focus on the bola, trusting Riska to keep the Leaguers at bay.

  I twist onto my back, pulling my knees toward my chest. My breath comes in short panicked pants. I claw at the bola, trying to wriggle free, but it’s too tight, and it’s wrapped at least half a dozen times around my legs. I need a blade to slice through it, but I can’t even recall where I dropped my kitchen knife. I wriggle toward the first person I see in Global black, a woman with red hair, locked in a knife fight with a Leaguer.

  Then I see the long cable attached to the bola. It runs like an umbilical cord between the chopper and me.

  It snaps taut.

  No!

  My feet are swept into the air. Mom screams my name, but I can’t see her. I’m hauled upward, dangling upside down. Riska follows in my wake, his venom misting the air.

  “Sulan!” Taro breaks free of the melee and launches himself after me. He grabs both of my forearms, clinging to me as he swings back and forth. “Sulan!”

  I stare into his dark eyes, wordless, helpless. We are pulled skyward.

  12

  Prisoners

  Riska flies in tight circles around me and Taro, growling.

  “Cut the cord,” I say to Taro, gritting my teeth. “Cut it!”

  “Can’t!” he shouts over the noise of the chopper. “It’s made of synthetic diamonds!”

  A quick glance upward confirms he’s right. How had I missed the distinctive sparkle of the cord?

  “Let go of me,” I say. “Let go before it’s too late.”

  Taro’s grip tightens around my arms. “No way. I’m not leaving you to face the Leaguers alone.”

  I groan. A few tears leak out of my eyes.

  “Sulan.” Taro’s strong voice reaches me through the haze of panic. “Sulan, look at me! Focus.”

  His voice reels me in. I sink into his gaze, letting my world narrow to his strong, steady eyes. The wind of the blades rushes over me, freeing wisps of hair and filling my ears with a roar. Riska struggles against the blast of air, ears flat as he flies beside my head.

  A discordant pitch rolls out of his throat as the current becomes too strong. He snags the back of my jumpsuit with his claws and crouches between my shoulder blades. His tail whips back and forth across my neck and head.

  “Be ready to fight when they pull us in,” Taro yells. He releases my left arm, hanging only from my right.

  “Taro!” I grab his right wrist with my free hand, digging my nails into his jumpsuit.

  He loosens a string of grenades and lets them fall. His rifle and machine gun follow the grenades down.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I can’t help you if they shoot me before we get inside.” Most of his voice is carried away by the wind.

  “You think they won’t kill you just because you’re unarmed?”

  “Calculated risk.” A knife flashes as it falls. “Besides, who says I’m unarmed? You should see what I can do with my index finger.”

  I expect a smile, or at least a softening of the eyes to tell me he’s joking. But Taro’s expression is bitter and deadly serious. His look sends a shiver through me. His intensity is palpable even as he dangles from one hand thirty feet over a rooftop.

  I’m covered in cold sweat and my arms shake. I’m about to be taken prisoner by the Anti-American League. All my training, all the skills I’ve managed to cultivate over the past few months—none of it prepared me for this.

  I take a deep breath and imagine myself back with Gun. I’m never afraid when I fight in Vex. Why should this be any different?

  Because it is different. Because it’s real. The sudden understanding makes me feel like a silly little girl. Why did I ever think Touch training would make me strong like Mom?

  The shadow of the helicopter engulfs us. The wind from the blades pelts down. I squeeze Taro’s hand. He squeezes back.

  Hands grab us, haul us inward. I have a brief glimpse of the battle on the roof below us. The Leaguers have formed a semicircle around the Gav, blocking the Global mercs. Mom and Aston lead the Global assault, trying to break through.

  The wind cuts off and I’m dumped in the chopper’s belly. I push myself onto my knees. I expect Riska to attack, but he
clings to me.

  “Hands above your head,” a Leaguer says to Taro, aiming a gun in his face.

  Taro, hands over his head, rises slowly—and explodes forth in a black blur. The man’s gun goes off as Taro tackles him by the legs. Riska vaults into the air, raining venom into the face of Taro’s attacker. The man cries out—from Taro’s blow, Riska’s venom, or both. A gun skitters across the chopper floor.

  I lunge forward, grasp the gun, and fire at the first body I see in navy blue. There’s movement to my right. I whip sideways, but not fast enough. A man seizes my gun hand, twisting hard. Breath goes out of me as I feel my shoulder about to pop out of its socket. The gun falls to the floor with a thunk.

  Warm liquid gushes over me. At first I think it’s my blood, but then I see the bullet wound in the man’s shoulder as he grips me. I jam my finger into the wound, digging and twisting. He screams and throws all his weight down on top of me. I thrash beneath him, pinned on my stomach.

  Riska flaps around the Leaguer’s head, lashing out with his claws. My attacker yells obscenities. Riska opens his mouth in a hiss, more venom shooting out. A few drops land on my back and burn through the fabric of my jumpsuit. Someone hurls something dark across the chopper. It’s a net, the sort used to haul supplies.

  The net smacks into Riska and takes him down. He hisses as he hits the floor, legs going every direction at once. The momentum of the net carries him backward—right toward the open chopper door.

  “Riska!” I whip my head back, smacking into the chin of my attacker. He grunts, but doesn’t ease up. I strain for the net with my free hand, but my fingers close on empty air.

  For an instant, Riska’s eyes meet mine—and then he sails over the edge of the chopper, carried away by the weight of the net.

  “Riska!”

  As I struggle against my captor, I see Taro. He is pinned by three men. There are two dead bodies next to them. One man levels a gun at Taro’s head.

  Time slows. The steady hum of the chopper fades. Even Riska and my attacker disappear into the periphery. All I see is Taro and the gun aimed at his forehead. He’s calm, unflinching, staring into the masked face of the gunman.

  “Taro,” I scream, flailing like a snared rabbit. “Taro! No!”

  The masked man with the gun glances at me, taking in my expression. He turns back to Taro, considering. He stands there for several long moments, trigger finger poised.

  “Please don’t,” I beg. “Please!”

  Another long look at me, then he holsters the gun. “We’ll keep him alive,” he says in a thickly accented voice. “For now.”

  I suck in a breath to yell at the bastard, but there’s a sharp pain in my neck. Drowsiness sucks me under like a riptide. The last thing I see is Taro flat on the floor, a Leaguer pressing a tranq gun to his neck.

  • • •

  I awake to sloshing sounds and the tangy smell of saltwater.

  “Sulan?” It’s Taro’s voice.

  My eyelids are heavy, like they’re weighed down by a sack of rocks. There’s pain in my wrists and ankles.

  “Taro?” My voice is slurred. I pry my eyelids open. At first all I see is smears of gray. My vision clears after a few moments, but my head feels like it’s stuffed with fog. Sleepiness still threatens to pull me under.

  I focus on Taro, spread-eagle on the wall across from me. I blink, wondering if my vision is still a bit screwy. It looks like he floats against the wall, his boots a good foot off the floor.

  Then I see the cuffs around his wrists and ankles. They hold him in place on the metal wall; they must be electromagnetic. The cuffs look a lot like the Marstons that Gun gave me four months ago, right down to their reflective bright-gold color.

  I shake my head, trying to clear it. What’s wrong with me? Of course those aren’t Marstons. Marstons are a made-up Vex toy, not a real-world weapon.

  The pain in my own wrists and ankles registers more severely. I’m also spread-eagle on the wall, a cuff on each of my four limbs.

  Where is Riska? I wonder. Is Mom okay? A seed of panic blooms in my chest, but I squash it down. I need to stay calm.

  “How do you feel?” Taro asks.

  I feel like I’ve been impersonating a cow carcass in an old-fashioned butcher shop, but all I say is, “Did you really think we could do it?” My voice is slurred, like I’m drunk. I struggle to hold my head up.

  “Do what?” Taro asks.

  “Fight our way off that chopper.”

  “I figured it was worth a try.”

  “I’m sorry I got you into this,” I whisper, pulling my head back as it nods forward.

  “Wasn’t your fault.”

  “Why did you come after me?”

  He gives me a long look. “When that Leaguer had me on the rooftop, you could have run. No one would have blamed you. But you stayed and fought for my life. Does it seem so strange that I’d do the same for you?”

  His unwavering gaze makes my stomach flip-flop. I feel my face growing warm and have no idea why. I scan the room, trying to make the unfamiliar feeling go away.

  My eyes grow heavy again. I stop fighting the fatigue and let sleep take me. The last thing I see are Taro’s dark eyes watching me.

  • • •

  I open my eyes, and this time I’m wide awake. My vision is clear. My head pounds from the after-effects of the tranq. Taro is still spread-eagle on the wall across from me.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  “Yeah.” I draw in a long breath. “Yeah, I’m okay. You?”

  “I’m fine.”

  I scan his face, to make sure he’s telling the truth. There’s a good amount of bruising on his face, but nothing’s broken or bleeding.

  I look around. The ten-by-ten metal room isn’t so different from the locker room I share with Gun, except that I’m with Taro and we’re both prisoners. And we don’t have a giant cache of weapons at our fingertips. Based on the rhythmic swaying of the room and the smell of salt in the air, I’d say we’re on a boat in the ocean.

  I crane my neck, trying to find the clasp on the cuffs. The Marstons have small release clasps.

  “What are you doing?” Taro asks.

  “Trying to figure out how to get these things off.”

  “The League went to a lot of trouble to get their hands on you. The release mechanism is most likely remote-controlled.”

  His tone is not unkind, but the sensible words make me feel stupid.

  “Do you have a plan to get us out of there?”

  Taro sighs. “Not yet.”

  “What do you think they want from me?”

  “Maybe they think you have access to your father’s work.”

  “But they went after two of my friends. They wouldn’t know anything about Dad’s work.”

  Taro shakes his head. “I don’t know. Maybe they want you guys to engineer something.”

  I grunt, giving up on my study of the cuffs. Taro’s right; I don’t see a clasp anywhere. Which shouldn’t surprise me. They may look like the Marstons, but they’re not. The thought makes Gun feel so very, very far away. I shove away the sudden despair that threatens to suffocate me. Feeling sorry for myself isn’t going to help. I’ve got to stay calm and figure out a way to get free.

  “I hope my mom is okay,” I say. For a brief moment, I entertain the thought of her coming to rescue me and Taro. I banish it almost immediately. It’s unlikely she even knows where we are. Taro and I are on our own.

  “Your mom is probably fine,” Taro says. “The last I saw, she was fighting side by side with my dad.”

  This makes me feel a little better. She and Aston were lethal together. With any luck, Mom is safe.

  Something Taro said wriggles to the forefront of my mind.

  “Did you just say your dad was fighting next to my mom?”

  All expression goes out of Taro’s face. “Did I say that?” he replies vaguely.

  I look at Taro, really study him—and see so clearly what I missed before: tho
se handsome features bear striking resemblance to Aston’s. Taro’s skin is a lighter brown, his eyes more exotic, but he has the same broad shoulders and the same perfect nose.

  “Your dad is Black Ice.”

  Taro tries to shrug, but it’s a difficult gesture to pull off in his current state.

  I try to imagine what it would be like to have a warrior for a father, instead of a dad who likes to wear T-shirts with geeky math puns printed on them. Clearly, Taro doesn’t have to spend his days doing calculus.

  “It’s not as great as you might think,” Taro says. For the first time since I met him, there’s an edge to his voice.

  “What isn’t great?”

  “Being the son of Black Ice. I didn’t exactly have a normal childhood. He made sure I could assemble a C-4 bomb blindfolded by the time I was seven.”

  “When I was seven, my dad had me doing quadratic equations. At least you know how to protect yourself. Math isn’t any good in a fight.”

  “You’ve had some training,” Taro says.

  “Not in real life. I train in Vex with Touch pills.”

  “You train with Touch?” He gapes at me as though I’ve just sprouted antennas. “Why?”

  “Because I refuse to be helpless.”

  “I don’t get you,” Taro says. “You’re smart enough to get into Global’s Virtual High School, which means you’re pretty damn smart. But you waste your time screwing around with Touch and watching Merc reruns.”

  “You are the son of one of the greatest mercs of all time, and you don’t even appreciate it.”

  “I’m sixteen,” Taro snaps. “What sort of normal sixteen-year-old knows thirteen different ways to kill a man with his boot?”

  “You’re sixteen?” My voice rises this time. “You get to run around with real Global mercs and you’re only sixteen?”

  “You think it’s glamorous?” His voice is icy with disdain. “You think it’s fun? You have a chance to change the world, to create technology that can help people. You—”

  He cuts off as the door rattles. We glare at each other. I’m not sure if I’m angry at Taro or just wrung out from all that’s happened. But glaring feels better than crying, so I keep it up.

  The door swings open. Half a dozen Leaguers spill into the room. Each wears a SmartPlastic mask emblazoned with the Anti-American League symbol on the forehead. The masks mold to the contours of each Leaguer’s face, forming a shiny white plastic shell. I smell the plastic’s sharp odor, which means the masks were applied only recently. Some might still be soft enough to knock loose. Too bad I’m not in any position to do that.