by Danny Lasko
“The Piper looks at the poor ex-mayor and down at his son, who had come trailing behind, clip-clopping along with his old wooden crutch. And a thing happened that the mayor did not expect. The Piper smiled and disappeared into the same wondrous forest where Beauty herself was born.
“And while the town slept, they all dreamed the same dream—a longing dream of their past and their future all rolled into one, with a sound of a dark wooden pipe playing a song that caused them to laugh and to cry with their eyes closed tight, not able to wake nor to fight the burden of their sorrowful sleep.
“And if they could have awoken and looked out their windows, they would have known that the song they were hearing was real. Quite real. A song of past joys lost and bright futures broken. A song of what was and what could have been. And following along behind were the children. Every child of Hamelin, skipping, holding hands, smiling with glee, for all that they loved at this very moment was the song of the Pied Piper. Even the mayor’s son, crippled as he was, clip-clopped behind the others, trying his best just to keep up.
“Imagine the Piper marching them down South Street past the old large church and marching them up East Street and turning to the north. And by this time, the song was far enough away that the far side of town started to awake. And they rushed out onto the street and followed the music down South Street and up East Street just in time to see the Piper play a small song that opened a large bright door in the Great Gray Mountains, just in time to see their children dance through, lost to them, forever.
“But a small, crippled boy was clip-clopping his way toward the same door in the gray mountain, toward the Pied Piper. But then a thing happens. The Pied Piper stopped playing his song of what was and what could have been.
“‘Not you,’ said the Piper, and he took the crutch from the boy and pulled out a knife and began to whittle. And the boy leaned on a nearby stump, watching, wondering. Whittle and carve and shave and shape, the Piper went until he held in his hand a beautiful new pipe of old dark wood. And the Piper put the new pipe to his mouth and played another tune. A marvelous tune. A tune of new beginnings and lost burdens. A magical tune that pulled the boy up from his stump and danced with him up and down and all around until the voice of the scared and angry town caught up to them both.
“‘Wait! Wait!’ they cried. ‘We’ll give you money! We’ll give you all the money in the treasury. Please! Please don’t take our children!’
“And with that, the Pied Piper pushed back his oversized hat and brushed his oversized hair from over his eyes, patted the boy on the back, and walked through the open door himself, not looking back for one moment as the door closed, sealing himself and all the children but one to some place unknown.
“Wait!”
Tommy’s scream echoes through the dead-silent commons. Somehow, somewhere between the rats drowning and the children following, this stopped being funny or silly. No one in the room is even smiling. They all are fixed by this master storyteller, even the teachers.
“But there was no waiting. The young boy without a crutch and a clip-clop now raced back and met his father, who found his way through the wandering town to his boy and his boy’s new leg. He hugged his son and kissed him and took him home to a wonderful meal and even better story, ignoring the weeping and wailing all around them, for all they could hear was a wonderful tune of new beginnings and lost burdens.”
The last of Gloria’s notes float in the air, and the audience holds their breath as if they fear that a wrong move will kill the sound off.
“What happens next?” shouts an annoyingly familiar voice. It shocks the crowd out of their trance, and every head whips around to see its source. Linus Sob charges up to the middle of the room. His cheeks are red, clearly not from embarrassment but zealousness.
“We know that the Pied Piper led them away, but we don’t know what happened to them. What happened to the Children of Hamelin?”
“Relax, guy,” says Tommy, smiling. “It’s just a fairy tale.”
“Is it?” he asks, staring directly at me. “Is it, Horatio?”
I can feel my eyes burning. The prickling adrenaline jumps down my arms and back.
“Why don’t you tell your friends what happened to the Children of Hamelin? Why don’t you tell the school that you’re—”
The bell for the next period deafens Linus’s last words, but I watch his mouth as they slip from his lips.
“—one of them?”
3
The Game and the Golden Glimmer
“EASY TIGER,” SHE SAYS, HER HAND TO MY CHEST AS I START FOR THE BAND GEEK. “I know that look.”
“There’s history, Annie.”
“What history?”
I clench my teeth, glaring at Linus Sob, waiting for my mind to come up with a way to tell Annie without telling Annie.
“Did you hear what he said?” I ask, suddenly feeling my chest press in with the weight of dread.
“When?”
“At the end.”
“When he asked you to tell us what happened to the Children of Hamelin?”
“Is that what you heard? That’s it?” I ask, relaxing a bit.
“Yes. Why, what did you hear?”
“That punk thinks he can just say whatever the crap he wants without consequence. Cares more about a freaking fairy tale written seven hundred years ago than he does about his own neighbors. Sanctimonious son of a—”
I finally realize I’m talking out loud. Annie stands in front me, her hand still on my chest, watching my face.
“Forget it,” I say finally, breaking my stare at Linus Sob. “Sorry. Just a little wound up about tonight.”
“Raysh,” she says, patting my chest. “Listen, about Linus … seeing how you reacted to him makes this hard—”
“What?” I ask, cutting her off. The last thing I want is for Annie to think I’m mixed up in the same kind of crazy as Linus Sob. “No, don’t worry about it. Everyone has someone who gets under their skin, right? I don’t know why he’s singled me out, but that won’t happen anymore. I promise. I’m the same guy you’ve always known.”
“I know,” she says, smiling. I know she has more to say, but I’m too scared to hear what it might be.
“I’m gonna take off,” I say to her. “Need to clear my head. Get some air. I’ll see you after the game, yeah? At the party?”
“Yeah,” she answers, nodding. “Be great.” She kisses my cheek quickly and shuffles me off.
My last two classes are weight training and fencing, neither of which will dock me if I don’t show up. I need to refocus. I need someplace I can see more clearly. Someplace high.
I find it in the tallest abandoned building in the old commercial district. Back when there was commerce. I climb the chipped concrete stairs to the ninth floor. The jagged glass teeth and rusted frames are all that’s left of the giant windows. Any kid with a can of spray paint, a piece of chalk, or a magic marker for the last thirty-five years has plastered his or her mark on the walls, but the structure is solid enough for a single seventeen-year-old, and the view from the ninth floor is way more breathable than down on the ground. From here, I can see the town and far beyond, pockets of structures and buildings in the distance, some larger than others, none as big as Allen but all shouting back at me, “Don’t let us down!”
“I won’t,” I whisper back.
The southern horizon reminds me of what happens when a city fails: the ruined skyline of one of America’s greatest cities destroyed, along with millions of its inhabitants, just after the Synarch took power. Texas, at the time of Unification, refused to submit to the new regime—at least for the first three hours and fourteen minutes of it. That’s how long it took for the Synarch to wipe Dallas from the map. Dallas, Arlington, Fort Worth. Gone. My granddad said it took more than two years for the ste
nch of rotting flesh to clear from the air. Still, three hours. A lot longer than most.
I sit on the ledge of a busted-out window and let my leg dangle. The literal gleaming five-point glass star of the district—Allen Academy—lights up downtown, each point dedicated to one of Jubilee’s five branches.
JUMPOUTWINDOWfalltodeath.
I wonder what it would be like to fly. Tonight, I’ll get my best chance ever. People are expecting “legends” to be born. I’m expecting the first steps of freedom.
The game is sold out, but that’s not because of me. The Escape is always sold out. Even when “sold out” means 118,000 in attendance, thanks to the new stadium. They won’t give us antibiotics, but they’ll build us a new stadium. It’s bigger than the old Dallas Cowboys Stadium. You know, back when they had a Dallas. I’ve been waiting for this day for eight years. More.
“I’m telling you, this is the world’s game, not ours.” The clear voice pierces my chest so quickly that I start to turn around just to make sure it isn’t behind me. But the voice is connected to an image swirling in my mind, a memory. I’m five, I think. My father is complaining to a silver-haired man, older than he by at least twenty-five years, my Granddad York. Granddad has an Escape star in his hand, flipping it into the air while my father scolds him.
“This is a bad idea.”
“The world’s game,” scoffs Granddad, my mother’s father. “Can’t you just have a little fun with your family, Alistair?”
“This isn’t a time for fun. This is time for work. And embracing the ways of this world will only lead to—”
“The boy needs to learn to use his abilities,” says Granddad. “And everything I’ve seen so far tells me The Escape is the perfect way. This is what normal looks like, Alistair—a grandfather playing games with his grandson. It would also be normal for his father to join in. Kathryn would agree, you know this.”
“My wife stands with me, Oswald. You can’t put these ideas into his head. I won’t allow it.”
“What do you expect we do, then, Alistair? If Ames is to be his home, then he must blend in. You know this, even if others refuse to see the wisdom in it.” Granddad takes my father’s silence as relenting. I have no idea what they’re talking about, but if my grandfather wants me to do it, I want to do it.
I pick up one of the stars and eye the nearest pillar.
“It’s about fifty yards away, Horatio. Can you do it?”
“It’s alright if you miss, son,” adds my father.
I swing my arm across my chest and let the orange star fly. A couple of seconds later, the pillar bursts into a warm orange light, almost as though it were on fire.
“Ya ha!” cries my granddad. “Do it again.”
The lights from Eagle Stadium burst through the twilight, pulling me out of the memory. It’s also my cue to get moving. I miss my granddad on days like this. He taught me this game, taught me to survive in a world that offers very little for lo-pry. He would’ve liked to have seen me play—but not as much as I would have loved to see him in the stands.
My father? My father won’t be here. I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Fans have been lining up all day, sitting in the parking lot, drinking whatever homemade booze they’ve concocted in their wash tubs, waiting for the gates to open. Even if most of them had regular jobs, they’d have taken the day off. I have to sneak around back and use a secret entrance, the only thing I suggested when they came to me for ideas. I’m able to slip into the locker room unnoticed.
Whoever designed the uniforms for The Escape was a genius. I wear a full-body suit, thick like leather, that still stretches and sculpts itself to every muscle. It’s about a quarter-inch thick and has fantastic flexibility. It even has a built in a cooling system to regulate temperature. The dark blue uniforms feature a subtle pattern of feathers outlined in faded white crawling along the arms, shoulders, back, and down the sides of the legs. I swear it makes me feel like I should be able to take to the sky. In the middle of it all, a small circular magnet sits in the center of an X-shaped harness at my sternum. It sends out an invisible screen, “the shield,” that hovers about a half-inch above the surface of my body. The only time you can see it is if something external comes in contact with it. When you’re hit, you still feel pain. You can even be knocked out. But it makes it nearly impossible to break bones or tear tissue. Unless you get hit really, really hard. By three guys, up, down, and behind.
And the helmet—white with blue feathered accents, custom-shaped to my own head with a slight point on the front to indicate a subtle beak and a blackened face shield with a digital screen inside. It tells me the vital stats of all my players and their location, identifies the status of the opposing players, and includes a voice com to my coach.
The Escape star, the one in my hand, fits so naturally in my palm and fingers that I’m uncomfortable without it, a solid, flat piece of fourteen-inch carbon with five wings, curved slightly. It glows blue. And when thrown, it looks as though the heavens have come to play with me.
Two minutes before game time, I turn on the shield by pressing my thumb against the magnet as I make my way down the players’ tunnel. The blast of warmth it sends through every muscle will never get old. Here’s my moment of silence, just inside the entrance onto the field. The Escape is run by a strict protocol administered by Synarch officials. The slightest deviation can mean serious fines. And not just the labor kind. The striker always comes out alone, always comes out last. They say it’s a metaphor. I say it’s theatrics.
Very few experiences can match 118,000 individuals screaming because all you did was walk onto a playing field. I have to take a second to catch my breath and force down the choke in my throat. First, the scandal. Then the injury. All of three people in this world thought I could still make it to this spot. We were right. I’m on the field. And 118,000 howling fans were never happier to be wrong. Talk about a crescendo.
Each academy can choose its own terrain as long as it meets the required measurements. Allen’s field, a large circle about two hundred yards in diameter, is made up of giant rock formations: boulders and hoodoos, cliffs and chasms, with winding trails and bridges that weave through the terrain. Lots of places to hide, difficult to get line of sight between you and your team unless you know it like the back of your hand. The pillar type is also custom. Allen has chosen pairs of wings, each about forty feet tall, stretching straight up. Five pillars in total, one at twelve, two, four, eight, and ten o’clock as required, matching the five points of the academy and the symbol of the Synarch. Some are easier to get to than others, which gives us an advantage. They’re a dull, lifeless gray now but will ignite the sky and the crowd when they burst into Eagle blue.
The launch platforms for both teams are required to be at an even height across from each other at the center of the arena. I join the other starting seven, who have already engaged themselves in trash-talking the other team. I glance over to Trinity’s coach, who’s got that smug look on his face like he thinks he has the perfect plan to stop us. I decide my job tonight is to wipe it off.
“This is it!” I yell to my team in the huddle. “We take it to these guys fast and hard. We are the kings of this mountain. We are brothers. We are Eagles!”
“Eagles!” they yell back in unison.
“As one. All the way.”
“No matter what!” They break the huddle to a round of screaming adulation from the stands.
A piercing Eagle scream signals the beginning of the game. I draw four stars from the 24 stacked in a pack on my back. All eight Trinity players are charging me, each taking a different route through the boulders and rock formations. I feel reborn. Welcome to The Escape.
THROWATPILLARS241012 4 10 12 light up star to 2 deflected THROWATPILLARS24812 all pillars light up.
“Tommy, head to two. Chaz and Darren t
o ten and twelve. Enforcers with me. Rudy, your eyes are on Tommy.”
I toss two stars straight up to get them out of my hands for a second, fling the remaining two toward the farthest pillars, ten and twelve, which are directly behind Trinity’s launch pad and left unguarded. I snatch the other two from the air in front of me and fling them to eight and four. One by one, the blue streaks of light find their targets. The wing-shaped pillars at ten, twelve, eight, and four burst into bright blue, which gives our sneak, Rudy, four shots to use, one for every pillar lit. I can hear the crowd scream in jubilant disbelief. I’m pretty sure this is the first time a striker has lit four pillars by himself, and in record time. In less than twenty seconds, we are a single pillar away from winning.
I look back at Trinity’s coach. His face has changed into that confused, scared, “I’ve thrown him my best and just got whooped” look. They had it coming. Trinity has beaten Allen Academy for four straight years. Thrashed us. They’ve taunted and poked us all summer long. All that disappeared in the first minute of the game.
“GOOOOO EAGLES!” cries the crowd.
If you haven’t figured it out, I have a gift. Coach would freak out if he knew how dead on he was when he gave me my nickname. I watch the scenarios run through my mind for every option I can conjure up, one by one until I find the best one. I don’t see possibilities or probabilities. I see what will actually happen if I act. I’ve practiced more than a million times. It’s never different from what I see. Ever. Sometimes I see lighted pillars; sometimes I see dropped passes. I go to whatever is the best option.
I can’t see the whole future, only what will happen for the fifteen seconds or so after I act. Perfect for The Escape since each play lasts around ten.
The Trinity players retreat toward their end of the arena to try and change pillars twelve and ten to green, their color. But my team is already in position, protecting them. I scan for Trinity’s striker. I leap up a rising peak overlooking the entire field and spot him. He’s locked himself up in a box canyon near the center of the arena, trying uselessly to climb his way out. Desperate, he starts chucking stars into the air, hoping his players are in a position to do something with them. Without the star, there’s no way to light the pillars.
