by Danny Lasko
Oh yeah.
After taking my time allowing the streams of massaging hot water from the multi-head shower rumble along my back and neck and another few minutes in the chair with Giselle, I find the promised suit hanging in the closet. Blue, and it does in fact make our academy uniforms look like servant attire. Full white pinstripes on the coat and slacks, with high lapels and pearl buttons on the sleeves. It contours to the curve of my back and arms and swishes across my torso. I don’t know what the fabric is. I’ve never seen it before. But it’s smooth, soft, and strong enough to hold its shape no matter how I try to move in it. A matching tie with silver flourishes that must be made of silk drapes one of the shoulders. I knew people dressed like this. I’ve seen them on broadcasts and the interwebs. And now I’m one of them. I look down at my feet to make sure they’re still on the ground.
A young woman wearing a dress that clings to her impressive curves down to a few inches above her knees and that matches the exact shade of my suit stands smiling in front of me as I return to the sitting area, her blond hair hanging over her bare shoulders, caressing the top of her back.
“Mr. Gaph,” she says, stopping me from going back into the bedroom.
“Lara?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Wow, you look … wow,” I say, defenseless.
“Thank you,” she says, attempting to hide the blush. “Matching ensembles are both practical and traditional,” she explains, regaining her composure. “It’s important guests know your assistant immediately.”
The train pulls to a stop about a mile before the trainspot, where Lara escorts me off the private car. Waiting for us are three large transport vehicles painted in Synarch red. We’re ushered into the middle one, driving away without incident. A quick pass by the trainspot explains why. Thousands of people have come out to greet their newest player.
“They’ll see you soon enough, Mr. Gaph. Don’t worry,” says Lara as we drive past.
I spend most of the time craning my neck out of the window, trying to take in as much as possible—the towering buildings, the cars, the lights. I’m sure I look like a small-town hick, but I don’t care. I’ve just landed on a different planet. And I need to know where I am.
Lara tells me a little about the city. Most of it I already knew, that it was built sixty years ago on the ruins of what was left of Los Angeles after the earthquake and tsunami that sank the entire Pacific coastline from Seattle to San Diego and bankrupted the country, leaving it vulnerable to a takeover. With their unlimited resources and advanced weapons and technology, the Synarch took control, reorganized the country into twelve new states, and created a system so closely managed that the mistakes of the past would not be made again.
“The owner of the Knights of Revolution, Allison Weiss, will be the first you greet when you arrive, as tradition dictates,” says Lara after the short history lesson.
“Weiss.” I know that name. “As in Jonathan Weiss?”
“Her father, one of the New Founders.”
“And father of the League.”
“That’s right.”
“We don’t hear much about the team owners in Allen.”
“You wouldn’t. They prefer to keep their names where it will do the most good. It is important that she is your first contact.”
“Just point me in the right direction.”
Just when I think I can’t be surprised or impressed with anything else, the Synarch caravan pulls up to the Lily Rust Theater, a massive building that seems to sprout stone foliage from its skin. The thirty-foot marble pillars standing as sentinels before the three-story glass entry sport gorgeous crimson lilies climbing to the top of the curved roof.
“Cameras,” warns Lara before the door opens. I can handle cameras.
The flashes start immediately from every direction, more bulbs and shouts than I’ve ever seen. I wait for Lara to step out of the car.
IGNOREPHOTOGRAPHERSANDCROWD trip going upstairs WAVETOPHOTOGRAPHERSANDCROWD stranger grabs your suit others pull you down to the ground and into the crowd you break your middle finger on your throwing hand TELLLARATOWATCHHERSTEP crowd cheers photographers snap heroic photos.
I hop out, glance at a twitchy stranger draped in bright green garb, a desperate gleam in his eye. The same stranger I see in my flash. I take hold of Lara’s arm, and whisper in her ear, making sure my lips graze along the edge. “Watch your step.”
“I’m sorry?” she says just before she stumbles over a camera’s sloppy cord dangling on the curb in front of the car door. Without thinking, I swoop down and cradle her in my arms. Lara’s a professional. And graceful, even in a fall. She smiles, holds tight, and gives me a smile that moviemakers would die for. I’m convinced she was a performance student.
The crowd cheers, and the photographers can’t get enough. I carry her up the carpet and to the first few steps leading up to the pillared porch, glancing at the would-be attacker, who seems confused by the extra body in my arms.
“Well, that was … interesting,” breathes Lara, “and a little embarrassing. Remind me not to read the papers tomorrow.”
“Trust me,” I say, “it could have been a lot worse.”
The entryway opens to a grand hall, both welcoming and threatening all at once. Silver-plated tables are carefully orchestrated in the great hall with matching chairs surrounding them, some of them occupied by distinguished guests all dressed as well as—and many better than—me. When I arrive, I’m not sure what to expect, but whatever it is, it doesn’t happen. In fact, nothing happens. Not a single head turns from the cream of Citizen society mingling with each other.
“We’re in the right place, right?” I ask Lara. She takes my arm and guides me through the uninterested, self-important crowd. My eyes scan the room, looking for Ms. Weiss. I have no idea what she looks like. Any one of the elegant women in the room could be the descendant of one of the most important figures in New Victorian history. The legend that all lo-pry know is that Jonathan Weiss was a lo-pry sympathizer who did not agree with the Synarch’s plan. So he created the academy system and the League, giving lo-prys a way out. The only way out. The other founders are known because it’s required learning. But Jonathan Weiss is known because he’s a hero.
Lara nudges me toward a magnificent fountain, a brilliant crimson lily climbing around a dead tree, sculpted with such detail it takes me a second look to see that it is in fact made of stone. Water pours endlessly from its deep red blossom.
“Mr. Gaph! Here you are at last,” cries a voice from behind. By pure reaction I turn to see a man in his late forties with a full head of light brown hair and a thin beard crawling along a sharp jawline, dressed in a dark blue suit and dazzling pink tie. His colors tell me exactly who he is. Anton Boxrud, owner of the California Magic. He’s tall but not as tall as I am. I realize my mistake and whip back to Lara, who attempts to stand between me and the stranger, but the stranger’s too fast. He has already turned me away from Lara, away from the fountain, and is pulling me to a spot in the room he can claim as his own.
“Don’t worry, Gaph. Allison Weiss is not one to be concerned with party protocol. I just wanted to tell you, I hope you enjoy your short stay in Revolution.”
“Short stay?” I ask.
“Let me tell you something,” he says, staring at me with old, shimmering gray eyes. In fact, they look much older than the rest of him. He’s seen a lot in his days, something I can’t say about the rest of these privileged Citizens. “I plan to trade away the farm for you and build around your talent. I’m building an incredible new stadium for the Magic about a half-hour south of here, right on the coast, a work of art. I’m not from there. I’m from back east. Jersey. A work of art. In fact, it’ll be ready for my team’s last game of the season in a few weeks … ”
I don’t hear much of the rest of
Anton’s Boxrud’s gloating. It’s not that I’m not interested. I just can’t stop glancing over to a large, round silver tray on which someone has piled a vast mound of strawberries dipped in chocolate and drizzled with silver and blue. The rough green leaves poke out from the solid red flesh at the top. A scent of a hot, rusty railcar wafts through my nose, and I let it linger. And I can’t help but smile.
“—next year, Gaph, you and I, worst to first, we’re making history.”
“Mr. Boxrud,” I say, covering, “that’s quite a plan, sir.”
“You haven’t heard the half of it, son.”
“And won’t, I expect,” says the most sophisticated voice I’ve ever heard. I turn to see who must be Ms. Allison Weiss, owner of the Knights of Revolution. I can’t tell how old she is. If I look at the soft, unwrinkled, highly attended skin, she’s one age. If I look at the long silver hair with a broad streak of black falling over her shoulder, she’s another. And if I read the woman’s face, I see decades of wisdom and maturity. I like her immediately.
“Horatio, welcome to Revolution.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” I say, palms sweating. “Forgive me for speaking—”
“Nonsense,” she interrupts. “Anton Boxrud is nothing if not determined. I would think him unwell if he had not tried to intercept you at first chance, even if it does break thirty years of tradition,” she adds, looking over her shoulder.
“Let me tell you, Allison. You’ve never seen anything like what I’ve planned for this young man. It will astonish you.”
“I assure you, Anton, he’s spoken for.”
Anton Boxrud turns to me with a flourish. “I’m telling you, Gaph, a work of art!”
Ms. Weiss pulls me by the arm from the competition. Lara reads this as wanting full privacy, motions that she’ll prepare me a drink, and disappears. Ms. Weiss, in her elegant silver gown with deep blue trim, walks me through several guests, introducing me to some of the most powerful individuals in the country: Willem Zachary, League Commissioner; Robinson Randolph and Jafaris Green, owners of the New York Lightning and Southland Fire respectively; and Revis Flint, Senior Viceroy of New Victoria and the Premier’s right hand.
“Is this … ?”
“Normal?” Allison finishes for me. “Not at all. Your performance, the auction, a reception that the great and powerful attend in their finest, none of this is the norm. In fact, these lengths have never been attempted before, and I doubt will be ever again. Odd, really. But then, you are a one-time talent, Horatio. It is quite likely that you will usher in a new era of League play, and everyone wants a claim to you. As though they had a part to play in bringing you to light. At least publicly.”
“Well, I’m honored,” I say, not knowing what else to say.
“No, dear boy, don’t be,” Ms. Weiss says, attempting to stifle a rogue laugh. “You know as well as I do that no one is here for you personally.”
I do know this. It’s like in the lo-pry, only different motivations. They cheer me because they see me as a chance to improve themselves. Money, position, power. Even bragging rights are enough. They would do this for anyone else in my position. The name, the person doesn’t mean a thing.
“Except for me,” Ms. Weiss adds. She must have seen my eyes drop their gaze to the floor because she moves herself directly in front of me. “There is something different about you, Horatio. Something I’ve never seen in a player before. To play the way you do, without a single enhancement—”
I cough involuntarily.
“—but something else.” She pauses to help herself to a long, slender glass of something gold and bubbly. “The way the system now stands, it breeds self-promotion and greed” she says, taking a drink. “But you, you play to help your entire team succeed. You could have lit every pillar yourself with your accuracy and power in that first game. But you chose to involve every one of your players. Magistrate Gravus told me of your concern for your academy, your team, and your district. That is a rarity, if not completely unique. And dangerous. And it is something Revolution desperately needs. That is why I spent what I did to have you.”
I shake my head, trying to free the meaning in her words. “Ma’am, are you saying—”
“But the official reason is that you can throw a star a hundred yards and knock an egg off a cone eleven times in a row. Now go enjoy yourself.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I swirl around my new boss’s words, trying to get them to reveal their true meaning. I had never heard a Citizen speak like that before. A Citizen city looking up to a lo-pry? That doesn’t make sense.
I turn to see Lara walking toward me, but something’s crowding out her smile, something behind her. Something is wrong. I don’t see it. I hear the crowd murmur grow louder, but it happens before I can react.
A new figure, dressed in denim and a silver leather jacket, grabs Lara from behind and wraps a large arm around her neck. He points something hot and sharp to her throat. His free hand pulls out a crimson rod that flares at the end and points it in my direction. I see a tight-fitted Knights T-shirt peeking through the jacket.
A faceless voice tries to intervene.
“Bo, this not the appropriate time—”
“I want to be heard!” the man screams.
Bo Kotch. The starting striker for the Knights. I didn’t realize it before, but none of the players from the Knights or any other team are attending tonight. And I get the feeling that it wasn’t their choice.
Kotch’s intimidating frame towers over Lara locked in his hold. His buzzed brown hair seems tussled, and his face sags on his cheekbones. His eyes are tinged with the kind of red that comes with no sleep and a whole lot of sad. And they don’t blink. He’s drunk or something worse. He’s also Citizen-born, the only Citizen who plays in the pros. His connections must run pretty deep to get permission from the Synarch.
Kotch glares right at me.
“So this is it, huh?” he says, not switching his glance.
“Bo, would you please calm—” I hear Ms. Weiss begin.
“Don’t you dare tell me to calm down!” he yells, pulling Lara closer to the blade in his hand. “I’m gonna have my say, and you’re gonna listen. All of you are gonna listen! Or this one’s dead.” He motions to Lara, whose body is still and her eyes closed. Her hands clutch the arm around her neck, but she’s no match for Kotch.
Surprisingly, at least to me, the crowd laughs. A mocking laugh. All directed at Kotch.
“What?” Kotch asks. “What?!” He glances around the room, trying to see where the humor is. He looks at his hostage and rolls his eyes.
“You’re a lo-pry,” he says, which incites more laughter. I’m not laughing. I’m not even blinking. My teeth are clenched so tight, I can hear them grind against each other. I will Lara’s eyes to look at mine, telling her to be ready. She nods just enough so I can see it.
“So is he!” yells Kotch, pointing the crimson rod at me. “You came to celebrate and replace me with a lo-pry?! I’m a Citizen!”
“No one has said anything about replacing you, Bo.”
“Oh, stop treating me like I’m one of them! You don’t spend that kind of money and pull him out of academy to let him ride the bench!”
“Shooting him won’t help anything, Bo. Your future with the Knights is already written,” says Ms. Weiss. It gets his attention. I can see him swirl a thought around in his head until it forms into a solution.
“Fine.”
He pulls his sights off me and points the weapon at Ms. Weiss.
PUSHWEISSOUTOFTHEWAY you and Lara die CHARGEKOTCH you and dozens more die LEAPINFRONTOFWEISS you die Lara injured but survives Weiss survives YELL ANGIE GRABTRAYATTACKKOTCH PULLWEISSTOWARDYOU Kotch falls to the ground helpless no one else injured.
“Angie!” I cry, at the same time picking up the tray of strawberr
ies and hurling it toward Kotch, eyeing it all the way into his chest and chin just after Lara slips from his grasp. I spin toward my boss, grabbing her arm, pulling her to me. When Kotch hits the ground, his finger pulls the trigger on his weapon, unleashing a bolt of light that explodes on the table where Weiss was serving herself. I leap at Kotch, landing my knee in the middle of his chest, pinning whatever will is left to the ground while two burly security guards cuff his hands and secure his weapons. I pull him off his feet and out of the hands of the security guards.
“Look at me. Look at me!” I say, spitting my words into his face. His brain finally catches up with his eyes and stays conscious enough to look into mine. He’s beaten and he knows it. My arms are shaking. Not from the weight of this feckless thug but because my anger is getting the best of me. I want more from him. Might even be worth the punishment.
A drip of his blood falls from his chin and onto my hand. It breaks the trance, and I shove him back into the security guards. Now the sweat comes. Lara rushes up with a handkerchief, wiping my hands and forehead. I gently take her wrist and then the cloth. She’s shaking. I wipe a tear from her cheek before she quickly takes the handkerchief back and tries again. I turn to Ms. Weiss, who’s being attended by Robinson Randolph and some other Citizen I don’t know.
“Did you see that throw?” I hear someone ask as I hurry to my boss. “It was right between the numbers! And the speed! We are going to kill this year!”
“Are you alright, Ms. Weiss?” I ask, blocking out the banter. “Are you hurt?” I don’t hear her answer—because pushing toward me is the tight-faced lawman Special Agent Farr, a pair of cuffs in his hand. I didn’t see him. I didn’t see any law here tonight. But this could be bad. A lo-pry laying a hand on a Citizen for any reason is immediate incarceration. The circumstances don’t matter because there’s rarely a trial, especially with as many witnesses who no doubt would be unwilling to stand in my defense. I flash forward and see that I was wrong about no one coming to my aid.
