Sulan, Episode 1: The League

by Camille Picott

  ***

  We materialize back on the dais. A knot of Leaguers encircles the woman who electrocuted us.

  “What did you do?” one man says to her.

  “Imugi told me to give them a taste of the cuffs.” The woman draws herself up, eyes hard. “I followed orders. The pain must have severed their connection to Vex.”

  “How the hell are we supposed to get them back?” someone else says.

  “Look! There they are.”

  A dozen glossy SmartPlastic masks turn toward us. The woman pushes up to the dais, surveying us. The sight of her makes me queasy, but I keep my chin up and my gaze steady—which is doable in Vex, where my actions are controlled by my mind. Back in the real-world, where my body is riddled with the aftereffects of the electrocution, I’m not sure I could even lift my chin, let alone see straight.

  “Glad you could return to us.” The woman smiles, her mask flexing. “Your Vex cuffs are synchronized to your cuffs in the real-world. If I activate them here, you’ll feel pain in the real-world. I trust you won’t need another demonstration.”

  The woman opens her mouth to say more, but a beeping sound cuts her off.

  “They’re here,” says another Leaguer.

  A split second later, bidders materialize in the red plush chairs encircling the room. A three-foot-high wall separates them from the open floor around the dais, where the Leaguers are stationed.

  To hide their true identities, the bidders wear outlandish avatars. It’s almost like Halloween, except tonight they’re bobbing for underage geniuses instead of apples.

  One avatar looks like Elvis, another like Rasputin, and another like a Chinese emperor. More and more outrageous avatars materialize around us. Most of the leaders come with an entourage of flunkies who wear complementary avatars. Elvis’s crew looks like 1950s groupies. Rasputin’s group is dressed like Russian peasants. And the emperor’s men look like Chinese bannermen.

  I half-expected the bidders to be a bunch of rich crazies sipping virtual champagne and gossiping about the captive American geniuses. But this is no party for underground socialites. There is nothing but a room full of cold eyes that weigh each and every one of us—no doubt computing how fast we can help them bring about their particular version of Armageddon.

  Each group has multiple people working frantically at tablets. No one communicates with anyone outside his unit. Once in a while, a group leader will exchange a hostile look with another group leader. There’s so much tension in the room, I expect to see lightning sizzle through the air.

  The only bidder sitting without an entourage is a giant frog in a black tuxedo. He doesn’t look any more outlandish than any of the other whackos in here, but for some reason I find myself staring at him. He catches me looking and stares back. His giant tongue flicks out. Before it retracts into his mouth, it briefly forms the outline of a gun.

  Oh, gross. The dais rotates, giving me an excuse to look away. Whoever that guy is, he’s clearly a sick creep. We’ve got to figure out a way to escape.

  “Keep your eyes open for opportunity,” Taro murmurs. “It’s not over yet, Sulan.”

  “It’s not over ’til they bag us up and ship us off to the winning bidder,” I say, because if I want to retain any composure, I have to believe we still have a chance of getting out of here. That we won’t be sold to some weirdo like Frog Man.

  The edge of Taro’s mouth turns up. “My dad would like you.”

  I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or not, but his smile is warm. Even though we’re in the middle of a black-market slave auction and surrounded by whack jobs, I’m struck by his presence. His strength, his convictions, his composure. Maybe he and I will be friends, if we make it out of here.

  “I’m sorry about your finger,” I whisper.

  “It’s okay, Sulan.”

  His sincerity makes me feel three inches tall. If—when—we make it out of here, I’m going to make it up to him. Maybe I can figure out a way to grow him a new one.

  A white mist billows into the open space between us and the bidders. Talk ceases. Eyes look up from tablets. Bidders straighten in their chairs.

  Imugi materializes in the mist. His avatar is a giant upright sea serpent identical to the image on his SmartPlastic mask back in the real-world. He’s covered in blue scales that glisten like cloisonné, and he stands about ten feet high.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Imugi says, sliding around the dais, “welcome to our auction.” The mouth of his avatar moves like a human mouth, which looks odd on the head of a giant sea serpent. “It gives me great pleasure to see everyone here tonight for this once-in-a-lifetime event. I will remind you again of tonight’s special lot:

  “We have Sulan Hom, daughter of the famous Dr. Hom. She may be one of the few people with insight into the work of Dr. Hom. Miss Hom is a math prodigy in her own right, scoring one hundred percent on her entrance exam for Global Arms’s prestigious Virtual High School. Her capacity for creativity in the math and science fields is unprecedented.

  “We also have Henrietta Simmons, gifted hacker. At the age of twelve, she won the International Hackers Convention’s competition by a full two minutes, making her mark in the programming world as the youngest champion hacker ever.”

  I glance at Hank. She looks as terrified as I feel, but I see a proud glint in her eye. It was that convention that got her noticed by Claudine.

  “Billy Long, another Virtual High School student, most notably the Touch programmer known as Uncle Zed. He is responsible for all major Touch advancements in the past five years. Experts have estimated his black-market profits totaling somewhere between six and seven hundred million.”

  Six and seven hundred million? I glance over my shoulder at Billy, who sits directly behind me. His ears are bright red.

  “And we can’t forget Taro Hudanus,” Imugi says. “When you first saw him last night, we thought him an inconsequential member of this team. But we have uncovered some previously unknown intel on Mr. Hudanus. He is the son of the famed mercenary Black Ice. Mr. Hudanus has been trained in the art of warfare since a very young age. At the International Underage Merc Competition this year, he placed first. At only sixteen years old, he is the youngest winner of the underage competition. Scouts from every merc company have petitioned him.”

  It takes an effort to keep my mouth from sagging open. I didn’t watch the Underage Merc Competition this year; I was too busy training with Gun and studying with Hank. Now I wish I’d found the time. I know firsthand that Taro is beautiful when he fights.

  “As you can see,” Imugi says, “the Anti-American League has assembled the most powerful team of geniuses the world has ever seen. With these four in your possession, your highest ambition can be made reality.”

  Imugi pauses, letting his sales pitch sink in. Between our outfits and his pitch, I have to admit the four of us make a pretty attractive package. Hell, I might bid on us if I was a loony megalomaniac with gobs of money to burn.

  “The bidding opens now at fifty million,” Imugi says. “Do I have fifty million?”

  A Viking nods his chin.

  “We have fifty million,” Imugi says. “Do I have sixty million? Yes, I have sixty million, how about seventy million, who will give me seventy million?”

  In the space of three breaths, the bid hits one hundred million. Viking falls out pretty quickly. The two most aggressive bidders are Cleopatra and Abraham Lincoln.

  Opportunity, I think. Look for opportunity.

  The dais continues to rotate. We remain cuffed to our chairs. From the way the camps of Cleopatra and Abraham Lincoln exchange glares, I wonder if the leaders know one another.

  The bid climbs to one hundred fifty million. Lincoln backs down and Cleopatra fans herself with a smug expression.

  “Two hundred fifty million.”

  There’s a full second of complete silence as everyone digests this. Heads turn as people search for the bidder. All stares indicate Fro
g Man. A grin stretches across his mouth, the expression disturbingly incongruous on amphibious features. His tongue flicks in and out.

  This sicko could have his hands on us by tomorrow.

  My future as a captive feels real. Why did I ever delude myself into thinking we could escape?

  Frog Man’s bold bid has challenged the machismo of every would-be despot in here—because suddenly Elvis, Rasputin, and Roman Gladiator are all in it. The bid bounces between the three of them like a Ping-Pong ball. Then Viking, Cleopatra, and Sultan join the fray.

  “Four hundred fifty million,” Imugi purrs. “Do I have four hundred sixty million?”

  “Five hundred million.” Frog Man is back in.

  Five hundred million. It’s hard to imagine what it would be like to have that much money. Maybe, if the four of us make it out of here, we should put ourselves on the public stock exchange. I could build my own stupid compound somewhere and arm it with enough ammo to blow a hole through the planet.

  “Five hundred fifty million.” Abraham Lincoln looks pissed.

  “Five hundred sixty million.” A new player jumps in, an avatar who looks, of all things, like a giant Grecian urn.

  The bidders are in a fury, on their feet and screaming bids. It’s a full-on boxing match with three dozen players in the ring. I can’t tell if they’re bidding because they really want us, or if they just can’t stand the thought of someone else getting us. Part of me is sickly fascinated by the whole thing.

  Six hundred million. Six hundred twenty-five million. Six hundred thirty million.

  I imagine a dingy cement cell with one pathetic window, a dresser filled with nothing but white pants and white lab coats, and endless days spent in a room lined with test tubes and Bunsen burners.

  No more weapons. No more fighting. No more Gun.

  It’s all I can do not to vomit. I lean over my knees, vaguely wondering what virtual puke looks like.

  Eight hundred forty million. Eight hundred seventy-five million. Nine hundred million.

  As the dais turns, I see Frog Man rise to his feet. There’s something familiar about the way he moves, a grace that catches my attention despite everything else that’s going on.

  “One billion,” he says.

  Rasputin and Grecian Urn reel under the impact of Frog Man’s bid. Elvis, Viking, and Cleopatra all turn to him, mouths agape.

  Frog Man extends his arms, as though reaching out to embrace us with his webbed hands.

  Hundreds of tiny frogs pour out of his tuxedo sleeves. They infuse the auction room, covering everything in a hopping blanket of green and black. They land on the avatars, tongues flicking. People swat at the frogs, even climb onto chairs to get away from them.

  Then one of the frogs lands in Elvis’s hair—and explodes. Elvis’s perfect coif goes up in a funnel of flame. He shrieks and leaps about. His groupies converge on him, swatting at his hair with fringed leather jackets and polyester coats.

  Chinese Emperor’s dragon robes are engulfed in fire. Roman Gladiator tears off his burning leather skirt. He’s covered in third-degree burns.

  All around the room, more and more frogs explode in tiny bursts of orange.

  The frogs are Twains. Hundreds and hundreds of little Twains.

  My eyes lock on Frog Man. He glances up at me, a slow smile spreading across his face. A smile that I would know anywhere, even if it’s on the face of a creepy Frog Man avatar.

  Gun.

  17: Mortality

  Gun.

  He’s here. The sight of him infuses me with hope. When he’s with me, anything is possible.

  As chaos erupts all around, he raises a tiny metal box for me to see. Centered on the box is a bright-red button. Just before the rotating dais takes him out of my sightline, his green thumb comes down on the button.

  There’s a soft hiss as our virtual cuffs pop open.

  I don’t even have time to wonder how Gun pulled this one off. I snap into focus and spring out of my chair. Beside me, Hank, Taro, and Billy all leap to their feet. In the confusion caused by the Twains, no one notices we’ve been freed.

  “We’ll buy you as much time as we can,” Taro says to Hank and Billy. “Work fast.” To me he says, “We take out the woman with the ring first. If we get captured and put back in the chairs, I don’t want them electrocuting us again. After we get the ring, we go after Imugi.”

  I nod. I shouldn’t be afraid. Fighting in Vex is what I do. But the fear is there anyway, rearing over me like a bad dream. Maybe being a merc means ignoring fear, not conquering it.

  The dais turns, taking us right past the female Leaguer who electrocuted us earlier. I don’t give myself time to think. I launch myself off the dais and fly straight for her. She doesn’t even see me coming.

  I smack into her head-on. She’s a big woman, and my weight isn’t enough to knock her over, so I wrap my legs around her torso. I punch her in the face as hard as I can. She staggers back, hands coming up. I punch her two more times, my fists connecting with her jaw.

  Taro seizes her ring hand, bending it behind her back. He snatches her knife out of its sheath and slashes with efficient precision. Her finger comes off, and the ring goes flying.

  “The ring!” Taro says, not even pausing to look up at me. “Find the ring!”

  I push myself off the woman and sprint after the ring. Despite the rising pandemonium, we are not ejected from Vex. Taro was right about that.

  Explosions flare all around. Avatars burn. Smoke from their bodies fills the air. I pause and scan the room, looking for any sign of the ring. How am I supposed to find it in this chaos?

  Hank and Billy are hunkered down at the base of the dais. I can’t see what they’re doing, but a bright glow bathes both of their faces—the white light of code. Hank has found a way in, just like she said she would.

  I take off in the direction I last saw the ring. Four Leaguers catch sight of me and charge. They converge in a silent rush of uniforms.

  I grit my teeth and dive, smacking into their legs like a bowling ball. They go down on top of me in a pile of arms and legs and SmartPlastic masks. I thrash wildly in an attempt to keep the men from pinning me.

  The Leaguers each manage to grapple one of my limbs. They hoist me into the air, hauling me back to the dais—where Hank and Billy are. No. I can’t let them find Hank and Billy.

  I yank my arms and legs, kicking and screaming and jerking with all I’ve got. They shove me back onto one of the dais chairs, three of them struggling to hold me down while the forth pushes my right arm toward a cuff. I strain against him, fighting to keep my wrist free. Slowly, inexorably, the man’s strength overpowers mine.

  Hank and Billy are on the other side of the dais, which still rotates slowly. The Leaguers haven’t noticed them yet. I’ve got to fight, got to keep the Leaguers away from my friends.

  I scream and lunge forward, sinking my teeth into the man’s arm.

  He swears at me. “Hold her, you idiots!” he shouts.

  Someone grabs my braid and yanks. I lose concentration for a split second. My wrist is slammed down into the cuff. Triumph flares in the Leaguer’s eyes, the only part of his face visible through the SmartPlastic. His right hand pins my squirming wrist. His left hand reaches for the other cuff, to close it on me.

  Just before he can snap it shut, a Twain lands on his head. The frog gives a loud croak, then explodes. Flames wrap around the Leaguer’s head. He doesn’t scream; he doesn’t feel any pain. But he does stagger back and drop to the floor, instinctively writhing and batting at his burning face.

  His movements grow feeble. Seconds later, he’s motionless on the floor. The flames die. His ruined head starts to heal itself, pixels sliding back together as the self-healing-avatar technology does its work. In another thirty seconds, the downed Leaguer will be good as new.

  The remaining three Leaguers struggle to hold me down. A Twain hops onto my chair, landing beside my free hand. I grab t
he frog and shove it down the uniform of the nearest Leaguer. He stumbles back, clawing at his jumpsuit, but it’s too late. The Twain detonates, ripping a hole in his chest.

  More and more Twains jump onto the dais. My captors lose just enough focus for me to wrench myself away. I crawl out between their legs, wading into the writhing mass of frogs.

  They peel away from me like a parting zipper. Gun must have programmed them to avoid me. The Twains close the gap after I pass, exploding all over the men who try to follow me.

  “Sulan!” Hank howls. “Sulan, I need you now!”

  I look up. A Leaguer looms over Hank. Billy is on his feet, trying to fend him off. Billy makes an awkward swipe that resembles a right hook. The Leaguer backhands him, knocking him to the ground, then reaches for Hank.

  I scramble back onto the dais, over the nearest chair, and jump. My foot connects with the man’s face. I land on top of him. I twist, trying to get to my feet, but he grabs my ankle. I fall face-first. I scrabble with my hands, but the man pulls me toward him.

  I glimpse Hank’s fingers, spread wide in the code as she struggles to hold a port open. Her free hand plunges into another rapidly closing hole. She seizes a string of data and pulls. The hole snaps open, revealing a whirling blue portal just large enough for a person.

  “We’re through,” she cries. “Billy, go!”

  Billy plunges into the blue and vanishes. The Leaguer grabs me by the throat and pulls me to my feet. I stare into the dead-white of his mask.

  “You will pay for that, you little—”

  His words end in a fit of coughing. Blood stains the front of his uniform and drizzles to the floor in a viscous red stream. I pry his hands from my neck and shove him away. The avatar thumps lifelessly to the ground, blood already disintegrating as the wound in his chest closes.

  Gun stands ten feet away, still in his frog avatar with an AT-57 machine gun in one hand. I want to run to him, but we’re separated by brawling Russian peasants and Roman gladiators. Gun holds up a purple pill, pinching it neatly between his thumb and forefinger.

  Our eyes meet. I nod. He hurls the pill, and the purple lozenge rockets over the crowd.

  I snatch the pill out of the air and toss it down my throat. I glance at Gun again, a question on my face. He holds up one webbed hand, fingers splayed. It’s our signal for wait. Whatever this pill does, it will take a moment to kick in.

  A hand latches onto my ankle. I look down. It’s the same Leaguer Gun just shot and killed. His avatar has regenerated like a vampire in a B movie. I bring up my free foot and stomp hard on his shoulder. He grunts, reaching for his gun.

  Billy pops up in front of me, leaping out of the swirling blue. His eyes are wide, and he pants as though he’s run a long way. In one hand, he holds a small leather bag. He reaches into the pouch and pulls out a small mound of gray powder.

  “Mortality!” he shouts. The powder turns bright orange. Billy flings it straight into the Leaguer’s face.

  The man drops my ankle and pulls back, swiping at his eyes. Several frogs climb onto him and detonate along his arms. He screams. Another frog lands on his head and explodes. The avatar collapses into perfect silence. The Leaguer has jagged black holes along both arms. Two-thirds of his head is missing.

  This time, there’s no slithering pixels, no quick rebirth. The bastard stays dead.

  Mortality.

  The name says it all. Billy’s Touch program made the man mortal in Vex. And the Twains killed him. Somewhere in the real-world, this man is dead.

  The auction has disintegrated into chaos. The Twains are everywhere. Most of the avatars regenerate, but evidently security breaches don’t sit well with would-be despots. Two-thirds of them have disappeared.

  A few die-hard bidders remain—Elvis, Chinese Emperor, and Grecian Urn. At this point the bid is up to one and a half billion. I’ve lost track of Gun. Imugi tries to conduct the auction while pretending he’s not surrounded by chaos and exploding frogs.

  Taro comes into view, locked in hand-to-hand combat with the female Leaguer. Her finger has grown back.

  I see a flash of metal between them: the ring. Taro and the woman struggle over it, each trying to pry it from the other’s grasp.

  “Come on.” I grab Billy’s hand and race toward them. I swing my leg around and deliver a roundhouse to the woman’s ribs. She grunts in surprise, and I pull a startled Taro free of her. Billy moves in behind me and blows a handful of dust into the Leaguer’s face.

  “Mortality!” he cries. The powder flares to fluorescent orange as it settles onto her.

  “She’s got the ring!” Taro says. “What are you—”

  “Billy got the Touch,” I say. “She can die now.”

  Taro’s head whips around, eyes narrowing. The Leaguer struggles to clear the orange powder from the sockets of her SmartPlastic mask. Taro kicks her in the chest, knocking her flat to the floor. He brings his foot down on her throat, stamping hard. She makes a gurgling noise. The ring rolls out of her slack hand.

  Taro bends down, reaching for it.

  But he’s not fast enough. A Leaguer materializes out of the smoke and fire. He snatches the ring and races straight toward the dais, toward Hank—who is held captive.

  She’s back in the chair, cuffs around her wrists and ankles. Her eyes are wide, panicked. The breach she made in the firewall is gone. Nine Leaguers surround her, weapons raised.

  “Help!” she screams, catching sight of us. “Help me!”

  I start for the dais as the Leaguer slips the ring onto his hand. Hank’s head whips back. She starts screaming, straining against the cuffs. Seconds later, her avatar disappears. She’s back in the real-world, trapped on that awful cot with electricity flowing through her.

  “Hank!” Billy races past me. He snatches a fistful of Mortality from the bag. “Hank!” He runs straight at the Leaguers, flinging Mortality in every direction, screaming its name. A neon-orange nimbus surrounds the pack of navy-blue uniforms. The Leaguers scramble in confusion, trying to catch Billy as he weaves through their midst.

  Taro and I rush after Billy, heading straight for the cloud of neon orange. A small, isolated part of my mind catapults into panic mode at the thought of becoming mortal in this place. I can’t freak out; my friends are counting on me. I shove the panic into a lockbox in the back of my brain and let my training take over.

  Side by side, Taro and I charge into the shimmering motes of Mortality. I snag an OS-15 handgun from an unsuspecting Leaguer and shoot him. His scream sends shivers down my legs. Taro elbows a man in the temple and acquires his own OS-15. Together we plow through the mass of orange and blue, fighting our way after Billy.

  Fortunately, we’ve got surprise on our side. The Leaguers were not suspecting an attack from us, and they are confused by the billowing orange powder. They have no idea they’ve just become mortal.

  My gun is up, trembling only a little in my hands as I fire at anything and everything in a SmartPlastic mask. A man’s hand snakes out, latching onto my wrist. My right leg delivers a kick to his gut. I wrench free—but not before he brings up his free hand and buries a knife in my shoulder.

  I gasp, stumbling. My shoulder is a blossom of white-hot agony that makes it hard to think straight. Blood flows down my arm. I reach up with my good arm, wrapping a hand around the knife handle.

  I’m mortal, just like the Leaguers. Which means any wound I receive here is real. I will feel every cut, every punch, every bruise.

  I yank out the knife. I gasp as spikes of pain radiate from the wound. More blood flows out. The Leaguer comes for me, gun raised.

  Taro leaps between the soldier and me and fires three shots into his chest. The Leaguer drops, dead.

  I draw in a breath and steady myself. I’ve got to keep a clear head, ignore the pain, and stay in the fight mentally. I force my avatar upright, force it back to Taro’s side, force it back into the melee.

  Fighting beside Taro is strange. We k
now how to dance, but we don’t know how to dance together. When his arm whips sideways to take out a man to my right, his elbow nails me in the nose. When he stumbles and I swing a kick over him, I clip the side of his head.

  Despite our poorly synchronized efforts, Mortality and confusion have given us the edge we need. In less than two minutes, all but one of the Leaguers are down. Most are dead, the rest too gravely wounded to fight back. In the eyes of those still alive, I see the realization that the wounds they’ve taken in Vex are real.

  Only the Leaguer with the ring remains. He crouches on the dais. He holds a gun in one hand, his other hand up to display the ring. Hank flickers back into view, slumped in the chair. Tears streak her face.

  “Hank!” Billy tries to scramble onto the dais, but the Leaguer kicks him off.

  Blue lines lance out from the cuffs, and Hank screams again. Her avatar disappears.

  “Call them off, smart boy,” the Leaguer growls at Billy. “Call them off or I keep it up ’til the shock kills her.”

  “Not if I have anything to say about it.” A green body streaks into view. Two amphibious hands lock onto the man’s head and give it a powerful, succinct twist. The breaking bones make soft clicking sounds.

  The soldier tips over, dead. Gun looms over the body.

  A moment later, Hank reappears in Vex. She sags in the chair, eyelids fluttering.

  “Hank.” Billy claws the cuffs open and drags her into his arms, cradling her.

  Hank is breathing, barely conscious. Billy weeps over her. I kneel beside them, scanning our surroundings.

  The auction room looks like—well, like a swarm of exploding frogs has swept through it. The bidders are gone. The Leaguers are all incapacitated. Only Imugi remains—a giant serpent-like creature racing straight toward us with rage in his eyes.

  “Merc boy, get the Touch!” Gun roars. “Sulan, with me!”

  I surge to my feet beside him. Together, we leap onto the dais and clamber onto the chairs. We jump toward the charging Imugi. I smack into his giant snout and feel the impact in my gut.

  I’m mortal. The phrase runs like a drumbeat through my head. I’m mortal.

  Two giant reptilian eyes glare at me. Imugi snaps his jaws, trying to catch my flailing legs. I grapple against the smooth scales, my shoulder screaming. The pain is so intense I momentarily lose concentration. My avatar slips. I land hard on my back, the impact knocking the breath out of me.

  Imugi comes for me, rage accentuating every pixel of his face. Seconds before his snout batters me into a mass of blood and bones, I roll sideways. His blue head is a blur in my periphery as it strikes empty ground.

  I bound to my feet and hurl myself at his neck. A hand reaches out, pulling me the rest of the way up. Gun. He clings to Imugi’s head with his legs. He has a knife in one hand, poised over Imugi’s brain. Gripping the blue scales with two legs and one arm, I take my firearm and place it against the serpentine body.

  Imugi swings and bucks, trying to dislodge us. It’s all I can do to hang on.

  On the ground beneath us, Taro’s slender form sprints straight at Imugi. In one hand he grips Billy’s Mortality pouch. The serpent dives at Taro, teeth bared.

  A handful of neon-orange dust hits him in his face.

  As soon as the Touch powder flies into the air, Gun’s knife comes down. He plunges it repeatedly into Imugi’s head. I empty the rest of my clip into his neck.

  A soft, strangled sound issues from Imugi’s throat. He tips sideways and crashes downward. I jump free, hitting the ground and rolling to my feet. Gun lands beside me as Imugi’s body hits the floor with a thump.

  Gun and I stand beside each other, both of us bent over our knees and panting. I stare at Imugi’s unmoving form, at the giant blue serpent bleeding at our feet.

  He’s dead.

  He’s dead.

  The man responsible for the murder of thousands is dead. And we killed him. Me, Gun, Taro, Hank, and Billy. He’s dead because of us.

  I turn away from the body, feeling sick. Gun watches me.

  “Hey, Short Stuff,” he says softly, as if this is just another day in the Cube.

  “Hey, Baldy,” I reply, because it’s easier to pretend this is just another day in the Cube.

  Gun and I never touch. It’s just not something we do, unless we’re dealing a roundhouse or a left hook to one another. But seeing him—even in his frog suit—opens a fissure of emotion inside me. I throw my arms around him and cling to him, fighting back tears. His strong arms squeeze me tight. It’s probably just the stress of the situation, but all I can think about is how I never want him to let me go.

  “I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

  Taro rises to his feet from the other side of Imugi. “Sulan, are you okay?” He walks around the bloody head, coming toward us.

  “Yeah, I’m okay,” I reply, my cheek pressed against Gun’s tuxedo jacket.

  “You know this guy?” Taro points his weapon at Gun, eyes intent.

  “We’re training partners,” Gun replies coolly, releasing me and looking Taro up and down.

  “So you’re the one who trains with her using Touch?”

  I don’t see Gun surprised very often, but it’s clear from the slight widening of his translucent eyelids that Taro has struck an unexpected punch.

  “Taro, he’s my friend,” I say.

  The affectionate quirk of Gun’s lips makes me glow inside. “Sulan,” he says, ignoring Taro, “I’ve got a way to deactivate the real-world cuffs. As soon as I do, you’ve got to be ready.”

  “What?” Now I’m confused. “How are you going to do that?”

  “The pill you took. It’s a tracking beacon, so I can locate you. I’m sending help. Be ready.”

  “Who are you?” Taro inserts himself between me and Gun. “How did you know where to find Sulan? How did you even get into this auction?”

  “Taro!” I say. “What’s wrong with you? Gun just saved our lives.”

  “Let me see your face,” Taro says to Gun, ignoring me. “Show me your real-world face.”

  “Sulan.” Gun, who’s got a good three inches on Taro, looks over him at me. “Get ready. Wherever you are, get out of there. You know how to find me.”

  A deep boom in the real-world reverberates in my chest. The last thing I see is Gun’s frog eyes. Then everything goes black.

  18: Uncle Zed

 

  It takes me a moment to figure out we’re not in Vex anymore. My headset is still on, but the lenses are dark. A soft fizzle tickles my wrists and ankles. The cuffs pop open.

  I sit up and fling off the headset. The movement sends pain lancing through my shoulder. I reach up and feel my jumpsuit. There’s no blood, but the pain of the stab wound is real. My body is rubbery from the electrocution.

  Moving slowly, I shuck off the open cuffs, letting them clatter to the floor. I rub at my wrists and ankles, marveling to have all four of them back in my possession.

  It’s pitch black in our room. Next to me, Riska growls. I reach out. My fingers find a leathery wing.

  “Hey boy,” I say.

  Hank moans on the cot next to mine.

  “Hank?” I lumber forward and grope blindly for her headset. My hand lands on her face. I fumble my way up until I connect with the headset, then tear it off.

  “Hank?” Billy whispers, his voice tinged with the panic.

  “I’m okay.” Hank’s words spiral up out of the darkness, weak and raspy. “Not sure I can move, though. What happened?”

  “I think Sulan’s friend detonated an EMP bomb over the ship,” Billy says. “It fried everything, including our cuffs.”

  Gun. I can’t help the swell of pride in my chest. “He did say he was sending help.”

  “Would’ve been nice if he’d dropped us a sack of flashlights,” Taro says with a grunt.

  I hear him moving. His boot connects with something, and someone moans.

  The Le
aguers. Some of them are still alive, and in the room with us.

  I force myself to drop into a fighting stance, hoping the remaining Leaguers are too weak to fight. My heart pounds painfully in my chest, and my palms sweat.

  “Here we go,” Taro says. There’s a cracking sound. A glow stick comes to life, casting fluorescent-green light. It’s just enough to illuminate the mass of bodies at Taro’s feet.

  It’s not that I haven’t seen dead bodies before; I see them all the time in Vex. I once blew up a whole stadium of bad guys.

  But this is different.

  The figures bathed in the weak green glow are collapsed haphazardly on top of each other. The bodies don’t show any external sign of violence, but most are definitely dead. Only two of the twelve make feeble movements, some sliver of life remaining within them.

  And there, on the edge of the pile, is Imugi. There is no smile behind his white mask. His Vex set is askew, revealing one frozen dark eye. Even in death, it seems to bore through me.

  Shivering, I turn away. All that killing—I did that. Some of it, at least. Enough of it.

  Before I know what’s happening, I’m braced against the side of my cot, retching. All that expensive steak comes back up and lands in a wet, stinky pile at my feet.

  A gunshot makes me jump. I spin around and see Taro standing in the midst of the Leaguers, gun pointed at the floor. No, not at the floor. At a man. A twitching man who dies even as I watch, a bullet in his head.

  Taro shifts the gun, aiming at the last Leaguer still alive. He fires right into the man’s head.

  The pile of bodies is perfectly silent, perfectly still. Blood makes an ever-widening lopsided circle on the floor.

  In the feeble neon light, Taro’s gaze meets mine. He doesn’t say anything. His face is composed, the epitome of a seasoned mercenary doing what needs to be done.

  His eyes tell a different story. They hold anguish as gently as a person might hold an injured bird. There’s so much pain in those dark eyes that you’d think he was on the floor in that mishmash of bodies.

  Maybe, in a way, he is.

  What sort of normal sixteen-year-old knows thirteen different ways to kill a man with his boot? His voice, clear as morning light, rings in my memory. You think it’s glamorous? You think it’s fun?

  For the first time in my life, I have an inkling as to why Mom never wanted to teach me how to fight.

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” Taro says, his voice gruff.

  “Mrow.” Riska stretches onto his hind legs and reaches for me. I bend down so he can scramble onto my good shoulder.

  Billy slides an arm around Hank and helps her sit up. She tries to stand, but her legs collapse. A garbled sob bursts from her mouth. She sits on the edge of her cot, quivering as she scrubs tears away.

  Billy hovers next to her, every muscle in his body tense. His mouth tightens in determination, then he bends down and scoops Hank into his arms.

  “Wh—what are you doing?” Hank gasps.

  “You can’t walk,” Billy says, face turning bright red.

  Taro comes to stand in front of me. He’s got two OS-15 automatic handguns shoved into his belt and two more in his hands.

  “Your shoulder okay?” he asks.

  “Yeah. It’s sore but I’m fine.”

  “Here. Take these.” He pushes the guns and some extra clips at me.

  I take the guns. They feel very heavy in my hands. “Are you okay?” I search his eyes, seeing the pain there.

  Taro stares back without answering, and I understand that he is not okay, not by a long shot. Impulsively, I take his hand and squeeze it. He smiles.

  “Come on,” he says softly. “Let’s get out of here.”

  We join Hank and Billy at the top of the stairs, Riska riding on my shoulder.

  “If there are any more Leaguers on the ship, they’ll be on their way here,” Taro says. “Even if we can overpower them, there’s no way to navigate the ship. The EMP will have fried all the circuitry. That leaves us two options. Option one is to find a life raft.”

  “And the second option?” I ask.

  “How well can you swim?” Taro’s expression is void of amusement.

  “I like option one.”

  “Me too.”

  “Me three,” Hank says weakly.

  “Me four,” Billy says.

  Taro in the lead, the four of us strike out into the darkness, leaving Imugi and the rest of the dead Leaguers behind. Billy trails Taro closely with Hank in his arms. I bring up the rear with Riska.

  The glow sticks are little remedy against the suffocating blackness of the ship, revealing only the next ten steps in front of us. I’m pretty sure Taro has no idea where he’s going, though his steps are even and steady. When we hit a dead end, he turns around and leads us another way. Every now and then he gets lucky and hits a staircase. We are surrounded by drippy silence.

  And then: “Die, you commie bastards!”

  This statement, bouncing through the halls like a ricocheting bullet, is followed by an eruption of gunfire and several explosions.

  A raucous voice, ribboned with mad laughter, says, “That’s what you get for messing with my boy, you commies!”

  Silence.

  “That,” Billy says, “was my uncle.”

  “What?” Taro says.

  “My uncle, Zed,” Billy says. “That was him.”

  “You’ve got a real Uncle Zed?” Hank says, at the same time I say, “What would your uncle be doing here?”

  Billy glances over his shoulder at me. “He was a merc once, before a North Korean corporation kidnapped him and tortured him for intel on Global security. Now he’s retired and . . . an enthusiastic anticommunist. He lives with me and my mom.”

  “Your uncle is a retired merc?” I say.

  “Yeah, but he still has lots of guns and stuff at home. He took out a lot of Leaguers when I was kidnapped. I thought he might try and rescue me.”

  And here I had been entertaining thoughts of my mom launching a daring rescue mission with Black Ice.

  “Come on,” Taro says. “Let’s see if we can find him.”

  We walk in the direction of the voice. We’re a bubble of neon green oozing through palpable black.

  A man is suddenly there. There is no sound, no whisper of breath or scuff of boot to warn us of his coming. He appears in our green bubble, a machine gun in one hand, a grenade in the other.

  “Uncle Zed!” Billy grins, but makes no move to relinquish his hold on Hank.

  “Billy!” The man beams and rests the machine gun against his shoulder. “Is that your girl?” he asks, motioning to Hank.

  Even in the darkness, I see Billy’s face turn red. “I can’t believe you brought the peacock suit,” he says.

  Peacock suit is the right name for it. Strapped to Zed’s back is a fan of black metal. He’s got a rocket launcher attached to it, along with several rockets and three machine guns. The straps, which make a big X across his chest, are studded with grenades and clips. There’s a contraption on his head—a combination of infrared goggles, radio receiver, and Vex headset—that creates a blocky caricature of a peacock crest.

  On top of all that, he’s got at least four guns on his belt, a handful of knives, and two big chunks of C-4. He’s like death on steroids. I’m not sure whether to be impressed or intimidated.

  Zed caresses his machine gun. “What is it I always tell you, Billy?”

  “Always be prepared for the worst.” Billy’s words have a mechanical lilt, as though he’s used to reciting them.

  “That’s right.” Zed claps Billy on the shoulder. “Always knew there’d be a day when I’d need the peacock suit. Soon as the commies took you, I got it out.”

  At first I think Zed’s painted a camouflage pattern on his face. As I get a closer look, I realize his neck, face, and hands are all tattooed. His head, shaved, is also covered with a camouflage tattoo.

  He catche
s me looking. “Like the tats, girl? I’ve got a guy, if you want your own.”

  “I, uh . . .”

  “Did you bring the helicopter?” Billy asks.

  Of course a black-market multimillionaire would have his own helicopter. Why hadn’t I thought of that?

  “Got something better than a chopper.” Zed grins. I give a start as I notice all his teeth are blacked out. Another permanent alteration?

  Zed uses his grenade hand to activate his earpiece; he must not have been on the freighter when the EMP bomb detonated.

  “Zed here,” he says. “I found them. We’re coming to you. Get the Gav ready. Keep your eyes open. Still lots of commies out here.” He drops his hand. Looking at Taro and me, he says, “Your dad and mom will meet us on deck. Come on.”

  “My mom’s with you?” I ask, just as Taro says, “My dad’s with you?” We share a quick look of surprise.

  “’Course,” Zed says. “They got me out of North Korea. Wouldn’t go back into the field without them at my back. Since our kids are here, we all had to come anyway. Come on.”

  Mom. In North Korea. Rescuing Zed. With Black Ice.

  Somewhere off to our left in a distant part of the ship, there’s another explosion. We all freeze, but Zed waves us on.

  “Just some commies setting off one of my tripwires. Don’t worry. Commies are all over this ship. Take ’em out if you spot ’em. No mercy.”

  I try not to think about what would have happened if we’d stumbled into one of those booby traps before Zed found us. Memories of the things Billy has said about his uncle suddenly surface.

  Laws are just sort of a guideline. That’s what my uncle always says. And when Hank asked him if he was really Uncle Zed, he said, Sort of. I write the software.

  The clues click together in my brain.

  “You’re both Uncle Zed in Vex,” I say. “You design it, and he sells it. Or at least most of it.”

  Billy’s eyes widen in alarm. It’s my only warning before Zed whirls on me. The length of his machine gun slams into my chest.

  The impact throws Riska off balance. He lets loose a spray of venom, but only a few drops hit Zed’s face. Zed twitches the butt of his rifle and slams it into Riska’s head. Riska drops to the floor. I yell and reach for him, but Zed shoves me hard against the wall, resting a grenade against my cheek.

  “Who told you?” he says, leaning so close our noses almost touch. “Who told you my identity?”

  “Let her go.” Taro raises his gun. Billy latches onto him, hauling him backward and hissing in his ear. Taro shakes free. He doesn’t advance, but he doesn’t lower his gun, either.

  “Was it the commies?” Zed’s lips draw back, revealing the black teeth. “Are you with them?”

  I stare into Zed’s eyes, my mouth dry and my pulse thundering. “I . . .” It occurs to me that I’m looking into the eyes of a bona fide nut job. “I . . .”

  “Answer me!”

  My gaze flicks to Taro. A muscle in his jaw twitches. His gun is steady, aimed straight at the back of Zed’s head.

  “Uncle Zed!” Billy wedges himself next to me on the wall, careful not to touch his uncle. “Uncle, you’re safe. The Anti-American League told everyone that I’m Uncle Zed. Sulan is my friend. She goes to school with me. She’s not a commie, and she won’t tell anyone about you. You’re safe. You’re safe.”

  “How do you know?” Zed glances at Billy, but some of the tension melts out of his face. “How do you know she’s not a commie?”

  “She doesn’t have time to be a commie. She spends all her time going to school and studying.” Billy pauses. “Did you take your medicine today?”

  Zed makes an annoyed sound in his throat. “Half a dose.”

  “Uncle Zed, you know better.” Billy’s voice takes an authoritative tone, and I sense the tension diffusing.

  Zed wrinkles his nose. “Didn’t want it to dull my reaction time.”

  “Mom will be mad if she finds out. Let Sulan go, and I won’t tell her.”

  Zed mutters a string of curses under his breath, and I gather that an angry Mrs. Long is a force of nature more terrible than commies. He releases me, muttering, “I won’t hurt the girl.”

  “You’re safe with us,” Billy says. “None of us are commies. We’re all friends.”

  “No commies,” Zed repeats. “No commies.” As if he’s trying to convince himself.

  Taro lowers his gun. I scoop up Riska and scurry to his side, putting distance between Zed and me. Taro rests a protective hand on my shoulder as I cradle Riska, stroking his furry head. He’s alive and awake, but dazed. He purrs and gazes at me with bleary eyes. I zip him into my jumpsuit and he makes no protest, which tells me just how stunned he is.

  “Can you lead us out of here?” Billy asks Zed.

  Zed straightens, whirling the machine gun around to prop it against his shoulder. “’Course I can. Follow me.”

  The four of us trail him. There’s a gap between Zed and the rest of us. As we climb the next flight of stairs, a breeze moves past my cheek. Fresh salt air fills my nostrils. That’s when I notice the surrounding black has faded to thick gray. We reach the top of the stairs, and I find myself standing on the deck of a freighter ship. It’s nighttime, and a near-full moon hangs in the sky.

  A Gav is crouched on the far end of the deck. The thick tail lies immobile like a giant sleeping snake. Its wings are loose, only partially folded against scales that gleam like oil slicks in the moonlight. The Gav’s left eyelid moves rapidly in a way that seems oddly familiar.

  “That’s our ride out of here,” Zed says. “Come on, kiddos.”

  “Wait,” I hiss, grinding to a halt on the deck. The strange movement of the eyelid registers. “Look at its eye.”

  “The eye?” Zed raises his machine gun. He positions the grenade by his mouth, as if he’s ready to pull the pin out with his teeth.

  “Is there someone inside the Gav?” I ask.

  “Yeah.”

  “That person is trying to communicate with us. That eye is using Morse code.”

  Zed snarls and herds us all back into the doorway. “Good catch, kid. I should have known Morning Star’s daughter would be well-trained.”

  19: Morning Star

  His words take the breath out of my lungs. “What did you say?” I put an arm out to steady myself against the wall. “What did you say about my mom?”

  Zed doesn’t appear to hear me. He’s staring at the fluttering eye, deciphering the message. “A,” he says.

  “Zed! What did you say about my mom?”

  “M,” Zed says. “B.”

  Taro places a hand on my shoulder. I whirl around to face him.

  “Did you know?” I demand. “Did you know?”

  He eyes me cautiously. “I suspected. I saw the way they fought together on the rooftop. She never—?”

  “U!” Zed bellows. “Ambush! It’s an ambush! Get down!”

  Spitting gunfire lights up the night, filling the empty space between the Gav and us. Zed turns, arms outspread, and plows into us. We topple like bowling pins down the stairwell.

  There’s a moment of weightlessness as we fall. We hit the floor at the bottom; my head whips back, cracking into Taro’s chin. I twist my body sideways, curling protectively around Riska. Hank lands heavily on me. Billy flies past us and knocks into the wall.

  Zed looms over us like an armored tank on legs. “Up,” he shouts. “Move!”

  The gunfire draws closer. There’s a clink in the stairwell, followed by a hissing sound and a plume of white gas.

  “Sleeping grenade!” Zed says. “Hold your breath!”

  We scramble up and stumble away with our elbows over our noses. I glance back, expecting to see Zed on our heels. But he’s standing at the foot of the stairs like a matador staring down a bull. He makes a fist with his left hand and aims it at the grenade. White foam shoots out of his sleeve, smothering the grenade. The foam hardens into a shell, snuffin
g out the gas.

  “Let’s see you mock the suit now, you commies!” Zed cackles and rounds on us. “Eh, kids? Who can mock the suit now?”

  In response, more gas grenades tumble down the stairs. Gunfire sparks fill the doorway like thousands of fireflies. My lungs burn from holding my breath.

  “Time to run,” Zed says.

  We run. Zed leads the way, snaking down and down into the freighter. The wrists and ankles of his peacock suit are illuminated with bright white bands of light.

  The shouts of the Leaguers grows distant.

  “The commies are trying to take us alive,” Zed says, panting. “I’ve got suicide pills, if it comes to that.”

  Suicide pills?

  “No,” Taro says firmly. “No suicide pills.”

  “A fighter!” Zed slaps him on the shoulder. “I like it.” He presses the earpiece. “Zed here. We’re heading to the alternative rendezvous. Zed out.” He moves up and takes point. “Come on.”

  Billy, once again cradling Hank, struggles to keep up. Sweat runs down his face, and he breaths heavily.

  “I can carry her for a while,” Taro says.

  Billy shakes his head. “You’re better with guns,” he says.

  “Billy,” Hank says, face still wan, “I can try and . . .”

  “No. You’re too weak.” His arms tighten around her, and he picks up his pace.

  I keep looking over my shoulder, expecting to see the stiff shine of SmartPlastic masks emerge from the gloom. But all is silent, dark. Gunfire has ceased. If Leaguers are still behind us, I can’t hear them. We must have lost them, at least for now.

  I have one arm across my chest to keep Riska from bouncing too much. He dozes against my chest, and I realize the gas grenade has knocked him out. That brief exposure was too much for his small body.

  Zed leads us down several more flights of stairs, finally stopping in a passageway that looks like all the others. The air is slightly colder, making me think we must be next to the hull.

  “Here we are.” He pats the wall affectionately.

  I look around. “Where is here?”

  “Alternative rendezvous.” He pulls a chunk of C-4 out of his belt. “You know how to make bombs out of this stuff?”

  I hesitate. “Yeah . . .”

  “Good. Here are the blasting caps.” He shoves them into my hands along with some C-4. “Set the charges in a big oval. We want a large opening here.” He slaps the wall on our right.

  “We’re blowing a hole in the hull?” Taro asks.

  “Absolutely. How else do you plan to board the Gav?”

  “What do we do when the ship starts to sink?” I say.

  “We’re five decks up. We’ll be long gone before this boat sinks. Here.” Zed pushes blasting caps and C-4 at Taro. “Go nuts, kid.”

  “I’d rather not,” Taro mutters, but he begins sticking tiny bombs all over the wall.

  I join him. There’s something comforting about the task. I’m able to focus on the job and ignore the fear and anxiety riding on my back. Most importantly, the work helps me avoid thinking about Morning Star. About Mom. Resentment, awe, and anger scour through me, but I concentrate on making the bombs. The remote detonators stick out of the green putty like flags.

  I glance at Taro, who works silently beside me. It’s a bit strange seeing him there. I’ve always done this sort of thing with Gun. I almost wish Gun were here, except I wouldn’t wish this on a friend. I hope he got out of the auction okay. I picture his shiny shaved head and his big smile, the smile he never shares with anyone else in the Cube. Gun, with his funny inventions and absolute faith in me. Gun.

  “Sulan,” a familiar voice says.

  Mom? I jump and spin around, the C-4 thumping to the ground. She’s standing before me in all her mercenary glory. The mother I’ve grown up with has transformed from HOA president into my childhood idol. She grabs me in a fierce hug, and even though I know I should hug her back, I stiffen in her embrace.

  She pulls back, takes one look at my face, and says, “Zed told you, didn’t he?”

  Now’s not the time to play dumb. “Yeah, he did.” I wish Riska were awake. He’d have a nice collection of hisses for Mom right now, plus some bristling fur. “How could keep your identity a secret? From me?”

  I’m not used to seeing Mom look uncomfortable, but her eyes slide away from mine and she hunches her shoulders.

  “I always meant to tell you,” she says. “Then you started watching all those Merc reruns, talking about Morning Star and Black Ice all the time . . .” She turns her head.

  I follow her gaze and see Aston standing beside Taro, speaking to him softly. They embrace briefly, awkwardly. Then Aston gives Taro something slim and black. It looks like a pen.

  “I just couldn’t tell you,” Mom says, pulling my attention back to her. “I’m sorry I lied to you, Sulan.”

  I open my mouth to speak. Emotions tumble through me, one after another, and I struggle to put them into words. “Mom, I . . . I . . .”

  A gas grenade pings onto the floor by our feet.

  Mom does three things at once: her foot kicks the smoking grenade away from us, her right hand pulls out a machine gun, and her left hand shoves me out of the way.

  “Stay down, Sulan.”

  A dozen Leaguers pour into the corridor, gas masks over the SmartPlastic. Aston moves to Mom’s side, and together they flow out to meet the rush head-on. Even though we’re outnumbered, the narrow corridor makes it impossible for the Leaguers to overwhelm Mom and Aston. They fight, and hold the Leaguers back.

  Taro and I rush after them, guns raised. My shoulder burns from the Vex stab wound, but I ignore the pain and fire over Mom’s shoulder. Even in the midst of everything, a small part of my mind hopes she’ll see me fight.

  There are more grenades. I cough, covering my nose and mouth with my free hand, but it’s not good enough. Already my head feels woozy, my eyes heavy and stinging. The Leaguers all wear glow sticks on their belts. Gas from the grenades billows and flows with the green light. Mom and Aston rip masks off downed Leaguers and pass them back to us, then grab two more for themselves. I pull the mask on and take several deep gulps of air to clear my head.

  Zed joins us, sending gunfire into the Leaguers. He reaches into the contraptions haloing his head and pulls a gas mask down over his nose and mouth.

  There’s a brief lull in the fight. The Leaguers fall back down the hall, pulling their wounded with them. They disappear, taking cover in several different doorways. There’s an open swath of corridor between us and them.

  Aston rounds on Zed. “Blow the wall, Zed! Blow it now!”

  20: Prodigy

  Zed’s hand moves toward his chest. The glow cast by the light strips on his suit illuminates the remote detonator strapped there. I hadn’t noticed it before amid all the magazines and grenades.

  “Back,” Taro screams, grabbing me with both hands. “Back!”

  We turn and sprint for all we’re worth. Zed, Mom, and Aston are on our heels. League bullets fly past us, ricocheting off the steel walls. I bring my arms up to protect my head. Two ricocheting bullets bounce off the bulletproof suit protecting my ribcage; I grunt at the impact. Hank and Billy are huddled together at the far end of the passageway, coughing.

  There’s a soft click as Zed’s index finger presses the trigger.

  A boom rips through the hull. The shock wave from the explosion sends us sprawling. I fold into a ball around Riska, taking the brunt of the blow with my back. A snap of cold ocean air hits me, along with a cloud of grit.

  Naked moonlight pours in through the hull breach. Mom is back on her feet, Aston by her side. They rush past the jagged hole in the hull, Aston snatching up a huge chunk of metal. Once past the breach, Mom and Aston drop to their knees behind the metal chunk, which they use as a shield. The Leaguers fire on them from the open doorways. Mom and Aston hold them off from the opening, spraying bullets at anything that
moves.

  As I watch Mom and Aston, drinking in their seamless movements, I wonder why I didn’t figure it out when I first saw them fight together on the rooftop. I’ve seen every episode, studied every move the two of them made in Merc. No one fights like that alongside Black Ice except Morning Star. Despite everything, I can’t help but marvel: I am watching two legends in action, and one of them is my mom.

  Zed clips a rope around a nearby support pillar and sprints for the opening. “After me, kiddos!” He dives into the night and disappears.

  Taro and I race to the opening. Billy scoops up Hank and hurries after us. The blast of ocean air has sufficiently diffused the sleeping gas from the grenades. Just outside the ship, hovering in the air about twenty feet away, is the Gav. Its wingspan prevents it from getting any closer. The side is open, revealing a man inside.

  We’re just in time to see two streams of flame shoot out the back of Zed’s peacock suit. At first I think he’s on fire; then I see the thruster and the exhaust pipes.

  A jet pack. Zed has a jet pack on his peacock suit.

  He glides into the Gav, landing lightly on his feet. I get a better look at the man already in the Gav who greets him. He’s tall and lean in a black T-shirt that says Got Pi?

  “Dad?”

  He sees me and waves. The neural net sits on his head, lights whirling. I wave back, smiling.

  Zed fastens the other end of his rope to the peacock suit and motions for us to join him. “Come on! Grab the rope!”

  Billy maneuvers to the front with Hank. “We need some kind of harness for her. She’s not strong enough to climb.”

  “I’m okay,” Hank says, trying to dislodge herself from Billy’s embrace.

  “No, you’re not.” Billy’s arms tighten around her. He and Hank look at each other and simultaneously flush.

  Taro crouches low and races to Aston and Mom, who are still behind their metal shield. He pulls a length of rope from his father’s belt and returns. He and Billy bend over the rope.

  I leave them to the harness construction and scuttle forward to join Mom and Aston. There’s a trail of dead bodies down the passageway. I jam a new clip into my gun and raise it, scanning the doorways for movement. An arm pops out, fires a few shots, then retracts. I return fire, but don’t hit anything.

  “Sulan,” Mom says, “get back. Aston and I will hold them.”

  I don’t reply, staring instead at the doorway where I saw the arm. I recall the bullets ricocheting off the walls. And I think of all those lame hypothetical billiard balls in applied physics. It seems like eons have passed since that particular lecture, but the math is still clear in my head.

  Balls and bullets don’t have much in common, but the math needed to calculate the ricochet angle isn’t all that different. The velocity vector of the bullet, the angle of incidence—that’s all I need to calculate the angle of reflection, or ricochet path.

  I shift my gaze to the wall I intend to shoot. An equation springs into my mind as I mentally trace the path of the bullet . . . hit the wall there and reflect the bullet over there . . . 

  “Sulan, are you listening to me? Get—”

  I raise a hand to silence her. I close my eyes, running the calculation in my head. The numbers take on a life of their own, spinning out a complex equation both beautiful and deadly.

  That’s it.

  My eyes snap open. I know just where to stand and just where to aim. I inch to the right of Aston, take aim down the passageway, and fire. The bullet ricochets off the wall and flies through the open doorway on the opposite side.

  A grunt sounds from the room. Then a Leaguer’s body slumps into the passageway, leaking blood all over the floor. He doesn’t move.

  He’s dead.

  Mom and Aston stare at me. Mom’s jaw is slack, her mouth hanging open.

  “How . . . how did you do that?” she asks.

  “I’m a math genius, remember?” I’m too distracted to put any sarcasm into it. The irony of this moment is not lost on me. All my months of training with guns and other weapons, and it’s a stupid physics class that saves me.

  “I heard you were brilliant,” Aston says. “I didn’t know you were handy with a gun, too.” I feel a thrill at the admiration in his eyes.

  Hank has made it into the Gav. Billy inches his way across the rope. Taro guards the opening in the hull. I need to get rid of the Leaguers so the rest of us have a chance of making it out of here.

  “Can you draw their fire?” I ask. “I can take them down if I know where they are.”

  “I’ll draw their fire,” Aston says. “Li Yuan, cover me.”

  He vaults over the barrier and sprints like a madman down the passageway, bellowing a wordless challenge and spraying bullets before him. Mom snaps around and brings up her machine gun.

  The Leaguers don’t leave the safety of their doorways, but arms extend like tentacles into the passageway and fire. Aston moves fast, but a handful of bullets hit him. They strike the bulletproof uniform and send him sprawling. Someone takes aim as Aston struggles to his feet. Mom fires at the exposed arm, but it moves and her shot misses.

  I do the fastest calculation I have ever done in my life. My gun is already up. I fire a split second before the Leaguer does. His gun goes off, but not before my bullet hits him. His shot misses Aston and bounces off the wall. The Leaguer falls, just his boots and ankles visible in the doorway.

  Aston gets back to his feet and keeps running. I can just make out the up-and-down motion of his glow stick. He’s out of the Leaguers’ range, for the moment.

  “Did you see the others?” Mom asks.

  I nod, fixing the locations of the remaining Leaguers in my mind. Only two of them are left. I draw in a steady breath, working through the math. I shoot two more times, and the last two Leaguers die. I stare down the hall at the unmoving bodies, at the blood oozing across the floor.

  The sight of what I’ve done makes me queasy—and a little awed. Those were damn good shots. Maybe being good at math isn’t such a bad thing.

  “That was brilliant, Sulan.”

  I turn to look at Mom. She’s beaming at me—for killing people. For fighting. Despite the death all around me, I can’t help the goofy smile that spreads across my face. Warmth rushes through me. Morning Star is proud of me. Mom is proud of me.

  “A warrior and a math genius.” Aston—Black Ice—strides back to us, also smiling at me.

  Gun would just die if he could see this. The warmth in me expands some more.

  “Thanks,” I say, grinning up at Aston.

  “You’d be one hell of an asset to a merc team, kid.”

  “Aston,” Mom says sharply, “don’t encourage her.”

  The elation rushes out of me.

  “Mom,” I say, tamping down my hurt, “I know you want to protect me. I get that. You don’t want me to end up on the wrong end of a gun. But I think it’s time for you to acknowledge that no matter what you do, that still might happen.”

  “Sulan, I only meant—”

  “I know what you meant, but even a math prodigy has a right to learn self-defense.” I turn my back and walk away. Leave it to Mom to ruin the best moment of my life.

  “Sulan . . .”

  “I know you want me to be like Dad, but I’m your kid, too.”

  I keep my back to Mom and take off my gas mask, resting it on the floor. Would it have killed her to let me have my moment? To tell me that it’s okay to be like her?

  Hank, Billy, and Taro are all in the Gav. They wave to me from across the gap, calling for me to hurry.

  I tug my zipper to make sure Riska is secure inside my suit, dropping a quick kiss on his head as I do so. Then I seize the rope and swing my legs, hooking them over the rope. I do not look down, a trick I learned from Gun. I shimmy out into in the moonlight. The fresh air clears my head. There’s a dull ache in my chest from my conversation with Mom.

  I’m about ten feet from th
e Gav when the smell of the biological tank hits me. I forgot how bad it smells. Dad reaches for me, pulling me to safety. I throw my arms around him, surprised to find my cheeks wet.

  “You all right?” he asks.

  I nod without saying anything. I wish I could tell him everything that just happened with Mom, but what’s the use?

  “I saw you take those Leaguers down right before I climbed across the rope. Good shooting.”

  I turn and see Taro looking down at me. The gentleness in his eyes defuses some of my frustration.

  “Bet my dad was impressed,” he adds.

  “Yeah, he was.” I sound as glum as I feel. I take a deep breath and step away from my father.

  I get my first look at the ship where we’ve been held captive. It’s a big freighter bobbing ink-black in the night. The silhouettes of Mom and Aston fill the jagged hole in the hull. They exchange words. From where I’m standing, it looks like they’re arguing. Then Aston grabs the rope. He moves across it like a spider, quickly eating up the distance. It’s easy to see where Taro gets his grace and strength.

  There’s an explosion two floors down from our escape point. Another hole is torn in the hull. I drop and cover my head as debris flies through the air.

  Another one of Zed’s booby traps, I think.

  When I look up, Zed is lying flat on the floor, grunting as he braces one boot on the wall next to the open doorway. He grips the rope with both hands, straining. It’s been torn in half, shredded by explosion. Taro is on his hands and knees at the edge of the Gav, also pulling on the rope. The two of them pull Aston to safety.

  My eyes swing back to the ship, back to where I saw Mom standing. Staring back at me is a ragged gash three times the size of what it was before. Seawater gushes into the void. Waves reach up, grasping at the lilting freighter.

  “Mom!” I lean out of the Gav, gripping its flesh and scouring the black water below. It boils as great air pockets eject from the ship. “Mom!”

  Roiling water. A broken freighter. That’s it. That’s all I see.

  Mom is gone.

  21: Negotiation

  I struggle to open my eyes. My throat is scraped raw from all the screaming. My eyes feel swollen from weeping. The side of my neck aches where Aston stuck me with a tranq gun.

  I force my eyes all the way open. A face leaps into focus. It’s Dad, his eyes rimmed with red.

  I look around, struggling to recall where I am and what’s going on. Then the smell of the Gav hits me, and I remember: Mom is gone.

  “Dad?”

  “Sulan.” He leans over me, smoothing my hair back from my face. He still wears the neural net. His hair is a mess, which is not unusual for Dad. I find myself focusing on the little holes in his shirt along the shoulder and collar seams; Mom has been trying to make him get rid of that shirt for at least a year.

  Mom.

  Tears well up. I choke on a wail and stuff it down, willing my tears to dissolve. I can’t fall apart in front of everyone again. All it got me last time was a tranq in the neck.

  A yowl sounds in my ear. A black-and-white-striped head butts me in the cheek.

  “Riska!” I sit up and scoop him into my arms. He purrs and lets out a few more yowls, looking fully recovered from the ordeal on the ship. I press my face into his softness, using the moment to dry the rest of my tears.

  When I look up, I see Taro, Hank, Billy, and Aston seated around us. They avert their eyes, giving Dad and me some privacy in these tight quarters, I suppose.

  Only Zed is on his feet, pacing back and forth. His hands shake. A thin layer of perspiration covers his face. He’s still in the peacock suit. I try to summon anger as I gaze at him; after all, it’s his booby trap that killed Mom. For some reason, I’m completely drained of anger. Drained of just about everything, actually.

  Dad and I sit on a bench the color of dried bubble gum. It makes a lopsided U around the interior of the Gav. It ends a few inches from where the doorway begins. The entire inside of the Gav is the same dirty-pink color. The walls and bench are soft to the touch. Curving ribs march down the length of the creature’s torso.

  The Gav’s neck forms a passageway at one end, which leads into the head. Two chairs sit in the skull area, the same dark pink as everything else.

  There are two large window-like structures on either side of the Gav’s body. They resemble giant water balloons, and I realize I’m looking through bodily fluids. The scales beyond them are like two-sided mirrors, allowing me to see through. Outside, there’s nothing but black sky.

  “They caught me in the East Sea,” Zed mutters. “I should have picked a different entry point. I should have swam closer to the rocks.”

  “Uncle Zed,” Billy says, “you need to take your medicine.”

  He whirls on Billy. “Did you map the landmines?” He grabs Billy by the front of his jumpsuit and shakes him. “Did you stash those grenades in the bunker like I told you to?”

  Billy, suspended in his uncle’s grasp, doesn’t squirm. “Uncle Zed,” he says carefully, “you need to take your medicine. You know Mom doesn’t like it when you skip doses.”

  Zed shudders and releases Billy. He flips open a pocket in his pants, pulls out a white pill, and tosses it into his mouth. He resumes his pacing.

  Dad’s eyes are puffy with grief, but his face is dry. I lean on his shoulder and draw comfort from him. He puts an arm around me and squeezes.

  “Mom?” I whisper into his shoulder. I need him to say it. To make it final for me.

  “She’s gone, sweetie,” he whispers back.

  Sobs try to climb out of my throat, but I clench my teeth and bar their path. Composure, I tell myself. Hysteria won’t change anything. Riska yowls again, and I pat his head and settle him onto my lap.

  Dad squeezes my shoulders again. His voice is conversational when he speaks. “When you and your friends were kidnapped, I hijacked the Gav and came after you.”

  “You hijacked the Gav?” I know he’s trying to distract me, and I’m grateful for it.

  “I have a few tricks up my sleeve. Besides, I was the only one who could track you. I picked up your mom, Aston, and Zed on the way here.”

  “You tracked me? How?”

  Dad smiles. He looks down. I follow his gaze to Riska, who’s cleaning his tail.

  “I programmed him with a unique radiation signature.” Dad pats Riska’s head. “I can find you anywhere in the world, so long as he’s with you.”

  “Is that why you gave him to me? In case I got kidnapped?”

  “One of the reasons, yes.”

  “One of the reasons?”

  “Yes.”

  I narrow my eyes and study his face. What is he hiding?

  “Will you tell me how Riska found me?” I ask.

  “His claws eject a special pheromone that he can follow. When he scratched you, he marked you. Mom got him out of the net right away and sent him after you.”

  I reach up, rubbing the palm of my hand over the scratches on my chest beneath my jumpsuit. And here I thought Riska had just panicked. He was actually marking me, protecting me.

  “Riska sprays venom out of his mouth,” I say.

  “Yes. I designed him to do that.”

  “You didn’t think that was something I should know?”

  “At the time I gave him to you, no.”

  His answer annoys me. I lapse into silence, too drained to press him. After a few minutes, I speak again.

  “When the Gav’s eye used Morse code, that was you?”

  “That was me.”

  “Did you know Mom was Morning Star?”

  Dad sighs. “Yes.”

  Every part of me aches from Mom’s loss. “Why didn’t she tell me?”

  Dad lets out another sigh. His arm is still around my shoulders. One of his fingers begins to tap against my upper arm. “I always told her she should. But she saw how you devoured those old Merc episodes. She was afraid if she told you she was Mor
ning Star, you’d feel like you had to grow up and be like her.”

  So instead she tried to make me grow up and be like Dad. I force my mind in another direction so I won’t start crying.

  “Did you purposely engineer the Gav to stink?” I ask, latching onto the first thing that grabs my attention. “It smells awful in here.”

  He grimaces. “I’m working on that. It’s the side effect of the carnivorous-plant DNA. The next generation will be better.”

  I exhale, very careful not to think about Mom. It will be a long time before I can think about her without my emotions turning into knots.

  “What now?” I ask.

  “Now, I call Mr. Winn and negotiate.” Dad glances across the Gav. Taro, Hank, Billy, and Aston look up at us in unison. Apparently, our private time is over.

  “What do you mean, negotiate with Mr. Winn?” I say.

  “You don’t steal from Mr. Winn without any repercussions,” Dad replies.

  “But you’re his lead scientist. None of this”—I gesture at the Gav—“none of this would be possible without you.”

  “Mr. Winn has a no-traitor policy,” Dad says. “Everyone in Global is replaceable, even I.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d consider running away with the Gav and making a comfortable life on a deserted island? Maybe forget this whole business of moving to the compound?”

  “Do you really think you’d like living on a deserted island?” Dad asks.

  I ignore the question. “How are you going to negotiate with Mr. Winn?”

  Dad’s smile does not touch his eyes. “I’ve got the news story of the decade: World-renowned scientist hijacks classified biological warship to rescue his daughter from the Anti-American League. Imugi, world’s most-wanted terrorist, killed in action.”

  He picks up his computer tablet and taps the screen. A montage of video footage fills it: the Gav landing on the freighter; Zed, Mom, and Aston dispersing into the ship; Zed finding us; the ambush on deck; the pile of dead Leaguer bodies with a close-up on Imugi’s mask; Taro and I setting C-4 bombs; Mom, Aston, and I taking out the Leaguers while everyone else scurried across the rope and into the Gav.

  Dad’s got it all on his tablet.

  “You filmed our rescue,” I say. “You made everyone wear cameras. And you mounted some on the Gav.”

  “That footage is worth good money,” Aston says. “Without it, we’d spend the rest of our lives on the run. It’s a brilliant exit strategy, Hom.”

  Dad acknowledges the compliment with a nod. “This footage will get Global good press for at least a month. Demand for the Gav and other Green Combat weapons will go through the roof. The government’s military contract is open for bid right now. If Winn spins this right, it’ll land him the contract.”

  “Maybe it’s time for a career change,” I say to Dad. “You could forget about genetics and open a publicity firm.”

  “We’re going to Global, Sulan.”

  I grunt, even though I didn’t really expect him to change his mind.

  “Call him now,” Aston says. “Before we get any closer.”

  Dad nods and calls Mr. Winn on his tablet. I get up and move to the other side of the Gav, putting as much distance as possible between the owner of Global Arms and me. Riska flaps around my head. I pull him out of the air and into my arms. I take a seat next to Taro, who fixes his very serious eyes on me.

  “You okay?” he asks softly.

  I shrug.

  “Dr. Yip Hom.” A voice that could herald an ice age booms forth from the computer tablet, filling the interior of the Gav. “You do know I will have to make an example of you? A very . . . poignant example?”

  I can’t help it. I shudder.

  “Mr. Winn.” Dad is the poster boy for politeness. “I stole the Gav to rescue our kids from the Anti-American League. We found them. They’re all okay.”

  “How nice for you.” The words carry enough force to flatten a mountain. The silence that follows weighs a ton.

  “I’d like to propose a trade,” Dad says.

  More silence.

  “What could you possibly offer me?”

  In response, Dad taps the screen. The video footage plays. He lets it run for about a minute, then freezes it on the image of Imugi’s body. I wonder, who got that footage? Mom or one of the others must have found the room where we were held captive.

  “Imugi is dead,” Dad says. “The kids killed him when they escaped. I’ve got their entire rescue recorded on my tablet. I will give it to you in exchange for your pardon. We’d like to come home. All of us.”

  “Let me see the kids.”

  Reluctantly, Dad turns the tablet. Mr. Winn’s avatar stares out at us. I guess neither he nor Claudine likes to make calls with their real faces. His avatar wears its signature olive-green cowboy hat. He sports a bushy gray-brown beard that conceals half his face. Of all ridiculous things, he wears a monocle. I’m pretty sure it’s just part of his image. I can’t imagine a person with his wealth having bad eyesight.

  His green eyes slide over us with calculating precision. It seems like his gaze lingers the longest on me. I try not to squirm, but the scrutiny makes me feel like a guppy in a shark tank.

  “You’ve got yourself a deal, Mr. Hom,” he says at last. “If the children will agree to participate in a virtual press conference.”

  What?

  Dad flips the tablet back around. “Mr. Winn, these kids have been through hell—”

  “Clearly,” Mr. Winn says. “Which is why a press conference is essential. Once I release the footage to the media, everyone is going to want to talk to the kids who brought down Imugi.”

  “But—”

  “The footage and a press conference. That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”

  Dad sighs. He looks up at Aston, who nods.

  No one looks at any of us. My nails dig into the bench. Riska hisses.

  “Deal,” Dad says.

  “Nice to have you back on the team, Dr. Hom.”

  Riska bursts into the air and flies in angry circles around the Gav.

  22: The Dome

  Dad and Aston disappear into the head of the Gav with the tablet. Still sitting beside Taro, I slump down against the bench. Misery clouds my brain.

  “I can’t believe we have to do a press conference,” I say. “I’ve had enough public attention to last a lifetime.”

  “The press conference will be an hour or two at most,” he says. I can’t tell if he’s trying to comfort me or himself. “We get it done and move on.”

  “Right. Get it done and move on.” I can do that. Right?

  “Taro,” I say, “are you happy we killed Imugi?”

  “Happy?” Taro’s brow creases. “No. I never feel happy about killing anyone.”

  “I feel like I should be happy,” I say. “I mean, we got rid of a monster. We fought hard and almost got killed, but . . .”

  “But?” Taro prompts gently.

  I look up at him. “I feel . . . numb. Empty. Tired.” The terror of the last few days clings to me, like grit on my hands that won’t wash off. The explosion that swallowed Mom flares over and over again in my head. How can I care about Imugi when all I can think about is Mom?

  Taro’s face softens. “Why don’t you try and sleep.”

  I take his advice and fall asleep in a sitting position on the bench. When I awake sometime later, I find my head on his shoulder. My neck has a crick. I straighten and stretch. Riska is curled on my lap, asleep.

  “Hey,” Taro says.

  “Hey.” As my eyes meet his, some of my gloom disperses. “I think I drooled on your shoulder.”

  He raises both eyebrows and glances sideways. At the sight of the small wet spot on his uniform, he just shrugs.

  It occurs to me that I should feel embarrassed, but I don’t. What’s a little drool after a black-market League auction?

  A look out the window membrane shows me pale dawn light in an otherwi
se black sky. Everything is blurry through the membrane. I can still make out the stars, but they’re white smudges. How long before we reach the compound? I didn’t think to ask Dad where we are in relation to Livermore.

  Billy and Hank sit across from us, talking quietly. Hank is snuggled into the crook of Billy’s arm; apparently, she’s forgiven him for his omission. The sight of them together is a bright spot in an otherwise bleak landscape.

  My gaze lands on Taro’s hands, which rest in his lap. He has a new bandage on his missing finger, but it’s already dark with blood. The sight of it makes me feel sick.

  “Taro.” I force myself to look at his face. “I . . . I am really sorry about your finger. If I’d known . . .”

  “It’s just a finger, Sulan. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Just a finger?” I echo.

  “I can still shoot a gun. That’s all anyone is really going to care about.”

  “But you don’t care about that.”

  “No.” His dark eyes meet mine.

  For some reason, heat rushes to my face. I look down.

  “This wasn’t your fault.” Taro gestures to his missing finger. “You were scared. You didn’t know what Imugi was going to do. Considering the situation, I’m lucky they didn’t just kill me.”

  “I wish . . .” Tears brim my eyes, and I blink them away. “I wish I could get it back for you. I wish . . . I wish I could get Mom and your finger back.” My throat tightens. I turn my gaze to the window membrane, even though there isn’t anything to look at.

  Taro pulls a black ink pen out of his pocket. He studies it, turning it end over end between his fingers.

  “Did your dad give that to you on the ship?” I ask.

  “Yeah.” His face darkens. “It’s my favorite ink pen. We got into an argument over it just before you and I were kidnapped.”

  “You guys fought over a pen?”

  Taro pops the cap off and rolls up the sleeve on his left arm. “I wanted to take a box of these pens to the compound. Dad thinks it’s time for me to grow up and put aside childish pastimes.”

  He touches the tip of the pen to his forearm and begins to draw. I am taken back to the moment when I first met Taro—was it only yesterday?—and recall the smudged ink I saw on the back of his hands. As I watch, Taro sketches the face of a beautiful woman with long black hair and almond eyes. There’s surety and confidence in each stroke of his pen.

  “You’re an artist,” I say, taking in the precise, delicate lines of his portrait. “Taro, that’s beautiful.”

  He gazes at the face on his forearm. “She’s my mother. Her name was Sunai. She was Japanese.”

  “Was . . . ?”

  Taro sighs, putting the cap back on the pen. “She was murdered eight months ago. I like to draw her face so I won’t forget what it looks like.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “Dad and I left for a few days to train in the mountains near Yosemite. Mom was home alone. Someone broke in, robbed us, and shot her.”

  His blunt delivery makes me flinch. “I’m so sorry,” I say.

  “I miss her,” he says. “I . . . understand what you’re going through. I just want you to know that.”

  This unexpected kindness threatens to burst the dam I’ve painstakingly erected. Tears erupt as I think of Mom. I close my eyes and take deep breaths, trying to get things back under control.

  Somehow, I manage to keep it together. My heart rate slows and my tears dry up. I open my eyes and wipe my cheeks.

  Taro is looking at me. When our eyes meet, he smiles. I smile back.

  An easy silence settles between us. I lean back and stroke Riska, staring up at the ribs of the Gav. Several beats pass before I realize I’m leaning against Taro’s shoulder again.

  It feels good to be close to him. I don’t know why. Maybe because he knows how it feels to lose a parent. Because he knows grief has carved a giant hole inside me, and I don’t know how I’ll ever patch it up. A tear creeps out of my eye, and I wipe it away.

  “I don’t want to go to the compound,” I say. “I know we’re lucky. I know there are thousands of people out there who would kill to be in my shoes.” I rub my forehead. “I’m ungrateful. I know that. The idea of living in that place makes me feel like a caged bird.”

  Gun’s words echo in my mind. You can always come find me.

  “I don’t think you’re ungrateful,” Taro says. “I think . . . I think you don’t like the idea of being under Mr. Winn’s thumb.”

  “We could make a break for it,” I say, sitting up. “Bust out of the compound. We could run, leave all this behind. I’ve got a place we can go.”

  Taro studies my face. “That guy who set all those exploding frogs loose in Vex—is that who you’d go to?”

  I nod.

  Taro looks away. “Sulan, how well do you know him?”

  “He’s my friend. We’ve been training together almost every day for the past four months. He taught me everything I know about fighting.”

  “Have you ever met him in person?”

  I prickle. “He’s my friend, Taro.”

  “I know. And I’m thankful for everything he did for us. But there’s something not right about him. Isn’t some part of you wondering how he found you? How he got into an Anti-American League black-market auction? How he had access to an EMP bomb? Did he have it stashed under his bed?”

  Each question is like a slap to my face. I picture Gun as I’ve seen him so many times: stretching in our locker room, his shiny shaved head reflecting the light of our single bulb. His big smile, the special one with the dimples that touches his eyes when he looks at me. Just thinking about it warms me.

  And then I think of all the half-truths I’ve told him. By now he knows everything: my true identity, the extent of my math skills, the real name of my school. What does he think of me, knowing I lied about those things?

  “Gun would never hurt me,” I say. “He’s my friend. There’s an explanation for everything.”

  “I hope so.”

  His sincerity rankles, but I’m not in the mood to argue with him. I don’t want to push Taro away.

  Zed is still pacing up and down the short length of the Gav, talking to himself. It’s hard not to pity him. Whatever happened to him in North Korea, he’ll never be the same.

  And what about us? I look at Hank, Billy, and Taro. How can any of us ever be the same, after what happened? Maybe we’ll all end up like Zed, walking in circles and screaming at shadows.

  Hank, glancing out the window membrane, suddenly sits up straight. “Um, guys,” she says, “where are we?”

  Taro and I spin simultaneously to look outside. As sunlight pushes back the night, I see—snow. Snow, snow, and more snow. And mountains—gorgeous, sprawling, impossibly tall mountains, all of them covered in pristine white. Even with the slight blur of the membrane, the landscape is clear to me.

  “What the . . . ?” Taro murmurs.

  “Dad!” I yell. “Where are we?”

  From the cockpit of the Gav: silence. Then a soft rustle, and Dad slides into view. He meets my eyes without faltering, and my stomach sinks.

  “We’re not going to the Livermore Lab,” he says quietly.

  “What are you talking about?” I say, my voice rising. “Dad, where are we?”

  “Alaska.”

  “Alaska?” Hank’s voice is even shriller than mine; she’s obviously feeling much better. “What are we doing in Alaska?”

  “Mr. Winn did buy the Livermore Lab, but not for a corporate compound,” Dad says. “Our new home is here in the mountains.”

  “But, Dad,” I say, “there’s nothing out here.”

  “That’s the idea,” he replies.

  And then I remember: Dad, away for months at a time, working on a top-secret project in—Alaska.

  “You—you knew,” I say. “All this time, you knew we weren’t moving to Livermore.”

  “I
t was classified information,” Dad says. He doesn’t look repentant. He looks like a man determined to tell the truth. “I wish I could have told you. Mr. Winn forbade it. He had our apartment bugged, Sulan. He would have known if I leaked information about the Dome.”

  The Dome.

  I’m not sure what staggers me more, that my father has lied to me for months—possibly even years—or that our apartment was bugged. I reach out a hand to steady myself against the wall. I stare at Dad in his ragged T-shirt, trying to figure out if I’m angry or hurt.

  Billy is the first to break the silence. “The Dome,” he says slowly. “As in, the biodome.”

  My breath catches as I recall the first conversation I had with Billy when I was looking for black tech. He went on and on about a biodome supposedly being built by Anderson Arms.

  It’s not about believing or not believing, Billy had said. It’s about drilling down through the rumors and propaganda to find the truth.

  “It was all misdirection planted by Global,” Billy says. “All that stuff about a biodome—I knew there was something going on. I was so focused on Anderson Arms, when all along Global was the one with the biodome. It’s here, in Alaska, and that’s where we’re going.”

  Zed stops in his tracks. “The biodome isn’t for commies?” he says faintly.

  “No, Zed,” Dad says. “The Dome isn’t for commies. You’ll be safe.” His gaze takes in the rest of us. “I’m sorry for the lies. It wasn’t my choice. We’ll reach the Dome sometime late today or early tomorrow.”

  Questions gather on the tip of my tongue. Did Mom know? Why all the secrecy? What’s the Dome for?

  But Dad turns away and slips back into the control room before I can say anything. Hank, Taro, Billy, and I are all left to stare at one another in silence.

  ***

  “There it is,” Taro murmurs.

  I turn to the window membrane. At first, all I can see is snow, an occasional boulder, and a willful tree. There’s a shimmer, and I realize the Dome is cloaked. The shimmer is what happens when the cloak is turned off. In a large valley dimpling a mountainside, the heat signature distorts the image of the snow as the cloak fizzles away. I see it for the first time.

  The Dome, despite its namesake, has a distinctly serpentine shape. As far as I can see, there’s no way in or out, except by Gav.

  “This is a prison,” I whisper to Taro.

  “A glass prison,” he whispers back.

  It shines like a giant diamond caterpillar, reflecting the light of the sun in a million directions at once.

  THE END

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks to my team of beta readers! This book would not be what it is without your invaluable help and advice.

  Arlene Ang

  Cassidy Bryce

  Heidi Garrett

  Mike Huggins

  F.R.R. Mallory

  Theresa Palanos

  Chris Picott

  Dinesh Pulandram

  Allison Bird Vigue

  Ann Wilkes

  And thanks to the experts who were kind enough to share their expertise on a variety of subjects:

  Mario Alves

  Military consultant

  Weapons consultant

  Technology consultant

  All-around awesome beta reader

  Casey Plain

  Math consultant

  All of you have my deepest gratitude for your help in making this book the best it could be. Maybe you’ll agree to stick around for the sequel . . . ?

  About the Author

  Camille Picott has been writing books since the age of twelve. She specializes in science fiction and fantasy stories with Asian-inspired settings and Asian main characters. She is the author of two middle-grade fantasy books, Raggedy Chan and Nine-Tail Fox. To visit Camille, go to www.camillepicott.com.

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