by Mary Weber
Miguel stiffened. Ándele, kid.
3
SOFI
THE SANDWORMS WERE ALMOST IN PLACE WHEN THE ALERT went off on Sofi’s screen.
The thing blinked, then promptly spit up reactions from the gamers hiding behind the other tech-room windows surrounding the entire arena. Game-heads, as the team leaders like her were called, began sending their own codes scrolling down the side of her hologram. The ones from Corporations 2, 10, and 27 were already blocking and counterattacking her.
“Ns?” she said to the triplets.
“On it.”
She watched the assailing streams of code erase her acid wind with ease.
“Winds gone,” Heller announced. “And Shilo’s stuck at the metal wall trying to figure a way through it.”
Crud. “Okay. Watch the worms, Heller.”
“Sofi—” Shilo’s voice crackled.
“All we need is to get one through. And, Shi, what do you need, buddy?” she said into her earcom. “See if there’s a way for you to touch the wall using a tool, without hitting the spikes. Luca, can you help him? I’ll assist in a sec.”
Her fingers typed at the holoscreen faster than she could think. Listening to her music in one ear while pushing more code—looking for a door to wiggle the virtual worms through. The armored images she’d inflicted on the other Corp players in the catacombs had been excellent.
But these? These Heller had helped design, and they were genius. Their coding was small enough nobody had caught one sitting dormant beneath the sandscape at the arena’s edge in front of her.
The announcer’s voice emerged through the room speakers. “I hope you’re seeing what I’m seeing! Corp 30’s player is stuck at the final obstacle of this round. Is this the end for him?”
Sofi forced back the twitch of fear. Focus, Sof. He’ll be fine.
“Because, let me tell you,” he continued, “in the three biannual games hosted over the last eighteen months, Shilo and his sister are one of only six teams to have been with us from Game One. Is it because their mother is the CEO of Corp 30, ensuring they’re always given a second chance to enter? Or because they really are that good? Well, friends, guess we’re about to find out!”
“They’re rewriting the code.” Heller’s voice tensed. “They’re going after us.”
“Almost got it.”
There.
A sliver of space opened. “We’re in.”
Three seconds later Sofi’s screen lit up with a giant blue worm erupting beneath two players in the desert sand a fair distance behind Shilo.
The crowd above exploded in pleasure. Followed by screams from the arena as the cyberworm engulfed Corp players 8 and 3. Their suits buzzed out and shut down faster than the kids’ gamers could recover.
“You’s my girl,” Heller hollered. “Only eleven Corps left, including us.”
“Well hold it, preciouses, it might just be they are that good!” yelled the FanFight announcer.
“No, no, no! What’s he doing?” Luca said. “Your brother’s using his laser on the fencing!”
Sofi shoved the worm codes to Heller’s screen and enlarged Shilo’s hologram to see what the tech was talking about. Shilo was indeed using his laser on the metal wall.
“Oh gad, Shi. Careful,” she said into his headpiece.
His little twelve-year-old voice sputtered through. “Sof, please. I could do this in my sleep.”
“Dude,” Luca interrupted. “Three players are lying unconscious—so don’t be dissing no caution, Shilo.”
“Just keep the laser from the bases of those spikes.”
She glanced at the three kids a few feet from Shilo. She’d known they’d fail from the moment they strolled into the arena yesterday amid lofty cheers at the FanFight’s opening round. No matter how effective their Corp’s enhancement pills were for swiftness and sharp eyesight, or how shiny their suits, something in their swagger had been too hasty. Sloppy. It’d said they were more enamored with the fame and financial winnings than making it to the end—and that was their mistake. Now they were stuck, waiting to be rescued—or resuscitated.
Their Corp leaders wouldn’t be happy.
She shook her head and checked Shilo’s desert surroundings again, confirming what the suit and cameras said—the other players were still far behind.
As if he was sensing her tension, her brother whispered, “You seen Mom?”
“No. You?”
“I think she just showed up.” Shilo didn’t turn his head. “First level, in the corner at my six, but can’t be sure.”
Sofi acknowledged him in silence. The biggest game in the second half of Corp 30’s year—you’d think she’d come see her kids in it. For a moment Sofi imagined she could feel her mother through that window watching Shilo from the stands. In pride? In expectation? Ha. Did the woman have any feeling at all for her son? For either of them?
Her shoulders stiffened. Sofi had practically made it an art form to try to provoke feelings in the woman, of the negative variety mostly. The fact that she had left right after Shilo’s birth for an opportunity to advance her pharmaceutical company—no matter that it was “So no other mother would lose her child in the way we lost Ella”—was barely tolerable. Shilo’d been so small. So sad. So sick. And Sofi terrified.
That Shilo’d been supposedly cured of his bone disease four years later, thanks to a fluke, didn’t matter. What if he hadn’t? What if it eventually reflared? The reality was, eighteen months ago Shilo’d been dragged into fighting in these Games by their CEO mother for the financial benefit to her Corporation. And in Sofi’s mind, that risked his health each time. Not to mention his freedom and a life he wanted. The whole thing was unforgivable. And Sofi would never forget it.
Her mouth went sour. Blind irony was a bleeding witch.
She scanned the sand before her cold lungs gave in to the ache that never left no matter how many distractions she employed. “Let’s just finish this round, okay, bud?”
Heller let out a shout at the same moment the audience in the stands roared fresh approval. The announcer came on. “Corp 30’s worm has downed another player! This has gotta be their biggest foil of the day!”
“Ah, they killed it,” Heller howled, and a second later the worm shattered into virtual blocks across Sofi’s screen.
“Doesn’t matter. I think we’re about to have company.” Sofi kept her gaze glued on Shilo. She tilted her head closer. Then frowned. The sand beneath him was changing into an odd color. She traced her finger in rhythm with her music along the ground between the remaining players and Shilo.
Her frown deepened. The dirt was now dark red and rippling. “Luca, pull power from Shilo’s weapons to strengthen the body shield. Triplets, run a scan on—”
“What the heck?” Heller yelled.
Sofi choked on her spit as a decayed hand thrust up through the sand just behind her brother. “Shi?”
“I’m close, Sof.”
Another hand. Then another. They were coming up everywhere.
Oh gad. “Shi, you gotta move now, buddy.”
“I’m trying.”
“Not good enough. Move.”
“Not helping.”
Sofi clenched her jaw and shoved back the fear that’d almost gotten him killed in the last FanFight Games. Breathe and let him do it.
“Wait a minute!” the announcer shouted. “What’s with the ground beneath Corp 30? Heads, shoulders, and decayed torsos are crawling up through the sand!”
It was a field of freaking zombies. Sofi ignited Shilo’s boots. “Okay, move now, Shi.”
“A hand has him by the ankle, but oh, they’ve ignited his low-hover boots!” the announcer yelled. “And he’s almost done cutting through the metal wall. It looks like it’s working. Now if he can just—Oh, he’s done it! He made it through to the other side!”
Shilo’s face appeared beyond the wall. He scrambled forward, cutting the parawire and the power to his boots before he stopped and pe
ered around with the realization he’d just completed the round. He was safe.
Sofi exhaled so hard she almost threw up her lungs. Good going, Shi.
“Dude, move!” Luca yelled.
Sofi frowned and looked back, only to realize he was barking at Corp 17’s player who’d just come over a hot dune. The fans on all thirteen levels were shouting the same as one of the zombs went for him. The kid’s mask and boots were torn off within seconds as the mouths and hands of more undead moved in to claw at his flesh. Sofi looked away, ill.
“Who’s that guy’s trainer?” Heller mumbled. “Remind me to buy him a drink and pee in it.”
Suddenly the metal wall shook and the attached needles on the zomb side began spraying their poison, dissolving the undead as soon as it hit them. The announcer’s voice barked again. “Not only did Corp 30 make it, but it looks like they’ve just cleared the path for the rest of the players. That leaves one more round to go today before the final extended level tomorrow!”
Sofi shook her head just as her screen filled with a silver flag planted in the ground. Then Shilo’s sweaty face bent down and kissed the thing.
“Show-off,” Sofi muttered.
“So how many players are out?”
“Twenty-one. Good work, grub.”
Shilo nodded and scrambled for the arena’s camouflaged wall and the tiny yellow circle painted on a section of doors.
Two seconds later Sofi’s screen blinked black and the room lights flickered on. “Sofi,” a male voice purred. “Your team has earned a nineteen-minute reprieve. You are no longer online to interact with the arena. Please do not interfere with the other players, nor be late, or you will be forced to forfeit.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Sofi yanked off the headphones, shoved the holoscreens away, and stepped off the six-inch-high black gaming platform that, aside from the other three just like it, were the only items in the gray room.
Behind her, Heller and Luca let out sighs and high fives before turning to N and N and N—the triplets who, for as long as Sofi’d known them, preferred to go by the same letter, same pink clothing, same short purple hair and wild makeup. Even Sofi couldn’t tell them apart most of the time. She figured it had something to do with maintaining their autonomy in a world ruled by skycams, security cards, and every detail of one’s life uploaded to the net every hour of every day.
Whatever the case, they were grinning like the online characters they gamed with in their 3:00 a.m. free time. She smiled.
“Drinks,” Luca said, crushing an empty can of Rush between his hands.
Sofi shook her head. “After we check Shi’s virtual supplies, let’s run simulations and restock his weapons. And, N?” She glanced at the middle sister. “Run a security scan again. It felt like Shilo’s suit might’ve been glitching. Make sure we don’t have a hacker.”
The girl looked amused. “Not possible.” But moved to obey as Sofi turned and, letting her shoulders droop, stretched her neck beneath her thick, dark ponytail and stared out through the wide window at the arena. The last of the players was almost home.
“Nice gaming, Sof. We did good and he survived,” Heller murmured over Sofi’s shoulder.
She nodded, knowing what he meant. This time six months ago, at the last FanFights, they’d almost lost Shilo in a gamer’s avalanche that neither had noticed until almost too late. She’d gotten too anxious—too emotional—watching Shilo almost get creamed by Corp 5’s team. She hadn’t caught the cracking ice above him. It would’ve been the Games’ first-ever fatality. A reality that had only hit Sofi a few days after. At which point she’d blown up at herself, and then at her mom for placing Shilo in the games in the first place and Sofi in the position to protect or fail him. Yeah, it had been a freak occurrence, but still . . .
Sofi had cussed out her mother for it. Because unlike the other gamers and players “who competed in the sport for prestige and hope of money,” she’d reminded her mom, “Shilo and I never had the choice.”
Her mom cut off that phone call just like she had all the others.
“This time he’ll win, Sofi. You’ll see,” one of the Ns said quietly.
Sofi gave her a slight smile and tucked a stray hair behind her ear as she watched the privacy wall slide down over their window, blocking their arena view.
Yes. We will win. And as winners, we’ll give and then demand everything. And leave all this social drama behind.
4
MIGUEL
WOULD THE ANNOUNCER NEVER STOP? THE MAN JUST KEPT droning on.
Miguel stood and ran a hand through his rainbow-colored hair even as he kept his answers to Nadine steady. Her questioning was relentless about which celebrity was dating whom and what latest pills the Corps would be showcasing at the Fantasy Five Fights next week. Not that he’d given accurate info on that last one. Far be it for anyone to think he couldn’t keep secrets.
He flourished a hand to grab the group’s attention. “Well? What say you all? The señorita is asking who you’re currently dating. Any confessors?” To which the lot of them laughed and began ratting out the others.
Perfect. He strode to the cabaña’s tap station for something icy to soothe the dry itching in his throat just as the audience sent up a cheer. The last of the nine players had made it through the wall thanks to Corp 30 cleaning out the zombs in one fell swoop with that spray of poison.
The announcer spent half a second congratulating them before moving on to talk about the arena changes the audience would be voting on for the final event of the day. “Get your obstacle suggestions in before it’s too late! Remember, you create the environment—you create the entertainment.”
Audience-determined playing fields—they’d been a smart idea and translated into high-priced ticket sales and scenarios like that last round’s catacombs and zombies.
“All right, guys,” Nadine exclaimed. “This time let’s vote for a nighttime safari. Or a horror theme park.”
“Or a mock-up of the ice-planet,” Claudius offered.
Delon? Miguel’s brow shot up. Now that’d be interesting. “Or a reenactment of Dante’s Inferno,” he added, provoking fresh hooting.
More suggestions flew, but Miguel tuned them out, preferring to sip his drink while the curtain flaps fluttered around them. The electric-cooling air gushed over him with the scents and sounds and excitement-induced sweat nearly suffocating the space.
Which was how he missed the change in presence behind him.
The hand was in and out of his pocket before he realized, and by the time he’d swung around to look, the person was gone, and the sea of bodies typing in arena votes were those who’d been with him all day.
Miguel uttered a polite perdón to the group before he jumped a set of cushions and, drink in hand, strode through to the back where he stepped out to the walking aisle.
He nodded at the bodyguard. “Did anyone walk in or out of here just now?”
“I’m sorry, sir, you’ve a full booth today. Could you be more specific?”
No. No, he couldn’t. Besides, something told him the intruder was already gone.
He glanced around a few times, then strolled back into the cabaña. Moving to the front, he peered down at the people and levels and other crowded stalls. The audience was too thick and too focused on the scene below. And the crowd with him was too . . . normal. The person had been a ghost.
He pushed a hand through his thick, colorful hair and, frowning, reclaimed his spot just as Claudius shot him a look.
Miguel shook his head and smiled, then nodded toward the arena where three black platforms were being lowered by metal cords to hang over the empty field. Each one was six and a half feet wide by thirteen feet long, like mini landings the players would soon be dropped onto from the stadium’s beams using cables attached to their suits. The metal ropes stopped and the platforms came to a halt midair to hover sixty feet above the arena’s bottom.
Miguel waited for Claudius to follow his gaze before he slid
his hand to his back pocket and deftly removed the scrap of paper. With two fingers he flicked it open, then closed and tucked it away inside the fold of his hand. His heart died. His breath died.
The tiny photos on the page. The words.
“Make sure the blame sits on Corp 24.”
¿Qué?
He narrowed his gaze and refused to glance toward the Delonese across the stadium from him. How the individual got hold of the images, he’d no idea. But the fact that they had—the fact they existed at all—and that they showed the faces . . .
His stomach turned and his face grew warm. He peered over at Nadine. Crud, those pics were in someone’s hands. His stomach turned and his face grew warm as he put the paper away.
The next moment the crowd around him erupted, and Miguel glanced up to the screen spanning over the white marble stadium.
“Individuals!” the announcer said. He fluttered his arms like a bird as his silver suit and white hair fluttered right along too.
The audience’s chatter faded.
“A player has taken ill off the arena.” The man waited for the booing to subside. “As you know, since his illness was not during play, his corporation is allowed a replacement. A rare occurrence indeed!”
Rare? “Not really,” Miguel announced jovially on behalf of his cabaña mates, who promptly agreed. Hopefully it was something more entertaining than the last time it happened—when the poor sap who’d somehow electronically hacked his name onto the list got taken out within the first five minutes. When would they learn that mental acuity was only half the play? Good genetics, the best gamers, and a kick-tail suit of tech armor were the other.
“Corp 24’s replacement will be a new entry from their Antarctix region.”
His mouth went dry as the crowd jumped to their feet. Now they had his attention. He peered over at the Delonese and then at Nadine, who was looking as surprised as the rest. Corp 24?
“How long you think he’ll last?” Claudius asked.
