by Mary Weber
She stayed beside him and watched the screen flicker with the family and details of the twenty-one players who’d survived but still lost. Not that everyone here didn’t already know, but honor was honor. As was a moment of silence for what would come next. Sofi swallowed.
Either the players and their teams would have to convince a Corp or a celebrity of their value and be claimed as a commodity or product seller, becoming rich beyond their dreams. Or they’d be sent to the black market to join kids and war vets in money fights, drug testing, and sex trafficking. All of which the Corps may have ruled illegal, but considering their own employees and officials frequented those spaces for entertainment, the rhetoric was a joke.
The slide show finished to palpable silence. Followed by murmured agreement with the vid’s ending message: “We wish you the best, Fan players,” as the screen returned to the news and Ranger spun round. “So, what can I do for you, eh? I presume looking into who set off the nasty boom.”
Sofi nodded. “I need to borrow one of your servers.” She passed him her handscreen, at which he grinned and beckoned them toward a trio of chairs before he pulled out his own handheld, connected it virtually to Sofi’s, then handed hers back.
“Which sites we looking for?”
“Corp 24, the FanFights, and Corp 30.” She logged in and went straight for her mom’s company firewall, hitting it with a program the Ns had helped her create that ran through Ranger’s setup.
He grunted surprise. “You’re gutting your own Corp?”
“Specifically any involvement with the Delonese.” She was already scanning for anything out of place. Any chink in the armored code.
There.
Her fingers dove for it, hacking through the backdoor pass codes.
Ranger continued to stare at her as his own fingers tapped away and Heller attempted to break deeper into the FanFights’ system core. “For curiosity’s sake,” Ranger said after a moment, “can I ask what you’re thinking?”
“She needs to find her bro,” Heller answered.
“His body? That’d be interest—”
“No, alive.” Sofi looked at Heller. How to explain her intuition, let alone the visions, she’d no clue. So she wouldn’t. She tapped in a final stream—and Corp 30’s data suddenly splayed out in front of her. She pinched her lip and ran a search for Shilo before glancing up. “I believe the Delonese might have him.”
Their expressions turned dubious.
Right. Swiping her screen, she pulled up the behind-the-scenes news vid she’d just seen in the main room and played one after the other of what the station had displayed minutes before. “Okay, see that? In every scene.” She swiped to another and froze the vid on Shilo, pointing behind him to the Delonese medic. “Why are they watching him? And why when we’re looking for him is there suddenly no info?”
And why am I having dreams of him being on one of their flight-ships?
Ranger whistled.
Even Heller’s gaze widened. He grabbed her device to flip through the scenes again for himself. When finished, he and Ranger both peered at Sofi.
“Ever seen the Delonese do that before?” she asked solemnly.
“They don’t even interact with the CEOs or ambassadors that way,” Ranger said. “For that matter, I’ve never even seen them interact on this level with any human. So yeah, I get that that’s weird.”
“Exactly.” Sofi nodded. “And after the explosion when we were all being wheeled out? Shilo was alive, but a Delonese med worker had him. After that . . .”
Ranger nodded and looked at his hand-comp. “So what specifics do you need?”
She flipped her handscreen around to show them the section she’d just broken through of Corp 30’s firewall, surrounding what appeared to be scrubbed data regarding Shilo and Corp 24’s player. Except unlike the near-perfect deletions from the FanFights’ docs, Corp 30’s was a mess. It was like they’d written over Shilo’s info so he was just a jumble of varied stories.
Ranger scanned it three times before handing it back. “Um, wow. That’s ugly.”
She snorted. “So who would’ve done it?”
“Someone brilliant enough to access what less than 1 percent of gamers are capable of,” Ranger said. “But hurried enough not to value their own craft apparently.”
She slid aside data streams, trying to organize the mess into some form of sanity. A moment later a flag popped up—her scanner siphoning to the top what it saw as the most formulated guess.
Corp 24.
She frowned and sent the notation over to Heller’s handscreen in case he’d want to peek at it too. But give me something I don’t already suspect. Sofi dragged up more code—until she abruptly found a set of documents opening like a filing cabinet. She flipped through them, faster and faster, as her chest simultaneously imploded because—oh gad. The Delonese didn’t just have an observant curiosity in her brother.
They were stalking him.
Analyzing his blood, his abilities, his mental prowess.
Sofi’s lungs dissolved. The notes on him from Corp 30, with Delonese oversight, went back years. What were they doing—why were they monitoring him?
And why did their mother allow it?
“I think I just found something,” Ranger murmured.
“Me too,” Sofi choked. She turned to check out the vid he was holding up. He tapped the screen to replay it in slow motion as she and Heller bent forward to focus. “What the—?” Sofi stared at the guys.
“Somebody didn’t just rig Corp 24’s player,” Ranger said. “They rigged the entire last two rounds of the Games today. The landscapes, the security, the layout of the ocean level.” He pursed his lips. “And, Sofi—they set it up to look like you did it.”
“What? That’s ridiculous.” Heller took the device from Ranger.
Ranger tapped up the backlog to show him.
Sofi ignored them both. If the Corp and Ms. Gaines were up to something, of course they’d put the blame on her. Better to keep Sofi preoccupied with deflecting accusations than let her seek out what they’d been doing to her brother—what they’d let the Delonese do for all these years to her brother. Or what the Delonese were doing to him now.
Better to bring her back in and get whatever answers Gaines wanted from her—under the guise of blame—than let her endanger their strategy.
It’s what she’d have done in their position.
“Can we get vid from any of the internal rooms?” she asked Heller. “The gamer areas, med spaces, et cetera?”
Two seconds later he’d pulled up a grid on Ranger’s screen.
She clicked and played each one. They showed the same thing they’d seen before, until she flipped to the final one—of the med hovers and VIP crafts taking off from around the stadium after the explosion. She pressed Play again and rewatched it. And shifted in her chair.
Something felt off.
She replayed it again while Heller asked, “What are we looking for here, cuz I don’t see any—”
“There.” Sofi pointed at the glitch. “Go back real fast.”
There was a second Delonese aircraft.
It’d been hidden among the med hovers on the pads—the fast-forwarded images showed it taking off a full half hour after the official Delonese transport had already left with the level-two guests aboard.
Which begged the question, who was on board this one? And why was it there to begin with?
Ranger clucked his tongue over her shoulder. “You may be right after all, girl.”
“Dude, this just got a bit freaky-teaky.” Heller ran a hand across his cheek and rocked back in his chair. “Like, WTF.”
“Guys.” Sofi looked at them both.
She took a breath. “I think I might need to get on Delon’s planet.”
Heller coughed and shook his head. “Impossible.”
“Why? If anyone’s capable, it’s us. We can hack me onto a transport.”
Ranger cleared his throat. “I think what he me
ans is, you actually need someone who’d be willing to take you once we hack you on. And the list is pretty short.”
“So we’ll hack the list.”
Heller grabbed Sofi’s arm. “Hold on. Let’s slow down and let the dust settle. Especially if they’re saying you had anything to do with the bomb.” He leaned in. “Let’s clear your name and find who’s responsible. Then, if necessary, talk about getting you to the planet in the safest way possible. So the Delonese don’t literally shoot you down for invading their space.”
“Slow down? Heller, this isn’t about me, it’s about Shilo. And if he were here, we, of all people, would be able to find him.” She waved a hand at their three screens. “Or at least find some trace of him. But it’s like he’s literally disappeared—even according to my own Corp—and the only leads we have say he was last with the Delonese, who’ve been monitoring him for years.” She slid him her hand device with the Corp 30 documents. “I’m not trying to be insane. I’m saying my gut is off the charts on this one.”
She inhaled to steady her shaking stomach. “And my gut is what’s kept him alive in the Games and kept our team near the top. And seeing as the Delonese prefer to stay on their precious planet away from the rest of us—if Shilo is alive, their sick fascination with him is a bit too coincidental.”
She swallowed. “I believe he’s there. Because if he were anywhere else, I’d know.”
Ranger leaned over and grabbed a pair of headphones hanging on the wall and handed them to her. Then eyed her clothes before veering around to the room. “Anyone wanna switch outfits with Sofi so she can go do anarchy?” After getting affirmative responses, he dropped his voice. “Rumor has it you personally keep a running hack list on most of the political guys. So you know who to ask, no?” He rubbed his jawline. “Cuz if you don’t? Half of them are—”
“Nasty as heck, I know.”
He nodded slowly. “Okay, good. Cuz I like you and your work, Sofi. And I’d hate for you to run into anything you couldn’t handle. I’d also hate for you to get creamed by the Corps for this—whether you did it or not.” He pursed his lips. “But something tells me you didn’t.
“So in that case, if you want my advice for the only way I see it happening.” He nodded his chin at the tele where an advertisement was playing of Miguel holding out a health drug to the viewer as he lay in swim trunks on top of two live elephants in a pool full of water. His poetry-tattooed body only enhanced the illusion of health. White teeth sparkled against his naturally brown skin and blue hair.
Ranger pointed at the daft smile on Miguel’s face. “Get him to take you.”
16
MIGUEL
THE HOUSE WAS STILL DARK WHEN THEY CAME FOR HIM.
To speak to him. Threaten him. Hurt him maybe. Probably.
He’d only just walked in, set his coat down from the UW meeting, and strode out onto his bedroom deck for air when a man moved out from the shadows behind him. A knife touched his right flank, just where an elaborate tattoo of a rooster clutching in its beak a ribbon inscribed with the names of his family covered the soft spot of kidneys and other organs.
“Ambassador Miguel,” the man breathed against his ear in the cool night breeze. “All they’ve asked for is your help, and you continue to flout them with your parties and tomfoolery.”
Miguel placed his hands on the railing in front of him and kept his voice casual. Wondering how in diablos the man got there without every alarm and camera on the block sounding. “Forgive me if I’m not familiar with your use of ‘they.’ Nor with your use of ‘tomfoolery.’ Do I know you?”
The man laughed. Cold. Stiff. Like tequila poured on ice. “The question you should be asking is how we obtained your secret and what we’re going to do with it.” The man pressed the blade harder against Miguel’s shirt.
Miguel’s knuckles turned white on the railing. “How’d you get the photos?”
“That’s the beauty of this day and age—cameras are everywhere. Even in the darker places you play.” He leaned in. “Should’ve been more careful, mate.”
Miguel darted his gaze around the street below them. The cameras must’ve been shut off along with his alarm system. “And why Corp 24? Why blame them?”
The knife slid through a section of his shirt and cut into his skin. Like giving a paper cut with a razor. Miguel stiffened but refused to groan. Instead, he focused on the voice.
“Our reasons don’t concern you beyond your personal interest to keep your side hobbies out of the limelight. All we ask is for you to sway opinion and make Corp 24 take the fall for today.”
“If you watched the Fights, you’d know they succeeded at incriminating themselves just fine.”
“Ah, but that’s not what you heard at tonight’s UW meeting, is it?”
Miguel’s mind raced. At this moment the meeting was likely wrapping up, which meant the man had been listening in as un primo bobo of someone he knew.
“Just imagine what such exposure could do,” the guy continued. “Ruin you? Definitely. Damage the others in on it? Most assuredly. But even worse—it’ll expose everything you’ve been planning. And that—” The man chuckled. “That my employer is betting you’ll not risk. Not after all your pretty-boy effort.”
“And what about the girl—Sofi? What if she’s truly at fault?”
He laughed. “We both know she’s not, but we thought that’d only sweeten the deal for you.” The man’s tone pitched harsher. “Or maybe sour it.”
Miguel didn’t flinch. Just eyed the street again and the four stories the man would fall if he were to reach back, grab the arm holding the blade, and use his body weight to flip him over the rail. Except he needed more answers. He needed to understand the game better before he could finish it.
He swallowed as if to feign nervousness. “And why me? Surely you have dirt on others.”
The man snorted. “Says the golden boy of both Earth and Delon societies. Too bad the public tires so quickly of their playthings—especially once it’s revealed who those playthings really are and what you’re up to with them, eh? Just imagine how fast they’ll tire of you. Guess that’d be something you of all people would know, considering how quickly you grow bored of yours. Women. Companions.”
“Piérdete,” Miguel muttered.
“Oh, not until we’re done.” The man laughed again. “Now do what you’re told. Convince the world, or we will blow your little fun town sky-high. It’s that simple, amigo.”
Miguel felt the blade pull away and waited a beat before turning to get a look at the guy, but the deck was already empty. The ghost evaporated.
17
SOFI
SOFI WAS LYING ON THE MED COT—STIFF, SCRATCHY, like a bug on a pad of chloroform. A butterfly pinned beneath a magnifying glass for people to look over and analyze and dissect—deciding whether or not she was okay. Was she okay? It felt like she’d been asking that her entire life.
She wiggled and strained to break free from the straps—like trying to escape a chrysalis. Her wings beat, beat, beating in time to the music in her head.
“Sofi, leave. Fly! Fly!” she could hear Shilo say.
“Fly! Fly!” she whispered to her frozen limbs. All the while knowing her butterfly wings were too tattered.
The microscope moved nearer. The faces peered harder. Their bodies closing in as their hive minds pondered.
Just before they pulled out their knives.
Sofi sat up with a gasp and grabbed for her necklace to ward off one of her many recurring dreams that had plagued her through the years. And screamed for Shilo.
18
MIGUEL
THE CITY LOOMED LIKE A JEWEL, A DIAMOND CUT AND CAST IN pink- and gold-flecked ribbons of sunset that reflected off numerous glass towers spread throughout the metropolitan area. The sight glimmered even lovelier from Miguel’s rooftop thanks to the eerie blue tint of the roof’s electric field set three feet off each railing to create a sheer ten-foot-tall protective wall. Something
no one would notice unless they’d been aware. Something he’d had enhanced since last night’s “visit.”
Miguel turned from the view to the chefs cooking in the patio’s center, surrounded by tables piled high with sparkling colored drinks. So much drink. “To untie the tongues,” he’d told the waiters. “Pass them out like dates. Especially along the garden paths and fireplace area.” Where a sense of privacy might evoke loose-lipped confessions.
He glanced down at his appearance—a pair of elegant gray pressed pants and a white button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled and collar opened. And bare, pedicured feet. Casual but careful. Reserved but relaxed. He pulled the gray-and-black masquerade swan mask over his eyes, slid a hand through his freshly dyed lavender hair, and tightened his jaw. Then strode over to flip on the evening’s music.
“You do realize wasps sting, don’t you?”
“Already experienced one, if last night was any indication.” Miguel turned to see Claudius strolling over from the elevator, dressed in a blazer and bell-bottoms that his great-great-granddad had probably sequined by hand.
Claudius grabbed a glass of sparkling pink and tipped it at Miguel. “You, my friend, look ravishing. And I’m not just saying that because this glass is a hundred currency. I’m saying it because if you’re going to die in wasp venom, I’m proud you’ll do so in style. Good man.”
Miguel smiled and refrained from commenting on his friend’s sequined man-suit. “The question is, which wasps will bite? Hopefully we’ll get more than the chatty thugs—”
“Handing you your guts on a platter.”
Miguel smoothed Claudius’s wide collar, then patted his cheek. “My dear boy, do I sense fear already?”
“Not fear. Just hoping to keep my body parts intact. Yours too, for that matter.”
“Very funny,” Miguel growled. “How was your day?”
“Productive, actually.” Claudius looked at him meaningfully. “Seems the rumors about another batch going out might be accurate.” He held his glass up to let the fading sun filter through the liquid as he swirled it. “And it might coincide with yesterday’s explosion.”
