I laugh weakly, squeezing his fingers. He smiles down at me. Riska crawls into his lap and curls up, purring.
By the time the four of us are released by the irascible Dr. Nguyen, almost a full day has passed. Kerry, dark circles under her eyes, tells us our appearances for the next day have been canceled and that we have a full twenty-four hours to ourselves. This is the best news I’ve had in weeks.
We’ve all regained full use of our limbs. My breathing and heart rate has returned to normal, but a fierce headache has taken up residence in my brain.
“You might continue to experience side effects,” Dr. Nguyen tells us as we leave. “Nightmares can be especially bad with an overdose of GABA. You might need another flumazenil treatment to completely flush the GABA out of your system. Go to the clinic if you need to.” With that, he stalks away and disappears through a doorway.
Riska growls at him as he leaves.
Billy frowns after him. “Since when did he become an MD?”
“Who cares?” Hank says. “He got us back on our feet.”
She clings to Billy as we exit the infirmary, leaning her head on his shoulder. Taro walks beside me and Riska rides on my shoulder. I scan the granite corridor for signs of Dr. Nguyen, relieved when I don’t see him. With any luck, I won’t run into him again anytime soon.
“Dream Dust,” Billy mutters as we walk. “Uncle Zed is going to flip when I tell him. He’ll be mad I didn’t figure out how to do it first. I wonder who figured out the code. Maybe Ram Sam or Tony V. Those guys were always my top competition.”
“Sometimes I forget you’re a top Black Tech designer,” I say.
“Was a top Black Tech designer,” Hank says. “Now he’s a Global spokesperson.”
“I only did it to fund Uncle Zed’s weapon fetish,” Billy says with a shrug, ignoring Hank’s comment.
Taro and I exchange a look. As much as I want to ask for details about Uncle Zed’s weapon fetish, I restrain myself. It’ll annoy Hank, and all I really want to do is get some food. Maybe if I fill my stomach, I can drive the sound of Imugi’s voice out of my head.
You can cut off the head of Imugi, but two more will grow back in its place. His words ring in my memory.
I jam my fists into my pockets and suppress a shiver.
“Conceptually, I know Imugi is dead,” I say. “I mean, we saw his body. But hearing his voice in Vex …”
“Makes it feel like he’s still out there?” Hank asks.
I nod.
“That’s the point,” Taro says. “Imugi is iconic. His voice and symbol are synonymous with fear. Even though he’s dead, the League will exploit his effect however they can.”
This time, I do shiver. “As far as days go, this hasn’t been the best.”
“Understatement of the year,” Billy replies.
We fall silent as we reach the Fortress exit. Two mercs are stationed there. They nod and step up to the retinal scanners to open the doors for us.
I exhale as I step onto the outdoor landing, relieved to be out of the Fortress. There are half a dozen mercs on watch with the Aircats. Even though it’s nearly nine o’clock in the evening, it’s still bright outside.
A menacing growl erupts from Riska’s throat. He leaps from Taro’s shoulder to mine, claws digging painfully through my shirt. At first I think he’s growling at the Aircats—he’s always hostile with the bigger creatures—but then I spot the merc with the salt-and-pepper hair and white soul patch.
Maxwell. He’s leaning against the wall beside the Fortress exit.
“Looking for a ride back to the Village?” he asks in a flat voice.
I open my mouth to reply. As I do, Maxwell’s face morphs into a blue serpent. Imugi’s scaled face leers at me, red eyes glowing. I stagger back with a wild shout.
27
Maxwell
Riska leaps off my shoulder, streaking at the merc. This time, it’s Taro who snatches him out of the air. I pull Riska out of Taro’s arms and squash him against my chest, blinking rapidly to clear the hallucination from my vision.
Maxwell—who still wears the blue serpent head of Imugi—watches us with a bored expression.
“Calm down, boy.” I rub his head, my heart hammering in my chest.
“Keep your pet in check,” Maxwell’s voice says out of Imugi’s face. “I’d hate to see him put down for attacking an innocent bystander.”
The serpent head puffs away into vapor, leaving behind the normal face of Maxwell. He studies me through narrowed eyes, wariness in every line of his body. I make note of his stance: the slightly bent knees, the raised tendons along his neck, and the tense muscles along his forearms. I don’t want to imagine what Mr. Winn would do if Riska wounded one of his mercs. Especially one of Claudine’s favorites.
“Sorry,” I say to Maxwell. “Riska is a little on edge. It’s been a long day.” I inch away from him.
To my dismay, Maxwell pushes off the wall and follows me. “You need a ride back to the Village. Come on.” He dons a neural net and starts toward one of the Aircats. “Swartz, Jumper, Five Toes,” he calls over his shoulder, “get Aircats and escort the other kids back.”
I reluctantly follow Maxwell, rubbing Riska’s head and making soothing sounds. He hisses and pushes free of me. He flies in angry circles around my head, growling in the merc’s direction. From across the outcropping, Billy and I exchange looks.
The merc pauses beside an Aircat, focusing his narrow-eyed gaze on Riska for a brief heartbeat. A shiver runs down my spine.
Something is off. Riska’s distrust of Maxwell—along with everything else that’s happened in the last few hours—unnerves me almost as much as Maxwell’s insistence on giving me a ride.
“Come on,” the merc calls. “I don’t have all night.”
I trail obediently after him. Even though I’d rather eat dirty socks, I need to suck it up. This is an opportunity. When else will I get a chance to talk to Maxwell and glean information?
I climb onto the Aircat and grab hold of the merc’s belt. The faint odor of tobacco clings to him.
The Aircat lumbers to the edge of the plateau and launches into the air. The odd, pungent smell of tobacco is pushed up my nose by the draft of wind. A memory tickles the back of my mind, trying to surface.
Riska wings past us, still hissing. I haven’t seen him this worked up since the League kidnapped me.
“What was all the fuss about in the Fortress today?” Maxwell asks. The casual, off-handed way he says this sets off an internal alarm.
I pause before answering, picking my words carefully. “League attack in Vex,” I say. “What do you know about Dream Dust?”
“Urban legend,” he replies, the words sounding rehearsed. “Why do you ask?”
It’s at that moment, squashed against Maxwell’s back, emotionally strung out and bone weary with the scent of tobacco blowing up my nose, that the memory hits me. It unfurls in my mind, sharp and crisp, jarring me wide awake:
I’m face-to-face with a man who zeroes in on me. From the sudden crinkling around his eyes—the only part that’s visible through the ski mask—I know he’s smiling. There’s a small mole next to his left eye that wrinkles with the smile. He grabs me, whirls me around, and pins me against his chest. I smell sweat and cigarettes.
I scream, absolute panic gripping me as he raises a tranq gun toward my neck.
Thank goodness for the hundreds of hours spent training with Gun and Touch. My subconscious kicks in, knowing exactly what to do. My knife plunges down, slicing deep between the knuckles of his left hand.
Sweat prickles in my armpits and along my belly. Above me, Riska lets out a long mewl.
Could it be? Could the man in front of me be a Leaguer? Was he behind the Dream Dust attack? A deep part of me thrums with anxiety, fear, and uncertainty.
Is this why Riska hates him? Here I’d been thinking it was because something had happened to him when he lived in the Global lab, but what if it was because Riska recognized him
from my kidnapping?
If Maxwell is the same man who held me captive on the rooftop in San Francisco, he’ll have a scar on his left hand where I stabbed him with the kitchen knife.
I crane my neck, trying to see his hands where they grip the scruff of the Aircat. His back is too broad. There’s no way for me to see around him without upsetting the balance of the Aircat.
“Why did you ask about Dream Dust?”
I start, recalling that Maxwell and I were in the middle of a conversation. “I’m not sure how much I can say,” I reply, mostly because I’m too rattled to carry on a coherent conversation. “It was just something that came up today.”
Maxwell grunts and falls silent.
Somehow, I have to get a look at his hand. I have to know if it’s him.
My palms are slick with sweat, my throat dry and tight with anxiety. I need truth more desperately than I’ve ever needed it before.
The Aircat angles downward to the gravel landing pad on the edge of the Village, then touches down with a graceful swoop. I wait until its wings are folded before sliding off. I drop down on the left side, trying to get a look at Maxwell’s hand as I do so. Unfortunately, it’s still buried in the thick fur of the Aircat’s neck.
I grit my teeth. No more uncertainty. I can’t take anymore tonight. I won’t take anymore.
“Thanks for the ride,” I say, taking a step forward. I glance up at his face even as my eyes flick toward his hand. “Sorry that Riska took out his anxiety on you. He’ll be better next time.” I say this last part casually, as if I’m being friendly. I glimpse the top of Taro’s head over the Aircat.
Maxwell peers down at me with hard eyes. “This isn’t the first time that Risk Alleviator has attacked a soldier.”
He says this with such malice that it raises the hair along my spine.
“Maxwell,” Taro calls, approaching us, “did you see my dad in the Fortress? He’s been pulling double shifts lately.”
Maxwell makes a grunt of annoyance. “I’m not Hudanus’s babysitter.”
There. Maxwell shifts ever so slightly as he addresses Taro. As he does, his grip on the Aircat fur loosens.
And I see it: the perfect white scar between the knuckles on his left hand.
My already fractured world spins out of control.
Maxwell is a League agent.
“What are you looking at?” Maxwell glares down at me. His knuckles disappear back into the Aircat fur.
I jump and take several steps backward, heart pounding in my chest. I didn’t even notice he’d turned his attention away from Taro and back to me.
“I—ah …” A sudden idea forms and I act on it. “You—ah—won’t tell Mr. Winn, will you? About Riska? He, um, it’s sort of a pretty big favor that he lets me keep Riska when we came to the Dome.” I gesture upward, where Riska still flies in angry circles overhead.
Maxwell grunts again. The iciness disappears from his face, replaced with disdain. “Just don’t let him get too close to me and we won’t have a problem.”
“Okay.” I scramble back, not having to fake the intimidation I feel.
In a whoosh of black wings, Maxwell is airborne. He doesn’t look back as he flies away. The other mercs and Aircats follow in his wake. It takes all my willpower to keep my legs from collapsing beneath me.
Cold sweat slicks my back as I turn toward my friends. My hands tingle and my legs feel wobbly. Riska, still circling above my head, hisses.
“Sulan?” Concern knots Taro’s brow. “What’s wrong?”
Billy takes a long look at me. He glances toward Hank, who’s approaching from twenty yards away. “My house,” he whispers. “Fifteen minutes.” He hurries to meet Hank, putting an arm around her shoulders and steering her away from us.
“I’ll walk you home,” he says to her.
She leans her head against him. Cinched together, they disappear down the path back to the Village.
“Sulan?” Taro looks at me in concern.
“I—” I swallow. Riska lands on my shoulder, mewing discordantly. The stress of the last few hours makes my throat dry.
The rooftop attack flashes through my mind’s eye like buzzing insects. The gunfire. The swirling attack of blue-clad Leaguers. The cable that snagged and dragged me through the air and into the belly of a helicopter.
I see Maxwell’s eyes as they smiled maliciously at me. I recall his awful smell.
Fear makes my skin prickle. Even though I’m thousands of miles away from San Francisco and even though I survived the League kidnapping, the fear is still real. I rub my hand over my face, trying to block out memories.
“Sulan?” Taro puts a hand on my shoulder, peering at my face with concern.
I shake my head, refocusing. There’s a real threat right here inside the Dome. I’m not going to sit around and do nothing. From this moment forward, I will funnel all of my energy into exposing Maxwell.
“I remember him,” I say. “Maxwell, I mean. I remember him from the attack in San Francisco.” I replay the scene for him, lining up all the details for him to examine. “I didn’t put the pieces together until tonight. But he has the scar on his left hand. He has the mole next to his eye. And he smells like cigarettes. And my hallucination—even though it was from the Dream Dust attack, I think some part of me always knew who he was.”
I look at Taro, half expecting him to object, but he doesn’t. Instead, he says, “It would explain why Riska wants to attack him. But none of this is enough evidence to take to Mr. Winn. At this point, it’s just your memory against Maxwell’s word. It’s not enough.”
“We have to do something.” The thought of a League agent living in the Dome makes me want to lose my dinner. “We have to figure out a way to get proof.”
“You’re sure?” Taro asks me. “Beyond a shadow of a doubt, you’re sure Maxwell is the one who grabbed you?”
“Yes,” I say, no hesitation in my voice. “He’s a Leaguer. I’m such an idiot. I can’t believe I didn’t figure it out sooner.”
“If he is the League agent, he must have been behind the Dream Dust attack tonight,” Taro says. “He must have some way to communicate with them. We need to get into his house.”
I’m touched that my conviction is all Taro needs. How many friends would take my word on blind faith? At one point, Hank would have been on that list.
We head to Billy’s house. I use the walk to tamp down my roiling emotions. I need to be collected and cool-headed to tackle the League.
Riska pushes his forehead against my cheek. I pull him into my arms and cuddle him, drawing comfort from his presence.
“Are you okay, Sulan?” Taro touches the side of my arm lightly, dark eyes full of concern.
I have an almost overwhelming desire to burrow into his arms. I resist the urge. I’m strong, like my mom. Not a weak little girl.
“I’m okay,” I say, my feet crunching on the gravel road as we walk.
We arrive at Billy’s house. He’s already waiting outside for us and tapping one hand impatiently against his leg.
“What is it?” he says by way of greeting.
I swallow. “Maxwell is the League mole.”
Billy’s voice drops to a low whisper. “You’re sure?”
I nod again.
“I knew it! I’ve been thinking about Riska’s hostility toward Maxwell and wondering if there was something more to it. It makes sense. He would recognize him from the League attack at your apartment.”
Something inside me wilts. I want Billy to tell me I’m an idiot, that I’m paranoid and sleep deprived. That his original theory was just a shot in the dark.
“We need to find a way to break into his house,” Taro says. “See how he’s contacting the League. If we get sufficient evidence, we can go to Mr. Winn.”
“I have an idea. Come inside.” Billy slips an old-fashioned key into the lock, opening the door to the bungalow he shares with his mom and Uncle Zed. In layout, it’s identical to the house I share with Dad. It
has the same stock furniture, but that’s where the similarity ends.
The living area is crammed with—with stuff. I stare around, struggling to categorize everything I see.
There are piles of real-world clothing. Jeans, tank tops, sneakers, T-shirts, sweatshirts, sweaters, dresses—all the stuff we’re not allowed to wear in the Dome. There are pre-’Fault books and magazines. Stacks of pre-packaged foods—candy, nuts, dried fruit, jerky, pasta, flour, even canned food. Every piece of furniture in the room is piled high with miscellaneous items. I see board games, playing cards, colored pens and pencils, reams of paper, even beer bottles and big boxes of wine.
Except for a narrow path that leads to the bathroom and each of the two bedrooms, the floors are concealed with stacks of stuff. The back slider has been barricaded by a wall of boxes. Big sheets of cardboard are taped over the windows, blocking out even the thinnest trickle of exterior light.
Standing in the middle of the disaster is Uncle Zed, his bald, tattooed head gleaming beneath the recessed lighting.
28
Black Market
Beside Zed, perched atop a cardboard box that bulges with clothing, sits Daruuk. He and Zed glance up as we enter, then promptly dismiss us and continue their conversation.
“I don’t have any more vodka,” Daruuk says, gritting his teeth in frustration. “I already told you that. My dad got suspicious when the first two bottles disappeared. I can’t risk taking his last one.”
“You want the latest adaptive codec for your voice and video sessions,” Uncle Zed says. “I need vodka for one of my customers. Either you supply it for the exchange, or the deal is off.”
“There’s got to be something else you need,” Daruuk says. “Please, Zed, my kingdom depends on me.”
“Vodka,” Zed growls.
Daruuk’s face flushes with growing frustration. “How about …” He narrows his eyes, peering at Zed. “What if I grant you first right to enter Vex when I finish the modem?”
Zed goes perfectly still. Beads of perspiration run down his temples. He studies Daruuk.
“I go in first? Into Vex? When you get the modem complete?” His hands make grasping motions at his waist, like he’s looking for a gun or some other weapon.
Sulan Box Set (Episodes 1-4) Page 38
