They must be working with Team Irtiu again . . . because suddenly Thalassa and her crew swoop in at us from above, so that we are blocked off in all directions.
Enemy Contenders from both teams hover-float in different spots in the air and along the land ring, surrounding us like a cloud of electrons, moving precisely along with the rotation of the land ring, all while maintaining a solid distance radius of about seventy feet across from us—not quite close enough to give me a clear target for my arsenal of voice commands. By now everyone knows that I can do some dangerous stuff with my voice. . . .
“Gwen Lark!” Thalassa calls out to me in her smooth mocking voice. “Are you ready to play with me? It’s almost midnight and you owe me a dance, Imperial Lady!”
“Why don’t you come closer?” Brie yells back at her.
My heart pounds as I glance around at our adversaries and then at my own teammates. We exchange resigned silent looks as we ready our net and cord weapons. Tuar lies unresponsive in the levitating basket while Lolu and Kateb stand on both sides of him holding a wide net. Chihar has his cord ready and Kokayi flexes his hands in anticipation of hand combat. At the same time Zaap and Brie flank me on both sides, staying close.
I have my viatoios gloves on, and the razor net is within hands reach.
“What now?” I say loudly—mostly in order to prime my voice than for any reason of provocation. My throat is parched, and I’ve taken the last precious swallows from my water flask over two hours ago.
How can I sing like this?
Thalassa smiles—I can see that killing smile of hers from across the chasm of seventy feet. And then she motions with a tiny nod of her head to a White Contender wearing the Entrepreneur logo.
The Entrepreneur hesitates for a second then reaches for something inside his bag. It looks like a gun.
He moves very suddenly, takes aim and shoots at me.
In the next split second there’s a zing sound, and the crowd screams as the projectile comes at me, and there’s no time to blink. . . .
I feel the painful impact as it strikes me in the chest, but my body armor holds. Then suddenly something weird happens.
The projectile dissolves into a cloud of blue-green smoke.
At once I’m enveloped in it and, as I inhale involuntarily, I start to cough. A painful stinging agony fills my lungs, and the noxious smoke acts to knock the breath out of me. My lungs collapse, and I find I cannot breathe. . . . I double over in shock, trying to draw breath and unable to do so, while the blue-green stuff swirls in the air around me, dissipating quickly. I can hear Zaap and Brie coughing too, since they are closest to me.
I struggle to gasp, a fish out of water, while three long seconds pass, and my lungs remain unresponsive.
A thought passes through my mind, this is the end.
Suddenly I spasm wildly . . . and my lungs respond this time, unfurling . . . and I suck in air with a shudder. This is what an asthma attack must feel like, except it’s worse because it’s poison. . . .
I breathe desperately and start coughing at once. Everything inside me feels like it’s on fire. My lungs sting, my throat, my mouth and nose. . . .
My teammates stagger around me, but I can’t see clearly who’s doing what because my vision is clouded with tears from the strain of choking.
Even over the roar of the audience I can hear Thalassa laughing.
Then a siren blasts the air.
The crowd goes silent for an instant, and now a Games official speaks.
“Illegal firearm weapon has been used in breach of active Taboo Rules permitting only Yellow Quadrant weapons in this Game Stage. Therefore . . . Disqualification! Contender, you have been disqualified and must leave the Game Zone immediately!”
The spectator crowd roars. I breathe raspingly and wipe my eyes so that I can see. Directly ahead of me, maintaining his distance, the Entrepreneur still hovers in sideways-sailing formation not too far from Thalassa, keeping up with the rotation of the land ring. But even as I look at him, the white color of his uniform starts to fade, losing its iridescent metallic sheen, and it turns completely black.
The Entrepreneur looks down at himself, grim and stone-faced, but doesn’t appear surprised. He nods at Thalassa then voice-commands his bag and rises in the air. In seconds he passes over our heads and over the great transparent wall, exiting the Game Zone and forfeiting his place in the Games.
“What just happened?” Brie croaks next to me in a strange rasping voice. “He fired a gun—what kind of stupid idiot thing to do—”
“Thalassa made him do it—probably a deal in exchange for his life,” Kokayi mutters, croaking also. “What was that noxious smoke?”
“I don’t know,” I say, still feeling the impact where I’ve been hit on my chest. And as I speak I can hear my voice sounding hoarse, raspy, like the others.
Oh no!
“Hey, Tuar!” Brie says, whirling to look behind her. “You should grab a gun and just shoot a few rounds now, maybe even take out a few of these bastards in the process! Now that’s your way out, a way to get yourself disqualified—”
But Tuar doesn’t hear her, still unconscious and unresponsive.
Meanwhile there’s no time to consider, because we’re still surrounded and the “intermission” is over.
“Try singing now, Gwen Lark!” Thalassa calls out to me, taunting—just as the grim realization comes and panic starts to rise inside me.
I open my mouth, try to form a basic note and find that nothing comes out.
That’s when they attack us.
We are suddenly thrust in a melee of airborne figures that swoop down on us. Nets are cast, cords lash out like whips. Hands and feet make contact in martial arts forms.
We fight back, of course. My teammates are brave, and we’re desperate and cornered, so no one’s going down without putting in their best effort.
I find myself thrown to the ground by the impact of a hard kick as a Yellow lands directly on top of me, coming down at high speed.
I roll and recover, and then grab my razor net, swinging it in an aggressive arc toss. The net slashes the Yellow’s face and he falls back.
“Run!” I call out wildly, just as Brie struggles next to me, roiling on the ground with a Blue. Kokayi is dancing in his specialized martial art sequence, keeping three Contenders away at once, while Kateb has his back to the unconscious Tuar, with Lolu and Zaap fighting off multiple airborne hostiles with rapid cord snaps.
Suddenly the lights in the Game Zone flicker. And then everything goes dark.
For one breathless moment there’s only moons and stars . . . all the rest, pure darkness. . . .
Even the land rings stop their rotation and freeze in place—apparently some kind of master program has been halted.
In the next second all the huge hovering stadium screens light up again, and we see a familiar golden mask face against a black background.
“Nefero niktos, Atlantida! We are the Rim!” a masked modulated voice says, echoing over the night expanse. . . .
The Games audience screams at the interruption, the angry violence of their noise rattling the tiered seats.
Just for that one bizarre moment all our fighting falters as Contenders on all teams pause to deal with this latest surprise.
But it lasts only a fraction of a second.
The pirate transmission goes off just like that, and normal Games video feeds return—together with the scoreboard stats, and the artificial illumination, and the motion of the rings.
But that one strange interruption is enough to give us a chance.
I find a clear path before me and rush forward, holding my razor net, running with all the strength I’ve got, hearing someone coming hard behind me. . . .
My feet pound the floor, and the way is still clear of fighters. Breath comes hard, and my pulse hammers. . . .
The motion of the rotating land ring underneath me carries me further along from the airborne melee than I normally would
manage just by running on my own.
Suddenly I step wrong and lose my footing. I trip and stagger, then fall flat on the floor, almost knocking my own breath out.
Sheer panic and instinct makes me roll and continue moving. At the same time I see out of the corner of my eye the slim elegant Contender in a green uniform coming at me in a beautiful terrifying run, not bothering to fly above the floor.
It’s Thalassa.
I roll again, at the same time as my gloved hands grasp the razor net, while Thalassa launches herself at me. . . .
She manages to land a hard kick in my ribs before I fling my net around me, curling up into a ball on the ground, trying to make myself as small as possible, to decrease the vulnerable surface area on my body.
“What about our dance, Imperial Bride?” Thalassa’s voice taunts. “Did you forget?”
“Screw you,” I mutter.
“Come and die gracefully, little coward. Your life belongs to me.”
“Little?” I say. “I’m bigger than you.”
“A big coward, then.”
I can see her elegant, dancelike motions through the openings between the chain links in the razor net as she continues circling around me, kicking me lightly, almost fondly with her toes.
Right now she’s a predator playing with her fallen prey. Beautiful and sadistic and so sure of herself.
I hold the net around me, my mind racing in desperate thought turmoil.
With each kick the sharp net cuts into me, into the exposed vulnerable areas.
I take a deep breath and my viatoios-protected fists tighten, slipping into position in the precise places at the edges of the net as I ready my muscles, with my hands and arms crossed over my face, tight as a metal coil. . . .
One . . . two . . . three.
I recoil with my body, springing up fully, using the powerful muscles of my calves, legs, letting the recoil motion flow through my torso and transform into amplified force along my arms and hands, elbows opening hard. . . .
The razor net unfurls into a perfect wide circle, as I’ve been taught. It launches forward and surrounds my enemy like a great web, coiling back onto itself, razor links locking in place against each other, creating an unbreakable temporary holding cell.
Thalassa is now inside that prison of razors, and she is locked hard, unable to move any of her limbs, unable to straighten herself. She cries out in fury, covered in cuts, cursing me, as she stands wrapped into a mummified doll shape—while I deliver a hard kick of my own and push her down, collapsing the folded doll to the ground.
The Games audience screams my name in amazement.
Something wicked flickers inside me, and I squat beside her. Then I reach down, pulling at her feet tightly held together by the razor net. I take hold of her shoes, fumble somewhat as she twitches violently at me, and I untie her shoelaces.
Then I tie them together again, this time attaching the laces from one shoe to the other in tight intricate knots—as quick and efficient as any self-respecting member of the Yellow Quadrant would be.
That way, when she finally frees herself from my net, Tiamat “Thalassa” Irtiu, celebrity Entertainer and stone-cold killer, will have to deal with the hassle of conjoined shoes, or she’ll rush to get up and trip on her own two feet. . . .
Yeah, it’s a little petty of me, but. . . .
I’m Shoelace Girl.
Chapter 82
“Lark! What did you do? Don’t just stand there, run!” Brie Walton cries, running toward me in that moment. And then she sees the wildly struggling bundled figure caught in the razor net, and the tied-together shoes.
“Crap! Did you just hogtie somebody like a rodeo calf?” Brie repeats. “Who’s that?”
“Thalassa.”
Brie’s mouth falls open. “No way! You—you’re crazy!”
“I know,” I say.
At that moment, the crowd picks up an unmistakable chant.
“Shoe-lace girl! Shoe-lace girl!”
“Okay, great job, yes! Even the Goldilocks know your secret identity! Now, run!” Brie cries, still wide-eyed at what I’ve done, but seeing that several hostiles are racing our way, following some of our teammates.
I notice that her arm is bleeding again where the blood clotting spray material has detached from her skin but—no time to deal with that now.
We take off at a run along the land ring perimeter. And because it’s rotating much faster now, in the same direction as we’re headed, it appears like we’re running super-fast, like on one of those Earth airport moving sidewalks. Could be worse—if we were heading in the other direction it’d be like running in place, like on a treadmill. . . .
Snap out of it, fool! I tell myself as my mind starts going off on a garbage tangent.
And then, out of nowhere, a new team of Contenders appears, moving quickly at us from this new direction in which we’re fleeing.
Their leader is a tall Red Warrior with pale skin and long white hair.
It’s Hedj Kukkait.
I stop in my tracks, frowning with sudden confusion, and Brie comes to a hard halt next to me.
“Kuk-Ku! Kuk-Ku!” the audience begins to chant.
Once more we’re surrounded, as Deneb Gratu and Thalassa’s teams converge from behind us.
“Oh, no . . . no,” Brie whispers.
But Hedj Kukkait approaches with his hand upraised. “Truce!” he calls out loudly, stopping his hover-flight several feet away and walking the rest of the way toward us.
“Oh . . .” I say breathlessly. “Yes! Okay!”
“Imperial Lady Gwen Lark.” Hedj observes me with his very black eyes and then gives me a small nod. “I owe you a life, so I will help you and your team now.”
My mind flashes back to Stage One when Hedj and I were trapped for hours inside a Safe Base filled with poison gas, sharing a single breathing mask between the two of us. In the end I pulled the unconscious Hedj out of that structure, so that must be why he thinks he owes me. . . . Besides, he’s with the Rim.
Brie stares at Hedj in surprise. The rest of our teammates arrive one by one and, seeing Hedj and his group, everyone slows down with uncertainty—including our pursuers from Team Gratu and Team Irtiu.
“I’ve been hit with some kind of toxic gas and now I can’t sing,” I say awkwardly to Hedj.
“I know,” he says. “That’s why I’m here. Sofia Veforoi, who is my team Vocalist, will voice-key your bags on your behalf. Quickly now!” And he motions to a voluptuous woman with brown eyes and black wavy hair free of any dye.
Sofia levitates toward me, giving me a calm blank look, but I notice it’s not hostile, despite the fact that we’re from the same Category and therefore natural enemies in the Games.
She focuses on my bag and voice-keys it in a beautiful clear soprano. Then she does the same thing for Brie and Zaap. Just then Kateb approaches at a run, pulling Tuar in his hanging net contraption manually behind him—good thing the bag was already hovering before the gas attack took place.
The others on my team are next, with only Kokayi lagging behind, since he is still fighting off several hostiles to give the rest of us a head start.
Sofia skillfully casts her voice even as they come running, and then once everyone is keyed, including Kokayi, she commands the bags to launch forward.
“Thank you,” I say in my hoarse voice, barely having time to wrap my arms around my bag as it jolts into motion.
Sofia merely nods with dignity. And then she and the rest of Team Kukkait become airborne, surrounding us on all sides, as we hurtle forward to the interior of the Game Zone.
Team Gratu and Team Irtiu stay behind, not bothering to engage us now that Hedj’s powerful team has allied with us—for however long that lasts.
The rest of the time until midnight is surprisingly uneventful. Hedj’s new group of Contenders is as unassuming and businesslike as his original team, which means our two teams quickly end up in a balanced state of mild caution and politely minimal
interaction as we fly over the spinning rings.
I watch Hedj’s gaunt profile as he soars nearby, glancing at me occasionally with his astute dark eyes. Sofia takes great care with all our hovering movement, and I thank her several times, feeling oddly guilty that I’m suddenly incapacitated in this very peculiar way. I’m especially impressed with how gently she guides the unconscious Tuar’s basket.
“Your voice loss is temporary,” Hedj tells me as we pass the center island. “You will likely regain it overnight. Your Imperial Bridegroom will provide the best medical techs to treat you.”
Is there a small hint of bitterness there?
He’s with the Rim, I think. What might he feel or think about Kassiopei?
On the other side of me, Brie says in a loud whisper. “Lark, I love what you did back there with the blue-haired barracuda. But—did you forget something?”
“Huh?” I half-turn to her, wind lashing my face.
“The Green Grail!” Brie says. “Thalassa has it on her. You didn’t search her?”
I frown, then bite my lip. “No,” I say. “I was a little busy trying to stay alive and then tying her shoelaces together. She can keep it.”
“You really are nuts.” But Brie is grinning at me. Maybe it’s the mellowing effect of her pain meds, but for the first time there’s no hidden agenda or sarcasm in her expression—at least none that I can see in this very brightly illuminated night.
Kateb’s serious voice sounds from behind me. “You made a mistake. . . . You should’ve killed her—for your sake and hers.”
“What do you mean?” I turn around to stare at him.
“For one thing, by leaving her trussed up, and leaving her the Grail, like it means nothing,” Brie puts in. “That was a mistake.”
But I continue to watch Kateb.
“Imperial Lady,” he says, speaking carefully. “You humiliated her.”
Win Page 92
