The mossy ring reaches forty-five degrees before I realise it's even airborne. It's ancient and immense. It speeds up as it rises to the vertical—the spin is unstoppable. Finaglers cling to it, slide down it, leap off it. The slithering feeders wrap themselves around its girth and hold on tight.
It's the best thing I've ever seen, but it also scares the hell out of me. Something has to be controlling the spin.
I imagine the next ring rising. Moments later, it lifts up. Then a third ring starts its ascent when I picture it, but in a different direction this time. That's three humongous stone objects hurtling around on a central axis. And there's only one thing at that central axis: me, Jim Trillion!
The surviving Finaglers watch me in ranks from behind the stone vortex of doom. Do they know how I did what I've just done? Do they know what this place is? Why I seem to have god-like powers all of a sudden?
I try to imagine the outer ring lifting, with the whole scum army still on it. It's way bigger and thicker than the other rings, but maybe if I concentrate on the—
A hooded figure springs up from the gap between the two innermost rings and makes a beeline for me. It clambers up the steps of the dais, daggers drawn. An assassin! It must have somehow survived being thrown off the rings and sneaked its way inward, underneath. It lunges at me. I go to shield myself with my arms but I'm still immobile. That old dread of feeling helpless tears at me, tears me wide open. The monster's curved blade pierces the skin protecting me. I catch a glint of lilac light reflecting off its breastplate. Then the Finagler's entire body flies apart with horrific force, as though a grenade has exploded inside it.
The last thing I see before I black out is the rapid flutter of dragonfly wings.
CHAPTER 10
Hall Of Famers
20:37. Over eleven hours since I put on the breather. Eleven hours! My bedsheets are soaked with sweat. The breather isn't in my quarters, and I still have no clue how I got from the island of rings to here. Sleep is impossible, so I dump the sheets in the dry-cleaner and just lie on the floor, gazing up at the ceiling and running the whole insane adventure over and over through my mind.
I decide to stay in my quarters after breakfast and skip the morning Hex session altogether. The lost time has freaked me out more than I thought it would. And in each of the three places the dragonfly took me, I saw Finaglers. The last one almost killed me! But what does it all mean? Will I even come back at all from the next trip?
That no Hex teachers or staff come to speak to me also freaks me out. Surely I'm breaking every rule they have. Missing classes. Accessing secret sanctums. Dodging Finaglers on alien worlds. I barely sleep for the next several nights as I try to come to terms with my discovery. Hex life quickly becomes a blur of classwork, homework, familiar faces I try to avoid, and hours spent alone in my quarters. Endless, lonely hours.
The next time I summon the courage to climb the rope, I find the dragonfly isn't there. Not in the corridor or the stairwell or in the long, curved room on the twentieth floor. So, after waiting a while, I decide to access the sanctum myself. The hatch opens. The dark empty space hasn't changed. The rose-coloured mist lies high above, a perfect, mysterious circle, pulsing faintly.
But the dragonfly doesn't show. And nothing happens, not even when I stand in the exact same spot as before, in the centre of the sanctum. The room does not shrink into a skin around me. I don't rise into the mist. I just stand there like one of the columns of that alien temple. Left behind. Forgotten. How long before I'm covered with flakes of rust?
Crushed, I return to the long, curved room with the digitabs and sit at one of the consoles. I mope like a sulky girl. If having an amazing, life-changing experience gives you a feeling of flying, losing it is like someone telling you your feet will now be stuck to the ground forever until you die. Never to fly again.
Every day, three times a day, I return to the sanctum on the twentieth floor, looking for the dragonfly. Every day, three times a day, I'm hit with the same crushing disappointment. Then I sit at the same digitab on my own and surf the podnet for hours on end, looking for signs of Sergei, searching for information about my parents, what happened to Dad and Nessie that day when I was five, looking for any clues pointing to this mysterious facility in the ice.
My sleep pattern gradually returns, but I don't see the dragonfly there either, not even in that split-second when I wake. So I settle into my grim, lonely routine and throw myself into research.
ICYou! PodNet Conspiracy Case File 5174: On August 5, 2266, experienced polar guide Samuel Trillion and his three-year-old daughter, Vanessa, were found dead outside their home in the mountain resort of Bowman’s Reach, Mars. A suspected pyrofluvium explosion destroyed the home shortly after. Trillion’s son, James, 5, is believed to have died in the explosion. The official ISPA investigation led by Omicron Detective Ferrix Vaughn remains classified, but resort residents, several of whom carried out their own private investigation, are adamant the deaths were at the hands of Sheiker agents targeting former ISPA employees. [Read Testimonies Here]
Bowman's Reach Gazette, 13.02.2260: Marriage of Samuel J. Trillion (A.E.S.O.P.) and Marina Villiers (O.E.G.). Among the town's newest and busiest citizens, Sam and Marina are both employees of the Hartdagen Initiative's field research division. They first met during a geological survey expedition to Mars's North Pole early last year. Sam is a decorated field guide and emergency rescue professional working freelance for Hartdagen. Marina graduated cum laude from the Koskorov Technological Institute at Hosea's Rise before joining Hartdagen's Exo-Geology Department. The ceremony was held at St. Luke's All-Faiths Ministry on Warburton Ridge, presided over by Rev. Tatsuya Nakadai, a long-time friend of Mr. Trillion. Congratulations go out to the newly-weds.
Hartdagen Public Relations Official Press Release 8.208/m1/obit: It is with great sadness we report the tragic death of one of our most promising young scientists. On Friday, June 30th, Dr. Marina Trillion (O.E.G.) died in an avalanche during an official geological survey of the northern polar region of Mars. The avalanche was caused by a unforeseen equipment malfunction involving the release of high-powered microwaves that flash-boiled underground ice deposits. Dr. Trillion was the only casualty of the incident. She leaves behind a loving husband, Sam, and two children, James and Vanessa. Our thoughts go with them during this... [Read in full here]
Mr Ghosh, my history teacher, ambushes me in the corridor one day after lunch. He’s very pleased with my progress, especially my use of sources to back up my opinions on the Portuguese conqueror, Afonso de Alberquerque. I tell him history is one of my favourite subjects, and that there are a few idiots in the Hex I’d like to banish, permanently, to the past tense. He laughs, ruffles my hair and, after droning on about some bozo called Shackleton, makes me promise to keep up the good work. I tell him I will. After I've made a few more discoveries of my own, I feel like adding.
The Hex arena’s full when I arrive. All the apparatuses are in use. It’s with some satisfaction I notice nothing has really changed in the arena in my absence. The emperor and his posse still lord it over everyone, milking the gigs for every point, while the others, who appear to have formed three or four large groups, keep up their steady if unspectacular performances.
Lohengrin salutes and gives a genuine smile as I pass. He looks dog-tired, and if I’m not mistaken that’s a fresh bruise on his chin, a nasty-looking purple one. Lyssa, too, has looked better. She grimly attacks her gig, wiping sweat from her pale face with a shaky hand. When she sees me she tosses a wild, almost desperate wave, and promptly loses balance. Not like her. At all.
If only things could go back to the way they were at the beginning, with the four of us...
Before I reach my rope hanging from the balcony, a shout from someone on Gig 3 sparks a firestorm of excitement around the arena. Everyone, even the emperor himself, runs over to the scoreboard and adopts a similar intense, puzzled expression as they gaze up.
“That’s impossible,” a
girl yells in frustration.
“How are we supposed to top that?” asks another.
“It’s not fair. We’ve been doing this for months and we’re nowhere near that,” adds one of Sarazzin’s posse. “What are we doing wrong?”
Understandable reactions, if you ask me. I might not be the model buggo, I might liken the majority of them to Star Wars stormtroopers, but no one can say they haven’t worked their butts off since they’ve arrived here. And now, to be told everything they’ve achieved isn’t worth a fathom of toilet paper—I can’t think of anything crueller.
Side by side with the current first-years’ scores, the brand new Buggo Hall of Fame is the ultimate read-it-and-weep shocker. Sarazzin, through cheating and bullying, and with the help of his posse, has amassed the most points so far this year: 7.883. At this rate, by the end of the year he might reach between 20 and 25 points. But even the lowest ranked name in the Buggo Hall of Fame boasts an astonishing 229,313.406 points.
It doesn’t make any sense.
While the group swaps angry theories, Rachel sneaks away to stand next to me. “What do you make of that?” she asks.
“Don’t have a clue. You?”
“Me either. But can you imagine what Sarazzin’s gonna be like now?” That’s fear flattening her voice, which is normally sweeter, livelier. “I’m not sure I can take another eight months of this, Jim.”
“What else is there?” I reply.
She hits me with a wounded gaze. “Where do you go?”
“Huh?”
“Up there. Where do you disappear to three times a day? Why don’t they stop you?”
“The teachers? I don’t know why. They actually seem to be helping me—at least, someone is. I—I’m doing some extra-curricular stuff. Research kinda stuff. It’s not as exciting as it sounds. Trust me. Nothing I—”
She leans in and whispers, “Let me go with you.”
“What? Now?”
“Uh-huh.”
“How about You-Know-Who? Won’t he be on the warpath?”
She glances at the emperor over her shoulder. “You think he isn’t already?”
“I think you’re asking for trouble.”
“So you’re saying I can’t come?”
“No, I’m—”
Rachel stuffs her tiny hand over my mouth. “Then it’s settled. Just tell me where to go and I’ll see you there shortly.”
And I thought she was the reserved one! I guess she’s picked up some bad habits from Lyssa along the way. Still weighing up the pros and cons, I pluck her hand away by the wrist—gently, though—and set it against her side. My heartbeat rollicks when I realise she now has a hold of my hand as well. No one can see, even if they look this way, because Rachel and I are close enough together to breathe each other’s air. I start to lose my head in a way I’m not comfortable with—not here, not now, not with all that’s going on around us.
I pull away. “So you can climb?”
Her raised eyebrow practically screams a sarcastic Hello! Triathlete! Like I said, once Rachel Foggerty gets ahead, she stays ahead.
“Okay, cool.” I give her precise directions to the twentieth floor, giving special emphasis to “Don't be seen, whatever happens.” All the time I’m wondering if she’ll really come or not, if her new team will even let her come, and if she does, how that might affect my extra-curricular life. Will she want to come all the time now? Will others start to follow us?
Too late to back out. I’m that poolside boy again, waiting, hoping, more than a little in awe.
She gives a slight nod and then rejoins the craziness. Me? I tear up that rope in record time, bang my shoulder on the door frame on my way out, and eat the stairs to 20 before you can say Triathlon Trillion (the Blue-Glow version). It takes ages for me to catch my breath—well, I don’t really. Instead, I pace up and down the long, curved room thinking about how much I should tell her, then I listen for footsteps on the stairwell, or blankly watch the hatch leading to the sanctum.
She doesn’t show.
At the end of the session, as the bell goes for next class, I kick the hatch with the sole of my boot—full force. Guess which comes off worst. My frustration doesn’t end there. After pretty much ignoring everyone, teachers included, in Astronomy and Electronics, I storm through the Hex arena during evening session and make my way back to the twentieth. I tell myself I don’t care if she comes or not, but I can’t concentrate on the podnet, I can’t sit still for more than a few minutes at a time. Anger twists into despair.
I won’t lie. It’s the loneliest I’ve felt since that day in the desert, when two sand bikes became one. By the end of the session, I’ve cried three times. That night, in bed, I cry some more. Then I cry myself to sleep.
The following morning I’m so drained and sluggish I can barely get dressed. Breakfast, frosted wheat in milk, orange juice, and a far-too-sweet banana, takes me over half an hour to finish, which is ridiculous for me. I’m normally the eager beaver buggo, first one down (and then up). While zombie-shuffling through the Hex arena, I notice the groups aren’t playing the gigs, they’re huddled around the digitabs instead. It’s a little unnerving, being the last to know what’s going on, and I’m suddenly very aware of being the outcast of this class.
The rope-climb is a real effort. The stairs aren’t much easier. And by the time I’m haunting the twentieth, I just want to curl up in a soft corner and sleep for a week.
“Not the most punctual Martian ever hatched, are you?”
A rush of fear spins me on the spot. I damn near trip over my own feet in a scramble to escape. Then I halt.
“Not the most nimble, either,” the same voice adds.
“Lyssa?”
As I turn slowly, they all step out from behind the EVA suits to greet me. Today there are three extra ghosts haunting the twentieth: Lyssa, Lohengrin and Rachel.
In other words, the best class reunion ever!
“What are you guys doing here? Who else knows—”
“We sneaked away while Sarazzin and his apes were distracted,” replies Lohengrin, suppressing a cheeky, victorious smile. “A nice bit of teamwork, eh, ladies?”
“You bet,” says Lyssa, linking arms with her two fellow escapees.
“We started out as the best team; we might as well finish it that way,” adds Rachel. “Jim, you must have heard what’s happened.”
I have to confess I haven’t.
“It’s only a rumour so far,” Lohengrin reminds her.
“Yeah, but it was one of the custodians who let it slip. Why would he make up something like that?”
“Let what slip?” I ask.
“Another invasion. A big one.” She slips out of Lyssa’s arm-hold and walks over to me. I hesitatingly let her link arms with me instead. “Go on, Lohengrin. You heard it first. Tell him what Lua-Lua said,” she says.
The tall prince clears his throat. “Not much. Only that the Finaglers have made a deep incursion into ISPA space. A three-pronged assault on one of the IC/OC border systems. Apparently it’s a major blow for our military production. One of our key industrial hubs was destroyed. If we can’t check their advance along that vector, toward the Core systems, they’ll soon come up against The Talons.”
“Who are The Talons?”
“Who? I hope you mean what.” Lohengrin doesn’t lose his temper often, but he’s about to. “Jim, it’s the collective name for the six Wing Worlds. You know, the monarchy worlds orbiting Lavea. The Lavea system—my system.” He tries to pull free from Lyssa’s grip in frustration, but it doesn’t work. Lyssa, always a fierce friend, insists he not be alone at a time like this. He glares down at her, then, after a long sigh, he puts his arm around her. “Sorry, Lys. I’m not angry with you.”
“’S okay,” she says. “Feel free to trash the room later. But I think we need to talk first.”
“About what?” I might have scoured the podnet for weeks, but I’m none the wiser for it when it comes to current events. I’ve b
een too wrapped up in family history.
“We’ve come to a decision,” says Rachel. “The three of us.”
“What about?”
“About us,” answers Lohengrin, ushering Lyssa to the consoles, where he slides four seats closer together. We each take one.
“I’ve been dying to ask—what exactly have you been up to all this time, Trillion?” Lyssa can’t get the VRI glove to fit her hand, so she gives it a playful wrap on the knuckles. “You said you were researching, but that was weeks ago. It can’t be that important.”
“It is. And it’s top secret, need-to-know stuff. Not for grid-licking numpties. So I guess you’re out of luck, Van Buren.”
She narrows her eyes and shakes her head. “You and me, Trillion, in the Hex. First one to eat sand loses.”
“But that’s your staple diet.”
“With a side order of chickenshit,” adds Rachel. That comment buys her a punch to the arm, and another one for me. And just in case Lohengrin’s feeling left out, Lyssa thumps him too.
Now that that’s settled, I give a brief description of the dragonfly, and what lies on the other side of the hatch. I leave out the really big stuff, like visiting other worlds, because I want it to be my secret. They agree there’s more going on in the Hex than meets the eye. Lyssa, in particular, is fascinated by the empty sanctum.
“Dad’s always been mysterious about this place,” she admits. “If it was just a military academy, why would he not tell me all about it? He should want to tell me all about it, seeing as it’s going to be so important to the rest of my life. I don’t get it. The Initiative has gone to all this trouble to recruit you guys—a Lavean prince, for chrissakes—then they leave us to our own devices in the Hex, so that we’re not learning anything at all, at least while Sarazzin is calling the shots.”
Star Binder Page 13
