“There’s more to that set-up, there has to be,” I conclude. “I’ve been thinking it all along. Scrabbling for points like that, jumping through hoops: that’s not telling them anything about us. We need to stand out somehow.”
“Kind of like what you’re doing in here,” replies Rachel, waving her milky hand across the consoles.
“They do talk about you, you know—the other buggos,” adds Lohengrin. “You’ve become something of a mythical figure. They’re a bit afraid of you. Even Sarazzin, though he’d never admit it.”
“What do you mean, afraid of me?” The idea takes me completely by surprise, because it’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard. Afraid of me, Jim Trillion, one of the youngest, shortest, lowest-scoringest buggos in the bughouse.
“They know you’re getting help from the faculty,” he explains. “With the rope, and wherever it is they imagine you go. Some have talked about following you, but that’s all it is—big talk. The truth is they’re afraid to do something like this because they don’t have permission. They assume you do, so you must be a special case.”
“And they don’t want to let their scores slip,” I remind him.
“There was that too. But as you saw the other day, all that’s changed now. They’re desperately trying to think of new ways to earn points. More efficient ways. Just slavishly playing the gigs doesn’t cut it any more. We need a fresh approach.”
“We?”
“Yes, the four of us,” replies Rachel, hugging her knees to her chest. “We’ve decided...that from now we need to stay together. We’re just better when we’re together.”
“Even if it means holing up in here with you.” Lyssa gives the underside of my seat a kick.
“Oh. And Sarazzin?”
Silence.
“Like we said, he’s distracted,” says Lohengrin. “He’s convened a regular little think-tank, all the smartest buggos under his thumb, to come up with a solution to the scoring problem. And you know what? The big ape’s convinced they might have found it.”
“Well, whatever it is, I’m assuming he didn’t come up with it.”
“Hm. What was your first clue?” The junior prince’s sarcasm is in full swing. “Actually, it was that brainy little suck-up, Walpole. You know, the blond mop-head, eyes way too close together, who follows him around everywhere. He boasts to everyone he has a photographic memory.”
“Oh, not that guy!” I groan. “He slimed me as soon as I walked in, first day. I didn’t even know his name. Walpole, huh? Well, he might have a photographic memory, but I sure as hell forgot him in a hurry.”
The others laugh at that, and I’m already feeling more alive than I’ve felt in weeks. Having the four of us together again is not something I want to let go of. In fact, it’s something I’m ready to fight for, to give up my extra-curricular privileges for, if they’ll join me—which, from the sounds of it, they are.
“Seriously, though, Walpole’s solution must be pretty major to get all three of you to bunk off like this.”
“It’s really ingenious.” Lohengrin unconsciously traces his fingertips over the outline of his swan-like hair pattern. The amazing thing is how neat and tidy he keeps it—he must spend half his free time trimming it in the mirror. “I don’t think any of us would have come up with his solution, at least not on our own.”
The girls agree with that assessment.
“They've stopped playing, haven't they. They're studying the gigs instead.” Call it intuition, call it logic (Walpole is the best mathematician in the Hex), but to be honest it isn’t the first time I’ve had that idea.
My friends all look at one another and share a knowing nod.
“We were right about you,” Lyssa tells me. “You do see things differently than the rest of us.”
“Oh? I’m not sure if I should take that as a compliment or not.”
“You’d better.” She throws me a wink that reminds me so much of the first time Lys and I met, that first day in the Hex, our dubious recruiting practises that made the two of us, if no one else, laugh our buggo butts off.
“The answer is yes,” says Lohengrin, taking charge. “They’re now studying everything they can about how they perform on the gigs. Heart rates, personal best times, which combinations of people produce the best results on certain gigs: you can tabulate all that stuff, draw graphs, make formulas, etcetera. They’re using the digitabs to record it all. So it’s everything we’ve learned in maths and the sciences, put to practical use. Walpole is even using the digipedias to figure out the physics behind what we experience when we’re actually on the gigs—g-forces, centrifugal and centripetal forces, the different neural states—so he can write up some reports.
“The more artistic buggos have started drawing the apparatuses. Schematics, blueprints, even just sketches for art’s sake. Those who are better at creative writing are describing the Hex experience in their own ways. God knows what they’re coming up with.” He pauses a moment to catch his breath. “Yep, Walpole’s idea has got them all thinking creatively, doing crazy things. And Sarazzin’s bought it hook, line and sinker. He summed it up pretty well, in fact, when he said, ‘Why else would the digitabs be there next to every gig?’”
“Hm. He has a point,” I have to admit.
“And it’s boosting their scores,” Rachel takes over as she twines her white pony tail around her knuckles.
“Everyone’s?”
“No. It’s hard to figure out,” she says. “Walpole is way out in front now, and Sarazzin is doing well. Most of the others’ scores are still just inching up, though, faster than before, but nowhere near Walpole’s.”
“So what’s your theory?” I ask them.
“We were hoping you could help us out with that,” Rachel says softly. “You see things differently, Jim. Like Walpole does, only without the ego. You won’t be surprised to know he hasn’t wasted any time declaring himself the next Einstein.” She laughs hard at my eye-roll. “I know. He’s calling this his Hex String Theory—all the disciplines working together in harmony to advance something or other I can’t remember and don’t want to. Ugh. The little twerp leaves a slimy trail wherever he goes.”
“Just one question.” I lean forward to the group. “Is it the solution?”
“That’s the thing,” replies Lohengrin, also leaning forward. “We—the three of us—don’t think it is. Even at the rate Walpole is scoring, he’ll never get anywhere near the Hall of Fame. He’s clearly hit on something, but I think he’s so high on his own breakthrough, not to mention Sarazzin’s approval, he can’t see that there’s something missing. There’s a big piece of the puzzle, maybe the piece, no one has found yet. So we’re hoping the four of us can crack this thing together. To hell with Sarazzin!”
Fighting words from the gentlest prince who ever lived. It’s kinda funny, really, how his whole way of speaking has changed to fit in with us, but he can’t lose that stiff, regal posture for any activity. He’s been bullied more than any of us, but he hasn’t let it beat him. He’ll be an amazing king one day—Lyssa, Rachel and I have all said it—when he stops worrying about what other people think of him. When he finds that confidence he needs in order to lead. Not that Sarazzin will ever let that happen. But Sarazzin won’t be emperor forever.
In the meantime, call us outcasts. The prince. The triathlete. The daughter of a legend. And their orphan friend, the skimmer.
“You’re on.” I offer my hands to the centre of the group. The others respond in kind, until we’re all united. “Let’s take back the Hex!”
A long silence follows.
CHAPTER 11
The Brick Wall
“Attention. This is O’see Hendron. There will be a scheduled power outage in ten minutes' time. Repeat, there will be a scheduled power outage at fourteen-ten hours. It will last approximately five minutes. For your own safety, the elevators and training apparatuses will shut down automatically. Please do not touch the digital terminals and other electronic devices. Students a
nd personnel are ordered to stay inside their designated work areas. All Hub corridors and walkways are off limits until further notice.”
A.k.a. one heck of a way to break the silence. Lohengrin is the first one out of his seat, but he isn’t sure which way to go. “We couldn’t figure how you got out of here without some kind of access code. Did they give you one, Jim?”
“Not sure,” I reply. “All I do is feed my ink to the sensor over there, and the hatch opens up. But we can’t go that way now.”
“Why not?” asks Lyssa.
“Because it's pitch black in there. I don't know if there's another way out.” Unless you want to fly straight up.
They nod in agreement, and I lead the way out, a rush of uncertainty drowning my sense of routine. Anything could happen from now on. It’s the first time I’ll have climbed down my rope, back into the Hex, mid-session. That carries its own danger, especially with the four of us reappearing together, flouting the emperor’s decree.
The light strips on the corridor walls begin to flicker as we sprint by. An alarm wails around the facility.
“Have you guys heard this before?” I ask, curious about something Rachel said to me weeks ago.
“Not for a while,” replies Lyssa. “We heard it four times in one day, the first time you disappeared. Then twice the next day. Haven't heard it since. And this is the first time they've told us in advance.”
Bizarre. As we take turns descending the rope, the lights’ flicker becomes a slow, dim pulse around the Hex. The scoreboard phases out. Buggos cluster into groups along the arena’s six-sided perimeter, away from the gigs. Our suits blaze whenever the lights pulse dark.
If I’m honest, it’s all a little unnerving. Did I cause this to happen all those weeks ago? Six times in two days?
When the power finally goes out, the mystery of this place dials up tenfold. The little hairs on my skin do this weird, wave-like dance from head to toe and back again, as though some kind of invisible hair-magnet is combing over me. It’s more than just ticklish, it’s thrilling, and leaves me not laughing but breathless, wanting more. That’s confirmed by the build-up of saliva at the back of my mouth; my tonsils are seriously juiced, usually a sign that I’m craving more sugary sweets.
Then, from all around the black arena, the gigs spark to life. A rose-crimson glow courses through each of them, lighting them inch by inch, like a barium meal spread rapidly by some kind of artificial circulation. When they’re fully illuminated, they start to crackle. White electricity bristles from their surfaces, just like the hairs on my skin, in slow up-and-down waves. It’s as if the whole arena is alive with these patterns of electromagnetism. The air sure smells like its burning.
Oohs and aahs from my fellow buggos quickly give way to fascinated silence. The light show is magical, but as it goes on, not changing its act, two questions elbow their way into my mind: What’s causing this? Does it have something to do with the dragonfly?
Finally the waves dissipate and the gigs fade almost to darkness. I’m tingling all over, but in a pleasant, first-bite-after-fasting kinda way. The charged air tastes like an over-grilled quarter pounder. Then the lights come back on. The scoreboard flares to life.
Glancing down, I realise I’m holding Rachel’s hand. She realises it too and pulls away. We’re both hit with an electric shock that leaves us nursing sore, throbbing fingertips.
“Sorry,” I say.
“Sorry,” she replies.
“That'll wake you up in the morning.” Lyssa furiously tries to pat down her frizzed-up hair. She takes a second to point out Rachel’s, which is even worse—a shock of Lunar whiteness. Lohengrin and I laugh at them and high-five each other; the resulting sharp shock soon wipes the smiles off our faces and delights the girls.
“You just don’t listen, do you?”
I recognise the voice before I hear the thump, but it’s too late to stop Sarazzin’s right fist from smashing into Lohengrin’s left eye. The impact staggers my tall buddy backward into Rachel. His knees buckle from under him and, despite her efforts to catch him, he goes down. Dazed.
“What the hell did you do that for?” I throw a punch at the emperor with every bit of strength I can summon. Full against his upper lip. The pain of catching his teeth slices through my knuckles, but it doesn’t stop me. I unleash a kick to his groin as well. Miss. I kick again. He makes a goofy “Uwww!” sound as my boot rearranges his breakfast.
The two girls give as good as they get when their counterparts, the Harpies, sneak up on them from behind. Rachel performs a hip toss on one them but unfortunately doesn't follow up. Typical of the emperor’s posse, the odds are never left equal for long. Four or five boys rush in on Lyssa and Rachel, grabbing hold of them for the Harpies to do their vicious thing.
I hurl myself into the melee but it’s no use. Stronger arms than mine, and way more of them, pull me away kicking and swearing. Fists rain down on me from all sides. Then someone's knee hits the underside of my jaw, snapping my head back into another flurry of punches.
The next thing I know I’m being dragged toward the stone wall that circles the central gig. My sore mouth tastes metallic, and I realise it’s filled with blood. One of my eyes is completely shut; the other only sees a haze. Anything more than a shallow breath burns, as though I’m part dragon and didn’t know it.
Through the haze I can make out Rachel, Lyssa and Lohengrin, all being propped up against the stone wall and the graffiti that reads, WHAT IS THE HEX? Sarazzin’s goons drag me there. Surprisingly, I can stand just fine on my own. I’m sore all over, but maybe it’s just bruises and cuts.
I’m thankful my friends are in better shape than me. They’ve all been roughed up, though. Lohengrin’s the worst; the left side of his face is a mess. We all need medical attention.
So where are the teachers? Security?
“Was it in any way not clear?” the emperor bellows, parting his bigger-than-ever posse like some kind of demented beach general as he strides through. “I thought I made it perfectly clear: if you four were found together—anywhere, at any time—this would happen.” He strolls by us, expressionless, then gets Orkney and Ramirez to give him a peg-up onto the wall. Overlooking us, he raises his voice to address the entire Hex. “Listen, people, it’s real simple, and I’m sick of telling you all: I started this game on top, I’m gonna finish it on top! Me and my people can’t lose. That’s all there is. You’d all still be clucking round in circles if it weren’t for me, too afraid to touch anything, so you need to start showing some respect.”
He clicks his fingers repeatedly. “Right, everyone get into line—one big line. You’ll take turns showing your obedience. I want the first one to hit Van Buren as hard as they can. One hit, hold nothing back. Then the next one in line hits Trillion. Then Duck-Boy. And last of all, Foggerty—that little cow has made her choice, let her live with it. Don’t stop until you’ve all had a go. Well, what are you waiting for?”
Amazing, how one guy can get to be so powerful, and fifty others, who together could stamp him out in a second, let themselves be bullied into doing something so cruel. But they do line up, just like he said—egged on by threats from his posse. And they are ready to pound on us for no good reason. One big line of buggos, snaking left to right at least four times, about to hit us hard. Will there be anything left of us when they’re finished?
A few of them, the other team leaders, kick sand in frustration as they’re forced into line, while several buggos shake their heads or hang them in shame. Hardly any of them look us in the eyes.
The emperor pipes up again: “Now look at Duck-Boy and his idiots. Take a good look. This is what happens to those who think they’re superior. No one should be born superior; they should have to prove it. In here you have to prove it. That’s Hex law.”
“In that case, can I go first?”
“Huh? Who said that?” Sarazzin cranes his neck to see over the back of the line. “Who is that?”
“A volunteer.”
/>
All gazes turn toward someone approaching from behind the group. The big snake parts to let the stranger through.
“What do you want?”
“To be first in line...to beat on a defenceless girl.”
One of my eyes is closed, so I rub the other to make sure I’m not dreaming. As the stranger strides ahead of the line toward Lyssa, my first thought is he’s a senior student in the facility, sent here to put a stop to the fighting. But my heart’s telling me different. That accent, and that blurry shape...
I have to be dreaming.
“The way I see it,” the stranger goes on, “you’ve got war, you’ve got women, but you’re missing something.”
I gasp. “The Soviet Way!” It’s only a whisper but it sounds a gong deep inside me, leaves me shaking. I need to scream out with joy but I can’t—not here. My open eye wells up, so I scrub it clear just in time to see Sergei—my Sergei, bigger than life—put a finger to his lips and throw me a wink.
Sergei just threw me a wink.
He’s here? He’s here. No, he’s here. How is that possible?
“Whoever you are, you need to leave.” So sayeth the emperor, who hasn’t the first idea who he’s dealing with. “The Hex is for buggos only. You don’t have permission to be here.”
“But I am here.”
“What do you want?”
“I told you, to beat on a defenceless girl.” He leans in close to me and whispers, “Jim, I need you to give me a lift up on three. Can you make it?”
With everything I have left, I brace myself against the wall and wink back at him. He mouths one, two, three!
I crouch a little, offer my upper leg for him to use as a platform. In two swift, crushing steps he’s on my shoulders—all twelve stones of him—and I’m somehow lifting him, inch by excruciating inch, up onto the wall.
But he never intended to pull himself up. No, instead he’s got hold of Sarazzin by the legs. I spit against gritted teeth for the few seconds he needs to topple the emperor from his perch. There’s a crazy scuffle up there, a violent exchange of blows that all seem to dig further into my shoulders. Then, just like that, we’re wheeling backward headlong and I can’t stop it. Sergei has kicked us away from the wall and he’s brought Sarazzin with him. The latter squeals like a girl...all the way down...
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