by Paul Aertker
Scattered across his brain Lucas could see fragments of a dream floating away. He reached into the back of his mind and snatched whatever pieces he could hang on to. During the flight that night he had dreamed of containers filled with his grandfather’s diamonds. He wondered if uncovering something from his past would lead him toward his future.
Lucas stayed in his pod thinking for a minute until it hit him. You can’t let your family—past or present, living or dead, rich or poor—define who you are now.
The automatic door to the main cabin slid open. Robbie and Sophia followed Emerald pushing a cart down the aisle, passing out euros for spending money.
“Good morning,” Sophia said. “I hope everyone’s ready.”
“The plan looks like this,” Robbie said. “We’ll drop you off here in Rome at a private airstrip. While we refuel the plane, you’ll have to go into the small passport office. After that you’ll board the bus that’s waiting and go straight to Civitavecchia, where you’ll set up shop in our converted container.”
“Unfortunately,'’ Sophia said, “there is no touring around Rome today.”
No one said anything. It was too early in the day to talk.
Sophia handed Astrid an envelope. “Inside you’ll find a credit card for emergencies. And there’s a phone that will work on the open seas.”
Robbie added, “Once you find the phi container, text us, and we’ll wrap this mission up. We have teams in Malta, Sicily, and Corsica waiting for your message.”
White Bird One landed at a private airstrip attached to the Ciampino Airport near Rome.
The new Tier One—Lucas, Astrid, Jackknife, Travis, Kerala, Alister, and Mac—descended the flight of stairs and walked across the tarmac toward a small, white trailer on wheels. A block of wooden steps led up to a metal door. A multi-language sign said it was the passport, immigration, and border-patrol office.
Mac held the door for everyone but kept his eyes on White Bird One, now being refueled.
Opera music blared from inside the trailer.
“That’s Puccini,” Astrid said over the music. “But Kerala, could you ask the guy to kill the sound?”
Kerala spoke to the man, and he turned the volume down.
The metal building was furnished with one chair and a fold-up table. The passport officer sat behind this desk, which was littered with stacks of papers and forms, a laptop, and handheld stamping machines.
Tacked on the bulletin board behind the table were posters about work safety and smaller printed sheets with pictures of people from different countries.
“Passaporti,” the agent said to everyone.
The New Resistance kids lined up and took out their passports. Lucas had two valid passports on him: an Argentinean one with an old picture and a brand-new one from the USA. He chose to show his American passport since it had no stamps in it.
Kerala went first in line and chatted with the officer for a second. As the man stamped each of the kids’ passports, he glanced up at them, presumably to see if the photograph and the person matched.
While he waited, Lucas scanned the bulletin board behind the desk. His eyes flicked back and forth past the pictures of international fugitives. Row by row Lucas memorized them, trying to see if he recognized anyone. Then he spotted a picture he knew well. The same picture that was in his American passport was staring right back at him.
“Passaporto,” the agent said to Lucas.
Lucas’s heart jumped into his throat. He jammed the American passport into his back pocket, patted his chest and pants, and then pulled out his old Argentinean passport.
“Motto vecchio,” the man said, inspecting the exterior of the beaten-up passport. Then in labored English he said, “Very old.”
Lucas could feel his face getting flush like when he didn’t have his homework done and got called on in class. He was sure his face was bright red. Guilty as charged.
The man slowly flipped through the booklet and stared at every single page. There was hardly room for another stamp. With the turn of each page Lucas could feel sweat gathering in his armpits.
The man’s unibrow furrowed. “I know you.”
Lucas gulped.
“You are famous? No?”
Lucas shrugged and shook his head. He didn’t want to call attention to the Interpol poster sitting right behind the guy.
“Where are you going in Italy?” the officer asked with a smile.
Travis whispered to the others. “If we don’t tell the guy what we’re doing, he’ll stop us here.”
“I agree,” Astrid said, nodding toward Kerala. “Tell him that we’re supposed to catch a ship across the Mediterranean to Barcelona.”
Kerala told the man what they were doing, and the officer typed into his computer. He leaned back in his chair and waved good-bye.
“Ciao,” he said.
“Ciao,” they replied.
The tour bus was a brand-new Volvo 9900 and was freezing cold with air-conditioning. Lucas thought it was a perfect environment for jet-lag napping. But with black lights, plush couches, and video games it was also a playground. Behind a big monitor at the back, there was a minibar stocked with snacks and drinks, and a door with the word toilet written in ten languages. Lucas crashed into the center couch next to Alister, where they compared their white teeth in the black lights.
The driver steered the bus across the tarmac and through a security gate and into the town. A traffic jam clogged the first intersection. The driver joined the others stuck in traffic by banging on his horn.
Travis and Astrid started playing a video game, and Mac and Kerala watched. Jackknife got up and went to the bathroom. From inside the little room, someone moaned.
“Hey!” he called out. “This door is locked. And there’s someone in here!”
GLAD TO BE GLADIATORS
Siba Günerro put on a pair of cat-eye sunglasses as she stepped out onto the balcony of the Good Hotel Rome. She popped a frozen pea in her mouth as she surveyed the Vatican below.
The CEO of the Good Company wore a white suit with tails of gossamer fabric that drifted in the wind. To the north, Ms. Günerro spied her helicopter returning to its base. Then she dipped her glasses to watch the storm clouds that were gathering over the greater Mediterranean Sea.
Behind her, Charles Magnus was talking on the phone.
“Yes, Charlotte,” he said. “I printed out your email. I’ll give it to her now.”
He hung up and handed Ms. Günerro a piece of paper. She read:
For Interpol eyes only:
Private jet White Bird One landed thirty minutes ago at an airstrip at the Ciampino Airport. Local passport agent reports the following passengers entering Italy: Kerala Dresden, Paulo Cabral, Astrid Benes, Travis Chase, Mac MacDonald, Alister Thanthalon Laramie Nethington IV, and Lucas Benes.
The passport agent on duty said that he did not recall receiving the bulletin prior to the fugitive’s arrival. The group is departing by ship from Civitavecchia at 20:27 local time.
Ms. Günerro said, “The passport agent is obviously lying or he’s just a buffoon. He didn’t release the New Resistance kids. They got away.”
“Doubtful,” Magnus said.
“Why?” Ms. Günerro asked. “Where are they now?”
“On a bus.”
“And who’s driving?”
“Let’s put it this way,” Magnus said. “It’s not the original driver.”
Ms. Günerro said, “The New Resistance is full of weaselly little brats—like all children, they’re slimy and will slip out the first chance they have.”
“You’re right.”
“I’m always right!” she said. “If they do get away, they’ll probably try to get to Civitavecchia through Roma Termini. Put some Curukians at the station and have them follow Lucas if he shows up.”
“Certainly,” Magnus said. “We have two guards who are training at the Roman Gladiator School.” He nodded. “They would be happy to use their newly learned s
kills.”
“You mean,” Ms. Günerro said, chuckling, “they would be glad to be gladiators!”
ALL ROADS LEAD TO ROME
The expression “All roads lead to Rome” didn’t literally have to mean “roads.” It simply could mean that there was more than one way of getting into the city. One could get to Rome by boat or plane or on roads of iron.
The bus driver laid on the horn again, protesting the traffic jam.
Alister flipped open his briefcase and inserted what looked like an ice pick into a hole in the door handle of the toilet room.
“Give me the credit card,” he said.
Astrid handed it to him, and Alister slid the card between the door and jamb. He wiggled the lock, and the door clicked open.
A small stocky man tied in a ball on the floor spilled out of the room and into the aisle. His short-sleeve shirt was torn, and his hands and feet were lashed with sisal ropes. A giant piece of duct tape covered his face from ear to ear. Lucas untied the knots while Jackknife gently peeled the tape from the man’s mouth.
He looked up at the kids standing over him. “Get off the bus,” he said. “While you still can.”
When the phony bus driver saw what was happening in the rearview mirror, he ratcheted up the emergency brake, locked the doors, and barged down the aisle.
Travis, Jackknife, Kerala, and Mac clustered around the driver, blocking him between the couches.
“Give me a soft drink,” Astrid said to Lucas.
He opened the minifridge and tossed her a can of Chinotto.
“Duck!” Astrid yelled.
The others dropped.
Astrid hurled the drink across the bus. The driver turned to miss it, but the spinning soda can smacked him above the eyebrows. The man howled and fell back onto a couch, squeezing the gash on his forehead.
Jackknife grabbed hold of two handrails, and in one swift swinging motion, he catapulted his feet into the locked doors. They nearly blasted off their hinges as they snapped open.
“Which way, Map Boy?” Astrid said as they hit the sidewalk.
When Lucas was in fifth grade he had built a diorama of Rome for his inquiry project. He had memorized practically every street and aqueduct in modern and ancient Rome. He closed his eyes for a half second, and multiple maps of Rome and its environs filled his head.
The group only made it three steps before the phony driver stumbled into the road after them, blood pouring into his eyes. The real driver leaped off the stalled bus after him and tackled the man to the street, where they fell into a brawl.
With a slight whistle Lucas started up the sidewalk, motioning the others to follow.
Lucas, Astrid, Jackknife, Travis, Kerala, and Alister snaked through the town toward the train station. When they got to the piazza, they spotted a triangle of policemen gathering outside. They were checking everyone and letting one person through the gate at a time. The fact that policemen were guarding the entrance killed the idea of leaving by train. They might have seen Lucas’s picture in the Interpol bulletin.
Sometimes it wasn’t skill or knowledge that made you succeed in life. Sometimes it was sheer determination. Lucas had to get to the port and get on that ship and find the container that his mother had diverted from the Good Company.
He whipped around and headed back the way they had come. Mac MacDonald was panting up the road toward them, his feet slapping the ground and making a noise the police could probably hear. Lucas signaled him to follow. The rest of the kids trailed Lucas as he hurried to the next intersection, where they saw another police checkpoint.
“Everything is blocked!” Travis said.
Mac threw his hands up in the air. “We’re not going to outrun the Roman police—they have Lamborghinis.”
“You’re right, Mac, we won’t outrun them,” Lucas said, “but Lamborghinis have to drive on roads.”
Another map formed in Lucas’s head, and he took off down the street. A minute later they were in a parking lot strewn with wooden crates and beat-up cars. They jogged up a tiny ramp that led straight to the train tracks.
“You can’t go that way,” Astrid said even before Lucas had said anything.
“Like they say, ‘All roads lead to Rome,'” Lucas said. “Even roads of iron.”
Astrid planted her hands on her hips. “We could get hit by a train.”
“These tracks will take us to the station on the other side of this police blockade. From there we can catch a commuter train. We’ve got to go through Roma Termini—it’s now the best way for us to get to the port.”
Before Lucas could make a move, the ground began to shake. Within twenty seconds a white commuter train bombed past them, blowing everyone back.
“Sorry,” he said to Astrid. “That would’ve been ugly.”
She nodded, accepting his apology.
Lucas looked both ways down the train track. “But now we have ten minutes before another train comes.”
They raced down the tracks and arrived at the Capannelle station, where Astrid got the credit card back from Alister and bought tickets. They boarded the next commuter train into Rome.
The plan was simple. They would go to Roma Termini—the end of the line. There, they would get on the express train that would take them out to the port. They would have tons of time to spare before getting on the ship.
It was thirteen minutes before they arrived at the main train station in Rome.
GLADIATOR SCHOOL?
As one of the oldest continuously occupied cities in Europe, Rome was often called the Eternal City. The capital of Italy was killer (as in an awesome place to visit), but it was once considered killer (as in deadly) if gladiators just so happened to want you dead.
Lucas had no intention of dying in Rome or spending an eternity there.
But when they stepped onto the platform, they spotted an unexpected pair of gladiators wearing traditional tunics with flowing red capes and gold helmets. They had silver swords and shields at their sides. One of the fighters stepped forward, his blond curly locks poking out the back of his helmet.
What? thought Lucas. It’s Goper Bradus!
The other gladiator flicked open his visor, and Ekki Ellwoode Ekki’s round eyeglasses stared out.
As the kids moved toward the men, Astrid fired off the first question. “What are you two doing here?”
“Duh,” Ekki said, pointing to his outfit. “We’re gladiators!”
“We can see that,” Travis said. “But aren’t you off by a few thousand years?”
Goper said, “There’s a gladiator school in Rome and we’re here to learn.”
“Yeah,” Ekki added, “it’s called education.”
“So what exactly are you learning to do?” Mac asked.
“Capture seven kids while wearing heavy armor?” Alister asked.
“No,” Goper said. “We just want to follow you.”
“Yeah,” Ekki said. “Lucas tricked Ms. Günerro with the wrong birth chart.”
Astrid asked, “You’re going to follow us in those ridiculous outfits?”
“Good luck,” Jackknife said.
Astrid moved to the kiosk and bought tickets for everyone. Lucas snatched the credit card from the machine before she could pocket it.
“I’ll need it,” Lucas whispered.
“Why?”
“I’m not going with you on the next train.”
“Why not?”
“These guys are here for me, and I should have no problem outrunning them in those costumes!”
“That’s crazy,” Mac said.
“I know this city better than those two clowns,” Lucas said.
Kerala poked into the conversation. “But,” she said, “you’ve never been here before. I have.”
“I’ve got the city map in my head,” Lucas said.
“That could work,” Astrid said. “We’ll go to the port and do the paperwork for our container, and we’ll meet you there before they load us up.”
“I
’ve fled this city before,” Kerala said. “I’m coming with you.”
WHEN IN ROME
Kerala’s tone was so emphatic that Lucas couldn’t help but give in.
They left the others and headed into the main train station. The open area was crowded with travelers carrying suitcases and shoppers toting bags and pickpockets looking for distracted people.
Goper and Ekki followed in their clanging metal costumes.
Kerala and Lucas cut through the crowds into the shopping mall of Roma Termini. They moved quickly, but when Lucas glanced back, he saw Goper and Ekki still keeping pace.
Outside they stepped into a blazing hot afternoon filled with smog and sirens. Lucas and Kerala cut between the rows of white taxis and ran across the crosswalk.
A white van with no side windows passed in front of them. Small satellite dishes shaped like a human ear and eyeball slowly spun on top of the vehicle’s roof. In Italian and in English, the logo and tagline on the sides of the van said it all:
GOOD COMPANY IMAGES
WATCHING AND LISTENING
SO YOU DON’T HAVE TO
Lucas’s eyes followed the van down the street until he lost it in the traffic circle.
Lucas and Kerala headed up the piazza dei Cinquecento, under the pine trees, and past the green-white-and-red Italian flags flapping in the breeze, where they stopped in the shade of a tour bus.
Kerala’s black Goth makeup was starting to bleed. “So what’s the plan?” she asked. “Run through Rome until we lose these ridiculous-looking gladiators?”
“They’re just following us. Goper doesn’t want to hurt us. He’s just doing what someone told him to do.”
“There will be Curukians looking for us too,” Kerala said. “And there is only one real way to move through Rome at any speed.”
Lucas looked right into Kerala’s eyes. She totally understood what they were doing. The best way to get away from these guys was not to run but to ride.
“You’re right,” Lucas said. “See those palm trees? That’s the Baths of Diocletian. So that means there should be a Bici and Baci rental shop right down here to the left.”
Lucas stopped.
