“Claudine has an inner circle of mercs who report to her,” Taro says. “If you don’t know who they are, you can usually figure it out by their smell. One of the perks of working for Claudine is free cigarettes. She has them imported from Korea.”
“But Maxwell is her favorite.” Billy’s eyes dart left and right as he speaks, never resting in one place for long. “Uncle Zed says he used to work in the genetics wing where Riska and some of the other creatures were made. He was Claudine’s eyes and ears in that place.”
“If Riska hates Maxwell, that means something … unpleasant might have happened to him before he came to live with me.” I stroke Riska’s back, not liking the idea of anyone hurting him or causing him distress. He rumbles at me, then butts his head against my cheek.
Billy shrugs. “Just something to keep in mind. If Riska wants to tear his eyeballs out, there’s a good reason for it.” He leans forward. “Have you guys thought anymore about the mole who sold us out to the League? Whoever did that might be living right here in the Dome with us.”
I’ve been too preoccupied to think about this, but I know Billy is right. “Do you think Mr. Winn is looking for whoever it is?” I ask.
“You can bet he is,” Taro replies. “According to my dad, Mr. Winn doesn’t take kindly to betrayal. He won’t rest until he catches the person.”
“Whoever it is knows how to cover his tracks,” Billy says. “The fact that he—or she—evaded Mr. Winn’s detection says a lot.”
Our conversation is cut short as Timmy and Hank join us, the two of them juggling all of our breakfast plates. Minus the bread rolls, they managed to get them loaded with food for us.
“Keep your eyes open,” Billy says. “If the League mole is in the Dome, none of us are safe.”
Hank pokes him with her elbow as she hands him a plate. “Are you still worrying about a mole? I told you, we’re safe here.”
“We need to stay vigilant,” Billy replies.
Hank rolls her eyes, but softens the expression with an affectionate smile. She accepts the fact her boyfriend is a conspiracy nut.
Billy, Taro, and I exchange one last look, a silent promise to continue our conversation another time. I file thoughts of Maxwell away to study later.
As we wade into the cafeteria in search of an open table, I see Jason Van Deer watching Taro with slitted eyes. When Van Deer catches me looking at him, he flashes a flirtatious grin. I scowl and turn away, hoping to make it clear I want nothing to do with him.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a wide grin stretch across Van Deer’s face. He points at me, whispering to his friends. They all turn smirks in my direction, several of them laughing. The skin between my shoulder blades itches. I ignore the discomfort slithering up my spine and take a seat with my friends, making sure to sit with my back to Van Deer and his posse of merc kids.
13
Phase One
THIRTY MINUTES LATER I FIND MYSELF astride an Aircat, clinging to the back of a merc as we fly through the Dome. Riska zips through the air above us, hissing at the big animals. Hank, Taro, and Billy fly nearby on other Aircats.
Below us, kids trek through the Dome as they head to their respective schools. Clumps of black-clad merc kids troop toward the defense building. Kids in blue polos head toward the lab for Virtual High, which I guess isn’t a good name since it isn’t virtual anymore. The students in green polos, like Timmy, stay behind in the Village for trade school. There are many faces turned toward the sky, watching us as we pass. Fingers point. It makes me uncomfortable to stand out, to be so set apart from everyone else.
Upon arriving at the Fortress, we’re escorted to the same room with the green sofas where we were detained yesterday. Kerry Sturgess is there in her burgundy polo, cradling her clipboard in one hand.
“Good morning!” she says. “Please, come in and have a seat. We have a lot of work to do. We’re hitting the campaign trail. Each of you is going to play a key role in helping Global Arms win the bid for the defense contract.”
“What about school?” Hank asks, wringing her hands. “Our grades? We’re in the middle of a semester—”
Kerry waves a dismissive hand. “The work you’re doing on the defense contract is top priority. Mr. Winn has frozen all your grades until our work here is complete. ”
“Okay.” Hank’s eyes flicker as she absorbs this. “Tell us what we have to do to help the company win the contract.”
“That’s the spirit!” Kerry beams at Hank.
Riska rumbles. I put a hand on his back to quiet him before Kerry notices the discontent. I take a seat as far from Hank as I can get. She’s thrown everything in with Global. I can accept that. I can even understand it. But it doesn’t mean I have to do it.
Some tension leaves my shoulders when Taro sits down next to me. He gives me one glance, and in that glance I see complete understanding. Riska crawls off my shoulder and into Taro’s lap.
“It’s a simple formula, really,” Kerry says. “Your job is to make America love you. When they fall in love with you, they’ll fall in love with Global Arms. Global will be at the forefront of everyone’s mind when the House and Senate review the defense contract.”
“So we’re essentially staging a popularity contest on a national scale?” I ask.
Kerry arches an eyebrow at me. “That’s an acerbic way to put it, Sulan, though technically correct. Do me a favor and try to think of it in different terms. You need to be positive on the inside if you’re ever going to be positive on the outside. America will not fall in love with a sullen, acerbic teenager. There are too many of those out there already.”
“She can do it,” Hank says, shooting me an earnest look. “She—”
“I can speak for myself,” I snap at Hank. I turn my gaze to Kerry, doing my best not to scowl. “I got it. Don’t be sullen or acerbic.”
“Very good,” Kerry replies. “This is phase one of our defense contract campaign, what Sulan so ineloquently described as a popularity contest.” She purses her lips to show me how much she disapproves. “When the nation thinks of the heroic teens who brought down Imugi, they must also think of Global Arms. Your names and faces must be synonymous with our company. Understand?”
Our company. I turn this phrase over in my mind. I’ve never thought of Global as being mine. I’ve always felt like Global owned me. I know I have to do as I’m told, but I’m determined not to let them dictate how I think.
“Got it,” Hanks says, all enthusiasm. “I am synonymous with Global. Phase one.” The rest of us murmur affirmatives without the enthusiasm.
“What’s phase two?” I ask.
Kerry waves a finger at me. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Sulan. Right now your job is to focus on phase one.”
I sigh, resigning myself to my new position.
“We have one week of prep before your next public appearance in Vex. I familiarized you with your roles yesterday. Today we’re going to start working on your stories. Your stories need to reinforce your roles. All of this will enable the public to get to know you and identify with each of you.”
Riska flicks out his wings in annoyance and stalks back into my lap. Kerry glances at him, then plows on. She makes each of us rehash the roles she established for us, then state how that role brought about the death of Imugi.
It’s easy for the others. Hank hacked through the League firewall. Billy went through the firewall breach and secured the Black Tech he’d designed, which destabilized the Leaguer avatars and made them mortal in Vex. Taro fought and killed many of those Leaguers.
And me? After she listens to my story, Kerry tells me it requires some tweaking.
“It’s wonderful that you were able to embrace your mercenary roots in this epic battle. Your fans will love that. But remember that Global needs you to be the mathematic strategist. Here, I’ve prepared a script for you.” Kerry rifles around on her clipboard, detaches a piece of paper, and hands it to me. “Read this aloud, if you please.”
> I raise the sheet of paper. “Factoring in Hank’s high efficiency at hacking, Billy’s access to elite Black Tech, and Taro’s prowess in hand-to-hand combat, I calculated the statistical probability of escape and determined our best chance would be in Vex. Even then, we had only an eighteen percent chance of success. The odds were statistically stacked against us, but I knew we had to go for it.” The paragraph rambles on, but I quit reading. “None of this is true,” I say.
“Embellishment is perfectly acceptable in politics,” Kerry replies. “You need to commit that speech to memory. I expect you to be able to recite it back to me tomorrow.” She smiles, indicating an end to the discussion. “Now, let’s move on to your personas. You need to get comfortable with them. When you are in front of the public, your persona must be natural. Real. Your job is to make the public fall in love with you, and the only way that will happen is if they believe they know the real you.”
“I can do that,” Hank says.
“Of course you can,” Kerry enthuses, beaming at Hank. “Let’s pretend you’re at a public appearance in Vex. Hank, were you afraid when you were taken to the League auction?”
Hank’s brow wrinkles in concentration, the way she always looks when she’s studying and throwing herself into the task of mastering something. Her obsession with homework has officially been replaced by Global’s bid for the country’s defense contract.
“I was terrified,” Hank says in answer to Kerry’s prompt. “I didn’t see any hope for us. I—”
“Stop,” Kerry says. “You sound like you’re answering an oral exam. Remember, the key is to sound natural and real, not rehearsed.”
“Let me try again,” Hank says.
We all get a turn beneath Kerry’s scrutiny. Apparently I’m too surly. Billy is too withdrawn. Taro, too stiff. All of us need to work on our charm. On smiling. On being real, which is ironic, since Kerry is working so hard to flush out everything real about us.
Kerry also spends a lot of time grooming our responses to questions. Like the press conference, much of our journey revolves around Global tech. Kerry never misses an opportunity to remind us to promote Global tech.
“Make sure you mention the Risk Alleviator when you talk about your time in captivity,” she says to me. “And Billy, when you mention the escape, make sure you talk about the Gav. Remember, Global Green Combat weapons are the future. They helped protect each of you from the League, and they can protect America too. And since Green Combat weapons are grown and not manufactured from natural resources, they are environment-friendly and cost-effective too!”
This last statement comes out of Kerry with a half a dozen exclamation points. I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
And so the day continues. By the time Kerry finishes with us, it’s dinnertime.
“Before we wrap things up, there’s one topic we must address,” Kerry says. “We need to discuss the Frog Man avatar.”
Riska’s tail lashes.
Throughout the day, Kerry heard all about Gun’s intervention in the guise of his Frog Man avatar and the exploding frogs he turned loose in the auction site.
“We need to leave the Frog Man out of your tale,” Kerry says. “It’s not relevant to our cause, and the addition of a mysterious figure will just muddy the water—”
“A mysterious figure?” I say. “The Frog Man is my friend. He has a name. He—”
“He’s not a member of the Global family,” Kerry says. “We don’t want to detract from Global by introducing an element that, in all honesty, we know nothing about.”
She smiles to soften the sting of her words, but it doesn’t work. My face heats up as anger rushes through me.
“Gun saved our lives,” I snap. “You just want to sweep him under the rug and pretend—”
“She has a point, Sulan,” Hank interrupts me. “You don’t know who Gun is. Not really. You’ve never met him in the real-world.”
“What’s wrong with you?” I say, rounding on Hank. “We’d be slaves if not for Gun. Slaves, Hank. Don’t pretend we don’t owe him our lives.”
She flinches under my gaze and has the decency to look embarrassed. I refuse to look away, though inside I feel shriveled and sad. A giant wedge is growing between me and my best friend, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
“We’re not asking you to lie, Sulan,” Kerry says, as if she’s asking me to tie my shoes. “Just omit the parts about him when you’re in front of the media. This isn’t a request.” She rises, tucking her clipboard into the crook of her arm. “I want to congratulate you all on a day’s hard work. You’re all doing very well. Tomorrow we’ll learn about new Green Combat prototypes.”
I stew in silence for the entire flight back to the Village.
14
Benevolent Dictatorship
AFTER THE AIRCATS DROP US OFF in the Village, I watch Hank and Billy walk away, hand in hand. They’re off to check on Uncle Zed and help Timmy with homework.
“I want to erase today from my memory,” I say to Taro, who stands by my side.
He doesn’t say anything. I study his frozen expression. His eyes are focused on something I can’t see.
“Hey.” I squeeze his forearm. “Taro?”
“We’re going to have to let them parade us around like monkeys,” Taro whispers with bitterness. “The whole world is going to see me as a killer.”
“You’re not a killer,” I insist. “You’re a kind person. Just because your father has raised you to be a fighter doesn’t mean that’s who you are on the inside.”
“Doesn’t it, though?” Tension etches his face. He won’t look at me. “You’re the only person who’s ever looked at me and not seen a killing machine.”
“We could refuse to play along.” I spend several seconds daydreaming, imagining myself marching up to Mr. Winn and telling him straight to his face that I won’t be his puppet. I imagine the horror on Hank’s face if she knew what I was thinking. “We could tell Mr. Winn we don’t want any part of this publicity junket.”
Taro shakes his head. “We’re powerless here. You and I—we’re important pawns, but there are plenty of others who are disposable. Uncle Zed. Hank’s family. Even Riska is disposable.”
Even though I already know this, it’s hard to hear Taro put it into such stark terms. “Mr. Winn will hurt people if we refuse,” I say.
Taro meets my eyes. “My father thinks he would. He had a long … talk with me last night. He told me it’s in everyone’s best interest for us to cooperate fully with Mr. Winn’s wishes. The Dome is a dictatorship. It may be a benevolent dictatorship for the moment, but it’s still a dictatorship.”
I know the truth of our situation, but hearing it said makes my head hurt. I raise my hands and massage my temples, wishing I could go to sleep and wake up someplace else. Riska mews.
“I need to hit something,” Taro says, his voice flat. “Come with me?”
“Yeah.”
Without a word, Taro turns and sprints into the Village.
Grateful for the sturdy, Global-issued boots, I take off after him. Riska leaps off my shoulder and flies along beside me. Taro, probably realizing there’s no way my short legs can keep up with his long ones at a full sprint, slows down.
He leads us through the Village streets. He seems to know his way around, which is surprising since we’ve only been here for a day. There are kids on the streets playing kickball, basketball, and soccer. Most of them have green polos—Normie kids—but I see a few clusters of kids in blue polos and black jumpsuits.
We reach the big central park behind the cafeteria, which is teeming with people. There’s a circle of adult women, all in green polos, knitting. Another knot of adults, these in blue polos, practice tai chi together.
There’s a gym at the far end of the park, with a bay of glass doors that slide back and leave the gym open to the air. The gym is mostly filled with adults. Many of them have on gym shorts and T-shirts. The T-shirts are all, of course, color coded, but I m
ake a mental note to take a closer look in my dresser to see if I can find gym clothes.
Taro marches to the nearest punching bag, picks up a pair of boxing gloves, and starts to hit it. The bag rocks back and forth with every strike he makes.
After pulling on a pair of boxing gloves, I position myself in front of the bag next to his and hit it as hard as I can. It barely vibrates, but I don’t care. I hit it again and again, taking comfort in the ache that soon bathes my fists and arms.
Riska alights on top of my bag, settling onto all fours and peering down at me. He’s silent, tail lashing and ears laid back.
Somewhere along the way, the stress seeps out of my body. Pieces of it flake away with every strike and every droplet of sweat. Frustration over today’s events is dulled with the burning of my lungs and the fatigue in my arms. It recedes under the pounding rhythm of my fists.
Finally, exhausted physically and mentally, I step away from the bag. Panting, I hunch over and I rest my hands on my thighs. My khakis and polo are saturated with sweat and cling uncomfortably to my body. Using the sleeve of my polo, I try to dab the sweat from my face.
Taro hunches over beside me, breathing hard. We stay like that for several minutes. Then, we toss the gloves aside and walk outside.
Adults ogle at us as we leave the gym. I’m not sure if it’s because we’re a Muscle and a Brain, because of Riska, or because they know we’re the ones who killed Imugi. Whatever the reason, Riska hisses at some of them, which only draws more gawking eyes.
Outside, there are kids everywhere. A group of merc kids plays football. There’s a group of Normie kids playing soccer. VHS kids sit in clusters, most likely doing homework. I peer at the kids in blue polos, looking for faces I might recognize, but they’re too far away.
We skirt the edge of the park, avoid the crowds, and find a lone tree near a walking path. We flop onto the grass.
The novelty of being on real green grass is something I could get used to. The first thing I do is peel off my boots and socks. I again try to wipe the sweat off my face with my shirt, but the polo is already sopping.
The Dome Page 8