The Dome

by Camille Picott

  “The world is dying for a look into the private world of Sulan Hom,” Crawler says with a sickly sweet smile. “Tell us what was going through your mind in this moment.”

  And just like that, my anger evaporates. My mind goes blank. It’s as if all the hours of practice with Kerry never happened.

  I’m hit with an intense wave of longing as I stare at Gun—at his blue eyes, his shaved head, and his familiar face. My eyes flick between the audience and the image of my friend. My brain fumbles for something to say, but I can’t see past my memories of Gun.

  I’ve worked so hard to ignore my sadness over his absence. He’s out there, somewhere. Is he watching this interview? Does he miss our fights in the Cube as much as I do?

  Does he miss me?

  I see and hear the audience shifting, all of them predatory as they sense Crawler has stumbled upon something sacred to me.

  In my mind, I hear Gun’s voice: Hey, Short Stuff.

  It’s like a jumper cable to my brain. I sit up straighter, turning to look at the audience. I’m Short Stuff. I earned every scrap of respect I was given in the Cube. Short Stuff doesn’t go down without a fight.

  “It wasn’t easy, earning a place at a Naked merc club,” I tell the audience. “It wasn’t like being at Virtual High, where everything was easy and I fit in. I had to prove myself every day.” I gesture at the frozen hologram. “This was my first night there. I was a fish out of water. But I didn’t let that stop me.”

  The audience breaks into applause. Crawler gives me a flicker of a smile. It could be my imagination, but I swear I see a glimmer of respect there.

  “That’s how we defeated Imugi,” Hank says. “Global kids don’t give up just because things are hard. We don’t shirk away from scary situations. Global encourages all its students to tackle challenges head on.”

  Hank to the rescue, steering everything back in right direction. I jump on board with her.

  “Yeah,” I say. “That’s what they taught us at Virtual High. On top of the math and science.”

  Hank and I laugh in unison, both of us smiling.

  “Well, remind me not to stand in front of Global girls,” Crawler says. “I might just get run over.”

  This time, when he smiles, I see a flash of irritation. That’s when I know I’m in the clear. He’s dealt his ace and doesn’t have any other cards to play. At least, not today.

  “Well,” he says with forced cheer, “I can’t wait to ask your friend Billy Long about his Black Tech when he visits my show next week. Fascinating stuff.”

  ***

  The rest of the interview passes smoothly. When Hank and I reemerge into the real-world thirty minutes later, Claudine and Mr. Winn are locked in an intense conversation. Kerry rises from her chair, uneasiness scrawled across her features.

  “I told you it was a mistake to turn Crawler loose on them,” Claudine snaps.

  “Nonsense.” Mr. Winn waves a dismissive hand. “The girls handled him expertly.”

  “Miss Hom did not stick to her prescribed role,” Claudine says. Her screen swivels so she can glare at me.

  “But she didn’t crack,” Mr. Winn says. “And the audience loved her sassiness. Besides, we’ll have plenty of opportunities to amp up her math angle.” He shifts his gaze to Kerry. “I applaud your hard work, Ms. Sturgess. The girls performed remarkably well, all things considered.”

  I sag in relief. Riska crawls onto my chest, rubbing his head against my chin. I give him a quick squeeze.

  “I want the Long and Hudanus interview pulled.” Claudine rotates her screen so that she faces Kerry. “Cancel it immediately.”

  “You’re overreacting.” Mr. Winn waves a dismissive hand. “The Wall Crawler interview will remain as scheduled, Ms. Sturgess.”

  “Then we need to investigate that boy.” Claudine’s screen snaps back toward me. “We’ve ignored his presence for too long—”

  “Someone bring in Mr. Long and Mr. Hudanus,” Mr. Winn shouts, drowning out the rest of what Claudine is trying to say. “They’re up in twenty minutes. Ms. Sturgess, take Miss Simmons and Miss Hom back to the prep room. More practice can’t hurt.”

  Claudine makes a sound of disgust. Her wheelchair cuts a ninety-degree turn before whirring down a back hallway. It’s as close to storming out of the room as she can manage.

  I trail Hank and Kerry out of the media room, a longing for Gun filling every crevice inside me. I almost wish Mr. Winn would investigate Gun, if only so I could get a chance to see him. But I wouldn’t wish the attention of the Winns on anyone. Better for Gun if the Winns never think about him again.

  On my shoulder, Riska lets out a long, discordant mew.

  22

  Anarchist Rally

  THE NEXT WEEK PASSES IN A BLUR. After my near miss with Crawler, I have a new appreciation for how much power the Vex show hosts have over us.

  Kerry continues her work with us. I apply newfound enthusiasm to my practice sessions. I don’t like it, but the alternative is worse.

  At home, Dad and I settle into an uneasy truce. He doesn’t try to have any more uncomfortable talks with me and I don’t mention Taro or Aston.

  I spot Dad and Aston together only once in the cafeteria. I try to sneak through the crowd to eavesdrop, but even with dozens of people milling around, Aston spots me fifty yards away. He leans forward, pretending to get a pancake. Dad never looks in my direction, but immediately peels away from the buffet line and disappears into the crowd. I never see them together again.

  So much for getting to the bottom of that mystery.

  With all of us being so busy, Taro, Billy, and I don’t have much time to talk about Maxwell, Project Renascentia, or viruses. Over a covert conversation at breakfast—when Hank and Timmy briefly leave us to get seconds on biscuits—we promise to work out a solid plan when our publicity schedules lighten up.

  If only we knew when that would be.

  ***

  Of all my friends, I’m paired with Billy the least for my public appearances in Vex. So I’m surprised when, one evening, I show up at the Aircat landing pad outside the Village and find him waiting there. He tilts his head, one eye smiling out at me from behind the curtain of his bangs.

  “So you’re the one who got drafted to attend the anarchist rally with me.” There’s an amused quirk to his mouth. “I thought for sure Kerry would send Taro.”

  “An anarchist rally? Really?” I ask.

  Billy shrugs. “Anarchists like guns. I bet we’re going to meet some of Global’s best customers.”

  “They probably would’ve sent Taro with you, but he’s booked with some munitions club in a few hours for their annual virtual gala.” I shrug.

  “You’re the daughter of Morning Star,” Billy replies. “You’re not exactly out of place among these people.”

  “Global isn’t exactly pushing that part of my life.” I make a face and change the subject. “I saw Daruuk a few days ago. He said he’s getting closer on the Vex modem.”

  Billy grunts. “He’s been saying that for weeks now. Uncle Zed is going crazy. His Project Renascentia obsession is driving him to do some strange things. Well, stranger than usual, anyway. He’s been staking out different hiding places along the paths that lead to the lab and defense buildings so he can eavesdrop on conversations. He stole a few green polo shirts and turned them into pants to be better camouflaged among the plants.”

  The mental image of Uncle Zed hiding in plants in a stolen Global polo shirt makes me giggle. A smile of amusement tugs up the corners of Billy’s mouth.

  A breeze stirs the air. I glance up, sighting the source of the breeze: two Aircats. Even from a distance, I recognize the salt-and-pepper hair of Maxwell. I’ve seen him around the Dome over the past few weeks, though I’ve made it a point to steer wide of him.

  I put a firm hand on the back of Riska’s neck as Maxwell and his Aircat draw near.

  “No,” I tell him, making my voice firm. “No, Riska.”

  Ri
ska growls in response, dropping into a crouch on my shoulder. All the fur along his spine and tail stands on end. As soon as Maxwell’s Aircat touches down, Riska launches off my shoulder.

  “Riska, no,” I say again.

  He growls, hissing and flapping in tight, angry circles, but he doesn’t attack. Maxwell gives me a dirty look and pointedly ignores Riska.

  Billy gives me a look as Riska does his berserk routine, but I shrug and look away, not wanting to do anything that draws more attention from Maxwell. I might never know why Riska hates him, but I can do my best to keep more bad things from happening to him.

  I climb up behind him, ignoring the gross smell of cigarettes and my sense of uneasiness.

  Our trip to the Fortress is uneventful. We’re delivered to the media room by a bored-looking merc. Kerry is already there, waiting for us. Despite the dark circles under her eyes, she still has her chipper smile.

  Even though I find her perma-smile annoying, I’ve developed a grudging respect for the woman. For as hard as she pushes us, she works just as hard. She doesn’t miss a single event. I’m not sure when she has time to sleep, let alone book media events for us. But somehow she does it.

  At the late hour, the media room is mostly deserted. There are two gray-shirted techs stationed by the Vex servers, both of them with Vex goggles over their eyes. Other than that, the room is empty.

  “Hello,” Kerry says, with her customary bright smile. “Have a seat. The rally is just getting started. It’s their annual membership convention and everyone is excited to meet the two of you. Global has some big customers in the crowd. Keep that in mind as you circulate.”

  Billy pushes a hand through his hair and arches one eyebrow at me, as if to say I told you so.

  We jack into Vex and land in the anarchist site. A long line of people has already formed, all of them eager to meet us and have us autograph their avatars.

  Billy and I spend the next several hours surrounded by tattooed, leather-clad avatars who love to shoot guns into the air and shout things like, “Death to the institution!” and, “Nevermind the bullocks!”

  I’m grateful they aren’t shooting real guns, although I’m pretty sure Billy is right about these people; they probably have their fair share of munitions in the real-world. Many sport Global logos on their clothing, which I find creepy. What would some of them pay to get their hands on real Global logo wear, like the stuff I’m forced to wear every day in the Dome?

  Billy, as an elite Black Tech designer, is something of a celebrity. He signs several dozen boobs, a fact which he makes me swear not to mention to Hank.

  I’m an exotic bird among these people. They all want to know about the League kidnapping, which I find myself rehashing again, and again, and again. Luckily, I’m so well-versed in Global’s retelling that I don’t have to think about it much; my mind is free to wander to more pleasant thoughts that don’t involve me being tortured and auctioned on the black market.

  Near the end of the rally, I’m approached by a wiry avatar with an advanced widow’s peak and greasy black hair. He’s dressed in black leather with a face that’s pitted and seamed. I can only assume he’s going for the pre-’Fault biker look.

  “Will you autograph my arm?” he asks.

  “Sure.” I raise my pen, motioning for him extend his arm.

  The man pushes up his black leather sleeve. I balance his wrist in one hand, resting the tip of my pen on the flesh of his avatar. A faded green tattoo adorns his inner arm. I barely glance at it as I write my name.

  I’ve just formed the “S” of my name when my eyes jerk back to his tattoo.

  266 is inked in flowing script. Next to the number is another tattoo of a die.

  266 was the locker room number I shared with Gun in the Cube.

  My attention snaps to the man’s face. He regards me with steady blue eyes.

  I study his face, searching. Could it be? Could this be Gun?

  “Hey, Short Stuff,” the man says at last, his voice soft.

  I suck in my breath. It takes all my willpower to keep from throwing my arms around him.

  “Baldy,” I whisper back, unable to peel my eyes from his face.

  Silence stretches between us. There’s so much I want to say, but I don’t dare.

  “I’ve missed you, Short Stuff,” he says at last. “Things aren’t the same without you around.”

  “I’ve missed you, too.” My voice cracks as I struggle to hold back a surge of emotion.

  “We don’t have much time. Your handler is distracted, but not for long. Finish your autograph.”

  A quick glance to my left reveals Kerry trying to extricate herself from an enthusiastic woman with submachine guns for arms. She waves them under Kerry’s nose as she talks. I lean over Gun’s arm and resume writing my name.

  “Are you okay?” he asks. “Are they treating you well?”

  “I’m okay,” I whisper back.

  “I’ve been trying to find a way to speak to you for weeks, but Claudine has been hot on my trail—”

  “She is?” I pause, frowning at him. I recall the day she tried to grill me about Gun, but Mr. Winn cut her off and sent her away. Has she really been tracking Gun all this time? “Mr. Winn told her not to bother with you.” All this time, I’d thought he’d been safe.

  Gun shakes his head. “Long story. No time for it now. Sulan, this is really important. Can you tell me if you’ve heard anything about something called Project Renascentia?”

  Beside me, Billy goes still, his conversation with a busty avatar forgotten. After a beat, he resumes his talk with her, but I sense his attention on me and Gun.

  “I—”

  Gun’s attention shifts, his eyes looking at something over my shoulder. He ducks, pulling me down with him.

  A dart whizzes over us, embedding itself into the chest of the avatar behind Gun. The man groans and drops to the floor, unmoving.

  “I have to go,” Gun says. “Watch out for Project Renascentia, Short Stuff. Stay clear of anything that has to do with it.”

  There’s a moment when his blue eyes lock on mine. Then he disappears, winking out of existence as he leaves the Vex site.

  I rise, looking over my shoulder. Kerry stands several feet away, eyes wide as she stares at me.

  Beside her is Claudine Winn, dressed in a black, skin-tight leotard and five-inch pumps. Her eyes are thunderous. In her hand is a dart gun.

  She takes three quick strides toward me, seizing my wrist with her hand. With her other hand, she grabs Billy’s wrist. The two of us are jerked out of the anarchist rally and flung into the whirling blue of the Vex browser.

  23

  Interrogation

  SECONDS LATER WE LAND IN A SMALL, square Vex room. The walls, floor, and ceiling are all black. Claudine stands in front of us, hands on her hips. One stiletto taps against the floor.

  “I want to know everything he said,” she says, voice icy. “Every. Last. Word.”

  I swallow, fighting the desire to shrink back from her. Her black clothing blends into the walls, giving her the illusion of a disembodied head floating in space. The effect is creepy. Which is probably her intention.

  For the barest second, I consider denying everything and playing dumb. But only for a second. The fire in her eyes tells me how serious my situation is.

  “He—he asked me how I was doing,” I say.

  “What else?” She narrows her eyes, glaring at me.

  “He said he’s been trying to find a way to see me for weeks but that you—you’ve been tracking him.”

  Her lips tighten. If she could grind me to dust beneath one of her shoes, I have a feeling she would.

  “He said—he said you’ve been tracking him since the League auction.”

  “I heard him say something to Sulan about the Renaissance,” Billy adds. “Something about Renaissance history.”

  I immediately understand Billy is trying to hide the fact that Gun mentioned Project Renascentia; he’s skirtin
g the truth, trying to give us plausible deniability. I follow Billy’s lead, chewing my lip and trying to look nervous. This isn’t difficult, considering the circumstances.

  “He wanted to know if Renaissance history has been covered in any of my classes,” I say. “I was going to tell him I’m not taking classes right now, but then that dart interrupted us …”

  Claudine’s face contorts. Her hand tightens around the dart gun. It’s pointed at the floor, but even so, Billy and I edge away from her. There’s no telling what sort of Black Tech it’s loaded with.

  “Why—why would he go to all that trouble to ask me about a class?” I say.

  Her nostrils flare. “For your information,” she says, “that young man you frolicked with in the Cube is not who he seems.”

  This catches me off guard. How much does she know about the Cube?

  “You didn’t really think your exploits were a secret, did you?” Her voice drips with disdain. “I made it a habit to keep tabs on the extracurricular actives of all VHS students. Your grades improved once you started your nightly romps, so I permitted them to continue. Of course I did a background check on your little friend. I never bought his supposedly Naked avatar. No one looks that good in real life.”

  “What?” I stare at her. She’s lying. She must be lying.

  “My techs traced his Virtual Identity to a skinny, near-sighted boy in southern California. The son of two jewelers. He wasn’t a threat. Or so I thought. Then he showed up at the League auction.” Claudine advances on us. Her avatar grows several inches, forcing us to look up at her.

  Billy and I take a few steps back. We bump into the wall.

  “Turns out my techs did a sloppy tracing job. His appearance at the League auction made that obvious. I brought in a new team to trace his VI. After nearly three days of hacking, they discovered an Infinity Mirror.”

  Billy takes in a sharp breath. I look between Billy and Claudine, trying to remember what Hank told me about Infinity Mirrors.