The Dome

by Camille Picott

  If Maxwell is the same man who held me captive on the rooftop in San Francisco, he’ll have a scar on his left hand where I stabbed him with the kitchen knife.

  I crane my neck, trying to see his hands where they grip the scruff of the Aircat. His back is too broad. There’s no way for me to see around him without upsetting the balance of the Aircat.

  “Why did you ask about Dream Dust?”

  I start, recalling that Maxwell and I were in the middle of a conversation. “I’m not sure how much I can say,” I reply, mostly because I’m too rattled to carry on a coherent conversation. “It was just something that came up today.”

  Maxwell grunts and falls silent.

  Somehow, I have to get a look at his hand. I have to know if it’s him.

  My palms are slick with sweat, my throat dry and tight with anxiety. I need truth more desperately than I’ve ever needed it before.

  The Aircat angles downward to the gravel landing pad on the edge of the Village, then touches down with a graceful swoop. I wait until its wings are folded before sliding off. I drop down on the left side, trying to get a look at Maxwell’s hand as I do so. Unfortunately, it’s still buried in the thick fur of the Aircat’s neck.

  I grit my teeth. No more uncertainty. I can’t take anymore tonight. I won’t take anymore.

  “Thanks for the ride,” I say, taking a step forward. I glance up at his face even as my eyes flick toward his hand. “Sorry that Riska took out his anxiety on you. He’ll be better next time.” I say this last part casually, as if I’m being friendly. I glimpse the top of Taro’s head over the Aircat.

  Maxwell peers down at me with hard eyes. “This isn’t the first time that Risk Alleviator has attacked a soldier.”

  He says this with such malice that it raises the hair along my spine.

  “Maxwell,” Taro calls, approaching us, “did you see my dad in the Fortress? He’s been pulling double shifts lately.”

  Maxwell makes a grunt of annoyance. “I’m not Hudanus’s babysitter.”

  There. Maxwell shifts ever so slightly as he addresses Taro. As he does, his grip on the Aircat fur loosens.

  And I see it: the perfect white scar between the knuckles on his left hand.

  My already fractured world spins out of control.

  Maxwell is a League agent.

  “What are you looking at?” Maxwell glares down at me. His knuckles disappear back into the Aircat fur.

  I jump and take several steps backward, heart pounding in my chest. I didn’t even notice he’d turned his attention away from Taro and back to me.

  “I—ah …” A sudden idea forms and I act on it. “You—ah—won’t tell Mr. Winn, will you? About Riska? He, um, it’s sort of a pretty big favor that he lets me keep Riska when we came to the Dome.” I gesture upward, where Riska still flies in angry circles overhead.

  Maxwell grunts again. The iciness disappears from his face, replaced with disdain. “Just don’t let him get too close to me and we won’t have a problem.”

  “Okay.” I scramble back, not having to fake the intimidation I feel.

  In a whoosh of black wings, Maxwell is airborne. He doesn’t look back as he flies away. The other mercs and Aircats follow in his wake. It takes all my willpower to keep my legs from collapsing beneath me.

  Cold sweat slicks my back as I turn toward my friends. My hands tingle and my legs feel wobbly. Riska, still circling above my head, hisses.

  “Sulan?” Concern knots Taro’s brow. “What’s wrong?”

  Billy takes a long look at me. He glances toward Hank, who’s approaching from twenty yards away. “My house,” he whispers. “Fifteen minutes.” He hurries to meet Hank, putting an arm around her shoulders and steering her away from us.

  “I’ll walk you home,” he says to her.

  She leans her head against him. Cinched together, they disappear down the path back to the Village.

  “Sulan?” Taro looks at me in concern.

  “I—” I swallow. Riska lands on my shoulder, mewing discordantly. The stress of the last few hours makes my throat dry.

  The rooftop attack flashes through my mind’s eye like buzzing insects. The gunfire. The swirling attack of blue-clad Leaguers. The cable that snagged and dragged me through the air and into the belly of a helicopter.

  I see Maxwell’s eyes as they smiled maliciously at me. I recall his awful smell.

  Fear makes my skin prickle. Even though I’m thousands of miles away from San Francisco and even though I survived the League kidnapping, the fear is still real. I rub my hand over my face, trying to block out memories.

  “Sulan?” Taro puts a hand on my shoulder, peering at my face with concern.

  I shake my head, refocusing. There’s a real threat right here inside the Dome. I’m not going to sit around and do nothing. From this moment forward, I will funnel all of my energy into exposing Maxwell.

  “I remember him,” I say. “Maxwell, I mean. I remember him from the attack in San Francisco.” I replay the scene for him, lining up all the details for him to examine. “I didn’t put the pieces together until tonight. But he has the scar on his left hand. He has the mole next to his eye. And he smells like cigarettes. And my hallucination—even though it was from the Dream Dust attack, I think some part of me always knew who he was.”

  I look at Taro, half expecting him to object, but he doesn’t. Instead, he says, “It would explain why Riska wants to attack him. But none of this is enough evidence to take to Mr. Winn. At this point, it’s just your memory against Maxwell’s word. It’s not enough.”

  “We have to do something.” The thought of a League agent living in the Dome makes me want to lose my dinner. “We have to figure out a way to get proof.”

  “You’re sure?” Taro asks me. “Beyond a shadow of a doubt, you’re sure Maxwell is the one who grabbed you?”

  “Yes,” I say, no hesitation in my voice. “He’s a Leaguer. I’m such an idiot. I can’t believe I didn’t figure it out sooner.”

  “If he is the League agent, he must have been behind the Dream Dust attack tonight,” Taro says. “He must have some way to communicate with them. We need to get into his house.”

  I’m touched that my conviction is all Taro needs. How many friends would take my word on blind faith? At one point, Hank would have been on that list.

  We head to Billy’s house. I use the walk to tamp down my roiling emotions. I need to be collected and cool-headed to tackle the League.

  Riska pushes his forehead against my cheek. I pull him into my arms and cuddle him, drawing comfort from his presence.

  “Are you okay, Sulan?” Taro touches the side of my arm lightly, dark eyes full of concern.

  I have an almost overwhelming desire to burrow into his arms. I resist the urge. I’m strong, like my mom. Not a weak little girl.

  “I’m okay,” I say, my feet crunching on the gravel road as we walk.

  We arrive at Billy’s house. He’s already waiting outside for us and tapping one hand impatiently against his leg.

  “What is it?” he says by way of greeting.

  I swallow. “Maxwell is the League mole.”

  Billy’s voice drops to a low whisper. “You’re sure?”

  I nod again.

  “I knew it! I’ve been thinking about Riska’s hostility toward Maxwell and wondering if there was something more to it. It makes sense. He would recognize him from the League attack at your apartment.”

  Something inside me wilts. I want Billy to tell me I’m an idiot, that I’m paranoid and sleep deprived. That his original theory was just a shot in the dark.

  “We need to find a way to break into his house,” Taro says. “See how he’s contacting the League. If we get sufficient evidence, we can go to Mr. Winn.”

  “I have an idea. Come inside.” Billy slips an old-fashioned key into the lock, opening the door to the bungalow he shares with his mom and Uncle Zed. In layout, it’s identical to the house I share with Dad. It has the same stock
furniture, but that’s where the similarity ends.

  The living area is crammed with—with stuff. I stare around, struggling to categorize everything I see.

  There are piles of real-world clothing. Jeans, tank tops, sneakers, T-shirts, sweatshirts, sweaters, dresses—all the stuff we’re not allowed to wear in the Dome. There are pre-’Fault books and magazines. Stacks of pre-packaged foods—candy, nuts, dried fruit, jerky, pasta, flour, even canned food. Every piece of furniture in the room is piled high with miscellaneous items. I see board games, playing cards, colored pens and pencils, reams of paper, even beer bottles and big boxes of wine.

  Except for a narrow path that leads to the bathroom and each of the two bedrooms, the floors are concealed with stacks of stuff. The back slider has been barricaded by a wall of boxes. Big sheets of cardboard are taped over the windows, blocking out even the thinnest trickle of exterior light.

  Standing in the middle of the disaster is Uncle Zed, his bald, tattooed head gleaming beneath the recessed lighting.

  28

  Black Market

  BESIDE ZED, perched atop a cardboard box that bulges with clothing, sits Daruuk. He and Zed glance up as we enter, then promptly dismiss us and continue their conversation.

  “I don’t have any more vodka,” Daruuk says, gritting his teeth in frustration. “I already told you that. My dad got suspicious when the first two bottles disappeared. I can’t risk taking his last one.”

  “You want the latest adaptive codec for your voice and video sessions,” Uncle Zed says. “I need vodka for one of my customers. Either you supply it for the exchange, or the deal is off.”

  “There’s got to be something else you need,” Daruuk says. “Please, Zed, my kingdom depends on me.”

  “Vodka,” Zed growls.

  Daruuk’s face flushes with growing frustration. “How about …” He narrows his eyes, peering at Zed. “What if I grant you first right to enter Vex when I finish the modem?”

  Zed goes perfectly still. Beads of perspiration run down his temples. He studies Daruuk.

  “I go in first? Into Vex? When you get the modem complete?” His hands make grasping motions at his waist, like he’s looking for a gun or some other weapon.

  Daruuk, seeing he has Zed’s attention, talks fast. “Yes. Guaranteed first access to Vex. With me, of course. I’m making two headsets. But one will be yours for the first trip in.”

  I stare at Daruuk, wishing I had whatever an adaptive video codec was. I would give anything to be first up on Daruuk’s Vex list. I didn’t even know there was a list.

  “Done.” Zed’s hand snakes out and gives Daruuk’s a firm shake. Then he whirls away and plunges into one of the piles on the sofa.

  His arm roots beneath the cushions. Several seconds later, it emerges. He clutches a small micro-SDX3 card between his thumb and forefinger.

  Daruuk snatches the small item from Zed’s fingers. “I’ll build a statue for you in Andala,” he says, bustling toward the door.

  “He’s going to have a lot of statues in his kingdom,” Billy mutters.

  Daruuk scowls. “I heard that, Long.”

  “Don’t forget our deal,” Zed growls. “First rights for access into Vex.”

  “The reigning emperor of Andala never breaks an oath.”

  “How long before you have the modem ready?” I ask.

  Daruuk arches one eyebrow at me. “You can’t rush genius, Hom.” With that, he strides out the door.

  As it slams shut, I notice the giant piece of cardboard taped to the back of it. Someone—probably Zed—has written all over it with a black marker. The words Project Renascentia march across the top in big bold letters. Beneath that are lots of scribbled notes inside circles. The circles are connected to one another, creating a confusing network of lines that crisscross over the cardboard. I peer at the words inside the circles, trying to read them. The light of the room is dim, making the messy handwriting hard to decipher.

  I make out the words coup and national massacre among the scribbles. I also see the phrase polka-dot submarines and only giraffes can eat from the highest branches. I sigh. Whatever mystery surrounds Project Renascentia, I won’t unravel it here.

  Billy makes a frustrated sound in the back of his throat, drawing my attention.

  “If I had access to my Vex files, I could find out everything we need to know about Maxwell.” He angrily shoves his hands into his pockets. “There wouldn’t be any need for us to trade with my uncle.”

  Zed stands stock still in his junk pathway, staring after Daruuk and muttering under his breath about commies. He turns his dark-eyed gaze to us.

  “Trade?” he asks. “What do you need? I’ve got clothes, candy, books. Other stuff. If I don’t have it, I can find it for you.”

  If I had any doubts about standing in the middle of the Dome’s black market, Zed’s comments erase them. There are half a dozen questions I want to ask, but I restrain myself. Overwhelming Zed with the wrong questions could provoke him into launching a grenade at us.

  “Billy?” I look to him, raising my eyebrows in question. “Any chance you get a family discount?”

  Billy makes a face and shakes his head.

  “We’re looking for information, Uncle.” Billy frowns, glancing at me and Taro. Lowering his voice, he gestures us closer. “Do we agree that we need a way to break into Maxwell’s house?”

  “Yes,” Taro and I say in unison.

  “Okay.” Billy straightens. “Uncle, we need the merc work rotation schedule for next month.”

  I comprehend Billy’s line of thought. If we know when Maxwell is working, then we’ll know when he isn’t home. And if we know when his house is empty, we’ll know when we can break in.

  “Graveyard shift,” Taro adds. “We specifically need the graveyard shift rotation schedule.”

  “Can you get it?” Billy asks.

  “Damn commies,” Zed mutters. He walks in a tight circle amid the clutter, scratching at his bald head and talking to himself in a low voice.

  Billy leans close to us. “Hank and her little brother are coming to get me for dinner in a few minutes. She’ll flip if she finds out what we’re doing.”

  I nod in understanding. “As far as she’s concerned, we’re just meeting you guys for food.” I feel bad about lying to Hank, but Billy is right; she won’t approve of what we’re doing.

  “Okay.” Zed stops pacing. “I can get the information you need. For a price.” He peers at us. “You kids up for a mission?”

  “Uh, what sort of mission?” Billy asks.

  “Infiltration and retrieval.” Zed rubs his hands together and grins, exposing his blackened teeth.

  “You want us to break into someplace and steal something,” Taro says.

  Zed’s grin broadens. “The commies will never see you coming!”

  “What do you want us to get?” I ask. “And where is it?”

  “Cafeteria,” Zed says. “I need a bag of brining salts. Bring me that, you’ll get your merc work schedule.”

  I stare at Zed. “Brining salts?” I repeat, to make sure I heard him correctly.

  Taro takes my arm, tugging me toward the door. “We’ll do it,” he says.

  “Give me two days,” Uncle Zed replies. “I’ll have the schedule in two days.”

  “Brining salt?” I ask as Taro and I step outside.

  “It’s for—”

  “Hey, guys,” Hank calls as she walks up the street. Timmy trots along beside her. “What are you guys doing here?”

  “Hey, Hank.” I put on my best smile and hope I don’t look like I’ve been up to something. “We were—uh—just going to grab dinner with you and Billy.”

  “Yeah,” Taro says. “It’s been a long day. We’re hungry.”

  Hank puts her hands on her hips, narrowing her eyes at us. Taro and I stand side by side, doing our best to look innocent under her scrutiny. I feel like I’m a five year old caught stealing a can of ravioli from the kitchen.

&nb
sp; “What are you guys really doing out here?” Hank asks.

  Taro and I look at each other. Silence stretches.

  “We, ah—” I begin. “I mean, it’s late—I mean, it’s been a crazy day, and—”

  “They’re on a date!” Timmy squeals. He bursts out laughing. “You guys were kissing, weren’t you? That’s what Hank and Billy do when they think no one’s watching!” He makes loud slurping noises.

  Heat rushes up my face. I’m so exhausted from the long day and rattled by Maxwell and the experience with the Dream Dust that I can’t form a coherent defense.

  A heartbeat later, I realize I don’t need a coherent defense. Timmy’s accusation is as good a cover as any. Embarrassing, yes, but I can deal with it. At least Taro is blushing, too. Even Hank is flushed, staring at her little brother in open-mouthed astonishment.

  Without a word, Taro laces his fingers through mine and pulls me down the street. A jolt goes through me as his rough, calloused hand envelopes mine. Our arms brush against each other, sending more pings through me.

  “Well, we both looked sufficiently guilty,” he says with a nervous laugh. “Think she bought it?”

  “I think Timmy embarrassed her enough that she isn’t thinking about us anymore,” I say. “At least Billy is off the hook.”

  Taro doesn’t let go of my hand. I don’t let go of his, either. We walk in silence through the night. The Alaskan sky is a dark purple, not quite black. A strange tension blooms between us. It’s new and pleasant and strange and unnerving.

  It’s not the first time we’ve touched. Why does it feel different this time? I sneak a look up at his face, trying to gauge if he feels the same way.

  As we turn a corner, Taro glances down and catches me staring at him. I quickly look away, reluctantly peeling my hand from his and trying to make the act as casual and natural as possible.

  “So,” I say, looking everywhere except at Taro, “why does Uncle Zed want us to steal brining salt?”

  Taro clears his throat. “Yeah. Well, brining salt is actually saltpeter. Saltpeter is used for smoke bombs.”