The Dome

by Camille Picott

I stop in my tracks. “It’s used to make smoke bombs?”

  “Yep.” He gives me a tight look.

  “Let me guess. Your dad taught you how to make them when you were two.”

  Taro wrinkles his nose. “I was six.”

  I snort. The strange sensation that was building between us dissipates. It feels like we’re just Taro and Sulan again.

  “And, um, I don’t suppose Zed wants to brine a pig or something?” I say. “I mean, real pig tastes so good.”

  Taro laughs. “As much as everyone in the Dome likes dead pig—”

  “Except for you.”

  “Except for me,” he agrees. “I’m pretty sure Uncle Zed isn’t going to be hosting a banquet anytime soon.”

  “There’s no way he could get into the kitchen himself,” I muse. “It’s bad enough he steals bread rolls. I saw him sneaking forks into his shirt the other day. Everyone on the kitchen staff keeps their eyes on him.”

  “I saw him swiping salt and pepper shakers yesterday,” Taro says with a grimace.

  “So we’re doing his dirty work.”

  “He’s doing ours,” Taro corrects. “I don’t know how he intends to get the merc rotation schedule, but it will cost him something.”

  I nod. “All right. So we need to break into the cafeteria. Should we do it tonight?” I’m dead on my feet from the Dream Dust attack, but don’t want to admit it.

  To my relief, Taro shakes his head. “Neither of us is up for it after everything we’ve been through today.”

  “Tomorrow night, then?” I ask.

  “Yeah.” He gives me a smile. “Tomorrow night.”

  29

  Break In

  IT’S ALMOST TWO IN THE MORNING the next night when Taro knocks on my window. I keep the lights off as he slips inside.

  “I brought this for you.” He hands me a dark bundle of cloth.

  As soon as the fabric falls into my hands, I know what it is. Bulletproof fabric has a thick, semi-rubbery feel.

  “Where did you get this?” I unfurl a jumpsuit that looks to be my size. I grin like an idiot and hold it up against me. Riska lands on Taro’s shoulder, purring loudly.

  “Didn’t you hear?” Taro scratches Riska behind the ear. “There’s a black market in the Dome. You can get just about anything there.”

  “What did you trade to get this?”

  “That’s between me and Uncle Zed. Do you like it?”

  “Are you kidding? The only thing I’d like more is a gun. Turn around so I can put it on.”

  He obliges, looking out the window while I shimmy out of my despised polo shirt. As I pull on the jumpsuit, I relish the feel of it against my skin. I feel like I belong in this suit.

  “You look like your mom,” Taro says as I come to stand beside him. “A bit shorter, though.”

  Something twinges inside me, like a discordant string snapping back into place after long being out of tune. It’s a pleasant feeling. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me in a long time,” I whisper. My throat tightens with emotion. To diffuse the moment, I add, “Except the part about me being short.”

  Taro smiles. “Come on,” he says. “We don’t have much time.”

  Outside, he leads the way. We have two meager hours of darkness to commit our crime. Out here, the sun rises by 4 a.m.

  We avoid street lamps, skirting along homes and staying in the shadows. The roads are deserted, except for a pair of haggard looking scientists making a slow trek back from the lab. Keeping one eye on the bright-white lab coats, I’m about to dart for the shadow of the next house when Taro grabs my arm.

  “Get down,” he whispers.

  I drop into a crouch, leaning into the shrubs alongside the bungalow. I give him a questioning look.

  “Over there,” he says, voice barely audible in my ear. He lifts a finger, pointing down the street in the direction opposite to the pair of scientists.

  At first I don’t see anything. Then something long and white unfurls in the night. Seconds later, another streak of white sails through the air.

  “Is that—?” I begin.

  “Toilet paper,” Taro says.

  I stare as more rolls of toilet paper are tossed into the air. After nearly a minute of squinting, I finally see the black-clad teenage boys wielding them. Once I see them, it becomes easy to pick them out against the darkness.

  “What are they doing?” I ask.

  “Toilet papering Sergeant Bramfold’s house.” Taro’s lips quirk in amusement. “It’s a pre-’Fault prank.”

  “But they’re wasting all that toilet paper! Kids really used to do that for fun?”

  Taro nods. I continue to stare. Several minutes later, a familiar blond head appears from around the back of the house. I should have guessed Van Deer was spearheading this escapade. I suck in a breath and lean farther into the bushes.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Taro whispers.

  We cut over several streets. We don’t see anyone else, although at one point we do hear the crunch of boots on gravel on a cross street. By the time we reach the cafeteria, I’m pleasantly winded.

  Standing in the shadows of a tree, we study the massive building in front of us. All the windows are dark, the tall double doors locked tight. There’s nothing between us and the building except a wide gravel boulevard. No trees, no shrubs, no place to hide.

  “How are we going to get in?” I whisper.

  “I’ve got a way,” he replies. “Come on. Let’s try not to look like we’re breaking and entering. Act natural.” He hesitates, then holds out his hand to me. “Timmy gave me an idea.”

  I pause for a heartbeat, then lace my fingers with his. We walk leisurely, hand in hand, toward the cafeteria. If anyone does happen to spot us, we’ll look like two teenagers out for a midnight stroll. My heart beats spasmodically, an odd juxtaposition to my casual pace.

  Taro stands close to me. Our forearms touch through the jumpsuits. I feel that strange tension rising between us as we walk. Part of me wants to pull away from him, but a bigger part of me wants to lean closer.

  Riska, still perched on Taro’s shoulder, purrs loudly. I scowl at him, but he flicks his tail and looks away. I do my best to ignore the fluttering in my stomach and the bizarre pleasure I feel at touching him.

  There are lights mounted outside, casting pools of dim yellow. We hug the slim shadows between them. I scan the grassy park that flanks the back of the building. All is still and silent.

  “Do we have to break a window?” I whisper, unease clenching my belly. I feel stupid for not thinking about this ahead of time.

  “No.”

  “Then how—?”

  Taro puts a finger to his lips. He pulls out a knife and wedges it under one of the windows and pops out the screen. I catch it as it comes free, keeping it from knocking against the wall. Taro presses one hand against the big window. To my surprise, it swings open easily.

  “I unlocked it at dinner,” Taro says, giving me a sly smile. “This way, I won’t have to scratch up the casing trying to flip the lock.”

  “Good thinking.”

  Taro slides inside first. I hand him the screen—no reason to leave it behind and have someone notice it discarded on the lawn—then go in after him.

  Inside, the cafeteria is vast and cavernous. Chairs are stacked on the left side of the room. The tile floor gleams from a recent washing. The air is thick with the scent of disinfectant.

  We head toward the kitchen on the far side of the building. We slip through the buffet tables, clean and devoid of food. There are two sets of swinging doors that lead into the kitchen. Taro, moving on silent feet, slips through the set on the left. I tiptoe, trying to mimic his soundless steps, but I’m only marginally successful.

  “You have to teach me how to move as quietly as you,” I whisper.

  “You’re doing fine,” he replies.

  Inside the kitchen, we’re greeted by a row of stainless steel appliances. I scan the area. To my left is the door
to the walk-in freezer. Across the back wall of the kitchen is a row of high windows that frame the dark night.

  “Pantry. This way.” Crouching, Taro moves across the kitchen.

  We pass stoves, sinks, dishwashers, and stainless steel tables. Mounted on a rack at the back of the tables are magnetic strips that bristle with knives.

  I eye the knives, wondering if I dare to swipe one and smuggle it out. It would be good to have a weapon, even if I have to keep it hidden under my bed. Maybe I could make a sheath for it and wear it under my khakis. I could—

  I’m so preoccupied with the knives that I don’t notice when Taro comes to a stop. I plow gracelessly into his back.

  “Umph,” I grunt. “Sorry.”

  Taro turns. I look up, realizing how close we are. The top of my head isn’t even level with his shoulder. Tension between us flares up again. Part of me wants to turn and run. A larger part of me wants to rest my head on his shoulder. Which would be impossible, since my cheek is level with his chest. No head-on-shoulder action for me.

  “You okay?” Taro whispers.

  “Yes.” I nod, trying to shake off the feelings lurking inside me. I start when Taro grasps my hand.

  “This way,” he whispers. “Pantry.”

  He leads me through a wide doorway. Inside are floor-to-ceiling shelves, every one brimming with supplies. I stare at the rows and rows of dry cooking supplies—flour, starch, spices, sugar—wondering how we’re supposed to find brining salt in this sea of food.

  “I don’t suppose this stuff is alphabetized?” I ask.

  “Nope. Sugar and flour are shelved next to each other.”

  Riska hisses and fans his wings open. He flies from my shoulder to the top-most shelf, where he watches us. Taro raises an eyebrow at me. I ignore the look, carefully extracting my hand from his.

  “I’ll start with the shelves on the left,” I say. “You start on the right.”

  We work in silence. I search methodically, going from left to right and making sure I take the time to read each label, not just scan the packages. I’m searching an area filled with sacks of spices when Taro speaks up.

  “This is it.” He holds up a plain white paper sack. There’s no writing on the sack, just a silhouetted picture of a man standing in front of a barbecue.

  “How do you know that’s brining salt?”

  “This is the logo of the company that makes the stuff.” He gestures to the man-and-barbecue picture. “It’s the same stuff my dad had me use when I made smoke bombs. Plus, here on the back it says, When you want brining perfection, use the brand you trust the most.”

  I snort. “Let’s get out of here, then.”

  “We can’t take the whole bag,” he says.

  “Why not?”

  “They probably take inventory at regular intervals. Someone will notice if an entire bag is missing. I’d rather not bring attention to this.”

  I admire Taro for thinking of everything. He might resent Aston for his training, but it does have its usefulness.

  We find a box of empty plastic bags and empty half the bag of brining salt into it. Taro seals it and tucks it into the front of his jumpsuit.

  Riska returns to my shoulder as we slip out of the kitchen and back into the dining hall. We’re half way across the room when I see a shadow against one of the far windows.

  “Get down,” I hiss, dropping down beside one of the tables.

  Taro crouches beside me. “What is it?” he whispers.

  “I saw something move by one of the windows.”

  We wait in tense silence. The dark squares of the windowpanes stare back at us. Just when I think I must have imagined it, I see it again—a dark, human-shaped shadow against the window.

  “There it is again!”

  Taro nods, mouth tightening. I barely dare to breathe. Riska’s fur bristles and he digs his claws into my shoulder.

  Several more shapes crowd in with the first. The windows are jiggled in their frames. I hold my breath as one figure reaches the window we came through. I look at Taro, silently asking him if we need to bolt.

  “I locked it when we came inside,” he breathes. “They can’t get in unless they break the glass.”

  “Can they see us in here?” I ask.

  “I don’t think so. It’s too dark. Unless they have flashlights.”

  “Who is they?”

  As if to answer my question, a muffled voice sounds through the windowpane.

  “This better not be a wild goose chase.” The voice doesn’t sound like the voice of a teen. It sounds like an adult. “If you think getting your friends in trouble will get you a lighter punishment for stealing, think again.”

  “Sergeant Bramfold, I’m telling you, they’re in here,” says another voice—one that I recognize instantly. “You think we’re the only ones out here, but you’re wrong. And Hudanus is not my friend.”

  “Van Deer.” Taro says the name like a curse.

  30

  A Kiss

  “WHAT’S HE DOING HERE?” I ask in surprise, not really expecting an answer.

  “He and his friends probably got caught by a security patrol,” Taro replies. “Van Deer must have seen us. He’s trying to take us down with him.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “We can’t wait here.” Taro’s eyes lock on the growing number of silhouettes painted against the windows; there are at least half a dozen merc kids out there, plus at least one merc. “Pretty soon they’re going to figure out a way to get inside. We don’t want to be here when they do.”

  My mind flickers back to our brief time in the kitchen. “There are small windows over the sink,” I say. “We can slip out through those.”

  Keeping low to the ground, we skim back across the room and into the kitchen. Riska is silent, although the fur along his spine bristles. As soon as the swinging doors close behind us, he glides from my shoulder to the windowsill. He peers outside, tail twitching.

  “It’s clear,” I whisper. “If not, Riska would let us know.”

  At Taro’s nod, I jump onto the stainless steel sink and, unlatching the window, push it open. It’s only a foot tall and twice as wide. I hesitate, trying to figure out if I should scramble through face first, which will make landing awkward, or figure out a way to get my feet through first.

  A whisper of sound reaches my ears. It comes from the main cafeteria. There’s nothing loud or distinct about the sound, but I’m certain we’re no longer alone in the building.

  Taro shoots me a panicked look. Without thinking, I grab the sill and pull myself through headfirst.

  The grassy ground rushes up to meet me. I bite back a yelp and tuck my head, letting my training kick in. My arms jar from the impact as I arc into a roll. My back hits the ground, pushing breath out of my lungs. Momentum propels me forward onto my feet.

  I turn in time to see Taro dive out after me. He accomplishes the act with considerably more grace, barely making a sound as he rolls across the grass and comes to his feet.

  Riska swoops out last, fur still bristling. He lands on my shoulder, baring his teeth as he looks back at the open window.

  “Give me the saltpeter,” I hiss.

  Without hesitation, Taro reaches into his jumpsuit and pulls out bag. I snatch it out of his hand and shove it at Riska.

  “Take it, boy!” I say. “Go!”

  Riska takes the bag between his teeth. His wings smack my cheek as he leaps into the air. It takes a few full sweeps of his wings before he finds balance with the added weight. He flies away, fading into the darkness.

  There are soft whispers and movement from inside the open window as someone climbs onto the sink. A hand grips the open windowsill.

  With nothing but two hundred yards of grass between us and the nearest row of houses, there’s no way we can escape without being seen. At least they won’t catch us with the brining salt. Now we just need to come up with a good excuse for being out here together. In the middle of the night. I wond
er if they’d believe we were just stealing chocolate from the kitchen?

  Taro turns to me, dark eyes intense. “Do you trust me?” he asks.

  “Of course,” I answer without thought.

  Before I know what’s happening, one of his arms wraps firmly around my waist. Taro draws me toward him in a rush, his other arm wrapping around my shoulders.

  My boot catches on a rock and I stumble into his chest. My cheek hits his sternum, right against his heart. It pounds against my jaw in a rapid rhythm.

  Even as my mind fumbles in shocked understanding, Taro places one hand under my chin. He tilts it upward and I find myself looking into his dark eyes. He leans over, his face stopping only an inch from mine.

  His eyes draw me in, pinning me in place. My brain goes all fuzzy. His closeness sends strange sensations through my body. My legs feel mushy and my heart beats too fast.

  He leans down, coming close, closer. Our noses touch, and my view of his eyes goes blurry.

  His lips brush mine. The touch is light, like a delicate bird landing on a branch. A shockwave goes through me. My legs lose what remains of their strength and go rubbery. I throw my arms around his neck to keep myself upright.

  He cinches his arms around me. The pressure of his lips on mine increases.

  My eyes slide closed of their own volition. My mouth develops a mind of its own, moving against Taro’s with equal pressure.

  I lose all sense of place. Some distant, vague part of my mind tries to tell me something, but I can’t hear anything over the roaring of blood in my ears. The world narrows to consist of only Taro. His arms wind around me, holding me as if he never intends to let go. The strong muscles of his legs press against mine. My hands marvel at the strong tendons in his neck and the thick, spiky strands of his hair.

  And his lips. I drink in the sensation of him. Our kiss deepens, becoming rough. His tongue slides into my mouth. I inhale sharply in surprise, then strengthen my grip around his neck. I kiss him back, my tongue meeting his. A meteor is streaking through my bloodstream. I am on fire. Taro lifts me off the ground, squashing me against him. We kiss each other hard.

  He abruptly pulls away, breathing heavily. I blink in confusion, my breath rasping. With deliberate slowness, he sets me on my feet and takes several steps back from me. Even in the darkness, I see his flushed cheeks.