The Dome

by Camille Picott

  “We expect the very best from you.” Claudine rolls into the room, her screen rotating to give me a skeptical look. She’s alone this time, Maxwell nowhere in sight. “Global is counting on you.”

  I nod. At Mr. Winn’s gesture, I take a seat on one of the green leather chairs. Here goes nothing, I think, slipping on my Vex set.

  ***

  When I materialize on a modest stage before an amphitheater full of reporters and other “people of influence,” I throw all my nervous energy into my job. I smile at the people, waving congenially. My avatar wears a cream pantsuit and wedge shoes. My hair is swept back into a bun.

  The avatars before me are on the conservative side. Most look like normal—albeit highly attractive—people in business clothes. I do spot one man with forks in a neat row down the center of his head like a mohawk, and a woman with snakes coming out of her eye sockets, but they are the few oddities among a sea of normalcy.

  Claudine materializes next to me, looking pretty in a crisp navy blue dress. She delivers a short introductory speech. When she ushers me to center stage, the smile she gives me is creepily sincere. I briefly wonder if she has a programmer who specializes in fake smiles.

  I face the crowd, feeling exposed and out of my element. As I look out at them—all five hundred staring back at me—I begin to speak.

  The days and days of constant hammering from Kerry kick in. Flawless Global propaganda flows from my lips. My words roll out with the smoothness of a well-greased engine.

  “… we at Global Arms embrace the safety of our nation and the preservation of our natural resources,” I say, wrapping up my introduction. Then I recap previously introduced Green Combat weapons before segueing into the new products.

  “Now I’m going to show you two new astounding products coming soon from Global Arms. Believe me when I say these products will revolutionize our world.” If that’s not perfect company rhetoric, I don’t know what is.

  In my hand is a small remote. I press a button, summoning a huge holographic image of a Phib. It floats in the air, rotating above the audience.

  “This is an Amphibious Green Attack Vehicle. We at Global Arms call them Phibs for short. The Phibs will help us improve the defense of our country’s oceans, lakes, and rivers—”

  Above me, the image of the Phib flickers, momentarily replaced with a dreadlocked man in a brown-and-yellow pinstriped suit. The crowd gasps in surprise. A flutter of anticipation runs through them.

  No, I think. Please don’t let William Anderson crash this event.

  “The Phib is a relative of Global’s Green Attack Vehicle,” I say, plastering on a big smile and trying to draw the audience back to me. “It—”

  The image of the Phib shorts out. William Anderson replaces it. He holds both arms out, rotating in midair like he’s a god. Favoring me with a smile, he descends toward the stage.

  “You’re not welcome here.” I make my voice cold, terrified of what Mr. Winn will do if I can’t regain control of this disaster. Every eye in the room is locked on the interloper.

  Where are the Global cybermercs? They can come to my rescue anytime. Right now would be great.

  Anderson lands, towering over me by at least a foot and a half. He’s a massive man with shoulders like a bookcase. Raising a hand, he rests it on my shoulder. I step back, putting several paces between us. He gives me a smooth smile and turns toward the crowd, as if he’s introducing me.

  This is not good.

  “My fellow Americans!” Anderson’s voice is a deep, booming bass. “I’m sure everyone in this room echoes my feelings when I thank Sulan Hom for a job well done.”

  His teeth flash white beneath the bright lights. I see cunning in his black eyes as he turns toward me. There’s a brief second when I see something familiar in him—in the broadness of his shoulders, the shape of his nose and the set of his eyes. The sensation dissipates as Anderson pins his gaze on me.

  “You and your friends have done this country a great service. You are a hero of the highest caliber. Let’s show Miss Hom our deepest gratitude,” he says, clapping his hands together. The stadium crowd erupts into cheers. People whistle and shout my name.

  Anytime now, Mr. Winn. Your tech team can step in anytime now.

  Anderson extends a hand in my direction, grinning to encourage the crowd’s enthusiasm.

  I purse my lips and narrow my eyes. I will not let this jerk seize control of my press conference. I am sick of people controlling me, and for once there is no one stopping me from fighting back.

  “Mr. Anderson,” I snap, “I think you might be lost. This is a Global Arms event. Or do you work for Global now? I haven’t heard our company acquired yours.”

  Anderson laughs, a big, booming sound. “Your loyalty is commendable, Miss Hom.”

  There’s a moment when our eyes meet, and that sense of familiarity washes through me again. The moment is gone almost immediately as I steel myself to square off against one of the most powerful men in America.

  “It’s more than loyalty, Mr. Anderson.” I’m proud my voice doesn’t quaver. “Global Arms is the future of America. Mr. Winn’s Green Combat technology will protect this country—”

  “Oh, please, Miss Hom. Save your canned speeches. No one is interested in them.” He turns his back on me and faces the crowd. “What the good people here tonight want to know is how Anderson Arms hacked a Global Arms press event.” He smiles. “How can the good people of our country trust a company that can’t even create a decent Vex firewall? How are people supposed to trust the technology from such a company?”

  Where the hell is Global? How am I supposed to steer this train wreck?

  I march forward, planting myself in front of Anderson. “Hacking a firewall is nothing like the genetic marvels my father’s team has created,” I snap. Wow, that sounded like it came from Kerry’s handbook. “Green Combat is the future of America’s security. It—”

  “Global couldn’t even protect you from the League,” Anderson says, dreadlocks swinging. “And yet you stand here as their champion. Why?”

  My mouth opens, closes, then opens again. My brain latches onto a single sentence drilled into my brain by Kerry. “I am part of the Global family.”

  Anderson gives me a look. The look tells me he knows how phony I’m being. If we’d been in the real-world, I’d be blushing. He doesn’t dress me down or call me out, but he does ignore me and turn back to the audience.

  “My time here is short, ladies and gentlemen, but in the few moments we have left, I want to introduce you to Anderson Arms’ latest creation: Skeletex.”

  He opens his large hands, palms up. Beams of light shoot out of his palms, gathering in a giant glowing ball over his head. The ball of light grows, expanding into the amphitheater.

  An image coalesces out of the light. It’s a man in the dark green mercenary jumpsuit of Anderson Arms. The company logo—a giant A formed from Wild West rifles—is embroidered in black on the left breast of the uniform.

  Covering the man is what looks like an exoskeleton. The top of his head and the back of his neck is covered in a bone-white sheath. More of the material covers his chest and torso like a giant, external rib cage. The image rotates, and I see what looks like a spinal column down the man’s back. The suit continues, covering the man’s arms and legs with more of the bony substance. The bones run down the front and back of his arms and legs, connected by more bones that circle his biceps, forearms, thighs, calves, and ankles.

  I stare up at the spectra of the mercenary, partially in awe, partially in horror. Awe because, in all honesty, the suit looks pretty slick. Horror because I know it’s my job to keep the audience focused on Global. I don’t have the slightest idea of what to say or how to steer this media catastrophe into clear waters.

  “Is this Halloween?” I do my best to insert scorn into my voice. “The American public is looking for protection and security, not a costume contest.” I put my hands on my hips and glare up at the giant fi
gure of William Anderson. I have to tilt my head all the way back to do it. It’s hard not to be aware of how tiny I look next to him. I’m like a mouse squeaking at a lion.

  William Anderson quirks an eyebrow at me and chuckles. It’s not a cruel chuckle, but a sound of genuine amusement. When the big man looks down at me, I see someone who sees straight through my PR pedicure.

  “This,” says William Anderson, turning his gaze up at the imposing merc projected above him, “is Skeletex. It’s the future of American homeland security. The Skeletex—”

  Anderson is cut off mid-sentence, his avatar shattering into a swirl of pixels.

  Finally. Global cybermercs doing their job.

  I hold my ground and put on my best mutinous expression, hoping I look repelled by Anderson’s insinuation.

  The stadium collapses. I’m dumped into the swirling blue of Vex.

  37

  Highjacker

  I RIP OFF MY VEX SET and emerge in real-world chaos. Mr. Winn is on his feet, yelling at the top of his lungs. His face is almost the same shade as the orange racing stripes on his tracksuit. His voice cuts above the frantic cacophony of the tech team. The gray-shirted men and women are in disarray, shouting at one another over electronic devices, wires, and cables.

  “You fix this right now or I’ll have every last one of you out in snow within the hour! Do you hear me? The Alaskan wilderness is a brutal place, people! It’s one of the few places in America where wild animals still live. You want to end up as wolf meat?”

  Spittle flies from his mouth as he rages at the men and women frantically tapping away on their tablets.

  To avoid drawing his attention, I slink down in my chair. I might end up running through the snow from wolves if he’s not pleased by my performance tonight. Riska stands on my lap, spine arched as he hisses at everything and everyone.

  “Quiet, boy.” I push on his back. He continues to hiss, but his fur smooths and he settles himself in my lap.

  “Do you know what it’s like to die of frostbite?” Mr. Winn thunders, stalking across the room toward the tech workers. “It starts in your hands, feet, and nose. It will burn and itch.”

  Kerry is seated next to me, Vex set still on. Claudine’s avatar stares blankly out at the room, unmoving and unblinking. Is she still in Vex with Kerry?

  There’s a clear line between me and the door. Should I make a run for it? Get out of here and avoid the worst of Mr. Winn’s wrath? Or will that only make things worse? What would my friends do if they were here?

  Without a doubt, Hank would stay. Taro would probably advise keeping a low profile and slipping out, especially if he thought he could convince one of the mercs to give him a ride back to the Village. Billy would—

  Billy would use this opportunity to plant the Highjacker.

  With a jolt, I remember the small device in my pocket. How could I have forgotten it? If ever there was a perfect time to plant the device, it’s now.

  Riska pricks his ears in my direction. I scan the room again, double-checking to make sure no one watches me. Mr. Winn’s back is to me. Kerry is still in Vex. The few mercenaries present all hang back, observing the chaos. No one watches me.

  Except, perhaps, Claudine. Her smiling, unmoving face is still plastered on her screen. She’s not looking directly at me; in all honestly, it doesn’t appear she’s looking at anything. Maybe she really is still in Vex.

  This is probably the best opportunity I’m going to get. Even with the chance Claudine is watching me, I’m still under less scrutiny than I’ll be at any other time.

  I turn my head in the direction of the server wall, pretending to watch the frantic techs. I inch my hand into the pocket of my khakis. Riska stares at me, his head cocked, not hissing anymore.

  My fingers come in contact with the smooth, warm metal of the Highjacker. I wrap the small object between my fingers and pull it free. I pause, hand resting on my thigh. Another quick scan of the room, just to make sure I’m still not being watched.

  Then I slide the Highjacker between the cushion and the side of the chair. I wedge it as far down as I can, hoping Mr. Winn’s housekeeping staff isn’t thorough.

  “Miss Hom!” Mr. Winn’s voice snaps like a whip.

  I jump in the chair. With an effort I keep my hand between the cushions, pretending like nothing is out of the ordinary. I turn wide, questioning eyes on Mr. Winn, not having to feign surprise and nervousness.

  “Go with Ms. Sturgess,” Mr. Winn snaps. “I want a full debriefing. Tell her every detail you remember about that Anderson bastard. Every detail. You understand?”

  I turn to find Kerry rising to her feet, Vex set dangling from her fingers. She looks like she’s being chased by one of those wild Alaskan animals Mr. Winn was shouting about. She jerks her chin at me, indicating I should follow her. I don’t have to be told twice.

  I spend the next tedius hour relating all the events of the press conference. Kerry drills me for every detail—details about William Anderson’s clothing, his expression, the reactions of the audience, the Skeletex suit—everything.

  Finally, after Kerry has asked me to describe Skeletex for the third time, I say, “Weren’t you there watching all this? Didn’t Mr. Winn have the event recorded?”

  “Of course,” Kerry replies, waving a dismissive hand. “But you had a perspective no one else had. You were on stage with Anderson. There’s a chance you could have picked up on a nuance we missed.”

  Like the way he looked at me with amused sympathy? If I’m lucky, no one noticed that. I sigh and obediently describe the Skeletex again. And then I do it again, and again.

  By the time Kerry is done with me, I’m exhausted and frustrated. Seriously, how many times do I need to describe the way beams of light shot from Anderson’s hands? Or how his face looked when he engaged the audience?

  When I pass by the closed doors of the media room, Mr. Winn’s shouts can still be heard. I can’t make out any words, but the anger in his voice is palpable. The mercs before the doors leading outside are all tight-lipped. When I ask for a ride back to the Village, three of them immediately volunteer.

  Back at the Village, I make a beeline for Daruuk’s house, eager to tell him about the Highjacker. I’m rounding the corner of Daruuk’s street when I hear Aston’s voice.

  “We don’t have a lot of time,” Aston says in a low tone. “I think they may suspect us.”

  “A week, two at most,” says another voice—a voice I recognize.

  38

  Intel

  I LEAP BACKWARD, throwing myself behind a bright green shrub growing nearby. I practically squash myself against the ground to avoid being seen. Riska burrows into the bush, flattening his ears and staring at me with his big green eyes.

  I try to peer through the shrub, but it’s too dense. I don’t dare raise my head for fear of being spotted.

  “If things escalate, we’ll have to settle for what you’ve managed to get so far,” Aston says.

  “Just a little more time,” Dad replies. “I’m close.”

  Riska lashes his tail, ears swiveling as he follows the sound of Dad and Aston walking away. I stay huddled on the ground, mind racing. What is going on? What are they up to?

  Dad and Aston move out of earshot. For the next three seconds, I consider following them. I ultimately decide against it, knowing there’s no good way to sneak up on a merc like Aston. I itch to find Billy and tell him I overheard, but I need to get to Daruuk first.

  I hurry on to Daruuk’s house, banging on the front door when I arrive. Asha, Daruuk’s little sister, answers. She looks up at me, one hand balanced on her hip.

  “Daruuk,” she screeches. “Sulan’s here!” To me, she adds in a whisper, “Did you get it done?”

  At my nod, a grin spreads across her face. “Yes!” She thrusts one fist into the air. When Daruuk appears in the doorway, she announces in a stage whisper, “Sulan did it!”

  Daruuk turns to me for confirmation, arching both eyebrows at me
in a silent question. At my nod, his eyes spark with excitement.

  “Good work, Hom. I knew you were the woman for the job. Give me twenty-four hours. I’ll have everything ready by then.”

  “I’m sixth in line,” Asha tells me.

  “Eighth,” Daruuk tells her. “I had to make a trade with Dennis.”

  “Eighth!” Asha’s voice rises to a shriek. “You promised me sixth! You promised!”

  “Sacrifices must be made for the greater good,” Daruuk tells her with a sniff.

  “But you promised!”

  “The need of my subjects far outweighs your needs, little sister.”

  “I hate you! You always break your promises!”

  I retreat, leaving Daruuk and Asha to their argument. They don’t appear to notice my departure. Even after Asha slams the door, I hear them yelling at one another.

  I beeline to Billy’s house. He’ll want to hear about today’s Vex debacle, the Highjacker, and the conversation I overheard between Dad and Aston.

  When I reach Billy’s house, I find Uncle Zed hunched over in the doorway.

  “Zed?” I slow down, careful to keep a good ten feet between us.

  He turns slitted eyes in my direction. The front of his polo shirt bulges. One arm rests just above his waistline as he cradles whatever is in his shirt.

  “Is Billy home?” I hold my hands up to show him I’m unarmed. Riska trails in the air after me.

  “He’s inside,” Zed replies after staring me up and down for several long seconds. “Aircats pick him up in an hour.”

  With that, he unlocks the door and goes inside. He leaves it open, which I think is his way of telling me I’m welcome. I poke my head in cautiously. Zed leans over an open box, emptying an armload of bread rolls from his shirt into the box. A handful of knives and forks go in next.

  “Hey,” Billy says, looking at me from beneath his bangs. They brush the tip of his nose. He’s perched atop a box bulging with old books. “What’s up?”

  “Sulan?”

  I turn in surprise, seeing Taro emerge from behind several boxes. The sight of him brings a smile to my face. “What are you doing here?” I ask.