The League

by Camille Picott

  “My guess is that tomorrow they’ll jack us into Vex for the auction,” Billy says. “They’ll want to put us on display for the buyers. They could just stream images of us into Vex, but who wants to look at four dirty teenagers cuffed to beds? They’re asking a lot of money for us. We’ll show better as avatars.”

  “If they do jack us into Vex,” Hank says, “they’ll make us Ghosts.”

  Ghosts. Of course. Cheap one-time-use avatars with no traceability. If the League has a decent programmer, it will be easy to code the Ghosts to look just like us—without the cuts, bruises, and grime-covered bodies. Hell, they may even give Taro’s avatar all ten fingers. Anything to make us bright and shiny for the buyers.

  “Billy,” Taro says, “if you can get into public Vex, can you access these booby traps?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The firewalls will be tricky,” Hank says. “The League will know it’s risky to put a hacker into Vex. Our Ghosts will be sheathed in some sort of firewall. The auction site itself will be heavily protected, too.”

  I recognize the trill of anticipation in her voice.

  “Can you hack it?” I say.

  “All code has exploitable ports,” Hank says. “They’re like holes in the firewall. It’s just a matter of tearing them open before the self-healing technology closes them again. When dealing with a really strong firewall, I’ll have to tear a lot of holes, and I’ll have to tear fast.”

  “So it’s a matter of giving you enough time to work,” Taro says. “If we can buy you time, you can break through.”

  “Yeah. Buy me time, and I’ll get Billy to his Touch.”

  “Here’s the plan,” Taro says. “Tomorrow, when they jack us in for the auction, Sulan and I will cause a distraction. We’ll go after Imugi. That will cause the biggest diversion. Hank, it’ll be your job to hack the firewall. Billy, once Hank gets through, retrieve your Touch and activate it.”

  “And if they don’t put us in Vex tomorrow?” Hank asks.

  “Then we hope for a miraculous rescue by Global or our parents,” I say. Otherwise, we’re going to be shipped off to God-knows-where to do God-knows-what.

  “But won’t the League just jack us out of Vex as soon as they figure out what we’re doing?” Hank says.

  “No,” Taro says. “The League can’t afford to look weak. We need to appear controllable to the bidders, even in Vex. They’ll want to show everyone we can be managed. We have to make our move before they figure out they aren’t in control. Billy, what will your Touch do, if we can get to it?”

  Riska bolts upright on my chest, growling. His ears swivel toward the door.

  “Guys,” I whisper, “someone’s coming. Be quiet.” I tuck my chin to look at Riska. “You’ve got to hide, boy. They’ll kill you if they find you.”

  He cocks his furry head at me, then scurries under the bed. If I thought it would help, I’d have him attack whoever’s coming. But that won’t get our cuffs deactivated. It would only put Riska in jeopardy, and I’m not willing to do that unless it can gain us a real tactical advantage.

  The door bangs open.

  “What’s going on in here?”

  Six Leaguers stride into the room. All of us remain silent on our cots. One soldier retrieves the broken media drone.

  “What happened to this?” The lead soldier looms over us, holding up the drone for us to see. He speaks with a heavy Asian accent.

  “Went haywire and crashed into the wall,” I say.

  He narrows his eyes at me. “Why don’t I believe you?”

  “You’re right,” Hank says. “It was me. I broke free of my cuffs, smashed the drone against the wall, then climbed back into bed.”

  The soldier stares at me and Hank. A long moment passes. I don’t look away. Neither does Hank.

  Don’t look under my bed, I think. Don’t look under my bed.

  “Stupid kids,” the soldier growls after a moment. He turns on his heel and marches out. “Get a replacement drone down here. Now!”

  15

  Ghosts

  After that, we are quiet. I lie under the glare of the single naked lightbulb, staring at the drab, featureless ceiling. Two drones keep watch over us now, the gold discs making continuous circles around the room. Riska doesn’t stir from beneath my cot.

  At one point, I lift my head to check on Taro. His eyes are closed, his chest rising and falling in even breaths. I hope he’s really asleep, though somehow I doubt it.

  I want to apologize, but talking to him in front of Hank, Billy, and the drones would be awkward. Besides that, I don’t know what to say. He lost his finger, and it’s my fault. How can I ever make that up to him?

  Exhausted, I doze off for a while. Sometime later, I wake up to soft whispers.

  “Billy,” I hear Hank say, “are you really Uncle Zed?”

  Silence.

  Then, “Sort of.”

  “What do you mean, sort of? Either you are, or you aren’t.”

  “I, uh . . . write the software,” Billy says, voice faltering. “That part is true.”

  “You think a boyfriend would mention an important fact like that to his girlfriend.” I hear the hurt in Hank’s voice.

  “It wasn’t safe to tell you.”

  Hank snorts. “I’m not one of your stupid conspiracy theories, Billy. I’m your girlfriend.”

  With that, she turns her head away from him. Her gaze meets mine briefly, and I can see her struggling not to cry. When she closes her eyes and pretends to be asleep, I don’t bother her.

  • • •

  I drift off again, though my rest is disturbed by nightmares of the League and Imugi. I wake up bathed in cold sweat, determined not to fall asleep anymore.

  “Hank,” I whisper. “Hank, are you awake?”

  “Yeah.” She opens eyes that are red and puffy from crying. I wonder if she’s crying over Billy, our capture, or both.

  “You okay?” It’s a stupid question, but I ask it anyway.

  Hank shrugs. “Yeah.” She shifts, turning as much onto her side as the cuffs allow. “I’ve never seen anyone do math the way you do. How come you never told me you can do all those complex equations in your head?”

  “I don’t like anyone knowing.” And now every whacko in Vex knows.

  “Why don’t you get better grades?”

  “I mark wrong answers on purpose.”

  Silence. Then, “You’re really lucky, Sulan. You’ve got a gift.”

  I know she’s right. I feel guilty for resenting my gift.

  “Sulan?”

  “Yeah?”

  She glances at the drones, and I know she’s picking her words carefully. She drops her voice to a whisper.

  “If for some reason you make it out of here and I don’t, can you do something for me?”

  “Don’t talk like that,” I say. “We’re all going to make it out of here. . . . Global is going to rescue us.” I tack on that last part for the benefit of the drones, just in case anyone is listening closely.

  “I never told you this before, about my scholarship to Virtual High School,” Hank says. “My family fell on hard times with the climate change. We were three days away from being homeless when I passed the entrance exams. Claudine knew I couldn’t attend school if I was living in a gutter, so she made arrangements. She gave my parents jobs at Global in the cafeteria.” Hank swallows, and I see how difficult it is for her to tell me this. “So long as I keep a three-point-eight GPA, Global keeps my parents employed. If I get straight As, they send us a bonus check. If I get higher than a four point O, we get a double bonus. The three of us bring home just enough money to cover food and rent.”

  I’m so astounded that I can’t think of a single thing to say. All my desperation to spend every spare moment in the Cube, all my desire to become a fighter—it all seems so childish. All I’ve ever worried about is hiding my math talent and training, while all this time Hank’s been worried about the security of her family.

  I think of
Hank’s ferocity when it comes to her studies, about her single-minded drive. All this time I thought it was because she was passionate about her work, about succeeding. And maybe that’s part of it, but what it really boils down to is the survival of her family.

  “Why didn’t you tell me any of this before?” I ask.

  “It’s not something I like to talk about. But I’ve got a little brother and two parents to look out for. If I don’t make it out of here, I don’t know what Claudine and Mr. Winn will do with them. The only reason they get to go to the Livermore compound is because of me. Will you promise to look out for them?”

  “I promise.” It hurts to say the words, to even admit that we might not all escape. “I’ll make sure they don’t end up on the street.” Dad should be able to pull strings to make sure they stay on the compound roster.

  “Thanks.” Some of the tension leaves Hank’s body—some, but not all of it. “Anything you want me to take care of, if you don’t make it out of here?”

  “I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” I say. “Let’s—”

  I snap my mouth shut at the sound of approaching footsteps. The door opens and four people enter, three men and one woman. Each carries a tray with a large glass of water and a covered plate. Even from ten feet away, I smell the food. I’m shocked when the lids are lifted to reveal mashed potatoes, sautéed vegetables, sliced steak, and garlic bread. This is fresh food, not preserved stuff from a can. I usually only eat like this on holidays.

  The plates are placed on the cots between our ankles. There’s a beeping sound, and our wrist cuffs are freed. We all sit up, even though our ankles are still stuck to the metal railings. I get my first good look at Taro since he lost his finger. He cradles his injured hand against his body, and there’s a tightness around his eyes. I smile at him, and I am relieved when he smiles back.

  The Leaguers leave us to our meal. My mouth waters. There’s no silverware, so we dig in with our hands.

  “Guess they want us to go to auction with a full stomach,” I say.

  “Food is food,” Hank says.

  That’s when I notice Taro is eating everything except his steak. “Are you saving the best for last?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “I don’t eat meat.”

  It takes a full ten seconds for this to sink in. “You don’t eat meat?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t believe in killing things.”

  I must be staring at him completely cross-eyed, because he says, “Just because my dad made me into a killing machine doesn’t mean I like it. At least I have control over what I eat. And I prefer not to eat dead animals.”

  I don’t know what to say to this. With food so scarce, I’ve never been in a position to be picky, but Taro’s choice isn’t about pickiness. I am struck by the breadth of his sheer goodness. He is, by far, the strangest boy I’ve ever met.

  “Maybe you should make an exception this time,” Hank says. “Why say no to a good steak when it’s probably the last good meal you’ll ever have? Besides, you may need your strength.”

  “What good are convictions if I can’t hold onto them in a moment of crisis?” Taro says. “If anything, it’s more important that I don’t eat meat right now.”

  Billy’s full attention is on Taro. “Can I have your steak?” he asks.

  • • •

  After we finish eating, Imugi returns with a dozen soldiers. They all have a Vex headset propped on the forehead. Imugi gestures, and one of his goons reactivates our wrist cuffs. We’re sucked backward onto our beds, wrists ringing loudly as they connect with the railings.

  “Jack them in,” Imugi says. “Time for the auction.”

  A huge man comes toward me, Vex set in hand. Relief slides through me at the sight of it. We’re going into Vex. Our plan has a chance. I lie very still as he approaches. The headset is lowered over my eyes, and I’m sucked into the blue vortex.

  Vex materializes around me. There’s no sign of Imugi, but the twelve Leaguers appear in a loose ring around me, Taro, Hank, and Billy. I do a double take at the sight of my companions; I see my shock mirrored in their faces and look down at myself.

  My Ghost avatar is in a classic lab getup—plain white pants and white coat. And they’ve stuck a pair of glasses on me, which probably enhances my brilliant-nerd image. My hair hangs in a neat braid down my back, like I’m twelve years old. On the right breast of my coat, the words Your Insignia Here are embroidered. It would have been more accurate if it said Your Corrupt Government Here or Your Tyrannical Dictatorship Here. But I suppose even the Anti-American League has to be politically correct sometimes.

  Hank’s red hair has been dyed bright orange. Her nails are fluorescent pink. There’s ten pounds of dark makeup around her eyes and on her mouth. She’s got on ripped jeans and a tight black shirt. A spiked collar cinches around her neck. Except for the dramatic makeup, she looks nothing like Hank. But she does look like a stereotypical punk hacker.

  Billy’s hair has been darkened from sandy blond to jet black. He’s dressed in an immaculate black suit with a gray tie and black sunglasses. To those attending the auction, he’ll look like a tailored high-class black-market criminal.

  Taro is the only one of us who bears some semblance to his real-world self, right down to his nine fingers. They’ve got him in military fatigues and black combat boots.

  The mathematician. The hacker. The criminal. The merc.

  Here we are, a gift pack for world domination.

  The four of us sit in straight-backed metal chairs on a revolving black dais. Emblazoned into the ceiling above us is the Anti-American League symbol. Metallic cuffs gleam on our wrists, just like they do in the real-world. I give my arms an experimental tug. The cuffs weld my wrists to the chair. I exchange a look with Taro, who sits on my right. His dark eyes reflect my own despair back at me.

  The cuffs. The one thing we didn’t consider in our brief planning session. It seems obvious, now. A rookie oversight.

  As long as we have them on, there’s no escape for us.

  16

  Auction

  I rein back on the emotion threatening to unhinge me; hysteria is the last thing I need right now.

  Don’t give up, I tell myself. Just because we’re cuffed doesn’t mean there won’t be a chance to escape.

  A Leaguer approaches us, one of the few women I’ve seen among them. Her dark hair is cropped as short as the men’s. Her SmartPlastic mask is perfectly smooth and reveals no emotion. She stands in front of us, hands loose by her sides, waiting for the dais to make one full circuit. It’s clear she wants each of us to see her.

  “The cuffs you’re wearing are just like the ones you wear in the real-world,” she says. “If you misbehave, you will be disciplined.”

  She holds up her hand, displaying a ring on her middle finger. Her thumb twists the ring. My avatar vibrates as blue currents leap out of the cuffs.

  I don’t feel a thing. We can’t feel anything in Vex, not unless we’re on Touch. The cuffs may keep us restrained in the chairs, but they can’t hurt us.

  And then electricity rips up my wrists and ankles.

  How can this be happening?

  I writhe in the chair, screams tearing from my throat. Taro breathes heavily and jerks like a bound animal. Hank, on my left, sobs. I can’t see Billy, but I hear his howls.

  Blue tendrils of electricity crawl up and down my avatar. Vex crackles around me, disintegrating. Chunks of black appear as the auction room falls away.

  • • •

  And suddenly my connection to Vex is severed. I’m back in the real-world, still spread-eagle on the cot. The cuffs hum, pumping electrical currents into my arms and legs. I arch up, shrieking in pain. Fire flows through me, burning every nerve.

  I hear the others beside me, their agony matching mine. The goggles of my headset are dark. I can’t see anything except the indistinct fuzz of the lightbulb.

  The cuffs go silent
, the flow of electricity snapping off. I sag onto the mattress, gasping for breath. My body is limp and rubbery.

  “Was . . . was that some kind of Touch?” I ask, my voice raspy.

  “No,” Billy whispers. “No, that was—”

  I don’t get to hear whatever it is he says. Blue light flares in my goggles. Helpless, I am sucked back into Vex.

  • • •

  We materialize back on the dais. A knot of Leaguers encircles the woman who electrocuted us.

  “What did you do?” one man says to her.

  “Imugi told me to give them a taste of the cuffs.” The woman draws herself up, eyes hard. “I followed orders. The pain must have severed their connection to Vex.”

  “How the hell are we supposed to get them back?” someone else says.

  “Look! There they are.”

  A dozen glossy SmartPlastic masks turn toward us. The woman pushes up to the dais, surveying us. The sight of her makes me queasy, but I keep my chin up and my gaze steady—which is doable in Vex, where my actions are controlled by my mind. Back in the real-world, where my body is riddled with the aftereffects of the electrocution, I’m not sure I could even lift my chin, let alone see straight.

  “Glad you could return to us.” The woman smiles, her mask flexing. “Your Vex cuffs are synchronized to your cuffs in the real-world. If I activate them here, you’ll feel pain in the real-world. I trust you won’t need another demonstration.”

  The woman opens her mouth to say more, but a beeping sound cuts her off.

  “They’re here,” says another Leaguer.

  A split second later, bidders materialize in the red plush chairs encircling the room. A three-foot-high wall separates them from the open floor around the dais, where the Leaguers are stationed.

  To hide their true identities, the bidders wear outlandish avatars. It’s almost like Halloween, except tonight they’re bobbing for underage geniuses instead of apples.

  One avatar looks like Elvis, another like Rasputin, and another like a Chinese emperor. More and more outrageous avatars materialize around us. Most of the leaders come with an entourage of flunkies who wear complementary avatars. Elvis’s crew looks like 1950s groupies. Rasputin’s group is dressed like Russian peasants. And the emperor’s men look like Chinese bannermen.