I half-expected the bidders to be a bunch of rich crazies sipping virtual champagne and gossiping about the captive American geniuses. But this is no party for underground socialites. There is nothing but a room full of cold eyes that weigh each and every one of us—no doubt computing how fast we can help them bring about their particular version of Armageddon.
Each group has multiple people working frantically at tablets. No one communicates with anyone outside his unit. Once in a while, a group leader will exchange a hostile look with another group leader. There’s so much tension in the room, I expect to see lightning sizzle through the air.
The only bidder sitting without an entourage is a giant frog in a black tuxedo. He doesn’t look any more outlandish than any of the other whackos in here, but for some reason I find myself staring at him. He catches me looking and stares back. His giant tongue flicks out. Before it retracts into his mouth, it briefly forms the outline of a gun.
Oh, gross. The dais rotates, giving me an excuse to look away. Whoever that guy is, he’s clearly a sick creep. We’ve got to figure out a way to escape.
“Keep your eyes open for opportunity,” Taro murmurs. “It’s not over yet, Sulan.”
“It’s not over ’til they bag us up and ship us off to the winning bidder,” I say, because if I want to retain any composure, I have to believe we still have a chance of getting out of here. That we won’t be sold to some weirdo like Frog Man.
The edge of Taro’s mouth turns up. “My dad would like you.”
I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or not, but his smile is warm. Even though we’re in the middle of a black-market slave auction and surrounded by whack jobs, I’m struck by his presence. His strength, his convictions, his composure. Maybe he and I will be friends, if we make it out of here.
“I’m sorry about your finger,” I whisper.
“It’s okay, Sulan.”
His sincerity makes me feel three inches tall. If—when—we make it out of here, I’m going to make it up to him. Maybe I can figure out a way to grow him a new one.
A white mist billows into the open space between us and the bidders. Talk ceases. Eyes look up from tablets. Bidders straighten in their chairs.
Imugi materializes in the mist. His avatar is a giant upright sea serpent identical to the image on his SmartPlastic mask back in the real-world. He’s covered in blue scales that glisten like cloisonné, and he stands about ten feet high.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Imugi says, sliding around the dais, “welcome to our auction.” The mouth of his avatar moves like a human mouth, which looks odd on the head of a giant sea serpent. “It gives me great pleasure to see everyone here tonight for this once-in-a-lifetime event. I will remind you again of tonight’s special lot:
“We have Sulan Hom, daughter of the famous Dr. Hom. She may be one of the few people with insight into the work of Dr. Hom. Miss Hom is a math prodigy in her own right, scoring one hundred percent on her entrance exam for Global Arms’s prestigious Virtual High School. Her capacity for creativity in the math and science fields is unprecedented.
“We also have Henrietta Simmons, gifted hacker. At the age of twelve, she won the International Hackers Convention’s competition by a full two minutes, making her mark in the programming world as the youngest champion hacker ever.”
I glance at Hank. She looks as terrified as I feel, but I see a proud glint in her eye. It was that convention that got her noticed by Claudine.
“Billy Long, another Virtual High School student, most notably the Touch programmer known as Uncle Zed. He is responsible for all major Touch advancements in the past five years. Experts have estimated his black-market profits totaling somewhere between six and seven hundred million.”
Six and seven hundred million? I glance over my shoulder at Billy, who sits directly behind me. His ears are bright red.
“And we can’t forget Taro Hudanus,” Imugi says. “When you first saw him last night, we thought him an inconsequential member of this team. But we have uncovered some previously unknown intel on Mr. Hudanus. He is the son of the famed mercenary Black Ice. Mr. Hudanus has been trained in the art of warfare since a very young age. At the International Underage Merc Competition this year, he placed first. At only sixteen years old, he is the youngest winner of the underage competition. Scouts from every merc company have petitioned him.”
It takes an effort to keep my mouth from sagging open. I didn’t watch the Underage Merc Competition this year; I was too busy training with Gun and studying with Hank. Now I wish I’d found the time. I know firsthand that Taro is beautiful when he fights.
“As you can see,” Imugi says, “the Anti-American League has assembled the most powerful team of geniuses the world has ever seen. With these four in your possession, your highest ambition can be made reality.”
Imugi pauses, letting his sales pitch sink in. Between our outfits and his pitch, I have to admit the four of us make a pretty attractive package. Hell, I might bid on us if I was a loony megalomaniac with gobs of money to burn.
“The bidding opens now at fifty million,” Imugi says. “Do I have fifty million?”
A Viking nods his chin.
“We have fifty million,” Imugi says. “Do I have sixty million? Yes, I have sixty million, how about seventy million, who will give me seventy million?”
In the space of three breaths, the bid hits one hundred million. Viking falls out pretty quickly. The two most aggressive bidders are Cleopatra and Abraham Lincoln.
Opportunity, I think. Look for opportunity.
The dais continues to rotate. We remain cuffed to our chairs. From the way the camps of Cleopatra and Abraham Lincoln exchange glares, I wonder if the leaders know one another.
The bid climbs to one hundred fifty million. Lincoln backs down and Cleopatra fans herself with a smug expression.
“Two hundred fifty million.”
There’s a full second of complete silence as everyone digests this. Heads turn as people search for the bidder. All stares indicate Frog Man. A grin stretches across his mouth, the expression disturbingly incongruous on amphibious features. His tongue flicks in and out.
This sicko could have his hands on us by tomorrow.
My future as a captive feels real. Why did I ever delude myself into thinking we could escape?
Frog Man’s bold bid has challenged the machismo of every would-be despot in here—because suddenly Elvis, Rasputin, and Roman Gladiator are all in it. The bid bounces between the three of them like a Ping-Pong ball. Then Viking, Cleopatra, and Sultan join the fray.
“Four hundred fifty million,” Imugi purrs. “Do I have four hundred sixty million?”
“Five hundred million.” Frog Man is back in.
Five hundred million. It’s hard to imagine what it would be like to have that much money. Maybe, if the four of us make it out of here, we should put ourselves on the public stock exchange. I could build my own stupid compound somewhere and arm it with enough ammo to blow a hole through the planet.
“Five hundred fifty million.” Abraham Lincoln looks pissed.
“Five hundred sixty million.” A new player jumps in, an avatar who looks, of all things, like a giant Grecian urn.
The bidders are in a fury, on their feet and screaming bids. It’s a full-on boxing match with three dozen players in the ring. I can’t tell if they’re bidding because they really want us, or if they just can’t stand the thought of someone else getting us. Part of me is sickly fascinated by the whole thing.
Six hundred million. Six hundred twenty-five million. Six hundred thirty million.
I imagine a dingy cement cell with one pathetic window, a dresser filled with nothing but white pants and white lab coats, and endless days spent in a room lined with test tubes and Bunsen burners.
No more weapons. No more fighting. No more Gun.
It’s all I can do not to vomit. I lean over my knees, vaguely wondering what virtual puke looks like.
Eight hundred
forty million. Eight hundred seventy-five million. Nine hundred million.
As the dais turns, I see Frog Man rise to his feet. There’s something familiar about the way he moves, a grace that catches my attention despite everything else that’s going on.
“One billion,” he says.
Rasputin and Grecian Urn reel under the impact of Frog Man’s bid. Elvis, Viking, and Cleopatra all turn to him, mouths agape.
Frog Man extends his arms, as though reaching out to embrace us with his webbed hands.
Hundreds of tiny frogs pour out of his tuxedo sleeves. They infuse the auction room, covering everything in a hopping blanket of green and black. They land on the avatars, tongues flicking. People swat at the frogs, even climb onto chairs to get away from them.
Then one of the frogs lands in Elvis’s hair—and explodes. Elvis’s perfect coif goes up in a funnel of flame. He shrieks and leaps about. His groupies converge on him, swatting at his hair with fringed leather jackets and polyester coats.
Chinese Emperor’s dragon robes are engulfed in fire. Roman Gladiator tears off his burning leather skirt. He’s covered in third-degree burns.
All around the room, more and more frogs explode in tiny bursts of orange.
The frogs are Twains. Hundreds and hundreds of little Twains.
My eyes lock on Frog Man. He glances up at me, a slow smile spreading across his face. A smile that I would know anywhere, even if it’s on the face of a creepy Frog Man avatar.
Gun.
17
Mortality
Gun.
He’s here. The sight of him infuses me with hope. When he’s with me, anything is possible.
As chaos erupts all around, he raises a tiny metal box for me to see. Centered on the box is a bright-red button. Just before the rotating dais takes him out of my sightline, his green thumb comes down on the button.
There’s a soft hiss as our virtual cuffs pop open.
I don’t even have time to wonder how Gun pulled this one off. I snap into focus and spring out of my chair. Beside me, Hank, Taro, and Billy all leap to their feet. In the confusion caused by the Twains, no one notices we’ve been freed.
“We’ll buy you as much time as we can,” Taro says to Hank and Billy. “Work fast.” To me he says, “We take out the woman with the ring first. If we get captured and put back in the chairs, I don’t want them electrocuting us again. After we get the ring, we go after Imugi.”
I nod. I shouldn’t be afraid. Fighting in Vex is what I do. But the fear is there anyway, rearing over me like a bad dream. Maybe being a merc means ignoring fear, not conquering it.
The dais turns, taking us right past the female Leaguer who electrocuted us earlier. I don’t give myself time to think. I launch myself off the dais and fly straight for her. She doesn’t even see me coming.
I smack into her head-on. She’s a big woman, and my weight isn’t enough to knock her over, so I wrap my legs around her torso. I punch her in the face as hard as I can. She staggers back, hands coming up. I punch her two more times, my fists connecting with her jaw.
Taro seizes her ring hand, bending it behind her back. He snatches her knife out of its sheath and slashes with efficient precision. Her finger comes off, and the ring goes flying.
“The ring!” Taro says, not even pausing to look up at me. “Find the ring!”
I push myself off the woman and sprint after the ring. Despite the rising pandemonium, we are not ejected from Vex. Taro was right about that.
Explosions flare all around. Avatars burn. Smoke from their bodies fills the air. I pause and scan the room, looking for any sign of the ring. How am I supposed to find it in this chaos?
Hank and Billy are hunkered down at the base of the dais. I can’t see what they’re doing, but a bright glow bathes both of their faces—the white light of code. Hank has found a way in, just like she said she would.
I take off in the direction I last saw the ring. Four Leaguers catch sight of me and charge. They converge in a silent rush of uniforms.
I grit my teeth and dive, smacking into their legs like a bowling ball. They go down on top of me in a pile of arms and legs and SmartPlastic masks. I thrash wildly in an attempt to keep the men from pinning me.
The Leaguers each manage to grapple one of my limbs. They hoist me into the air, hauling me back to the dais—where Hank and Billy are. No. I can’t let them find Hank and Billy.
I yank my arms and legs, kicking and screaming and jerking with all I’ve got. They shove me back onto one of the dais chairs, three of them struggling to hold me down while the forth pushes my right arm toward a cuff. I strain against him, fighting to keep my wrist free. Slowly, inexorably, the man’s strength overpowers mine.
Hank and Billy are on the other side of the dais, which still rotates slowly. The Leaguers haven’t noticed them yet. I’ve got to fight, got to keep the Leaguers away from my friends.
I scream and lunge forward, sinking my teeth into the man’s arm.
He swears at me. “Hold her, you idiots!” he shouts.
Someone grabs my braid and yanks. I lose concentration for a split second. My wrist is slammed down into the cuff. Triumph flares in the Leaguer’s eyes, the only part of his face visible through the SmartPlastic. His right hand pins my squirming wrist. His left hand reaches for the other cuff, to close it on me.
Just before he can snap it shut, a Twain lands on his head. The frog gives a loud croak, then explodes. Flames wrap around the Leaguer’s head. He doesn’t scream; he doesn’t feel any pain. But he does stagger back and drop to the floor, instinctively writhing and batting at his burning face.
His movements grow feeble. Seconds later, he’s motionless on the floor. The flames die. His ruined head starts to heal itself, pixels sliding back together as the self-healing-avatar technology does its work. In another thirty seconds, the downed Leaguer will be good as new.
The remaining three Leaguers struggle to hold me down. A Twain hops onto my chair, landing beside my free hand. I grab the frog and shove it down the uniform of the nearest Leaguer. He stumbles back, clawing at his jumpsuit, but it’s too late. The Twain detonates, ripping a hole in his chest.
More and more Twains jump onto the dais. My captors lose just enough focus for me to wrench myself away. I crawl out between their legs, wading into the writhing mass of frogs.
They peel away from me like a parting zipper. Gun must have programmed them to avoid me. The Twains close the gap after I pass, exploding all over the men who try to follow me.
“Sulan!” Hank howls. “Sulan, I need you now!”
I look up. A Leaguer looms over Hank. Billy is on his feet, trying to fend him off. Billy makes an awkward swipe that resembles a right hook. The Leaguer backhands him, knocking him to the ground, then reaches for Hank.
I scramble back onto the dais, over the nearest chair, and jump. My foot connects with the man’s face. I land on top of him. I twist, trying to get to my feet, but he grabs my ankle. I fall face-first. I scrabble with my hands, but the man pulls me toward him.
I glimpse Hank’s fingers, spread wide in the code as she struggles to hold a port open. Her free hand plunges into another rapidly closing hole. She seizes a string of data and pulls. The hole snaps open, revealing a whirling blue portal just large enough for a person.
“We’re through,” she cries. “Billy, go!”
Billy plunges into the blue and vanishes. The Leaguer grabs me by the throat and pulls me to my feet. I stare into the dead-white of his mask.
“You will pay for that, you little—”
His words end in a fit of coughing. Blood stains the front of his uniform and drizzles to the floor in a viscous red stream. I pry his hands from my neck and shove him away. The avatar thumps lifelessly to the ground, blood already disintegrating as the wound in his chest closes.
Gun stands ten feet away, still in his frog avatar with an AT-57 machine gun in one hand. I want to run to him, but we’re separated by brawling Russian peasants
and Roman gladiators. Gun holds up a purple pill, pinching it neatly between his thumb and forefinger.
Our eyes meet. I nod. He hurls the pill, and the purple lozenge rockets over the crowd.
I snatch the pill out of the air and toss it down my throat. I glance at Gun again, a question on my face. He holds up one webbed hand, fingers splayed. It’s our signal for wait. Whatever this pill does, it will take a moment to kick in.
A hand latches onto my ankle. I look down. It’s the same Leaguer Gun just shot and killed. His avatar has regenerated like a vampire in a B movie. I bring up my free foot and stomp hard on his shoulder. He grunts, reaching for his gun.
Billy pops up in front of me, leaping out of the swirling blue. His eyes are wide, and he pants as though he’s run a long way. In one hand, he holds a small leather bag. He reaches into the pouch and pulls out a small mound of gray powder.
“Mortality!” he shouts. The powder turns bright orange. Billy flings it straight into the Leaguer’s face.
The man drops my ankle and pulls back, swiping at his eyes. Several frogs climb onto him and detonate along his arms. He screams. Another frog lands on his head and explodes. The avatar collapses into perfect silence. The Leaguer has jagged black holes along both arms. Two-thirds of his head is missing.
This time, there’s no slithering pixels, no quick rebirth. The bastard stays dead.
Mortality.
The name says it all. Billy’s Touch program made the man mortal in Vex. And the Twains killed him. Somewhere in the real-world, this man is dead.
The auction has disintegrated into chaos. The Twains are everywhere. Most of the avatars regenerate, but evidently security breaches don’t sit well with would-be despots. Two-thirds of them have disappeared.
A few die-hard bidders remain—Elvis, Chinese Emperor, and Grecian Urn. At this point the bid is up to one and a half billion. I’ve lost track of Gun. Imugi tries to conduct the auction while pretending he’s not surrounded by chaos and exploding frogs.
The League Page 13