“Maybe it’s time for a career change,” I say to Dad. “You could forget about genetics and open a publicity firm.”
“We’re going to Global, Sulan.”
I grunt, even though I didn’t really expect him to change his mind.
“Call him now,” Aston says. “Before we get any closer.”
Dad nods and calls Mr. Winn on his tablet. I get up and move to the other side of the Gav, putting as much distance as possible between the owner of Global Arms and me. Riska flaps around my head. I pull him out of the air and into my arms. I take a seat next to Taro, who fixes his very serious eyes on me.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
I shrug.
“Dr. Yip Hom.” A voice that could herald an ice age booms forth from the computer tablet, filling the interior of the Gav. “You do know I will have to make an example of you? A very . . . poignant example?”
I can’t help it. I shudder.
“Mr. Winn.” Dad is the poster boy for politeness. “I stole the Gav to rescue our kids from the Anti-American League. We found them. They’re all okay.”
“How nice for you.” The words carry enough force to flatten a mountain. The silence that follows weighs a ton.
“I’d like to propose a trade,” Dad says.
More silence.
“What could you possibly offer me?”
In response, Dad taps the screen. The video footage plays. He lets it run for about a minute, then freezes it on the image of Imugi’s body. I wonder, who got that footage? Mom or one of the others must have found the room where we were held captive.
“Imugi is dead,” Dad says. “The kids killed him when they escaped. I’ve got their entire rescue recorded on my tablet. I will give it to you in exchange for your pardon. We’d like to come home. All of us.”
“Let me see the kids.”
Reluctantly, Dad turns the tablet. Mr. Winn’s avatar stares out at us. I guess neither he nor Claudine likes to make calls with their real faces. His avatar wears its signature olive-green cowboy hat. He sports a bushy gray-brown beard that conceals half his face. Of all ridiculous things, he wears a monocle. I’m pretty sure it’s just part of his image. I can’t imagine a person with his wealth having bad eyesight.
His green eyes slide over us with calculating precision. It seems like his gaze lingers the longest on me. I try not to squirm, but the scrutiny makes me feel like a guppy in a shark tank.
“You’ve got yourself a deal, Mr. Hom,” he says at last. “If the children will agree to participate in a virtual press conference.”
What?
Dad flips the tablet back around. “Mr. Winn, these kids have been through hell—”
“Clearly,” Mr. Winn says. “Which is why a press conference is essential. Once I release the footage to the media, everyone is going to want to talk to the kids who brought down Imugi.”
“But—”
“The footage and a press conference. That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”
Dad sighs. He looks up at Aston, who nods.
No one looks at any of us. My nails dig into the bench. Riska hisses.
“Deal,” Dad says.
“Nice to have you back on the team, Dr. Hom.”
Riska bursts into the air and flies in angry circles around the Gav.
22
The Dome
Dad and Aston disappear into the head of the Gav with the tablet. Still sitting beside Taro, I slump down against the bench. Misery clouds my brain.
“I can’t believe we have to do a press conference,” I say. “I’ve had enough public attention to last a lifetime.”
“The press conference will be an hour or two at most,” he says. I can’t tell if he’s trying to comfort me or himself. “We get it done and move on.”
“Right. Get it done and move on.” I can do that. Right?
“Taro,” I say, “are you happy we killed Imugi?”
“Happy?” Taro’s brow creases. “No. I never feel happy about killing anyone.”
“I feel like I should be happy,” I say. “I mean, we got rid of a monster. We fought hard and almost got killed, but . . .”
“But?” Taro prompts gently.
I look up at him. “I feel . . . numb. Empty. Tired.” The terror of the last few days clings to me, like grit on my hands that won’t wash off. The explosion that swallowed Mom flares over and over again in my head. How can I care about Imugi when all I can think about is Mom?
Taro’s face softens. “Why don’t you try and sleep.”
I take his advice and fall asleep in a sitting position on the bench. When I awake sometime later, I find my head on his shoulder. My neck has a crick. I straighten and stretch. Riska is curled on my lap, asleep.
“Hey,” Taro says.
“Hey.” As my eyes meet his, some of my gloom disperses. “I think I drooled on your shoulder.”
He raises both eyebrows and glances sideways. At the sight of the small wet spot on his uniform, he just shrugs.
It occurs to me that I should feel embarrassed, but I don’t. What’s a little drool after a black-market League auction?
A look out the window membrane shows me pale dawn light in an otherwise black sky. Everything is blurry through the membrane. I can still make out the stars, but they’re white smudges. How long before we reach the compound? I didn’t think to ask Dad where we are in relation to Livermore.
Billy and Hank sit across from us, talking quietly. Hank is snuggled into the crook of Billy’s arm; apparently, she’s forgiven him for his omission. The sight of them together is a bright spot in an otherwise bleak landscape.
My gaze lands on Taro’s hands, which rest in his lap. He has a new bandage on his missing finger, but it’s already dark with blood. The sight of it makes me feel sick.
“Taro.” I force myself to look at his face. “I . . . I am really sorry about your finger. If I’d known . . .”
“It’s just a finger, Sulan. Don’t worry about it.”
“Just a finger?” I echo.
“I can still shoot a gun. That’s all anyone is really going to care about.”
“But you don’t care about that.”
“No.” His dark eyes meet mine.
For some reason, heat rushes to my face. I look down.
“This wasn’t your fault.” Taro gestures to his missing finger. “You were scared. You didn’t know what Imugi was going to do. Considering the situation, I’m lucky they didn’t just kill me.”
“I wish . . .” Tears brim my eyes, and I blink them away. “I wish I could get it back for you. I wish . . . I wish I could get Mom and your finger back.” My throat tightens. I turn my gaze to the window membrane, even though there isn’t anything to look at.
Taro pulls a black ink pen out of his pocket. He studies it, turning it end over end between his fingers.
“Did your dad give that to you on the ship?” I ask.
“Yeah.” His face darkens. “It’s my favorite ink pen. We got into an argument over it just before you and I were kidnapped.”
“You guys fought over a pen?”
Taro pops the cap off and rolls up the sleeve on his left arm. “I wanted to take a box of these pens to the compound. Dad thinks it’s time for me to grow up and put aside childish pastimes.”
He touches the tip of the pen to his forearm and begins to draw. I am taken back to the moment when I first met Taro—was it only yesterday?—and recall the smudged ink I saw on the back of his hands. As I watch, Taro sketches the face of a beautiful woman with long black hair and almond eyes. There’s surety and confidence in each stroke of his pen.
“You’re an artist,” I say, taking in the precise, delicate lines of his portrait. “Taro, that’s beautiful.”
He gazes at the face on his forearm. “She’s my mother. Her name was Sunai. She was Japanese.”
“Was . . . ?”
Taro sighs, putting the cap back on the pen. “She was murdered eight months ago. I like to draw
her face so I won’t forget what it looks like.”
“What happened to her?”
“Dad and I left for a few days to train in the mountains near Yosemite. Mom was home alone. Someone broke in, robbed us, and shot her.”
His blunt delivery makes me flinch. “I’m so sorry,” I say.
“I miss her,” he says. “I . . . understand what you’re going through. I just want you to know that.”
This unexpected kindness threatens to burst the dam I’ve painstakingly erected. Tears erupt as I think of Mom. I close my eyes and take deep breaths, trying to get things back under control.
Somehow, I manage to keep it together. My heart rate slows and my tears dry up. I open my eyes and wipe my cheeks.
Taro is looking at me. When our eyes meet, he smiles. I smile back.
An easy silence settles between us. I lean back and stroke Riska, staring up at the ribs of the Gav. Several beats pass before I realize I’m leaning against Taro’s shoulder again.
It feels good to be close to him. I don’t know why. Maybe because he knows how it feels to lose a parent. Because he knows grief has carved a giant hole inside me, and I don’t know how I’ll ever patch it up. A tear creeps out of my eye, and I wipe it away.
“I don’t want to go to the compound,” I say. “I know we’re lucky. I know there are thousands of people out there who would kill to be in my shoes.” I rub my forehead. “I’m ungrateful. I know that. The idea of living in that place makes me feel like a caged bird.”
Gun’s words echo in my mind. You can always come find me.
“I don’t think you’re ungrateful,” Taro says. “I think . . . I think you don’t like the idea of being under Mr. Winn’s thumb.”
“We could make a break for it,” I say, sitting up. “Bust out of the compound. We could run, leave all this behind. I’ve got a place we can go.”
Taro studies my face. “That guy who set all those exploding frogs loose in Vex—is that who you’d go to?”
I nod.
Taro looks away. “Sulan, how well do you know him?”
“He’s my friend. We’ve been training together almost every day for the past four months. He taught me everything I know about fighting.”
“Have you ever met him in person?”
I prickle. “He’s my friend, Taro.”
“I know. And I’m thankful for everything he did for us. But there’s something not right about him. Isn’t some part of you wondering how he found you? How he got into an Anti-American League black-market auction? How he had access to an EMP bomb? Did he have it stashed under his bed?”
Each question is like a slap to my face. I picture Gun as I’ve seen him so many times: stretching in our locker room, his shiny shaved head reflecting the light of our single bulb. His big smile, the special one with the dimples that touches his eyes when he looks at me. Just thinking about it warms me.
And then I think of all the half-truths I’ve told him. By now he knows everything: my true identity, the extent of my math skills, the real name of my school. What does he think of me, knowing I lied about those things?
“Gun would never hurt me,” I say. “He’s my friend. There’s an explanation for everything.”
“I hope so.”
His sincerity rankles, but I’m not in the mood to argue with him. I don’t want to push Taro away.
Zed is still pacing up and down the short length of the Gav, talking to himself. It’s hard not to pity him. Whatever happened to him in North Korea, he’ll never be the same.
And what about us? I look at Hank, Billy, and Taro. How can any of us ever be the same, after what happened? Maybe we’ll all end up like Zed, walking in circles and screaming at shadows.
Hank, glancing out the window membrane, suddenly sits up straight. “Um, guys,” she says, “where are we?”
Taro and I spin simultaneously to look outside. As sunlight pushes back the night, I see—snow. Snow, snow, and more snow. And mountains—gorgeous, sprawling, impossibly tall mountains, all of them covered in pristine white. Even with the slight blur of the membrane, the landscape is clear to me.
“What the . . . ?” Taro murmurs.
“Dad!” I yell. “Where are we?”
From the cockpit of the Gav: silence. Then a soft rustle, and Dad slides into view. He meets my eyes without faltering, and my stomach sinks.
“We’re not going to the Livermore Lab,” he says quietly.
“What are you talking about?” I say, my voice rising. “Dad, where are we?”
“Alaska.”
“Alaska?” Hank’s voice is even shriller than mine; she’s obviously feeling much better. “What are we doing in Alaska?”
“Mr. Winn did buy the Livermore Lab, but not for a corporate compound,” Dad says. “Our new home is here in the mountains.”
“But, Dad,” I say, “there’s nothing out here.”
“That’s the idea,” he replies.
And then I remember: Dad, away for months at a time, working on a top-secret project in—Alaska.
“You—you knew,” I say. “All this time, you knew we weren’t moving to Livermore.”
“It was classified information,” Dad says. He doesn’t look repentant. He looks like a man determined to tell the truth. “I wish I could have told you. Mr. Winn forbade it. He had our apartment bugged, Sulan. He would have known if I leaked information about the Dome.”
The Dome.
I’m not sure what staggers me more, that my father has lied to me for months—possibly even years—or that our apartment was bugged. I reach out a hand to steady myself against the wall. I stare at Dad in his ragged T-shirt, trying to figure out if I’m angry or hurt.
Billy is the first to break the silence. “The Dome,” he says slowly. “As in, the biodome.”
My breath catches as I recall the first conversation I had with Billy when I was looking for black tech. He went on and on about a biodome supposedly being built by Anderson Arms.
It’s not about believing or not believing, Billy had said. It’s about drilling down through the rumors and propaganda to find the truth.
“It was all misdirection planted by Global,” Billy says. “All that stuff about a biodome—I knew there was something going on. I was so focused on Anderson Arms, when all along Global was the one with the biodome. It’s here, in Alaska, and that’s where we’re going.”
Zed stops in his tracks. “The biodome isn’t for commies?” he says faintly.
“No, Zed,” Dad says. “The Dome isn’t for commies. You’ll be safe.” His gaze takes in the rest of us. “I’m sorry for the lies. It wasn’t my choice. We’ll reach the Dome sometime late today or early tomorrow.”
Questions gather on the tip of my tongue. Did Mom know? Why all the secrecy? What’s the Dome for?
But Dad turns away and slips back into the control room before I can say anything. Hank, Taro, Billy, and I are all left to stare at one another in silence.
• • •
“There it is,” Taro murmurs.
I turn to the window membrane. At first, all I can see is snow, an occasional boulder, and a willful tree. There’s a shimmer, and I realize the Dome is cloaked. The shimmer is what happens when the cloak is turned off. In a large valley dimpling a mountainside, the heat signature distorts the image of the snow as the cloak fizzles away. I see it for the first time.
The Dome, despite its namesake, has a distinctly serpentine shape. As far as I can see, there’s no way in or out, except by Gav.
“This is a prison,” I whisper to Taro.
“A glass prison,” he whispers back.
It shines like a giant diamond caterpillar, reflecting the light of the sun in a million directions at once.
The End
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to my team of beta readers! This book would not be what it is without your invaluable help and advice.
Arlene Ang
Cassidy Bryce
Heidi Garrett
Mike Huggins
F.R.R. Mallory
Theresa Palanos
Chris Picott
Dinesh Pulandram
Allison Bird Vigue
Ann Wilkes
And thanks to the experts who were kind enough to share their expertise on a variety of subjects:
Mario Alves
Military consultant
Weapons consultant
Technology consultant
All-around awesome beta reader
Casey Plain
Math consultant
All of you have my deepest gratitude for your help in making this book the best it could be. Maybe you’ll agree to stick around for the sequel . . . ?
About the Author
Camille Picott is a fifth-generation Chinese American. She's been writing novels since she was twelve years old. Among her books you can find Asian-inspired science fiction and fantasy novels, zombies stories, and how-to manuals for speculative fiction authors.
Camille loves cooking and running absurdly long distances. It's not unusual to find her chopping veggies in the kitchen late at night or hitting the trail in her running shoes long before the sun rises. She considers sleep to be optional and largely overrated.
Visit Camille at
www.camillepicott.com
or follow on Facebook @ultrawriter
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