Ultraball #2

by Jeff Chen

  They stopped at a pitch-black door recessed into the wall. The bodyguard pressed a button on a control panel, and the door clicked open. “Mr. Zuna will see you now,” he said. “I’ll escort you back down after your meeting.”

  Strike edged toward the door. His breath caught. He’d heard about places like this back on Earth, throne rooms adorned in gold and silver, crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, catching the light and throwing rainbow patterns across the room.

  “Hello, Strike,” Zuna said. He stood up from behind a wood desk, its surface polished to an oily finish, representations of wild animals carved into the legs. “What do you think?” He waved a hand across his surroundings. “It’s not my best suite, but it’s hard to beat the view.”

  Strike stepped forward toward the panoramic window separating them from the stands. His eyes widened as he took in the sight of North Pole Stadium. He could see everything from here. There were even displays mounted near the ceiling that projected zoomed-in close-ups.

  “Nothing but the best for the North Pole Neutrons,” Zuna said. “This is all due to our Ultrabowl wins. Every one of the Neutrons is set for life.” He shook his head. “No one remembers the losers.”

  “Like your Neutrons?” Strike said. “Remind me, who just won this game?”

  “Ultraball is a war,” Zuna said. “This is only one battle. We’ll end this season with a title. Just like last year.”

  Heat rose through Strike’s head as something clicked into place. This might have been the exact spot where Zuna had aimed his Meltdown Gun at Boom last year and pulled the trigger. And now Zuna was taunting him about it?

  He spun on his heels and stormed toward the door, but Zuna called out. “Sit, Strike. Your Ultrabot suit is getting tight. You panic when you think about outgrowing it, about your Ultraball career being over. And for good reason. It won’t be long before the suit won’t seal up around you anymore. Maybe you have months. But it might only be weeks.”

  Strike started to deny it all, but it was useless. “How did you know?” he asked.

  “Because it’s what happened to Chain Reaction,” Zuna said.

  Strike took a step back, trying to process the information. Slowly, the pieces were starting to come together. “So that’s why you replaced him,” he said. “Chain Reaction outgrew his suit over the off-season.”

  “Always one step behind,” Zuna said. “Chain Reaction started to outgrow his suit two years ago. Think, Strike. Why would I ask you here?”

  Strike’s head felt like it was overheating, shorting out. Why had Zuna asked him here? It had to do with the Ultrabot suit tightening around Strike, just as it had around Chain Reaction—

  Strike jolted, the realization smashing into him like a blitzing crackback. He hardly dared to ask the question. “You have a way to enlarge a suit?” That was impossible, given how technologically advanced the Ultrabot suits were. They were so complicated that no one on the moon fully understood how they worked. But Strike held his breath. Maybe Zuna, with all his money, had found a way to make the impossible happen.

  “Lucky for Chain Reaction, he was a North Pole Neutron,” Zuna said. “Neutron Nation is unstoppable. North Pole Colony’s technology is unparalleled.”

  Without thinking, Strike blurted out, “What do you want in return for enlarging my suit?”

  Zuna smiled. “I’m glad we understand each other. I give you something, you give me something. I’m not even asking for much.” He raised a shoulder in a casual shrug. “All I want is Boom’s location.”

  Caught off guard by the mention of his former star rocketback, Strike struggled to remain stoic. He shrugged back. “She’s dead.”

  “Don’t insult my intelligence,” Zuna said. “You didn’t fool me one bit with all that talk last year about her dying somewhere on the Dark Side, back among her filthy people. Of course that’s what you’d do, telling the world of her death so that I wouldn’t come after her. No, she’s still alive.” He pointed to a plush padded chair. “Sit.”

  “No thanks.” Strike stood rigidly, trying not to give anything away. Wraith’s words echoed through his head: Boom needs you. She’s safely hidden away, gathering an army.

  “Boom is working behind the scenes with Wraith,” Zuna said. “They’re the ones who stole nuclear weapon components from North Pole Colony. I’m sure of it. Eliminating Boom is a matter of national security. It’s your duty to turn her in.”

  Strike remained silent, his fingers fidgeting. That’s kind of what Governor Katana said, he thought.

  “You might not know exactly where she is,” Zuna said. “But you do know how to get in contact with her. Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re wondering how guilty you’d feel, trading Boom’s life so that you can play another Ultraball season or two. But that’s not the right way to think about it. Choosing the right course of action would save lives. You’d be brave. Heroic. Helping to keep the moon safe from anarchists—anarchists who are looking to build nuclear weapons. Being able to extend your Ultraball career? That’s simply a bonus.”

  “She didn’t steal those nuclear components. She’s dead.”

  Zuna leaned forward, locking eyes with Strike. He pressed his palms into the desk as if he was preparing to crush it. “It’s your patriotic duty to turn her in. The Dark Siders are the biggest threat humanity has ever faced. Even more dangerous than the terrorists who caused Earthfall.”

  “Terrorists?” Strike blinked in confusion. “You mean the Earthfall Eight?”

  “What do they teach you these days?” Zuna asked, shaking his head. “The Earthfall Eight may have been the ones to push the nuclear launch buttons. But Earthfall would never have happened if the radical insurgents behind the scenes had been stopped.” He raised his right hand with a firm solemnity. “I’m offering you the chance to be a hero for the United Moon Colonies, as well as to extend your Ultraball career. It’s a no-brainer. Turn in the terrorists.”

  Although Zuna seemed to honestly believe what he was saying, this business about the Dark Siders being terrorists was ridiculous. All they wanted was to be left alone. But one thing was true: the man wearing the Governor’s Star of North Pole Colony was offering Strike a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. This wasn’t just about Strike extending his Ultraball career. The futures of all his teammates depended on him leading the Miners to an Ultrabowl title. He thought about the phone Boom had put in Rock’s pocket, with instructions to only use it in a dire emergency.

  Was it time to make the call?

  But then, Strike thought about what Rock would say to all of this. So many things didn’t make sense. Why would Zuna help Strike, if that meant strengthening the Neutrons’ biggest rival? Something wasn’t right.

  Strike shook his head.

  “You disappoint me, Strike,” Zuna said. He stood up, motioning toward the door. “I expected more out of you. Get out.”

  “With pleasure,” Strike said. He stormed out, swearing at himself under his breath. He couldn’t believe he’d even agreed to listen to the most evil man on the moon.

  As Strike reached the door, Zuna called out, “Remember, Strike. There is nothing more important than national security. Boom is an enemy of the state. Aiding and abetting an enemy of the state is an act of treason.” When Strike turned to look back, Zuna’s fiery gaze burned holes into him. “The penalty for treason is death.”

  The bodyguard yanked Strike out the door and manhandled him toward the stairs.

  6

  The Guardian

  INSIDE THEIR ULTRABALL tram, Strike tried to listen to all the information and data that Rock was throwing at the Miners about their week-three opponent, the Kamar Explorers. The Miners had prepared harder than ever, to the point that Strike wondered if he had pushed everyone too far. Even Jasmine, sitting at the end of one row of seats, looked tired as she furiously scribbled down everything Rock said.

  He startled as Rock waved a hand in his face. “Strike?” Rock said. “So, what do you think?”
<
br />   Strike’s eyes darted around. Everyone was watching him, waiting. “Uh. Yeah. Definitely,” he said.

  Rock’s head tilted to the side, an eyebrow rising in question. “I was expecting more of an argument. But I’m glad you agree. Stretching the field by throwing more long bombs to TNT will be a great help to our offense.”

  “What? No, that’s not what I meant,” Strike said.

  His other eyebrow going up, Rock cleared his throat. “So, when I asked if we should go back to having more long passes in our game plan and you said yes, I was misinterpreting you?”

  “Yes. No. What? Don’t try to confuse me.”

  “It seemed like a simple question,” Rock said. He looked around. “Am I wrong?”

  “No,” Jasmine said. She took out a notebook and read from it. “You asked Strike about throwing more long passes, going back to game plans that worked so well back when TNT—”

  “No one likes a wise guy,” Strike said. Despite his annoyance, he grinned at Jasmine. It was funny to watch her scramble as she tried to keep up with Rock’s never-ending requests.

  “I don’t know about that,” Pickaxe said. “Mini Rock is okay by me.” He went to give Jasmine a friendly slug on the shoulder, but she ducked away so quickly that Pickaxe whiffed, his missed punch making him lurch.

  Nugget cackled with glee at his brother. “I’d make a joke about you being slow, but the joke tells itself— Ow!” He winced as Pickaxe wheeled around and slugged his shoulder.

  “Now who’s slow?” Pickaxe asked with a smile. The tram shuddered, curving hard on its way into Kamar station, sending Pickaxe off balance. He nearly toppled over, but Jasmine jumped to scurry in behind, propping him up before he could fall.

  Narrowing his eyes, Pickaxe studied her. “You’re like a rocket. A teeny tiny nitro rocket.”

  “Good one,” Rock said. He opened his notebook to a page titled “Excellent Nicknames” and scrawled in “Nitro,” “Rocket,” and “Nitro Rocket.”

  “All right, everyone,” Strike said. “Let’s go unload. Big game ahead.” As always, there was a crowd of fans gathered in the station, waiting to cheer on the team. Most everyone was dressed in the blue jumpsuits of Taiko Colony, but there were plenty of other colors dotted throughout the area. He pressed a button and the tram door slid back.

  A loud cheer erupted as Strike stepped out, smiling and waving to everyone. He’d always loved these moments in the past, but now it seemed more important than ever to savor them. Who knew which one would be his last?

  Then he caught sight of a blur to his left and all hell broke loose. Someone was barreling through the crowd, heading straight at Strike, something glinting in his hand. The attacker slammed into the Miners, but two people had thrown themselves in front of Strike to absorb the blow. They all hit the ground, Strike’s head cracking down hard. All the air exploded out of his lungs, a searing pain ripping through his chest. He couldn’t breathe. All he could do was curl into the fetal position as the station erupted into a mass of screams and panic. Two bodyguards threw themselves on top of him, the pressure threatening to crush him.

  A siren cut through the air, an amplified voice blaring over the station loudspeaker. “Everyone, get down! If you are up, we will put you down.” Sharp crackles of electricity sparked, the sound of electrostun weapons popping in Strike’s ears. The mass hysteria ratcheted up. Strike couldn’t see a thing, but horrible images tore through his head. He closed his eyes tight, trying to hide from it all.

  “Get away from Strike, you lunatic!” Pickaxe yelled.

  “I’m protecting him, you fool,” someone said. “He’s in danger. Now let me talk to him before the Blackguards come.”

  In his confusion, Strike squeezed his eyes even harder, concentrating as he tried to place the familiar voice. “Wraith?” he croaked.

  Bodies slowly unpiled from Strike. He cracked an eye, spotting Wraith right above him. “Someone in a blue jumpsuit tried to kill you,” she whispered.

  “What are you doing in Kamar Colony?” Strike asked.

  “Boom asked me to keep you safe at all costs.” She stole a glance over her shoulder. “I can’t always be around you, though. Zuna is watching me constantly. You have to be smarter about staying safe. The rebellion army needs you.” She pushed off and sprinted away.

  The tumult around the station died down, the yells and screams slowly morphing into moans. Strike sat up, a sharp pain at his side. His eyes widened as he caught sight of Nugget and Pickaxe huddled together over TNT. His star rocketback 1 was on the ground, writhing, holding his gut. “TNT,” Strike said. “Are you okay?”

  Rock shook his head. “We need to get him to Salaam Hospital.”

  “I’m fine,” TNT said through gritted teeth. His hand was pressed over his stomach, a red spot staining his jumpsuit.

  “Holy frak,” Strike said. He moved toward TNT, but his friend rolled to face the other way.

  “Just give me a second,” TNT said. He let out a guttural groan. “Help me get inside my Ultrabot suit and I’ll be good to go.”

  “You’re bleeding,” Rock said. He carefully moved TNT’s hand aside, peering at the wound. “It doesn’t look like the cut is deep. But you definitely shouldn’t play.”

  “Get me into my frakkin’ suit,” TNT said. “I just need to be breathing, and the Ultrabot suit will do the rest for me.”

  “You can barely sit up,” Rock said. He looked to Strike. “I don’t think you should let him play. He’ll hurt himself further.”

  “What happened?” Strike asked. He leaned in to stare at the bloody spot on TNT’s jumpsuit.

  “He and Wraith jumped in to protect you when that guy ran at you with a knife,” Nugget said. “If it hadn’t been for the two of them . . .” He paused, nearly choking on his words.

  A crowd had gathered around them, onlookers asking if they could help. The circle tightened, everyone too close. Strike held up his hands. “Everyone back up,” he said. “Give us some space.”

  “I have a phone,” a guy in a gold jumpsuit said. “Should I call Salaam Hospital?”

  “No,” TNT said. He winced in pain. “Don’t take me there. I have to play. We’ll forfeit otherwise.”

  “You can’t play,” Rock said quietly. “We need to get you to the hospital.”

  “We can’t afford the hospital,” TNT said.

  Strike and Rock looked at each other in silence. Salaam Hospital was only for the rich. Even the Miners couldn’t pay for a trip to the hospital.

  “I’m telling you, I’m fine,” TNT said. He tried to sit up but doubled back over, his face scrunching in agony. “Call someone from the backup list. We can’t forfeit. Go win this one for me.”

  Rock turned to Strike. “What do we do?”

  A million thoughts bounced through Strike’s head. He studied TNT, who lay back down, groaning. “We have to get him to the hospital,” Strike said. “But will we be able to pay for it?”

  As the person who handled the Miners’ team finances, Rock strained in thought. After a long pause, he pursed his lips. “I’ll have to find a way. Let’s get him onto the tram.”

  “You’ll be okay,” Strike said, but with no conviction in his voice. “We’ll be with you the entire way.”

  Just as Strike was about to tell the onlooker to call Salaam Hospital, TNT grabbed his wrist. Spasms wracked through TNT, his breathing short and ragged. He locked eyes with his quarterback, his best friend, blinking hard, willing Strike to do what had to be done.

  It had been a long time since they had shared a moment like this, where Strike knew exactly what TNT was thinking. Strike had to somehow go on with the game. If he didn’t, TNT would never forgive him.

  Strike looked toward the guy who was still holding up his phone. “Call the hospital and tell them five of our bodyguards will be bringing TNT in. And then call . . .” He flinched, looking to Rock. “Frak. Tell me that someone on our backup list has a phone. Anyone.” But he already knew the answer. Almost no one in T
aiko Colony had a phone anymore, much less any kids.

  Rock was already shaking his head as he opened his notebook.

  “I’ll take a tram back to Taiko Colony,” Jasmine said. “I’m fast. I’ll find whoever you need.”

  “There’s not enough time,” Rock said. “The game is going to start in an hour.”

  “Then we’re dead,” Strike said. “We have to forfeit.”

  “Not necessarily,” Rock said. He turned to Jasmine. “You can play.”

  “Me?” The little girl shrank down, looking smaller than ever.

  “As you said, you’re fast,” Rock said. “And your big brother . . . I bet a lot of Torch’s knowledge has rubbed off on you.”

  Jasmine raised her shoulders in a tentative shrug. “He actually got me some time in an Ultrabot suit back when he was quarterbacking the Flamethrowers.”

  Strike looked at Rock skeptically. “She doesn’t know our playbook.”

  “She does,” Rock said. “She’s been helping me catalog game data. Her Ultraball IQ is off the charts.”

  Strike rubbed his chin as he studied the girl. “You think you can do it?”

  Jasmine jammed her hands into her jumpsuit pockets. “No way,” she said, her face twisted in agony. “What if I screw up? Me and Torch, we’re cursed.”

  “There’s no such thing as a curse,” Rock said.

  “Torch cursed the Flamethrowers for years after he lost that Ultrabowl.”

  “It was just bad luck that the Flamethrowers were so terrible after that,” Strike said.

  “That’s the very definition of a curse,” Jasmine said. She shook her head. “I can’t do that to the Miners. No way. I’m not playing.”

  “What about making up for what Torch did last year?” TNT said in a growl. “You said you’d do anything. And now you’re backing out?” He grabbed his side, his hand twitching. “You have to try. Otherwise we’ll forfeit.”