by Jeff Chen
“We don’t have any other options,” Rock said. “We need you. Please.”
Jasmine looked down at her feet and swore under her breath. Finally, she gave a hesitant nod.
Strike turned to glance at a clock mounted high on the side of Kamar Arena. “Let’s go. We have less than an hour to get her up to speed. Everyone unload quick. I have to turn in our new roster to the officials ASAP. Go!”
The Miners flew in action, following Strike’s orders. He caught Jasmine’s nervous glance and mustered up a confident smile for her. The pressure would be intense. She’d be the focus of every fan and color commentator, every one of her mistakes and missteps analyzed to death.
Strike turned away with a guilty tinge of relief that it wouldn’t be him under the harsh spotlight today.
7
Scoreboard Highlights
THE BIG ROSTER change had been announced five minutes ago, but there was still a buzz in the air. Strike tried to focus on the play they had called for the kickoff return, but the shock of everything that had happened still had him on the verge of a breakdown. Attempted murder. TNT at the hospital, no one even knowing if he’d survive. Jasmine stepping in at the last minute to avoid forfeit. The guy with the knife had disappeared without a trace, not a surprise if Zuna was behind it. The Blackguards in Zuna’s pocket might have even been helping the guy. This might have been what Ion Storm had been talking about when he had yelled “Deathstrike” during last week’s game.
But it wasn’t like Zuna to order a direct attack on Strike’s life. Zuna still needed Strike alive if he thought Strike could lead him to Boom. So if Zuna wasn’t behind this, who was? A deranged fan? Someone betting heavily on the Neutrons, who wanted to take out their biggest competition?
He jumped and cried out when a fist clanged into his shoulder.
“Game time,” Pickaxe said. He pointed to a ref, who was signaling toward Strike. “Thirty seconds to kickoff.”
Strike took a deep breath and bit his lip. “Miners together. Let’s win this one for TNT. Nitro, you ready?”
There was only silence over the helmet comm.
Strike jogged over to slug Jasmine’s shoulder. “Nitro!”
“Oh, right, I’m Nitro,” she said. “Yes. I’m ready.” She paused. “I think. Maybe.”
Strike turned away so she wouldn’t see the concern on his face. “Everyone else?”
“Ready,” Pickaxe and Nugget said.
Strike turned to Rock, who was staring at the scoreboard. “Hey. Did you hear me?”
“What?” Rock whipped his head around, coming out of a fog. “The bottom of the scoreboard. It’s bizarre.”
“What’s bizarre is that kickoff is in twenty seconds and you’re staring into space,” Strike said. He grabbed Rock’s shoulders. “Focus.”
“Sorry,” Rock said. He raced into position as the Miners set up to receive the kickoff. “Has their new field feature been announced yet?”
“They’re still keeping it secret,” Strike said. “We’ll find out soon enough.” Ultraball teams sometimes changed their home field features during the off-season. Waiting until the last second in their home opener to unveil it made for a huge advantage, and the Kamar Explorers were going to milk it today.
“Set up in wedge four,” Strike said over helmet comm. A standard kickoff receiving pattern, wedge four would let the Miners adjust to whatever the Explorers tried to surprise them with. Strike tried hard to focus on the game, and not on the fact that just an hour ago, someone had tried to kill him.
A whistle blew, starting the game. The Explorers raced forward, one of them booting the ball high into the air. Strike took a few steps back, getting ready to catch the long kick.
But at the top of its high arc, the ball smacked into a plate fixed to Kamar Arena’s low ceiling. An explosion blasted out in a shower of gold sparks. The next thing Strike knew, there were five Ultraballs coming down at him. “What’s going on?” he yelled.
“Maybe they’re holograms,” Rock said.
“Which ball do I go for?” Strike said.
“Second one on the right has the closest expected trajectory,” Rock said.
Strike shifted to his right to adjust. “Give me protection.” The Miners set up in front of him as a wall of blockers as Strike tried to study both the balls falling toward him and the Explorers racing at them at full speed.
“Wait,” Nitro shouted as the five balls arced down. “That’s not the real ball!”
Strike barely had time to register what she said before the ball he had been targeting slammed into his chest plate, jolting him backward. It exploded in a cloud of gold sparkles, enveloping him in a mist of crackling static electricity. His sensors went haywire, random digits and warning lights flashing across his heads-up display. A split second later, someone bashed into him, knocking him clear off his feet, slamming him down into the end zone.
Strike rolled away from the Explorers’ defender, popping back to his feet, his heads-up display clearing, allowing him to locate the rest of his teammates. Rock and Pickaxe were locked in a struggle with two Explorers defenders, but Nitro was charging down the sideline with the Ultraball, Nugget blocking at her side. An Explorer crashed into Nugget and desperately launched himself at Nitro. Just as the player locked a magnetic glove onto her shoulder plate, she whipped around and smashed a second ball into his visor. They both disappeared as the ball exploded into a fog of sparkling gold dust.
Strike raced toward them, hoping that he could at least throw a helpful block. But by the time he arrived, the shimmering cloud had dissipated, and Nitro was standing in the end zone, holding the real Ultraball against her chest plate. She flipped her visor to clear, half excited and half confused. “I scored?” she said.
Strike raced in to high-five her. “Awesome. Do your touchdown dance.”
Nitro raised the Ultraball over her head and tentatively spiked it to the turf.
Pickaxe and Nugget raced in, jumping on top of her, everyone collapsing into a dog pile. “We’re gonna have to work on your touchdown celebration,” Pickaxe said. “But the way you smashed the fake Ultraball into your defender’s face was frakkin’ awesome.”
“How did you figure out which one was the real Ultraball?” Strike asked.
“The spin,” Nitro said. “The others were rotating too slowly. Like they had something sloshing around inside them.”
“Clever,” Rock said. “Quick thinking.”
“Not to mention, you were quick enough to pick up both the real ball and a fake one,” Nugget said. “Incredible.”
“Your block gave me just enough time to smash that defender but good,” Nitro said. She gently patted Nugget’s chest plate. “This might actually not be as bad as I thought.”
“You’re already doing better than Pickaxe,” Nugget said. “Pooped his pants during his first game.”
Pickaxe’s face burned red. “That was four years ago,” he said. “When are you going to let that drop?”
“You’re the one who let it drop. Right inside your Ultrabot suit.” Nugget cackled as he ducked a swipe from Pickaxe.
Strike smiled big at Nitro as they jogged back to kick off the ball for the next play. “Great job. We might have to run a few plays your way.”
The others followed Strike back toward where a ref was teeing up the ball—everyone except Rock, who was standing off to one side, staring at the scoreboard.
“Rock,” Strike said. “What are you waiting for? Huddle up.”
“Sorry,” Rock said. “Just a second.” He cocked his head, fixated on the scoreboard.
Strike ran over and chucked Rock’s arm. “Come on. I need you to focus.”
Strike’s trusty rocketback 2 stood frozen in place, staring at the scoreboard. Although the play clock ticked down with only twenty seconds to go, Rock remained in place, not saying a word.
Grabbing Rock’s arms, Strike jerked him off his feet, hauling him back toward the huddle. “What the frak is up with you?” h
e asked. “Get your head in the game.”
Rock swiveled toward Strike as if snapping out of a trance. “Sorry. Did you see the scoreboard?”
“Yeah, the Neutrons are rolling.”
“No, not that,” Rock said. “The dots and lines along the bottom.”
Strike squinted to where Rock was pointing, using his suit’s optical magnification to zoom in. But all he could see was the usual border along all four sides of the scoreboard.
“The dots and short lines,” Rock said. “Where the borders usually are. They form patterns. Something is odd.”
“Yeah, you,” Pickaxe said. He yanked Rock into the huddle.
After a four-and-out defensive stop, the Miners got the ball back on their own seven-meter line. Strike stared long and hard at the plate in the ceiling, the trigger for releasing the exploding balls. “Fake double launcher fly forty-three, stunt slant. On two.” The Explorers would think the Miners were running a long play through the middle of the field, where the dummy balls could be released. But they’d actually dump the ball off short. With a bit of luck, Rock might even break a couple of tackles and be off to the races.
The five of them lined up in long bomb formation, setting it up so it’d look obvious to the Explorers how to defend. Strike got set over the ball. “Hut one. Hut!”
Nitro jumped off the line exactly when Strike hiked the ball, smashing into her defender before cutting and racing toward the center of the field. It was perfect. With a tremendous leap, she vaulted toward the low ceiling, all eyes on her.
Up front, Pickaxe and Nugget grappled with the Explorers’ rushers, a shoving match that the brothers were winning. With plenty of time, Strike cocked the ball back for a huge fake to Nitro.
But the defenders weren’t biting. Rock had released toward the middle too early, tipping off the play. Lasso, the Explorers’ rocketback 2, had cut in at an angle, ready to jump the short throw for an interception.
The play was busted. Strike yanked the ball down and activated his glove electromagnets to full power as he cradled the ball and took off running around the left side.
Caught off guard, the defenders scrambled toward Strike, the Explorers’ two crackbacks releasing from Pickaxe and Nugget to roll in Strike’s direction. But Strike had a couple of steps on the closest one. His shoulder lowered, he built up a head of steam, taking off in schoolyard mode.
Strike hurdled over a defender who had made a desperate swipe at his legs, almost losing his balance, and turned the corner. He raced upfield, giving the next defender a hard fake, getting him to jump off his feet before ducking under the guy. Another defender was racing toward him from the middle of the field, but Strike had the angle. He pushed his Ultrabot suit to the limit, warning lights flashing on the inside of his visor. His power bar dropped at an alarming rate, going from 92 percent all the way to 88 percent in just a few seconds. The defender threw himself at Strike, but with a sudden juke and a double spin, Strike evaded the tackle.
“Strike, watch out!” Nugget yelled into the helmet comm.
Just as Strike turned to look back upfield, another Shock defender barreled in like a missile. Strike usually would have leapt at full extension, trying to arch around the tackle and fly for the goal line. But with his suit biting into his shoulders, he couldn’t risk losing a fumble. He curled up as the guy cannonballed into him.
The defender wrapped Strike up and lifted him off the ground. There was nothing Strike could do but hold on to the ball as the guy turned and carried Strike backward, toward his own end zone. As soon as the guy dumped him over the goal line, it would be a touchdown for the Explorers.
Then he lurched as a blue blur cracked into him and the Explorer. They kept moving toward the Miners’ end zone, but the defender had lost momentum. Soon, more gold and blue Ultrabot suits rammed in, crushing Strike to the ground.
At the bottom of the pile, Strike clung on to the Ultraball for dear life, his left shoulder erupting into a firestorm of pain, his panic mounting. Players pancaked on top of him, arms swatting and boots kicking at his chest, trying to make him fumble.
Just when the frenzied need to unclick out of his Ultrabot suit nearly overtook him, a whistle blew. Players slowly got off until he could see where he was: just in front of his own end zone.
Pickaxe reached down to pull Strike to his feet. “That was close,” he said. “Nitro barely ran you guys down.”
“Thanks,” Strike said, nodding to Nitro. “You saved us.” He looked behind Nitro to where Rock was standing, his visor set to clear, his face flushed with embarrassment.
“I’m so sorry, Strike,” Rock said. “I tipped off the play.”
It took everything Strike had to keep his cool, to not blow up in Rock’s face. Mistakes happened in games all the time—Strike’s hesitation about leaping for the end zone was a big one—but this one was huge. If it hadn’t been for Nitro’s saving tackle, the lowly Explorers would have had an early score, tying things up. He took a couple of deep breaths, closing his eyes before he spoke. “What the frak happened, Rock?”
Rock turned to the scoreboard. “Those dots and dashes along the border. They’re a code of some sort. Dash dot dot dot. Dash dash dash. Dash—”
“You gotta focus,” Strike said, grabbing Rock’s shoulders. “You’re my rocketback 1 today. I can’t have my feature back studying the scoreboard like it’s a test. Not during the game.”
“I’m so sorry,” Rock said. “It’s just . . .” He screwed up his face, something inside him needing to come out. But he remained quiet, shaking his head.
“Don’t be sorry,” Strike said, punching Rock’s chest plate. “Just concentrate on the frakkin’ game.”
Strike led his team back into the huddle, but when he stole a glance back at Rock, his rocketback 1 was still studying the scoreboard intently.
After the game, the Miners stood at the middle of the field, signing autographs. Strike always enjoyed hanging out with the fans after a win. And today, it was even sweeter, such a relief to have a solid W in the books, considering the pregame attack and the last-minute roster change. They’d gotten news after the game that TNT was stable and recovering at Salaam Hospital, so Strike let himself breathe easy for a moment while the crowd clamored for the Miners’ attention.
As he signed souvenir after souvenir, Strike’s thoughts turned to their week-four game against the Flamethrowers. He sure hoped his star rocketback would be back in action for their tough matchup against Torch’s old team. But if he wasn’t, Nitro was a darn good substitute. He glanced at her, standing a couple steps behind her teammates, overwhelmed by all the attention. Not only had she filled in admirably, but she had shown flashes of brilliance. At times, she had reminded Strike of her brother, with his ability to make things happen.
The Miners hadn’t run many plays to her. Maybe we should have, Strike thought.
Strike snapped out of his trance when a fan got up in his face. “What the frak is this?” the little boy asked. He shoved a little souvenir ball toward Strike.
“That’s gratitude for you,” Pickaxe muttered. “We stick around so the fans can get autographs, and then they swear at us? Not cool.”
The little boy turned his miniature Ultraball, pointing at the signatures. “Rock messed it up. It’s ruined.” The corners of his mouth pulled into a despondent frown. Sniffles crept out, threatening to escalate into a full-blown meltdown.
Strike checked out the boy’s souvenir. There were four signatures on the ball, but where Rock’s usually would have been, there was just a pattern of dots and dashes:
— · · · — — — — — — — —
Strike threw Rock a dirty glare. “Just sign his ball already.”
“Dash,” Rock said. “Dash dot dot dot.” It was as if his body was there in Kamar Arena, but his mind was far away.
Strike looked off into the distance, groaning as he followed Rock’s gaze. “The scoreboard dots again? Give it a rest.” He motioned to the little boy. “Give us
a second. Shouldn’t be long.”
Pulling out his notebook, Rock mumbled to himself like Strike wasn’t even there. “Long?” he muttered.
The little boy tried to wipe off the marks Rock had made. “Mr. Zuna will never buy it now,” he whined. He flinched when Strike shot him a dirty glare.
It wasn’t uncommon for fans to get autographs just so they could hock the item. But it never stopped annoying Strike, especially when Zuna was the buyer—Neutron Nation loved to destroy other teams’ gear during their fanatical rallies. “Gimme that ball, you rotten jerk,” he said.
Yanking it back, the little boy scurried off with the ball carefully tucked away.
“Rock,” Strike said. “Hey. Hello?” He snapped his fingers in front of Rock’s face, but his friend was lost in thought.
Having grown up with Rock his entire life, Strike knew that once Rock slipped into one of these trances, he might be there for a while. He sidled up next to Rock, trying to see what he was scribbling in his notebook.
It was flipped open to a page marked “Secret Codes,” and Rock was dotting his pen all over the page, repeatedly stabbing it. “Long,” Rock said again. Then he suddenly bellowed. “Long. That’s it!”
Strike flinched at the outburst. As the crowd quieted, everyone staring at them, Strike yanked at Rock’s arm, ushering him away. He huddled down with him, cautiously gripping Rock’s shoulder. “Are you okay?” He had seen his friend in deep periods of study before, but this was more intense than ever. Focused on his notebook, Rock’s eyes were bugging out, his hands trembling, his lips twitching as he struggled to form words.
Strike pulled Rock even farther away from the confused fans, who were all gawking now. “Seriously, man. You’re worrying me.” He stared into Rock’s eyes, silently transmitting a message to his friend: Please be okay. We can’t afford to take you to Salaam Hospital, too.
Rock continued to splutter as he dotted all over his notebook. But he finally squeezed his eyes tight and took a couple of deep breaths. When he opened his eyes again, they were full of determination. “I was right. It was a code on the scoreboard, using short dots and long dashes. A coded message. To me.”