by Jeff Chen
The boy was paralyzed with fear.
“I’ll create a distraction,” Wraith said. “Then it’ll be up to you.” Before she could say more, the LunarSports people swooped in, ushering her back to her seat. Someone pressed Strike back down into his chair as he tried to get his coughing under control.
The main interviewer came over, arching his eyebrows at Strike, a crooked grin on his face.
“Everyone, quiet,” a LunarSports Reports cameraperson hissed. “We’re back on, in three . . . two . . . one . . .” She pointed to the interviewer.
How the frak am I going to get White Lightning alone? Strike thought.
But his worries trailed away as Wraith got to her feet, a towering presence. Her eyes darted from Strike to White Lightning and back again. Then she pounded both fists onto the table, spittle flying out of her mouth as she yelled at Strike. “You think I’m going to just stand here and do nothing? I heard what your teammates said about us.”
Strike froze for a long moment before realizing what was happening. “We meant it,” he said, pointing an accusing finger at her. “That thing I said.” He paused. “You know what I’m talking about.”
“Everyone calm down,” the interviewer said. “Let’s get back to . . .” He looked toward the studio director, who was madly waving a cue card that read “Keep It Going.” He nodded and stepped out of the way.
“Calling me a second-rate hack who can’t throw?” Wraith said. She took a step toward him, straightening her white jumpsuit. “That’s one thing, because it’s just dumb. We put the smackdown on you back in week one.” She whipped around, narrowing her eyes at the rest of the Miners. “But what Pickaxe said is unforgivable. The Cryptomare Molemen aren’t going to stand for that kind of talk from a loudmouthed moron.” She motioned to her teammates, all four of them coming up to the stage.
Pickaxe put his hands up defensively and started to protest, but Nugget caught Strike’s long glare. He jabbed his brother with a hard elbow to shut him up.
In spite of the tension, Strike grinned. Nugget was the youngest Miner, but he was often the most perceptive, especially when it came to understanding his coach’s intentions.
“A lot of talk,” Wraith said. “You gonna keep saying all that stuff now that me and my teammates are right here in person?” She pointed toward the Miners. “Why don’t you get your flunkies up here, and we’ll see how much you can really back up?”
Strike motioned his teammates up to the stage. “This is your chance, Pickaxe,” he said. “Tell Wraith what you said about her mother. ‘Yo mama’s so dumb, she ate a hardtack bar and it tasted even worse than ever’?”
“I didn’t say that,” Pickaxe croaked as Nugget and the others dragged him up to the stage.
Rock flipped through his notebook. “It doesn’t even make sense,” he mumbled.
“You think I’m going to let you get away with that?” Wraith asked. She grabbed the front of Pickaxe’s blue jumpsuit, pulling him forward, his eyes wide in terror. “The Molemen fight back.” She spun around and threw Pickaxe clear across the room, sending him barreling into White Lightning. Both of them crashed to the floor.
“Fight!” one of the Molemen yelled. All the Molemen rushed the stage as Wraith jumped at Strike, her fists flying. Players from other teams stormed in to protect their team’s quarterback. Soon, it turned into an all-out, bare-knuckle brawl.
In the middle of the chaos, Strike ducked to the floor and crawled his way toward White Lightning. But not even halfway there, someone kicked Strike in the stomach. Searing pain exploded in his back as someone slammed him with a kidney punch. People piled up on top of him, squashing him flat.
Just as the edges of his vision started to fade, all the pressure on top of him was lifted. Pickaxe’s face came into focus by his side. “Are you okay?” he asked.
Strike managed to nod as he took heaving breaths.
“Good, because I’m going to kill you,” Pickaxe said. “Did you really have to use me as a distraction?”
“It was the only way,” Strike wheezed.
Gradually, the melees around the room petered out. Teammates and LunarSports people pulled apart wrestling and punching matches between kids dressed in all different jumpsuit colors. Strike scanned the room, searching for White Lightning. But all the players in red jumpsuits were being shuttled away to safety by a posse of bodyguards. White Lightning was already gone.
Strike slapped his hands to his head. “We missed him. I messed it all up. Like I mess everything up.”
“I don’t know about that,” TNT said. “I think we got what we came for.”
“To get humiliated on national TV?” Strike said.
“Well, yeah. But the fight was the perfect distraction. Wraith, she’s a genius.” TNT looked around to make sure no one was listening in. “During the brawl, Big Bertha stayed close to White Lightning. She stepped in and took a punch to the gut—a punch that was aimed at him. I stayed with her and ended up getting slugged, too.”
“Whoa,” Pickaxe said in awe. “Did it hurt?”
TNT shrugged. “It wasn’t that bad, but I played it up, big-time. I told White Lightning he owed me one. I also reminded him how you took it easy on him during our regular season game, not forcing him to go one-on-one like last year.”
Strike leaned in, pumping a fist. “He talked. I knew he would.”
“We didn’t have much time before his bodyguards ripped him away.” TNT looked nervously around the room. “You were right, Strike. Zuna is forcing White Lightning to build some kind of weapon, way more powerful than the Meltdown Gun. It’s called the Deathstrike Device.”
Strike’s breathing went ragged. His vision blurry, Strike slumped into Rock, who struggled to keep him upright. There is was again—the word “Deathstrike.” Zuna was going to murder him. And given what Zuna had said about wiping the moon of all its filth, Strike’s murder would be just the start.
“He was on the verge of breaking down, saying that Zuna would eject him out of Moon Dock airlock into space if he ever found out he talked,” TNT said. “But I pressed him anyway. Kept on telling him that he owed both you and me in a huge way. He finally said that we need to talk to Chain Reaction. Apparently, he knows everything about Operation Deathstrike. Every last detail.”
“Where is he?”
“Salaam Hospital.”
“He’s sick?”
TNT nodded. “In intensive care. But he’s not just a patient.” He paused. “He’s a prisoner.”
Strike let out a tortured moan. Salaam Hospital was hard enough to get into. If Zuna had put in even more security measures, it would be impossible to get to Chain Reaction. “We’re screwed,” Strike said. “Everyone on the moon is so screwed.”
Strike looked around to his Miners, hoping that one of them would have a brilliant plan. Surely, Rock would know what to do next. But all of them just stared at each other, no one saying a word. Strike grabbed at fistfuls of his hair, his world spiraling out of control. He had no choice. He had to give up Boom to Zuna.
“It’s that important to talk to Chain Reaction?” came a quiet voice.
Strike looked up at Nitro, whose jaw was trembling.
“It is,” Strike said. “Life and death. For a lot of people.”
Nitro’s gaze dropped to the ground, her jaw quivering even harder. She thought for a long time, her face twisted in agony, on the verge of tears. “Then I think I can get you into the hospital.”
“Really?” Strike said. “How?”
“I know someone who works there.” She let out a strangled breath. “My brother.”
LunarSports Reports around the League
NEUTRONS THRASH EXPLORERS
By Aziz Chang, Grand High Executive Reporter
In a show of utter domination, the North Pole Neutrons set a new UUL record for points scored, crushing the Kamar Explorers, 126–49. The defending champion Neutrons look all but invincible. White Lightning threw for six touchdowns, and Meltdown scored ele
ven times, near a league record. The electrifying duo looks unstoppable, much more so than the old one-two punch of Fusion and Chain Reaction. With Fusion’s recent arrest and imprisonment, the roster switch from Fusion to White Lightning once again points to Raiden Zuna’s foresight and genius.
With the romp, the Neutrons have secured a spot in the playoffs. And with a whopping 147 more total points scored than their closest competitor, they are poised to lock up the number one seed.
Meanwhile, the Beatdown, once thought to be contenders for the Ultrabowl title, are officially a team in decline. They played woefully against the horrendous Saladin Shock, nearly getting upset by the second-worst team in the league. It was only a last-minute pick-seven interception by Uppercut that sealed the Beatdown’s win, 70–56. At the postgame press conference, their quarterback, Destroyer, appeared to be shaken by the close shave. When asked why they played so badly, he said, “Hammer Fist wasn’t feeling good right before the game. We would have pulled him, but there wasn’t enough time to get someone off our backup list.” Destroyer then continued to make weak excuses for his team’s terrible play.
Meanwhile, the Miners shamelessly took advantage of the lowly Yangju Venom, running up the score on a hapless team, 119–28. Some so-called experts have argued that it was the Miners’ duty to score as many points as possible since the tie-breaker is total points scored over the season. But only a cowardly bully embarrasses an opponent so badly.
The Miners’ rocketback 1, Nitro, was a small bright spot for the Miners, scoring eight touchdowns, including a fingertip grab of one of the few long passes that Strike threw all game, this one badly off target. Some commentators have even mentioned her in MVP discussions. One huge question remains, though: What will the Miners do when TNT is recovered from his injury? He was again kept off the roster, making it four straight games now. But an anonymous source reported that TNT had been yelling at Strike that he had been ready to go, and that he should have been playing.
Strike skirted that roster issue during the postgame press conference, saying, “No comment. Mind your own frakkin’ business.” It was telling how defensively he reacted, appearing to have a major team chemistry problem brewing.
Week-seven action will determine the final playoff seedings, with the Beatdown, Miners, and Molemen jockeying for position in an attempt to stay out of the dreaded fourth seed. The best way to describe the overall playoff picture is through the current percentages set by the oddsmakers:
Team Chance of Winning the Ultrabowl
Neutrons 61 percent
Miners 15 percent
Molemen 13 percent
Beatdown 11 percent
RESULTS AND STANDINGS, AFTER WEEK 6
RESULTS, WEEK 6
Miners
119
Venom
28
Beatdown
70
Shock
56
Molemen
84
Flamethrowers
56
Neutrons
126
Explorers
49
STANDINGS, WEEK 6
Wins
Losses
Total Points
x-Neutrons
5
1
609
x-Beatdown
5
1
462
Miners
4
2
504
Molemen
4
2
476
Flamethrowers
3
3
427
Explorers
2
4
385
Shock
1
5
329
Venom
0
6
203
X = clinched playoff spot
12
Fallen Star
A DAY AFTER their romp over the Yangju Venom, Strike sat quietly in disguise as he rode a Tunnel Ring tram, his face and jumpsuit caked with dirt and filth. He stared out the window as the tram slowed and then did its obligatory stop at Moon Dock station. An eerie chill tingled up his spine as he squinted at the airlock door at the far end of the cavern. Why did Rock have to notice how weird it was for the door to have no dust on it? he thought. As if there weren’t enough things for Strike to worry about. The last thing he needed to think about was the ghastly unending blackness of outer space beyond the door, and the dead planet Earth, nuked to oblivion by the tyrants known as the Earthfall Eight. It was slowly dawning on Strike that Zuna might be even worse than those eight power-hungry dictators. He flinched when the tram beeped, its doors closing before it exited the station.
Trying not to think about the horrors of outer space made him think about them even more. Kids back at the Tao Children’s Home told ghost stories about monsters from other planets, wraiths held at bay by the airlock door, waiting for their chance to cross the threshold to feed off people’s nightmares. Maybe the door has no dust on it because something’s opened it, Strike thought.
He jolted in alarm when he spotted what looked like a set of footprints inside the Tunnel Ring, near the wall. Throwing himself up against the window, he strained to focus on what he had seen, but the tram had already moved out of range.
Shivers wracked his entire body, the terror mounting. This was Operation Deathstrike. In just a matter of seconds, he was going to die.
Squeezing his eyes tight, he struggled to fight back his panic. He managed to eke out a small chuckle. All the rumors about something haunting the Tunnel Ring late at night were stupid. There were no such things as monsters. Or ghosts. Ghosts didn’t leave footprints, anyway. Or use doors, for that matter. And he couldn’t have seen footsteps, because the tram had been moving too fast. He was being ridiculous.
Wasn’t he?
A beep sounded as the tram slowed, approaching Salaam Colony’s station. Strike let out a sigh of relief at the opportunity to think about something else besides ghosts. His heart sped up, thumping in his chest as he scanned for Torch. Images from years ago flashed through Strike’s head, of the superstar in bright Flamethrower yellow, Farajah Colony fans screaming at the tops of their lungs for the savior who was going to take their team back to the Ultrabowl. Torch had been on fire. He had been one of the best players in the history of the game, but more importantly, one of the greatest minds.
Strike spotted a hunched-over teenager who looked a little like Torch, except that this guy was way older, with a wrinkly gray face and heavy folds of skin sagging under his eyes. Strike continued to scan the tram station, but he couldn’t find Torch anywhere. Where is he? Strike thought, increasingly worried. Nitro had said that her brother would meet Strike at the station and go over the plan to sneak inside the hospital.
Strike wandered through the crowds, searching for Torch. As the moments passed, Strike got more and more paranoid, wondering who might see through his disguise. Dressed in a pink jumpsuit of a Guoming Colony junker, he’d be pretty much ignored wherever he went on the moon. He kept on glancing at the Blackguards by the airlock door. All it would take was for one of them to recognize him, and then there would be trouble. If Zuna could have Fusion arrested and hauled into Han-Shu Prison, he could do the same for Strike.
“Nice disguise,” someone whispered into his ear.
Strike jolted. It was the old guy who looked a little like Torch. But as Strike studied the guy’s face, a horrifying realization struck him. “Torch?” he said. “You look terrible. I mean . . .” He winced at his ever-present stupidity.
Torch gave him a melancholy smile. “The disguise didn’t take much. It’s been a rough couple of months.”
“Nitro—er, Jasmine—says you’ve been working here?”
“Among other places,” Torch said. “I pick up work wherever I can. Another two years and I’ll have paid off her medical bills.”
Strike’s eyes widen
ed. “How much do you owe?” he asked.
“Not easy to earn five thousand U-bucks.” Torch looked away. “Well, forty-five hundred. I did make some money selling . . .” He gulped. Although Torch towered over Strike, he looked like a little kid melting in shame, his head hung low in front of a disappointed parent.
“Let’s not talk about that,” Strike said. “Can you really get me in to see Chain Reaction?”
“I think so,” Torch said. “It’s not going to be easy. But I’m pretty sure you’ll have maybe five minutes with him before the guards come.”
“Five minutes? That’s it?”
“The security around Chain Reaction’s room is super tight. I’m not even sure it’ll be five minutes.”
Strike studied the Blackguards at the front of the line, checking IDs. “So how are we going to do this?”
“First, we have to get you past those guys,” Torch said. “Here.” He handed Strike an ID badge.
“Where did you get this?” Strike asked. A stupid grin stretched across his face as he read the name on the front. “Riku Kawasaki. Wildfire’s real name.”
“I thought you might get a kick out of that,” Torch said. “No one remembers Wildfire anymore.” The corner of his mouth crinkled. “No one ever remembers the losers.”
Strike slowly nodded. It wasn’t fair that Wildfire—Torch’s old crackback 2—had faded from everyone’s memory. Despite having lost the Ultrabowl, they had made it to the big game, against all odds. That entire Flamethrowers squad deserved a place in history. Strike turned away as memories of last year flooded through his head, of him and Torch talking Ultraball like old buddies.
Torch kicked at some pebbles on the station floor. “I’m going to make up for last year, I swear it. I’ll get you in. It’s going to take a lot of coordination. And some luck.” He glanced over his shoulder and held out his hand, a folded piece of paper hidden in his palm. “Here’s the plan.”