by Jeff Chen
Strike took it as nonchalantly as he could, covering it with his other hand to protect it from prying eyes. As he studied the details and diagrams, his breath caught. “Will this work? It can’t. Can it?”
“I’ve been over it a hundred times. I know all the security protocols now.” Torch nodded. “It took me a ton of time. And money. But I’m sure it can work.”
“You had to spend money to make this happen?” Strike asked.
“Fake ID badges don’t come for free,” Torch said. “But don’t worry about it. I have a debt to you that I can never fully pay off. Even if you never forgive me, at least I’ll die knowing that I spent the rest of my life trying to make things right.”
As if Strike hadn’t felt conflicted enough, he felt even worse now. Torch had spent money on this crazy mission of Strike’s—money that Torch badly needed, to continue paying off Nitro’s hospital bills. “Nitro is lucky to have you as a brother,” Strike said.
Torch peered out of the corner of his eye at Strike. “How is she? Been a long time since I’ve seen her. Not since . . . you know.”
Strike looked over in surprise. “You haven’t seen her since last year? How did she arrange this, then?”
“Through a mutual friend. She doesn’t want to talk to me ever again.” Torch sighed. “She has this crazy idea that I should have let her die. Better than saddling her with all the guilt that she carries around with her now. But you know what?” He thrust his jaw out, his eyes steely. “I’d do it all over again. Ever since our parents died, she’s all I have left. The most important thing is that she’s still alive. That’s all that matters.”
Strike wanted to keep hating Torch for selling out the Miners. But a similar thing had happened with TNT two years ago, when he had sold out to Raiden Zuna in order to protect his mom’s safety. Strike had learned to forgive TNT, wanting so badly to help his best friend gain redemption.
Shouldn’t I forgive Torch, too? he thought.
Maybe he and Nitro both should.
“Keep your head down so they don’t notice anything,” Torch said. “Junkers always look down at the ground.” He nudged Strike’s hand. “And eat that piece of paper. Talk about collecting garbage and cleaning up and stuff.”
The two of them mumbled to each other about their long days ahead, Strike doing his best to pretend he was an actual junker from Guoming Colony. Even when he had been an orphan at the Tao Children’s Home, he’d been higher on the social ladder than junkers. He had to admit, Torch had come up with a really good plan.
When they got to the front of the line, Torch handed his ID badge to one of the guards, his eyes fixed onto the ground in a submissive pose. “Taj Tariq, sir,” he said.
“Okay, Tariq,” the guy said. “Next.”
Strike handed the Blackguard his fake ID badge, forcing himself to stare at a spot between his feet. Waves of heat rose from his head as he waited for the guard to let him through. But seconds passed, and nothing happened. Strike didn’t dare look up for fear that the guy would recognize him. A trickle of sweat ran down Strike’s back.
The guard took out his billy club and jabbed Strike. “Are you mute, or just a moron? State your name.”
“My name?” In a flash of panic, Strike realized that he had forgotten what was on his ID badge. It was the real name of a former Ultraball star. But which one? It was someone that both he and Torch admired, an underrated player.
“Do we have a problem, you dirty frakkin’ junker?” the Blackguard said. “State your name.”
“Uh.” Strike tried to swallow, but his throat was raw. “I. Uh. What?”
“Stupid frakkin’ idiot,” Torch said. He grabbed Strike by the front of his jumpsuit and threw him hard to the ground. “Can’t even remember his name. Riku Kawasaki, dumb as a bag of rocks.” He jabbed a kick to Strike’s ribs before shooting a quick glance to the guards. “Stupid frakkin’ frakhead.”
The Blackguard nodded. He leaned over and spit in Strike’s face. “Get up.” He dropped the fake ID onto Strike’s head. “I said, get up.” Raising his billy club, he readied to blast Strike with it.
Torch quickly scooped up Strike, who was moaning and clutching his ribs, and ushered him in. The airlock doors slid open when a guard pressed the entry button, and they slid closed behind them.
Strike was still doubled over, trying to catch his breath. Torch propped him up, keeping both of them walking forward. “I’m so sorry about that, Strike,” Torch whispered. “I had to do something. Violence is sometimes all the Blackguards can understand.”
Strike tried to say that it was okay, but he couldn’t speak through the pain. All he could think was if this was the easy part of the plan, the hard part might end up with him and Torch dead.
13
Ins and Outs
INSIDE HIS COFFIN-LIKE space, Strike struggled to keep the claustrophobia at bay. He kept breathing slowly and deeply like Torch had told him to. Each breath of the dank air felt as if it contained less and less oxygen. He squeezed his eyes closed, heightening every noise around him. At the first sign of trouble, Torch would yell the code word and they’d make a break for it.
One of the front wheels squeaked on Torch’s old cleaning cart. There was a soft knock. Another. And another. The door to Chain Reaction’s hospital room opened. “Who are you and what do you want?” growled a low voice.
“Need to clean,” Torch said.
The crinkling of a piece of paper. “This room isn’t supposed to be cleaned until tonight,” another guard said.
“I was told that the person inside crapped in their bed. Gotta clean it up.”
A pause. “Okay,” another low voice said. “But be quick about it.”
The cart’s squeaky wheel started up, but the first guard spoke. “Hold on,” he said.
“What are you doing?” Torch said, his voice cracking.
“What does it look like I’m doing, moron?” Something—probably a billy club—knocked against the cart with low thuds. “Open it up.”
Strike squeezed his eyes even tighter, blood pounding in his head. He balled up his hands into fists, ready to squirt out of his hiding place and run like frakkin’ hell.
“Open the door?” Torch asked. “Why?”
“Rules. Everything coming into this room gets inspected.”
“But it’s just cleaning supplies. I have to clean.”
“Don’t make me repeat myself. Open it, or I open your head.”
“Sorry, sorry,” Torch said. He fumbled with the door latch. He flipped it a few times, the latch snapping back into place each time. “Sweaty,” he said. “I should get to work before—”
The billy club thwacked. Torch yelled out, then groaned. The latch of the cart flipped and the door creaked open.
Strike cracked his eyes, squinting at the scene from his place inside a vent in the corner of the room. Torch was doubled over, holding his stomach, his face twisted in agony. The Blackguard had stuck his billy club inside the cart, clanging it around the vast array of buckets, brushes, and rags. He got to his knees, looking closely at the contents, going through every single item before grunting. “Stupid junker,” he said. “Be quick about it. Clean up that crap before I rub your face in it.” The guards left the room, slamming the door behind them.
Torch kept his eyes averted as he forced himself to straighten up. The hospital room was spotless, spacious by moon standards, with a curtain pulled back in one corner. Machines beeped, electronic equipment flashing all sorts of numbers. A security camera hung from the ceiling.
He whistled a nervous tune as he took out a rag and spray bottle. Washing down the surfaces of the walls, he glanced up toward the security camera and cocked his head. “Dusty,” he said, seemingly to himself. Pulling over a chair, he got up onto it and wiped the walls around the camera, easing his way up toward it. He slowly dragged his rag over the camera’s lens and held it there while knocking on the wall twice with his other hand. His eyes darted to the vent where Strike was hidi
ng, the cover a meter above the floor.
Strike eased the metal vent cover out, centimeter by centimeter. And then it started to drop.
Torch squeezed his eyes closed tight, bracing himself for the disaster to come.
But all remained quiet. Strike had lunged forward into the room, catching the cover just before it clattered to the floor, which would have brought Blackguards running.
Strike popped his head out of the vent. After barely squeezing his way through the ductwork from a neighboring janitor’s closet, he had come way too close to blowing the entire plan.
Torch motioned with his eyes toward the drawn curtain. He couldn’t keep the rag in front of the camera for much longer without drawing suspicion.
Strike quickly wriggled out of the opening and jammed the vent cover back into place. He raced to the curtain, slipping behind it.
Torch started up a loud vacuum cleaner, creating a noisy background that would allow Strike to grill Chain Reaction unnoticed.
Strike’s five minutes had begun.
His heart still racing from almost letting the vent cover clatter to the ground, Strike froze at the horrible sight in front of him. Chain Reaction was lying in a hospital bed, near death. Raw, oozing sores bloomed everywhere. Big swaths of his skin were peeling off. He reeked of decay, his flesh rotting. This couldn’t be the brash Chain Reaction who had set so many Ultraball records. It couldn’t be the same rocketback who could outleap anyone, outrun anyone.
This boy was a corpse.
Chain Reaction’s eyelids fluttered at the sound of the vacuum cleaner humming in the background. He took a rattling breath that sounded like the Grim Reaper was giving him the kiss of death. Something caught in his lungs as he struggled to tilt his head up. Blinking himself into consciousness, he parted his cracked lips, a trail of blood crusted down his chin. “Strike?” he asked. “Is that really you?”
“What the frak happened to you?” Strike asked. “You look terrible.”
“Yup, that’s the Strike I know,” Chain Reaction said in a bare whisper. “A total frakkin’ idiot.”
Strike winced at his stupidity. This was not the way to get someone to talk. “Sorry. I just meant . . . well . . .”
“I know,” Chain Reaction said. “I don’t look so hot, do I?” He managed a weak grin. The skin on his face was paper-thin, a patchwork of crackling scales.
“Is it true that Zuna can enlarge Ultrabot suits?” Strike blurted out. He knew he had to focus these precious minutes on Operation Deathstrike, but he couldn’t stop himself. “He got you two extra seasons. How did he open up your suit?”
Chain Reaction pulled back another tired smile, showing off a mouthful of missing teeth. “Two extra seasons. I made myself a legend. The best rocketback of all time.”
“Tell me how he enlarged your Ultrabot suit. Please. I have to know.”
Chain Reaction let out a pathetic laugh that morphed into a fit of coughing. “As stupid as ever. Too bad your pal Rock isn’t here. He’d have already figured it out.”
“Figured what out?” Strike said. “Tell me. One Ultraball player to another. I’m begging you.”
Chain Reaction rolled his eyes, wincing in pain with the effort. “Raiden Zuna isn’t an engineer. He’s a specialist in nuclear energy.”
“What does that have to do with Ultrabot suits . . .” Strike trailed off, choking back his revulsion. “He nuked you?” Waves of horror crashed over him. “So you’d stop growing?”
“Took you long enough to figure it out, dummy,” Chain Reaction said.
“But how did he force you to do it? Did he tie you down?”
“Man, you’re the stupidest person on the moon.” Chain Reaction slowly raised his arms, staring up at the ceiling. “I had no fear. I looked straight into the nuclear spear as it bathed me in its glory.”
Recoiling, Strike took a step back. “You willingly did this? What were you thinking?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
Strike gaped in confusion.
“I did it for the glory,” Chain Reaction said. “And that’s what I got. I was the best rocketback the Underground Ultraball League will have ever seen. I will be remembered for all time. People will talk about me forever. I made myself immortal.” He coughed, speckles of red spattering out.
Even five minutes ago, Strike would have said he’d do anything to get an extra year of Ultraball. But Strike hadn’t understood what “anything” looked like.
Chain Reaction was in agonizing pain. His time would soon be up.
It dawned upon Strike how much he had outside of Ultraball. He loved hanging out with Rock. With Pickaxe and Nugget. And TNT. Strike stole a glance back at the curtain when it fluttered—Torch’s secret signal that Strike’s time was halfway up. Strike jerked back to his mission. “What’s Operation Deathstrike?” he asked. “Is it Zuna’s plan to kill me if I don’t give him Boom?”
A horrible grin spread across Chain Reaction’s face. He remained silent.
“Tell me!” Strike said, clawing his fingernails into the hospital bedding. “It’s not just me, is it? Is Zuna going to murder others, too, if I don’t give up Boom?”
Chain Reaction chuckled. “You think so small, you pea-brained imbecile. Once Zuna wins his huge bets on the Neutrons this year, he’s going to make his grand plan a reality. White Lightning is helping him see to that.” He paused. “I’ll tell you one last thing. But only if you do something for me.”
“What?”
Chain Reaction stretched out and grabbed Strike’s hand, his grip weak. “Promise you won’t tell anyone what you saw today. The moon has to remember me as a superstar. As the greatest Ultraball player in the history of the game. Agreed?”
That seemed so meaningless, considering what it had cost Chain Reaction. But Strike nodded.
Chain Reaction looked to the ceiling, holding his hands up even higher this time, stretching toward the heavens. “Think big.” He turned toward Strike, his monstrous smile spreading from ear to ear, breaking into laughter of the devil himself. “Now you have everything you need to know.”
“What?” Strike pounded a fist onto the bed. Chain Reaction had taunted him all his career, but this was a whole new level. The cryptic puzzle was one last slap in the face from Chain Reaction, his final demonstration of his superiority over Strike. “What’s the one last thing you were going to tell me? What is the Deathstrike Device? Where is White Lightning building it?”
“You best go figure it out, dummy,” Chain Reaction said. The gruesome smile faded, a profound sadness settling in. “What I wouldn’t give to be inside my Ultrabot suit one last time.” With a rasping cough, he let his arms fall back down. “See you on the other side, Strike.”
“Wait, you have to tell me—”
The curtain rustled again. Torch ducked his head in, fear in his eyes.
Although he knew he had to hurry, Strike couldn’t help but stare at Chain Reaction, trying to sort through everything he had just heard. He took a last glimpse at the dying boy before nodding at Torch.
The two guards burst into the hospital room. “What are you doing?” one said, his billy club pointed at Torch.
Strike held his breath as he peered through the vent slits from inside his hiding place.
“Just cleaning! Don’t hurt me!” Torch held his rag and spray bottle in front of his face. Averting his eyes, he dropped his gaze to the floor.
The two Blackguards scanned the room, one of them going straight to the camera. He got up on a chair and leaned in close, squinting. “Why were you wiping down this camera for so long?”
“Me?” Torch asked. He cocked his head, desperately trying to look brain-dead. “I’m supposed to clean the room.”
“The security camera, too?” The Blackguard spent a few more seconds inspecting it. He adjusted it, tilting it back toward the center of the room, and then stepped off the chair. He got up into Torch’s face. “I’ll ask you one more time. What were you doing with that security camera?”
Torch let his mouth hang dumbly open. “I’m supposed to clean the room.”
“Why do I even bother?” the Blackguard said. He joined his partner in scouring the rest of the room. One of the guards looked around the curtain, squinching up his face at the sight of Chain Reaction, as if he had just spotted a pile of dung. The other one slowly walked around the room, ending up at the vent near the floor. He bent down, peering through the metal slats.
Torch remained still, but tremors shook his hands. He shoved them into his pockets, balling them up into fists.
The Blackguard got to his knees, pulling at the vent cover. He banged it once with his billy club. “Loose,” he said. Motioning to his partner, he waved him toward the door. “Snake it out, all the way to the other side of this vent path. Make sure the janitor’s closet on the other side is clear.”
Strike held his breath, trembling.
“What?” the other guard said. “Why?”
“Zuna’s orders,” the first guy said. “Secure all possible entrances and exits. Go.”
On his way toward the door, the second guy shoved Torch. “What are you still doing here? Get out.”
“I’m supposed to clean the room,” Torch said. He pointed his rag at a dirty spot on the floor.
The Blackguard drew out his billy club and raised it. “You already said that, you dumb frakkin’—”
“Forget about it,” the first Blackguard said. “The guy’s a dimwit.” He motioned toward the door with his club. “Get out before I crack open your frakkin’ skull.”
Torch nodded, shoving his cart hard, throwing all his weight behind it to get it into motion. The rickety wheel squeaked loudly as the cart slowly started to roll. He headed out the door and turned the corner into the hallway.
Inside the cramped cart, Strike’s heart raced. With each step Torch took, he felt sure that the two Blackguards would come charging at them.
Torch took ten steps, his breathing strained and raggedy. Twenty steps. Thirty. Forty. He turned a corner and pushed the cart down a long hallway. After stealing a final glance over his shoulder, he pushed the squeaky cart toward the hospital’s main door, and walked right by the guards at the exit.