The Children of Hamelin

by Danny Lasko

“Inside this case is the Knight’s Sword,” explains Coach. “It is presented only to strikers whose actions and skill have won the admiration and allegiance of his fellow Knights. Not an easy task. Only three other Knights have ever carried this sword into battle. And no one as young or as quickly. We have waited ten years to present the sword to one worthy. Horatio Gaph, open the chest and become legend.”

  I step forward to open the white case. Inside lies a sword, curved in the silver blade, inspired by the ancient scimitars but with hints of the new world, a grip of dark blue synthetic formed to look like an ancient carved stone, and a burned inscription along the broadside of the blade, Aut viam inveniam aut faciam. Latin, which I can’t read.

  I pull the sword from its resting place, and it immediately reveals its secrets. It’s light, wonderfully so, and the blade is smoother than glass. The edge is so thin I feel as if I could swing at the pillars and slice through them like jelly. Already it feels a part of me. But it’s the hum that gets my attention. The same hum that I hear when I turn on the shield. The hum that protects me from death. The sword has it, too. I can feel the warmth wash over me from the tips of my fingers wrapping tightly around the grip down to my cleats. It comes with its own shield.

  “Will you protect this house?” asks Coach Simmons.

  “I will protect this house,” I say.

  “Will you protect this house?” yell the Knights surrounding me.

  “I will protect this house!” I yell back. “Will you protect this house?!”

  “We will protect this house!” The Knights jump up and surround me, all of them stretching their hands to the uplifted sword, screaming and hollering, pumped for the game ahead.

  A day later, it’s now the monstrous crowd screaming just outside the tunnel, sitting in the 250,000 seats of the Tower, waiting for my entrance. The sword rests in its sheath hanging on my shoulder. I shake out the extra energy in my arms and legs, one after the other, waiting for my name to be called to run out and join the rest of my team. I slap the shield on, grab the sword, and start running out of the tunnel and onto Knights Field.

  But something doesn’t feel right. Did I feel the warm wash of the shield before I held the sword or after it? It must be nerves. I shake the worry from my head and raise the sword to a crazed crowd of a quarter million. My knees nearly buckle, but under my helmet’s visor, I keep my eyes downward toward the familiar green turf and white chalk. It helps, but I can’t shake the doubt from the tunnel. I’ve been hit twice before. One knocked me out for a full season. The other just hurt. But that was at the academy, fully protected. Getting hit in the big leagues without the protection of the shield is fatal.

  I go through the ceremony as instructed, raising the sword to the crowd, who must have been surprised and elated to see it return after a decade. Part of me is wondering if Kotch is watching in the dark pit they sent him to. I want to sheathe it as soon as I can, to see what my true protection is, but I’m obligated to hold it until the starting signal.

  The Colorado Wind bunch up in their launch pad, which is nothing more than a painted circle on the grass. They’re big boys. And fast. I’ve hated them since I was twelve when they clobbered the Texas Tornadoes in fourteen minutes, never letting Texas light a single pillar. I feel the adrenaline pumping. The Wind is going down.

  “Am I covered?” I ask Skip, the equipment coordinator, through my helmet’s com just before the start.

  “All green, baby,” he answers and shows me the monitor that tracks the players’ shields and other vitals. For some reason, that doesn’t make me feel better.

  A loud, deep trumpet bellows, filling the air and bodies of everyone in the stadium. Finally, I sheathe the sword and immediately feel the warm wash dissipate into the air around me. I’m unprotected. I hit the shield again. Nothing.

  “I’m naked!” I cry into my headset.

  “What?” ask several of my teammates and the coach at once.

  “The shield is down. I don’t have it. I don’t have it!”

  “You’re freaking out, rook. I’ve got green lights on everybody,” says Skip. “Relax.”

  “I don’t care what your freakin’ light says, Skip, I’m naked! Get me covered!”

  “Skip,” calls the coach into our coms, “figure out what’s going on before I charge you with attempted murder! Enforcers, listen to me! You will protect your striker!” he cries. “Do you hear me?!”

  “Yes, sir!” they all yell at once. The strength of their voices together emboldens me. Maybe I don’t need the shield.

  The confusion has cost us the first few seconds, but it’s enough to watch the Wind light up two and ten in bright yellow and make their way to our side of the field.

  “Move!” I call. The team spreads out according to our game plan, heading down the field. Two giants, Worsack and another named Blaine stay with me. They have matching white wraps around their right forearms.

  “What are you two, going steady?” I call, trying to relax a little.

  HUCKTO12 pillar lights up HUCKTO330 disable sneak HUCKTO1210 both pillars light HUCKTO12102 Twelve and ten light two is blocked sneak disables you.

  Don’t be greedy, Raysh. I pull two silver stars from my pack and chuck them at the farthest pillar and off to my right. The second one misses the pillar but knocks the Wind’s sneak off his feet and freezes him about the same time the pillar at twelve o’clock bursts into a weave of silver and blue, shining into the sky. The crowd ignites into screams of pleasure.

  “Nice one, Gaph. Keep it coming!” calls Coach Simmons.

  The Wind’s two main receivers bolt for four and eight, trying to protect them while the others go back and try to recolor the rear pillar. Some games can go on like this for a long time. I think the record is something like four days before all but one player collapsed. He just walked around the stadium lighting up each pillar and opening the trove just before he fainted on his feet.

  I flick another star to my right receiver, a tall, tough player named Wallace, who’s about four feet from pillar four. A Wind defender is closing in fast, but I put plenty of speed on it. It’s a no-brainer play, so I don’t even use my flash. Turns out to be a mistake. Not sure what happens other than Wallace misses the star, letting it fall to the ground where it blows up immediately. A few seconds later, a yellow star cuts between Wallace and the number four pillar right into the hands of a Wind receiver. He jams it into four, which responds with a flash of yellow into the sky. Wallace doesn’t even try to defend.

  “What’s the matter with you, Wallace?!” I scream into the Com, but I get no answer. I sprint toward pillar Four and see two of my defenders poised to block the oncoming enforcers.

  THROWTO4 destroy Wind star pillar four lights get clipped by Wind enforcer. THROWTOLEFTGRIP drops the star THROWTOMIDGRIP bobbled and intercepted

  Either this is the worst case of stage fright I’ve ever seen or something else is going on here. Either way, I realize I can’t trust my own team. I zip two stars, one after the other, at pillar four. The first one shatters the jammed star; the other immediately follows, hitting the strike zone. I barely get a glimpse of the silver and blue light shooting into the sky before I duck a swinging arm from a massive enforcer who has a much longer reach than he should and clips me between the ribs. I flop and tumble to my back, clutching my left side. The enforcer’s been amplified. Bionic performance enhancers to make the game more interesting. I gasp for breath.

  “—can’t tell what’s going on, but Gaph appears to be hurt.”

  I know that voice. Billy Jack. My com must have been knocked to the game broadcast channel. I didn’t even know we could get that.

  “He was barely touched by Deakins, so I think there’s an issue with Gaph’s shield. We’ll try and find out more as the game continues.”

  I have to get up. My breath is slowly comin
g back. Lara has appeared on the sideline, clutching at her chest, looking ready to faint, throw up, or burst into fits of rage. Skip is frantically pushing buttons and talking to someone on his com. Coach Simmons is screaming at me. I can’t hear him. I don’t know how to turn the com back to his frequency. I point to my helmet to tell him. I’m on my own.

  I flash for signs of help from anyone, but there isn’t any. I can’t even see the Knights’ sneak on the field. I really am on my own.

  “Gaph hobbling a little after that hit, but he takes off toward pillar two, not even looking for his nearby grips. After Wallace simply let it pass him by, I don’t blame him. Look at him fly! Gaph grabs two stars and flings them—no! Not to the pillar but square in the chest of two Wind grips just before Baker can light another pillar for the Wind. Gaph has a clear lane, and yes! Pillar two is lit!

  “Gaph changes course, driving for the farthest remaining pillar. He’s pointing to two of his enforcers who lead the way for their striker. From midfield! Yes! He lights pillar ten from at least seventy-five yards away and hits it dead center in the strike zone, but it came with a vicious hit on the Knight striker!”

  “He was hit pretty square himself, Billy.”

  “Indeed he was. Deakins and fellow enforcer Tussel get to him, leveling Gaph to the floor, but not until after pillar ten was lit. He’s having trouble getting up from that one.”

  “He was so scared of the oncoming rush, Billy, that it appears he was reaching for the sword!” says the voice I don’t know. He’s right. I did reach for the sword. Just before the hit, I grabbed the hilt and felt the warm wash of the shield wrap me up in safety. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be able to get up. Ever. As it is, I’m feeling the pain pretty deep.

  “And look at this, Billy. Look at Gaph’s enforcers on that last series. That was a shameful effort. They just let Deakins and Tussel right on through without so much as a hand on them, and it almost cost them their striker. I don’t know if it was a miscommunication or what, but it looks to me like Worsack and Blaine just laid down on that play.”

  I can’t hear what Coach Simmons is screaming so intensely that the veins in his neck are about to pop, but I know well enough.

  Four of the Wind’s six players are disabled with only the striker and a receiver still active. My “team” drives to the last pillar together, pillar eight, waiting for me to throw it. I quickly disable the last of Colorado’s grips, forcing the striker to light the pillars himself. I admit I take some pleasure in this, knowing that the Wind’s striker has terrible accuracy. I flash forward, hoping to see one of my guys step up. Instead, I learn that they aren’t in front of the pillar to help me. They’re there to prevent me. They want this game to continue.

  I turn back around to see Colorado’s striker not going for the pillars but gunning for me. He chucks several stars that I assume were meant to hit me but are laughably off course.

  “Gaph steps up in direct line with Colorado’s remaining player. Ladies and gentlemen, get ready because we’re in for a good old-fashioned duel!”

  I love duels. They happen occasionally in games where the strikers will attack each other in hopes of disabling the only player who can initiate throws. But I can feel the desperation from the Wind. They know they won’t survive this.

  I reach back to grab three stars from my pack. I’m going to end this in one throw. Except that my hand clutches through empty air. I reach again, but there’s nothing to find. I’m out of stars! I roll through my mind, counting the number of stars I’ve used, and it isn’t even half of what I should have. The crowd is screaming.

  “Horatio Gaph is empty! By some error by some equipment manager, Gaph was not provided with the required number of stars, and so he is now out! And with one remaining pillar!”

  I wince. I start to feel the pain of my cracked ribs combined with the threat of defeat. The Striker is the only one with stars, and my loser team won’t stop him from relighting the pillars. And soon, the frozen Wind players will be reactivated.

  RUNTOLEFTJUMP intercept star RUNBACKTENYARDS intercept star RUN AT STRIKER interceptstar

  I run at the striker. It’s not the safest play, but it’s the most gratifying. He throws a barrage of stars at me, all of which don’t come within the broad side of a barn. I get closer. He hesitates and balks, grabbing a handful of stars and fumbling them to the ground, each popping with bursts of flame as they hit the ground. He manages one last star and desperately flings it at me. It’s surprisingly accurate for a Hail Mary, but I’m ready for it. I grab it out of the air and chuck it back at him, disabling the Colorado Wind’s striker.

  I feel the pain in my side and nearly everywhere else as I reach down and grab the striker’s pack, pulling out one last star, which immediately turns from yellow to blue as it is triggered by the sensors in my gloves.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, in all my years I have never seen a single-handed performance like we are seeing now. Horatio Gaph is about to make history. But there are still two big brutes who have a say in the outcome of this game!”

  I spin as best I can to see the two reactivated behemoths charging toward me.

  BLADETHROWtoleftopponent freeze both players Light pillar Game over

  I take a final, painful breath and throw the star overhand. It strikes the left brute on the shoulder, bounces off him, ricochets off the right brute’s helmet, and curves high in the air until it sticks into the strike zone of pillar eight. But the burst of light comes with a force of power strong enough to blast me off my feet. That wasn’t the pillar. That was … something else … I think as I’m flung to the ground and black out.

  So that’s what is meant by game over.

  It’s cold, I think, coming out of my mind’s fog. Really cold. Colder than it should be in Revolution, especially in my uniform that maintains a consistent temperature. I’m not wearing my uniform. In fact, I’m not wearing anything. I can feel a far too thin sheet covering my lower extremities but nothing else. No, wait. A bandage around my torso, tight against my ribs. My skull is throbbing. The rest of my body is numb or tingly, all of it sore. My eyes are closed, and I prefer it that way. For some reason, I’m wondering if a faint blue light is hovering near the broken bits of bone. Would the Citizens care enough to give me the same medical attention?

  Something inside my head seems desperate to escape and keeps pounding the sides of my skull, looking for a way out. If I didn’t hurt so much, I’d try to free it. I can’t tell if the voices I’m hearing are real or not.

  “—now our best hope is lying on a table, unconscious. We need to act, Valor.”

  “He’ll be fine.”

  “What will it take to convince you, the extinction of our kind? This world will not survive without us while the Synarch is in charge.”

  “This is not the time to discuss the matter.”

  “You threw down the gauntlet saving Gaph. The Synarch will hunt us down if we do not act . And if they don’t others wi...”

  I drift back into whatever cloudy silence will have me for however long it wants me. However long that is, I don’t know, but the pain in my head and side finally pull me out of the murky dark. As I raise my hand to my head, I hear something. Not voices this time but something familiar. Something annoying. Mouth breathing. I whip my hand out to the side, grab a handful of shirt, and tug. The shirt and its owner flop toward me, close enough that his glasses bend on my shoulder. I force my eyes to peek at what I’ve caught and quickly close them again, hoping I’m dreaming.

  “I told you,” says Linus Sob. “You should have been the one to wake him.”

  “This was more fun.” The other voice I know immediately. I swing my head, pop my eyes open as far as they allow me.

  “Annie.”

  Annie Walker stands a couple feet from me with her arms folded against her body. I’m immediately jealous of them. S
he’s smiling. It’s one of her combination smiles that tells me she’s both happy and uncomfortable to see me. Not nearly as happy as I am to see her, though.

  “You’re such an idiot,” she says, shaking her concern from her shoulders.

  “May I be released, please?” asks Linus.

  I let go of the shirt and relax back on the slab I’ve been placed on. I close my eyes again, and my whole body thanks me.

  “You just had to make that last throw, didn’t you? Couldn’t have just run to the other side of the field, out of the way. Nope. You just had to make that throw.”

  “But it was an awesome throw.”

  “Yes, it was.”

  I hear her kneel next to me, and most unexpectedly, her hand caresses my hair just above the temple. Her whisper dances in my ear.

  “You’re such an idiot.”

  “Where are my clothes? Wait, where am I?”

  No one answers. I peek around to see them smiling as though finally I had asked the right question. This can’t be good.

  “Welcome to the Garden, Raysh,” says Annie, “the home of the Children of Hamelin.”

  My father’s here. His presence triggers a percolating thought. Something I hope isn’t true. But something I can’t let pass.

  “You guys did this?”

  A door opens and lets in cool, fresh, pine-filled air. A silhouette wearing the traditional medical smock enters and heads toward me.

  “Well, here’s a familiar face,” the shadow calls. I know him. Suddenly, a rage, the same rage I felt holding Kotch in the air, fills me and burns my fingertips. I hurl myself to meet him and throw my fist into the left side of his jaw. He flips in the air and thumps the ground face first.

  “Raysh!” screams Annie, rushing over to check on the villain. My eyes water with fury. I glance over to my dad, but he just stands there bowing his head to the ground, not looking at the guy on the floor or at me. Which makes me want to throw my fist into his jaw, too.