“Make sure you mention the Risk Alleviator when you talk about your time in captivity,” she says to me. “And Billy, when you mention the escape, make sure you talk about the Gav. Remember, Global Green Combat weapons are the future. They helped protect each of you from the League, and they can protect America too. And since Green Combat weapons are grown and not manufactured from natural resources, they are environment-friendly and cost-effective too!”
This last statement comes out of Kerry with a half a dozen exclamation points. I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
And so the day continues. By the time Kerry finishes with us, it’s dinnertime.
“Before we wrap things up, there’s one topic we must address,” Kerry says. “We need to discuss the Frog Man avatar.”
Riska’s tail lashes.
Throughout the day, Kerry heard all about Gun’s intervention in the guise of his Frog Man avatar and the exploding frogs he turned loose in the auction site.
“We need to leave the Frog Man out of your tale,” Kerry says. “It’s not relevant to our cause, and the addition of a mysterious figure will just muddy the water—”
“A mysterious figure?” I say. “The Frog Man is my friend. He has a name. He—”
“He’s not a member of the Global family,” Kerry says. “We don’t want to detract from Global by introducing an element that, in all honesty, we know nothing about.”
She smiles to soften the sting of her words, but it doesn’t work. My face heats up as anger rushes through me.
“Gun saved our lives,” I snap. “You just want to sweep him under the rug and pretend—”
“She has a point, Sulan,” Hank interrupts me. “You don’t know who Gun is. Not really. You’ve never met him in the real-world.”
“What’s wrong with you?” I say, rounding on Hank. “We’d be slaves if not for Gun. Slaves, Hank. Don’t pretend we don’t owe him our lives.”
She flinches under my gaze and has the decency to look embarrassed. I refuse to look away, though inside I feel shriveled and sad. A giant wedge is growing between me and my best friend, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
“We’re not asking you to lie, Sulan,” Kerry says, as if she’s asking me to tie my shoes. “Just omit the parts about him when you’re in front of the media. This isn’t a request.” She rises, tucking her clipboard into the crook of her arm. “I want to congratulate you all on a day’s hard work. You’re all doing very well. Tomorrow we’ll learn about new Green Combat prototypes.”
I stew in silence for the entire flight back to the Village.
14
Benevolent Dictatorship
After the aircats drop us off in the Village, I watch Hank and Billy walk away, hand in hand. They’re off to check on Uncle Zed and help Timmy with homework.
“I want to erase today from my memory,” I say to Taro, who stands by my side.
He doesn’t say anything. I study his frozen expression. His eyes are focused on something I can’t see.
“Hey.” I squeeze his forearm. “Taro?”
“We’re going to have to let them parade us around like monkeys,” Taro whispers with bitterness. “The whole world is going to see me as a killer.”
“You’re not a killer,” I insist. “You’re a kind person. Just because your father has raised you to be a fighter doesn’t mean that’s who you are on the inside.”
“Doesn’t it, though?” Tension etches his face. He won’t look at me. “You’re the only person who’s ever looked at me and not seen a killing machine.”
“We could refuse to play along.” I spend several seconds daydreaming, imagining myself marching up to Mr. Winn and telling him straight to his face that I won’t be his puppet. I imagine the horror on Hank’s face if she knew what I was thinking. “We could tell Mr. Winn we don’t want any part of this publicity junket.”
Taro shakes his head. “We’re powerless here. You and I—we’re important pawns, but there are plenty of others who are disposable. Uncle Zed. Hank’s family. Even Riska is disposable.”
Even though I already know this, it’s hard to hear Taro put it into such stark terms. “Mr. Winn will hurt people if we refuse,” I say.
Taro meets my eyes. “My father thinks he would. He had a long … talk with me last night. He told me it’s in everyone’s best interest for us to cooperate fully with Mr. Winn’s wishes. The Dome is a dictatorship. It may be a benevolent dictatorship for the moment, but it’s still a dictatorship.”
I know the truth of our situation, but hearing it said makes my head hurt. I raise my hands and massage my temples, wishing I could go to sleep and wake up someplace else. Riska mews.
“I need to hit something,” Taro says, his voice flat. “Come with me?”
“Yeah.”
Without a word, Taro turns and sprints into the Village.
Grateful for the sturdy, Global-issued boots, I take off after him. Riska leaps off my shoulder and flies along beside me. Taro, probably realizing there’s no way my short legs can keep up with his long ones at a full sprint, slows down.
He leads us through the Village streets. He seems to know his way around, which is surprising since we’ve only been here for a day. There are kids on the streets playing kickball, basketball, and soccer. Most of them have green polos—Normie kids—but I see a few clusters of kids in blue polos and black jumpsuits.
We reach the big central park behind the cafeteria, which is teeming with people. There’s a circle of adult women, all in green polos, knitting. Another knot of adults, these in blue polos, practice tai chi together.
There’s a gym at the far end of the park, with a bay of glass doors that slide back and leave the gym open to the air. The gym is mostly filled with adults. Many of them have on gym shorts and T-shirts. The T-shirts are all, of course, color coded, but I make a mental note to take a closer look in my dresser to see if I can find gym clothes.
Taro marches to the nearest punching bag, picks up a pair of boxing gloves, and starts to hit it. The bag rocks back and forth with every strike he makes.
After pulling on a pair of boxing gloves, I position myself in front of the bag next to his and hit it as hard as I can. It barely vibrates, but I don’t care. I hit it again and again, taking comfort in the ache that soon bathes my fists and arms.
Riska alights on top of my bag, settling onto all fours and peering down at me. He’s silent, tail lashing and ears laid back.
Somewhere along the way, the stress seeps out of my body. Pieces of it flake away with every strike and every droplet of sweat. Frustration over today’s events is dulled with the burning of my lungs and the fatigue in my arms. It recedes under the pounding rhythm of my fists.
Finally, exhausted physically and mentally, I step away from the bag. Panting, I hunch over and I rest my hands on my thighs. My khakis and polo are saturated with sweat and cling uncomfortably to my body. Using the sleeve of my polo, I try to dab the sweat from my face.
Taro hunches over beside me, breathing hard. We stay like that for several minutes. Then, we toss the gloves aside and walk outside.
Adults ogle at us as we leave the gym. I’m not sure if it’s because we’re a Muscle and a Brain, because of Riska, or because they know we’re the ones who killed Imugi. Whatever the reason, Riska hisses at some of them, which only draws more gawking eyes.
Outside, there are kids everywhere. A group of merc kids plays football. There’s a group of Normie kids playing soccer. VHS kids sit in clusters, most likely doing homework. I peer at the kids in blue polos, looking for faces I might recognize, but they’re too far away.
We skirt the edge of the park, avoid the crowds, and find a lone tree near a walking path. We flop onto the grass.
The novelty of being on real green grass is something I could get used to. The first thing I do is peel off my boots and socks. I again try to wipe the sweat off my face with my shirt, but the polo is already sopping.
“We should have gone to your house fir
st so you could change into gym clothes,” Taro says, watching me. A crown of perspiration sits on his forehead. His face is relaxed, the tension gone from his eyes and shoulders. “Sorry about that.”
“I didn’t even know they issued gym clothes until I saw the adults with them.” I quit trying to clean myself up and flop onto my back. “Today sucked, but right now is good.”
“Yeah.” Taro smiles at me. It’s a real smile, relaxed and warm. “Now is good.” He takes off his boots and socks, rubbing his feet against the grass. He pulls his ink pen out of his pocket and leans forward, drawing on his foot.
I turn my gaze skyward, watching snow puff against the top of the Dome. A few Aircats soar in the distance.
“There. What do you think?” Taro extends his bare foot in my direction. He’s drawn a collage of flowers across his skin.
“Flowers?” I frown at him.
“Everyone wants to celebrate me as a killer. I just need to remind myself that I can bring something into this world that doesn’t revolve around death.”
“So you drew flowers on your foot? Why not an animal or something?”
He arches an eyebrow at me. “You have a problem with a guy sporting flowers?”
There’s a sly sparkle in his eye that tells me he’s teasing.
I arch my brow in response. “Why don’t you draw a few hearts while you’re at it?”
“Good idea.” He grins at me and adds a few hearts to the flower collage. There’s delicate shading in the heart, giving it a three-dimensionality. “What do you think?”
I burst out laughing. It feels good. I can’t remember the last time I laughed.
I jump as I feel Taro’s hand close around my foot.
“Ick,” I say, trying to squirm from his grip. “I’m all sweaty and smelly.”
“I’m always sweaty and smelly,” he replies. “A side effect of training seven days a week.”
“Fine.” I lie back and stare at the snow outside the Dome. There’s something pleasant about the feel of his hand cupping my foot, of his pen pressing against my skin.
“When did you start drawing?” I ask.
He pauses to look up at me. “I don’t remember. It’s something I’ve always done. My mother bought art supplies for me when I was a toddler. Finger paints and crayons, stuff like that. Some of my earliest memories are of drawing and painting.”
I think back to the photos Mom saved. There had been pictures of us painting and coloring together. I wish I remembered those times with her.
“What do you think?” Taro leans back to study his drawing.
I remain on my back, lifting my foot so I can see it. It’s framed by the backdrop of the snow-covered glass.
Taro has drawn a cluster of grenades on the top of my foot. Along the front of my ankle is a machine gun.
I grin at him. “I like it.”
He grins back. “Mr. Winn wants to take the fight out of you, but he’ll never be able to do that. No matter how much we have to lie and pretend in the name of Global. We’re still ourselves.”
My throat tightens. I wipe at the sudden tears in my eyes. The stress and frustration of the day threaten to rear up, but I willfully hold them at bay. This is my first moment of peace since arriving here. I’m going to cling to it as long as possible.
“If things were different and we weren’t in the Dome, what would you want to be?” he asks.
“A mercenary,” I reply.
“Really?” He gazes at me.
“Yes.” I nod. “I want to be able to defend myself.”
“Being able to defend yourself doesn’t mean you have to make a living fighting. I mean, what do you like? If this was the pre-’Fault world, and you could go to college and study anything you wanted, what would it be?”
I stare at him, stupefied. “I … I don’t know. Everyone’s always told me I’m meant to follow in my dad’s footsteps. For as long as I can remember, I’ve always wanted to be like my mom.”
“Is that because you were angry about being told what to do, or do you really like fighting?” Taro is sincere as he asks this, not mocking.
“I like being able to defend myself. To take care of myself.”
He shakes his head. “That’s not the same thing.”
His words sink into me. I contemplate them like they’re an exotic piece of food. I’m not sure if I want to take a bite or not.
If I could be anything—study anything—what would it be? If I didn’t live in a dangerous world, if education was a leisure, what would I study?
“I don’t know,” I say at last. “I’ve never thought about it. Is that dumb?”
“There’s nothing dumb about you, Sulan.”
“What would you be? If your dad didn’t make you fight?”
“A tattoo artist. I’d love to make art instead of death.” He grimaces. “My dad hates that about me. I think I remind him of his father. He was a poet. Dad was poor growing up. My grandfather was always dreaming of a fancy life, writing poetry and working odd jobs that barely paid the bills. His mother left them when Dad was six. When the Default happened … Grandpa didn’t last long. Dad was homeless on the streets with his older brother. They learned how to fight and make money in underground fighting rings.”
“Where he met my mom.”
“Yeah. Where he met your mom. You know, Hudanus isn’t even my real last name? Grandpa made it up.”
“You have a made-up last name?”
“Yep.”
“What’s your real one?”
“Hernandez.”
“Taro Hernandez.” I tilt my head at him. “It’s got a certain ring to it.”
He shrugs. “I don’t know why Dad kept Hudanus when he hates it so much.”
“Mom hated fighting, but she still kept her merc uniform and a whole bunch of guns in the house. Maybe it’s hard to let go of some things.”
“Maybe.” He stares across the park, watching the Normie kids as they play soccer.
“For what it’s worth, I think you’d be a great tattoo artist. I’d let you tattoo me.”
“Thanks.” A faint smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. He picks up my wrist, which sends an unexpected zing through me. “Can I draw on your arm? I have this idea I can’t get out of my head.”
“You can’t get my arm out of your head?” I grin at him.
To my surprise, a slight flush creeps up his neck.
“I’m just teasing,” I say, realizing I had embarrassed him. “Of course you can draw on my arm. Global doesn’t have a say over what’s on my skin.” Yet.
Taro scoots forward, drawing up his knees and tugging me upright. He positions my arm across his knee and runs his hand over my skin, brow dented in concentration.
My stomach flutters. I do my best to ignore the fact that I like the feel of his hands on my skin. Taro and I are just friends. There’s no room in my life for a romantic relationship. Is there?
His ink pen tickles my wrist. I watch, fascinated, as a picture starts to take shape. It’s a mountain range with tall peaks and a river sluicing through their midst. Tendrils of fog coil through the heights and dance across the top of the water. Delicate strokes of the pen add depth and texture, making the water churn with eddies and the fog roil with a life of its own.
As we sit there, Riska starts to purr.
“You’re amazing,” I breathe in awe. “You really should be a tattoo artist.”
“In another time and place, maybe,” he replies, never taking his eyes from his work.
We are both so engrossed we don’t notice the group of merc kids coming our way until it’s too late.
15
Confrontation
The black smudges moving in our direction are only one hundred feet away before my brain registers their approach. I blink, looking away from Taro’s drawing—and spot the unmistakable gleam of Jason Van Deer’s blond crew cut.
I make an annoyed sound in the back of my throat. Taro looks up, following my gaze.
Our momentary peace is shattered. I watch Taro’s face transform. The light in his eyes, the small smile tugging at his mouth, the brow furrowed in thought and contemplation as he works—he wipes it all away in an instant. He replaces it with his customary blank, implacable expression. His game face, I realize.
He jams the ink pen deep into his pocket, then takes my hand and pulls me to my feet.
“Are we getting out of here?” I ask.
“Can’t run from Van Deer,” he replies, voice clipped. “If he thinks we’re afraid, there’ll be no going back. We’ll face him on our feet.”
I nod, understanding. I met bullies like this in the Cube.
Van Deer is surrounded by a full dozen merc kids, all of them big and well-muscled. I’m acutely aware of my bare feet. Any of these boys could break the bones with a hard stomp. I stand a good six inches below the shortest in the group.
“Hudanus.” Van Deer saunters to a stop when he’s ten feet away.
“Van Deer.” Taro nods his head, voice neutral.
Van Deer looks me up and down, making no effort to be subtle. I see him take in my damp shirt, mussed hair, and bare feet.
“Congrats,” Van Deer says with a smirk. “It’s not every guy that can get a girl hot and bothered with her clothes on.”
I stiffen, glaring at him. Riska hisses. Taro takes a few steps forward, attempting to plant himself in front of me, but I stalk forward and stay at his side. I don’t need him to shield me.
“What do you want, Van Deer?” Taro asks.
Riska growls deep in his throat. I rest one hand on his back, applying slight pressure to let him know I don’t want him to attack. The last thing I need is for him to spray Van Deer and his posse with venom. Not that I’d mind seeing them disfigured with acid, but Mr. Winn undoubtedly wouldn’t appreciate it.
“We’re going to start a game of capture the flag,” Van Deer says. “Want to join us? Show Sulan what you’re made of?”
“What he’s made of?” I demand. “I know exactly what he’s made of. I don’t need a stupid pre-’Fault sport to—”
“Letting a Brain answer for you, Hudanus?” Van Deer cuts in. “Or are you afraid of her seeing you get pummeled on the field?”
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