When I walk in with my team, I see them—Rak, Alik, Safi, Vissa, and Reya—lined up on the benches, craning their necks around the vendor drones and the holo-screens to wave at me. I wave back quickly, sit down, and duck my head, while Ridley and Tram quietly take up position behind me.
I'm here. All I have to do now is wait for my team's turn.
The tournament features scrimmages, not full-length games; and the spurts of play are incredibly intense, meant to show off each player's agility and aim. Towards the end of the day, the games will be longer, a test of stamina as well as speed.
I sit on the sidelines with my team for an hour, jiggling my knees and clutching the edge of the bench until finally the name "Shearers" shows up on the holoscreen.
It's time.
A thrill pulses through my heart as I step onto the hexagonal court and take up my position.
The first whistle blows, and the defenders spring up, toward the rings. Almost instantly the balls are shot out into the center of the tube, precisely halfway between the platform and the rings—and the next second, the whistle sounds again.
I leap upward, shooting straight for one of the balls. My palm contacts it a split-second before one of the opposing girls touches it. I'm allowed to hold it, one-handed, for five seconds, after which it will shock me and shoot away.
My momentum carries me up another length, and I smack the ball as hard as I can toward one of the opposing team's yellow rings. It sails through, and the ring flashes twice. I'm sinking back toward the platform now, swerving and ducking to avoid the legs and elbows of the other players.
Once I feel the humming layer of energy under my boots, I sidestep and leap again, just as the ball I scored with shoots back into play. This time a slim boy corkscrews sideways through the air and intercepts me, palming the ball himself, and I have to kick away to avoid crashing into him. I spin into the shield wall and use it to propel myself back toward him, my hand outstretched. One of my teammates slides in from the opposite direction, and the boy panics, holding the ball a little too long. Energy crackles over the ball and he releases it, his fingers twitching. The ball zooms straight toward me. I knee it upward; and though I'm sinking again, one of my teammates is just rising and she shoots toward the ball, sending it through one of the yellow rings.
So I've had a goal and an assist so far. Not bad, but I need to do better.
Before the game, our team leader told us, "No fancy moves. Stick to scoring points." She looked at me when she said it.
Her advice might be good; but if I want to stand out, I have to add a little of my signature flair.
For the rest of the first half, I focus on slamming the ball through the rings as many times as I can get control of it. When I can't palm it, I run interference. By the halfway break point, our team is well ahead of our opponents, and high in the overall rankings so far.
The first half was about my speed and accuracy. Now it's time to show off my whole skill set.
This time, when the second whistle sounds, I thrust off the platform with all my might and twist, spiraling through the air like a spinning top. I miss the ball, but I manage to block on oncoming opponent's access, and my maneuver earns a soft gasp from the crowd. I follow it up with a flip and a swift kick that punches another ball through one of the yellow rings.
Rolling twists, dives, speed jumps, twirls—I make sure that each move has a purpose, beyond being showy—and most of the time, I'm successful.
Until I try a rolling flip and my boot clunks against the side of a teammate's head.
She spins out, crashing into the shield wall. I'm after her in a breath, sinking back to the floor with her. "I'm so sorry! Are you all right?"
She nods, holding her temple. "Just a bump, I think." But when she pulls her hand away, a trickle of blood runs over her cheekbone down to her jaw.
The whistle halts the game, and my teammate stumbles off the court. My team leader floats down with the others, her face red.
"You're off the court, Zil," she hisses in my ear. "I told you not to try those moves. Now you've knocked out our best defender."
"It was an accident." My hands are shaking. "I've scored more times than anyone else in this game. You're not a real coach; you can't put me out."
"Why? Because you're the rutting Magnate's daughter?" She sneers. "I'm not scared of you. You're a poser who thinks she can swoop in at the last second and claim what others have worked for, for years."
Out of the corner of my eye I see Rak and my friends watching; and they're not the only ones. The guests, the coaches—their eyes burn into my skin like lasers. They're all waiting to see how I'll react.
I could defend myself. Defy this girl who has no real control over me or my place in the tournament. Or I could accept her rebuke and sit down, and forfeit the minutes still left in the game—minutes I could use to show off more of my skills.
Rebel, or comply.
With a nod, I step back, leave the ring, and take a spot on the bench, next to the girl I injured.
The game continues without me.
As much as I hated the team leader's words, she was right. I did assume that I could jump into this tournament and steal the scouts' attention. Because I'm naturally talented, and I don't have to work as hard to be good at this. I shouldn't be punished for that, but I shouldn't be careless with others, either.
"I'm sorry," I say to my teammate. The words taste sour in my mouth. "I hurt your chances."
She eyes me. "Did you do it on purpose?"
"Of course not."
"Then leave it. It's something that happened, and you can't change it now."
A medic cleans up the blood and applies a nano-patch. In spite of the mishap, our team ranks high enough to make it to the next round. The Shearers are back in the game, and so am I; and we make it through to the following round, and the one after that. By that fourth game, in spite of the respites in between, my legs are trembling and my biceps scream at me not to stretch them again. In spite of my gloves, my palms sting from striking the ball so many times.
My friends gradually trickled away with the rest of the crowd. Only Rak and Safi are left.
Thigh muscles aching, calves throbbing, I manage to leap from the floor of the court again and again. I spike and swerve and feint, dodge and dive, over and over.
At last it's done. Our team achieved third-place rank out of twenty-four teams.
I stagger off the court, collapse onto the bench, and force my shaking fingers to work at the straps of my boots.
Long brown fingers close over mine, gently moving my hands to my lap. "Allow me." Rak unfastens my boots and pulls them off, setting them in my gear bag.
"Thank you."
So tired.
"Come on, let's get you out of here." Rak pulls me up.
"You two can come back to my place," Safi says. "I have food."
"Food good," I say.
Rak laughs. "So playing aeroball all day impairs that smart mouth of yours. I'll have to remember that."
We're shuffling through the ebbing crowd, tailed by Tram and Ridley, when a tall man steps in front of me. He's slender, dressed in an oddly cut suit with star-shaped fasteners and a stand-up collar rimmed with black gauze.
"Excuse me, Number 34—Miss Zilara Remay, is it?"
"Yes." Is he a reporter?
"I represent the Rippan College Aeroball Team," he says. "We're located in Doisa, a city in the North Wixan States."
My interest flares—I've heard of this team. They usually make it all the way to the Global League Games, though they've never won. "Welcome to Ceanna," I say.
"Indeed, yes—well, I wanted to speak to you because I saw your little—incident. You handled it well. Very well. Skill, flamboyant style—they're easy to gain, but the team spirit you showed, the deference to your team leader—those can be difficult to find in this sport."
"I—thank you." My pulse is pounding in head, echoes of it surging through my skull.
"I would
like to offer you a place on our team. It comes with a full scholarship to Rippan College in the discipline of your choice, and an annual salary as well." He pulls out a translucent silver card, with a name, title, and wavecode printed on it in black letters. "I understand you don't have a skull-port, or I would contact you that way—but here's my personal code. You can wave me anytime and we'll discuss details, if you're interested. As the Magnate's daughter, you may have a different path in mind, but—well, you did participate in the tournament today, so I thought I would try my luck." He smiles wryly.
"This is amazing," I say. "I will think about it, and wave you soon."
"Let me know soon," he says. "I'll keep the spot open for you as long as I can." With a slight bow, he disappears into the crowd.
I'm speechless.
Safi elbows me. "Shouldn't you be cheering?"
"Why do people hand me everything I want?" I say.
"Maybe you were born under a blessed star?" she says, smirking.
"I'm serious, Safi. I don't deserve it."
"Zil." She shakes my arm. "Stop feeling guilty. Embrace it, and know that someday it will be your turn to make a life better. You've already done it for us, and I know you'll do it again."
Frowning, I poke her arm. "Where did my sarcastic Safi go?"
She rolls her eyes. "Move, Princess, or you'll fall over before we can get food into you. You need to keep your strength up, because the tournament is over, and you know what that means."
The Amzen facility. Getting the proof we need about suppressors. Blowing the lid off this conspiracy to keep the Evolved in check.
In week, our crazy caper will be over, and all of us might be in jail, deported, or under house arrest.
Or we might be the heroes who freed the new generation of Evolved humans.
21
Beyond the city limits, on the northern side, warehouses and factories and junkyards sprawl. Some of the huge plots of land have older sections with columns that used to pump thick smoke into the air. Those stacks stand idle now, abandoned in favor of newer buildings with modern tech that can churn out product without the extra pollution.
The Amzen complex is unobtrusively tucked between a scrap yard and a mega-storage facility. The location is no doubt purposeful, to keep people from suspecting that anything of importance exists here. Rak parks the hoverbike in a narrow, weed-riddled corridor between two metal fences. We take our helmets off and pull our masks on. We add goggles over the masks to prevent iris recognition.
I check my belt, where the scan repeater is stashed in a small pouch, and Rak adjusts the empty pack we'll use for carrying whatever we can steal. "Ready?"
"Ready." I draw a deep breath of chilly night air. It smells of rusted metal and stale oil.
We approach the complex from the side, aiming for the spot where the security cameras are furthest apart.
"Watch out for drones," I say.
"I have the scrambler ready." Rak holds up the little device Safi made. Theoretically, it should send out a pulse that distracts and confuses any drones that might head our way. Of course, Safi's design experience is limited to tinkering with scavenged tech in an Emsali desert town. How much can she really know about Ceannan tech and how it works?
We're at the fence now. Time for me to do my part.
I crouch, wrapping my fingers around the thick wires of the fence and heating the metal. Within seconds it glows and softens under my hands. I bend and break the wires until there's a hole large enough for both of us to slip through.
The pavement beyond the fence glimmers damply from recent rain, wet clumps of grass poking through its cracks. We're about to cross an open space where we can't avoid being seen by the cameras. If we can make it to the brown brick wall on the other side, we'll be just a few steps from the east entrance.
"Your turn," I tell Rak. He hands me the scrambler and bends his head slightly, his hands held palms up. Though I can't see his face through the mask and goggles, I know he's focusing on the moisture around us, calling it.
All across the broad swath of dark pavement, a fine mist lifts from the ground, shimmering silver-white as it rises. The Amzen building disappears, shrouded in the bank of gray fog Rak just created.
Quickly we cross the space, moving blindly through the mist, and press ourselves to the shadows of a dark nook in the building's wall. The fog stays in place, a wilderness of earth-bound clouds. With my back to the bricks and the wall of white before me, I feel suddenly terrified of what we're doing.
If we are caught, we'll be thrown in jail. I probably wouldn't be there for long, but Rak—it would be bad for him. I dig my nails into my palms and breathe. He came of his own free will, to help me. We have to get this done, to find proof of the suppression.
"Zilara?" Rak whispers.
"Yes." As I move forward to the door, a drone sweeps suddenly through the fog, orange lights blinking. Rak presses the button on Safi's scrambler. My breath swells in my lungs as the drone hovers and clicks—and then its light flips to blue and it soars away, disappearing into the mist.
I exhale and move to the door. It's sealed with a keypad, but no bio-locks—those will come later.
Pressing my hand to the locking system, I burn slowly through the metal, the wires, and the contact points. With my eyes closed, I can sense them—not an image, but an impression in my mind, like the heat I'm emitting connects me to the pieces of the lock, sending back a signal to my brain. A final pulse of energy, and the lock snaps apart.
Quickly I wipe the bits of metal that are still intact, cleaning off any fingerprints I may have left. "Gloves," I whisper, pulling on my own. Rak dons his gloves before opening the door, and we slip inside.
There, at a desk a few steps down the hall, is our first human obstacle—a guard who barely has time to register our presence before he's jittering and shaking with the effects of Rak's paragun. Stunned, he topples to the floor. I slap a nano-patch over his mouth and cuff his hands behind his back.
Rak nods his masked head to me, but we don't speak. We can't afford to have voice samples captured and used to identify us.
We take a left at the next hallway, then a right, then descend a flight of steps. That brings us to the next set of doors, the bio-locked ones leading to the lower level and the labs.
What if we're wrong? What if the suppressor tech isn't here at all? I shove the thought aside, reminding myself that all our research, all the signs point to it being here.
We hurry along the halls to the inner doors, and I pull out the scan repeater. It feeds the thumb pattern to the reader, and projects a holo of Dr. Breem's iris to the scanner. The doors slide back soundlessly, admitting us.
Two more guards walk by at exactly the wrong moment. They're startled, which gives Rak enough time to stun the first one with a well-aimed shot to the throat. I leap for the other, knocking his gun from his hand and clamping my fingers across his mouth. The guard twists me around, pinning me in a headlock from behind. I smirk behind my mask and smash at his groin, but the edge of my fist strikes a hard plate—body armor.
Biting my lip from the pain in my hand, I try to break away. Rak can't stun this guard while he's touching me, so instead he whips his gun across the back of the man's neck, right below his helmet. The guard staggers, and I wrench myself free. A quick pulse of the paragun, and the guard crumples to the floor beside his companion.
We move on, through more hallways, past storage rooms and testing chambers with thick observation windows, past manufacturing sectors still buzzing with automated activity. With water from a bottle at his belt, Rak mists a few more cameras along the way, creating tiny clouds that float innocuously near the ceiling even after we pass by.
We don't have much time. I doubt that random clouds of fog are much less suspicious than two masked figures. Whoever is monitoring the feeds will probably come to check on the cameras soon; and while their confusion might buy us a little time, it won't stop them from sounding an alarm once they see the downed
guards.
My heartbeat seems to fill my entire chest cavity; it's thundering in my throat. Heat from my palms turns my gloves clammy and humid inside.
According to the holo map, we're close to the central lab now. There's an office near it that probably contains the information we need.
I'm going to be seeing these white halls and tiled floors and harsh white lights in my nightmares after this.
The lab doors are just ahead, sealed with double bio-locks—and a passcode keypad. We have the scans we need, but not the code. Now I'll have to burn through the door, and that will take time we don't have.
Stripping off my gloves, I lay my palms flat against the doors and go deep into myself, drawing out every ounce of energy I have, throwing it at the molecules that make up the metal and plastic and wires. I close my eyes tightly, sending out pulse after pulse of heat, moving the particles of the door faster and faster—until suddenly my hands move forward into nothing.
Because there's nothing in the air except a cloud of sifting dust. A few of the particles spark and shimmer with flame, drifting down to the heap of disassembled matter on the floor.
I didn't just burn through the doors. I disintegrated them.
Rak's goggled, masked face unreadable, but I read his shock in the stiffness of his shoulders. He nods and motions me through the doorway, into the lab.
As I pull my gloves back on and step inside, an alarm rings through the building.
Rak and I fly into action. He swings off his pack, grabs a few holo-recording devices and data sticks from a drawer, and stuffs them inside. I smash into a nearby cabinet and seize a box filled with tiny chips, much like the one Safi took from my implant. Packets of parts, a chunky device that might be a digital file system—it all goes into the bag, and I hope that we snagged something useful, because we have to go. Now.
Rak slings the pack onto his back and we race to our exit point—not the one we used to come in, because they'll expect us to go out that way again. No, this time we head for the opposite side of the building, toward the back corner. It's new territory, but Rak's theory was that the security teams would be sweeping the east area, where we entered.
Princess of Lies and Legends (The Evolved Book 2) Page 21