by Jeff Chen
Flamethrowers and Miners sprinted toward the end zone, the swarming mass jockeying for position, smashing elbows and fists into each other’s helmets in bursts of blue and yellow. Supernova was the first one there, leaping to crash into Jin-Lee when he was still two meters off the ground. He launched a barrage of roundhouse punches, fiery yellow missiles aimed at the Ultraball. Jin-Lee held on, but as more and more defenders clanged into him, it was all he could do to curl up around the Ultraball and yell for help. A Flamethrower rammed in with a spearing punch, threading through limbs to land a fist into the Ultraball. It popped high into the air, straight up toward the roof.
Strike pushed away from the pile before anyone else. He ran toward Pickaxe, who bent down with hands cradled together, knowing exactly what Strike wanted. Strike jumped up as Pickaxe launched him, zooming ahead of everyone else. He grabbed the Ultraball as he zipped by. Pretending to curl up like Jin-Lee had, he made like he was going to try to fall back to the turf for the touchdown.
But as two Flamethrowers rocketed up at him, Strike reared his arm back and aimed at the other side of the end zone, where Rock was streaking. His targeting system locked onto Rock’s number 5 suit, and Strike threw a bullet. The ball was nothing but a silver blur as it shot across the field. It cracked into Rock’s magnetized gloves, its fiery momentum jerking him forward into a wild spin. Rock cradled it into his chest plate and he rolled and bounced uncontrollably before smashing into the clear impactanium barrier separating the field from the stands. All his limbs splayed out, turned nearly upside down, he held up the Ultraball.
Jin-Lee ran up to Strike. “I’m so sorry. I should have jumped lower. It would have been an easy score. I’ll do better next time. Please. I promise, I will.” Although his visor was still set to reflective, Strike could almost see the tears of desperation running down Jin-Lee’s cheeks. Making the team was his only way out of working in Taiko Colony’s mines.
“It’s okay,” Strike said, even though it wasn’t. Jin-Lee could probably be a decent Ultraball player. But he didn’t have the killer instinct of a rocketback 1.
Strike jogged over to Rock, flipping him right side up and helping him to his feet. He signaled for a private conversation, unlatching his helmet. The giant dome clicked and then rotated back over his head, the helmet comm system going quiet. Rock did the same.
“Seven points,” Strike said. “Good work.”
“Any rocketback could have made that front-roll catch,” Rock said. “And a lot more efficiently. I used a full 2.4 percent of my suit’s power on that single play. I really think you should replace me. For the good of the team. For Taiko Colony.”
As if Strike didn’t have enough to worry about with finding a rocketback 1, he knew that Rock was probably right. The weight of so many people’s futures crushed down upon his shoulders. “Could this day possibly get any worse?” Strike muttered.
“Oh, absolutely,” Rock said. “We haven’t even come close to number one on my list of worst moments ever.”
Strike slowly nodded. It was hard to imagine that anything could be worse than what happened eight months ago at last year’s Ultrabowl.
But Rock’s prediction might just come true.
2
The Meltdown Gun
STRIKE AND ROCK trudged through the tunnel leading into the locker room. Strike slapped the wall, echoes pinging back and forth between the airtight surfaces. The rest of tryouts hadn’t gone well. More accurately, they had stunk. “What do you think?” Strike asked.
“No clear answer,” Rock said, his head buried in his notebook. “Hassan and Ichiro are the front-runners.”
“Yeah, I guess so.” Strike paused. “But I’m still thinking that Jin-Lee might be our guy.”
Rock looked up in surprise, then consulted his notebook. “Not only did Jin-Lee mess up that sure touchdown, but he dropped one of your passes. He also had a hard time following some of your play calls.”
“But the last pass he caught was spectacular. How many people can make such a smooth one-handed front-roll grab like that?”
“The safe choice—”
“The safe choice won’t cut it,” Strike said. “There’s something in Jin-Lee. A spark. A flame.” The fragile little boy had black hair so wispy you could see his scalp through it. He probably hadn’t ever eaten a full complement of ten hardtack bars in one day. But that made the kid hungry, and hunger drove people like nothing else. Jin-Lee knew that Ultraball was his only salvation.
Strike had been that same kid three years ago.
Rock’s pace slowed as they neared the door at the end of the tunnel. “Are you considering Jin-Lee because you think he’ll help us win the Ultrabowl? Or because of your loyalty to the Tao Children’s Home?”
Rock knows me too well, Strike thought. “Why can’t it be both? We need a moon shot if we’re going to win the Ultrabowl. We need to find a rocketback 1 with as much game-changing ability as TNT.”
Strike’s fists balled up. It was the first time he had said his former teammate’s name out loud in months. He swore that it would be the last.
“Strike?” Rock said. He waved a hand in front of Strike’s face. “Are you okay?”
“I really think Jin-Lee could replace you-know-who,” Strike said through gritted teeth. “With a lot of practice, he could be spectacular.”
“Well, that is a possibility,” Rock said. “But an unlikely one.”
Strike took a deep breath, reaching for the big green button on the control panel. Rock’s probably right, he thought. He always was.
The metal airlock door rasped open, and Strike froze at the sight of a grizzled man and two kids sitting on a locker room bench, all of them wearing the bright red jumpsuits of North Pole Colony.
The old man got to his feet, an angular black weapon strapped to his side. Raiden Zuna walked tall, with a bold swagger, platinum chains adorning his jewel-studded jumpsuit. A gleaming Governor’s Star was displayed prominently on his chest. Not only was Zuna governor of North Pole Colony, the richest of the twenty-one United Moon Colonies, he also owned the North Pole Neutrons, winners of three straight Ultrabowls. Behind him stood two short boys who were the most famous superstars on the moon: Fusion and Chain Reaction, the Neutrons’ quarterback and rocketback 1. “Pretty ugly tryouts today,” Zuna said.
“Only if you think pretty is ugly,” Strike spluttered. “Pretty as yo mama’s nuclear fallout. I mean, ugly as her fallout. Rock, help me out!”
Rock flipped through his notebook, nearly fumbling it. “L-l-let’s see,” he said, stealing nervous glances at the Meltdown Gun strapped to Zuna’s side. “Yo mama’s so ugly, she uses nuclear makeup for fallout. I mean, nuclear fallout for makeup. You see, that’s funny because—”
Zuna burst into laughter. “That’s almost as terrible as those recruits you tried out today. But not quite.”
Strike flushed hot. “We have some good players to choose from. How did you get into our locker room, anyway?”
“Colony Governors go wherever we want,” Zuna said. “And you don’t fool me. None of those kids can take you to an Ultrabowl victory. Certainly not Jin-Lee Wu.”
Strike’s jaw went slack. The government watched everyone and monitored all transmissions, but Strike had only talked about Jin-Lee privately, to Rock. “How did you know I was leaning toward him?”
“I have eyes and ears everywhere.” Zuna leaned against one of the lockers, stroking his bushy salt-and-pepper beard. “You and I know both know that the Miners have no shot this year with any of those scrubs who showed up today.”
“We’ve found ways to get to the Ultrabowl,” Strike said. “This year will be no different.”
“But you’re going to lose to my Neutrons yet again.” Zuna crouched so they were eye to eye. “Look. I like you, Strike. You got guts.” He stared at Strike like a weapon locking onto its target. “I want you to be my new quarterback.”
Strike jolted. “You want me to play for you? As a Neutron?”
&nb
sp; Zuna nodded.
Strike had been a die-hard Taiko Miner his entire career, and he would never take a deal from the man who had supposedly paid off TNT to throw last year’s Ultrabowl. But being a North Pole Neutron was the closest thing to being a god. “What about Fusion?” he asked. He shot a look at the baby-faced boy doing his best to hide in a corner of the locker room.
“Never mind about Fusion,” Zuna said. “I’ll set you up in North Pole Colony with a cushy pad and a fat salary. Be smart, Strike. You know the North Pole Neutrons will win our fourth Ultrabowl title in a row. I’m giving you the opportunity to become part of our dynasty. Join Neutron Nation. Join my alliance. This is your only chance to escape that crumbling rathole you call a colony.”
Strike gulped. When Taiko Colony’s main oxygen recycler failed during last year’s Ultrabowl, it had looked like the underground colony was done for. It was only Raiden Zuna who had given Taiko Colony a chance for survival, making a bet with the governor of Taiko Colony: Zuna would loan out North Pole Colony’s spare oxygen recycler for a year, and if the Miners won the upcoming Ultrabowl, he’d let them keep it.
If not, Raiden Zuna would become Taiko Colony’s new governor.
Strike glanced silently at Rock, who paused before raising his eyebrows. After living together for eight years, Strike knew exactly what Rock was thinking: The logical choice is to accept Zuna’s deal. But for all its mounting problems, Taiko Colony had been his parents’ home before they died in the Fireball Blast mining accident eight years ago. It was where Strike belonged.
“Thanks,” Strike said. “But no thanks.” He motioned Rock ahead and walked down the hall of lockers.
Chain Reaction, the Neutrons’ star rocketback 1, moved to block him. “Strike,” he said, his weaselly face twitching as if he’d smelled something deliciously rotten. “Don’t be dumb. Me and you would make up the most powerful offense in history. With me as your primary receiver, you’d not only break Torch’s records, you’d shatter them. You’d finally get one of these.” He shoved a bony fist into Strike’s face, three platinum Ultrabowl rings glinting. Chain Reaction was all skin and bones, with weird bald spots dotted across his patchy black hair, skin peeling all over his face. But no one cared about that, because the three-time league MVP was the best rocketback of all time. “Think of the fame. The fortune. The glory.”
Strike pointed to Fusion, whose hands were jammed into his jumpsuit pockets. “You’d seriously just toss your own quarterback aside?”
“Fusion’s going to quarterback his own team,” Chain Reaction said. “Once Mr. Zuna gets control of Taiko Colony’s five Ultrabot suits, he’s going to move the team and rename it the North Pole Fusion. Awesome, huh?”
Zuna smacked Chain Reaction across the back of the head. “Idiot. I told you not to talk about that.”
Chain Reaction cringed, his hands held protectively in front of his face. “I just thought it would help him make up his mind.”
“I pay you to score touchdowns, not to think.” Zuna smoothed out his fiery red jumpsuit, flashing his diamond-studded rings as he conspicuously touched his three Ultrabowl Champion patches. He shrugged at Strike. “You have to admit, moving the team makes sense. It’s basic economics. The Miners are losing money. Taiko Colony is getting poorer and poorer every day. How long until it collapses?”
Heat rose through Strike’s body. The Miners were Taiko Colony’s rallying point, one of the few sources of joy and hope in people’s desperate lives. He turned to Fusion. “This is what you want? To steal Taiko Colony’s team?”
Fusion ground his toe into the locker room floor, his forehead wrinkled in agony. “I just want to play Ultraball, that’s all. I do what Mr. Zuna tells me to do. Sorry, Strike.”
“What do you think you’re doing?” Zuna yanked Fusion to his side. “Neutrons never apologize.”
“Yes, sir.” Fusion shirked away. “Sorry, sir.”
Zuna turned to Strike. He lifted a fist, his arm flexed and quivering. “You are one of the strong ones. Join me. Neutron Nation will bring forward a new era of wealth and prosperity. Think about my offer.” His eyes narrowed. “Think seriously what the future must bring.”
Strike exchanged confused glances with Rock.
“You’re too young to remember life before Earthfall.” Zuna unholstered his Meltdown Gun and waved it in the direction of the dead planet somewhere above. “It was magnificent. Anything we wanted, Earth shipped it right to us, the heroes spearheading humanity’s expansion across the solar system. But everything changed when Earth went nuclear. So many people think that everything will just work itself out. But the wise man faces reality and does what needs to be done. Neutron Nation will see to that. Join me in my mission to save the moon.”
Strike’s nostrils flared. All he ever wanted to do was just play Ultraball and win a title for his Miners. Why did so many people try to get him involved with all this other junk? “C’mon, Rock, let’s get out of here.” He shoved past Fusion as he stormed toward the rear exit.
Zuna called out to them. “I hear the line for hardtack bar distribution is extra-long today. Even longer than the water distribution line. Have fun waiting for hours. What are you down to—eight and a half bars a day? How do you poor folks even get by on that?”
Strike tried to deny Zuna the satisfaction of a reply, but he broke stride. Taiko Square was exactly where he and Rock were heading, to wait in the distribution line. And Taiko Colony’s ration had just been cut from nine hardtack bars per day to eight and a half.
How was it that Raiden Zuna was always one step ahead of everyone?
3
The Torch’s Curse
STRIKE AND ROCK emerged from an airlock into the immense cavern that housed Taiko Colony, where all the moon’s ore was mined. Each of the twenty-one underground cities that made up the United Moon Colonies produced some important resource—New Beijing Colony making hardtack bars, North Pole Colony generating solar and nuclear energy, Tranquility Colony building heavy machinery, Guoming Colony recycling the moon’s waste—and an unfortunate by-product of Taiko Colony’s mining was a huge amount of dust kicked into the atmosphere.
Although an acrid haze coated Taiko Colony in a blanket of gloom, it wasn’t nearly as bad as it had been in the past. Ever since Raiden Zuna’s people had installed the loaned oxygen recycler last year, the air was more like mist than smog. Sitting in the center of the gray-brick buildings making up the cityscape, the giant oxygen machine was spotlighted underneath a bright fluorescent ceiling panel, its motors and pumps chugging along at a low hum.
A lump formed in Strike’s throat as he thought about the bet the governor of Taiko Colony had made with Raiden Zuna after last year’s Ultrabowl. But Governor Katana hadn’t had any other choice. Without the new oxygen recycler, Taiko Colony’s oxygen supply would have run out within days, the main airlock door automatically sealing to prevent the problem from spreading. Taiko Colony would have died then and there, leaving three thousand people to scramble away, scattering through the Tunnel Ring connecting the twenty-one underground colonies, or even heading out for the uncharted Dark Side of the moon. Hardly anyone would have taken in the refugees. After Earthfall, the once-prosperous moon had broken down into survival mode, every colony for itself.
As Strike and Rock made their way toward the city center of Taiko Colony, a group of adults in the beige jumpsuits of Peary Colony came running at Strike and Rock, jockeying for position. Most of them had LunarSports Reports patches sewn on, but there were also reporters from SmashMouth Radio Blitz and the Touchdown Zone.
“Get ready for the stupid questions,” Strike muttered.
Rock nodded, pulling out his notebook and opening it to a long list titled “Most Idiotic Comments from Reporters.”
All the reporters, camera operators, and photographers spoke over each other as they elbowed to get in front. “Hey, Strike,” one of them asked, sticking a microphone into Strike’s face. “Still fitting into your Ultrabot suit?”
“What do you think about oddsmakers giving you only a thirteen percent chance of winning the Ultrabowl?” another shouted.
“Do you think Rattler or Hammer Fist is prettier?” yet another said.
At this last question, Strike turned to tell Rock to start writing. But Rock was already scribbling.
A LunarSports Reports person elbowed his way in, everyone else deferring to the big shot and his team of cameramen. “Vikram Cho with LunarSports Reports,” he said, holding his microphone out to Strike. “Let’s get down to the question in the forefront of everyone’s minds: Did you find a new rocketback today?”
Strike and Rock exchanged glances. Strike began to stammer. “Well . . . uh . . .”
“Can you comment on TNT’s failure to score during the final play of last year’s Ultrabowl?” another reporter blurted out. “Did he really throw the game?”
Rage surged through Strike, his hands curling into fists. He spit out the words he had repeated so many times over the past months. “I told you. I’m not talking about that traitor.”
“How do you respond to the reports that he’s been sighted in the Tunnel Ring?” the reporter asked. He pulled out a blurry picture of a boy in a grimy blue jumpsuit riding a tunnel tram. “What would you do if you found him?”
Strike clenched his jaw. The boy’s jumpsuit hood was pulled over his head, but there was no mistaking who it was. Strike ripped the picture out of the reporter’s hands and tore it into shreds. “I’d frakkin’ kill him.”
Smelling blood, the LunarSports reporter pressed his microphone in close. “That’s it, Strike. Give me something I can really use. Do you really think you have a chance to win the Ultrabowl this year? The oddsmakers say no.”