by Jeff Chen
A guy with a wiry black-and-white goatee stepped in front of Strike. “Let me handle this one,” he said. “Of course the Miners are going to win the Ultrabowl. Strike is going to save Taiko Colony.” He stuck out his chest with pride, his platinum Governor’s Star gleaming bright. He pointed to all the Miners’ player decals stitched on below his star, Strike’s number 8 front and center. “Our Miners have learned from the defeats over the past three years. This is finally the year that our boys raise that Ultrabowl trophy. Isn’t that right, Strike?”
Strike’s face burned even hotter. As if he weren’t nervous enough being on camera, it was ten times worse with the governor of Taiko Colony also pressing him with questions. His forehead beading up with sweat, Strike spluttered as he tried to muster a show of confidence. “Uh . . . does a hardtack bar smell?”
The reporters all looked at each other. One pulled out a gray hardtack bar and sniffed at it. “Sort of, I guess.”
“There is a trace odor, but it really isn’t offensive,” Rock said. He flipped open his notebook. “What Strike meant to say was, ‘Does a hardtack bar taste bitter?’ The answer is obviously yes, thus making the joke incredibly hilarious.” He fired out an explosion of laughter, making everyone jump.
“That’s what I meant,” Strike said. “I just got all mixed up and . . .” He nearly cried with relief when a dark-haired woman pushed through the crowd: Nadya, his neighbor across the hall in his apartment building. Nadya had been the first person to welcome Strike and Rock when they moved into the building three years ago. In her twenties or thirties, she looked out for Strike and Rock when she wasn’t working down in the mines as a shift foreman.
“All you reporters leave Strike alone,” Nadya said, waving the crowd back. She turned to the governor. “With all due respect, Governor Katana, Strike has enough to worry about without extra pressure from you.”
“I’m not pressuring him,” the governor said. “I’m just reminding him of what’s at stake. Winning the Ultrabowl is the only way to save Taiko Colony.”
“Strike knows what’s at stake,” Nadya said. “And there is another way to save Taiko Colony.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “Ten million Universal dollars is an impossible amount of money. There’s no chance we could buy Zuna’s oxygen recycler outright and call off our bet. The only realistic way to save Taiko Colony is for the Miners to win—”
“Please, sir,” Nadya said through gritted teeth. “Stop pressuring Strike.”
Under Nadya’s fierce glare, everyone slunk away, people around Governor Katana mumbling about how the Miners had to win it all. The governor looked back over his shoulder at Strike and threw him a thumbs-up sign, but he tugged at his goatee in worry.
“So many people bugging you,” Nadya said, shaking her head. “I’ll keep them off your back. You have enough on your mind as it is.”
“Thanks,” Strike said. He stiffened when Nadya put an arm around his shoulders. A small part of him wanted to lean into her hug, but he had to protect himself. His mom had died in the Fireball Blast. TNT’s mom had gone away. He couldn’t let it happen a third time.
A guy from Strike’s apartment building pushed in close to Strike. “I can get three-to-one odds on the Miners winning the Ultrabowl,” he said. “Those are great odds, aren’t they?”
“Buzz off, Jamal,” Nadya said.
Strike stared at the cavern’s high roof in exasperation. The worst part about playing Ultraball was all the people pumping him for information so they could place bets on the games. If there was one thing more popular than Ultraball, it was betting on Ultraball. And people gave him way too much credit—Strike barely knew what “three-to-one odds” meant, much less if it made for a good bet.
“Come on, Strike, be a pal,” Jamal said. “Gimme something I can use.”
“I told you, quit it,” Nadya said. She elbowed the guy hard in the ribs, and then escorted Strike and Rock away.
Strike mouthed a silent thank-you to her.
Arriving at Taiko Square, Strike stopped in his tracks as he spotted a huge line coming out of the main government building. It went down the road, turned the corner, and disappeared. Lines for weekly hardtack bar distribution were the norm, but this was even longer than usual. And by the looks of things, the delivery from the hardtack factory hadn’t even arrived yet—no rovers, no one wearing the green jumpsuits of New Beijing Colony.
“Gotta get back in line,” Nadya said. She pointed a threatening finger at the people crowding around Strike. “No questions about tryouts. No questions about betting. And turn off the radios. Those SmashMouth Radio Blitz guys are giving me a headache.”
“But Berzerkatron and the Mad Mongol are giving the lowdown on the Neutrons’ new crackback 2,” one guy said, his radio held to his ear. “This girl is supposed to be unbelievable.”
“Who cares what those idiots say?”
“I care. They’re former Ultrabowl MVPs. They know what they’re talking about.”
“Just turn the radios off for a couple of minutes,” Nadya said, her jaw set like iron. “Berzerkatron and the Mad Mongol are on for twelve hours a day. Give Strike a little break.”
People grumbled, but several of them holding small radios clicked them off.
With a wink at Strike, Nadya joined a friend who had been saving her place.
Someone toward the front of the line shouted, waving his arms. “Hey, Strike! Rock! You guys can cut in front of me.” By the sound of his voice, the little kid had to be younger than Strike, but his dark brown face was powdered with gritty gray dust that made him look like he was a grandfather.
An adult with scraggly black hair shoved the kid. “No cuts.”
“But that’s Strike.”
“He could be the captain of the Blackguard for all I care.”
People sucked in a collective breath, stepping away from the man. Insulting the Blackguard could get you thrown into prison.
But the kid held his ground. “Give him a break. Strike is Taiko Colony’s only hope.”
“We have no hope. So no frakkin’ cuts.”
The boy raised a fist and stepped toward the man. “You take that back. The Miners are going to win the Ultrabowl.”
“It’s okay, everyone,” Strike said. “No cuts.” As badly as he wanted to save himself hours of waiting around, he’d feel terrible about cutting in front of all these people who broke their backs in the mines to earn their hardtack bars, water ration, and tiny amount of U-dollars.
Strike walked toward the rear of the line, and people of all ages held up their hands for him to high-five. He forced out a sickly smile through the surging waves of nausea. Why did everyone have to put all this pressure about Taiko Colony’s future on his shoulders?
And who knew—Raiden Zuna was creepy, intimidating, and crooked, but he had made North Pole Colony the envy of the moon. Before Earthfall, all twenty-one underground colonies had flourished as highly planned utopias, each one a melting pot of people from countries all over the Earth. But the ten years since Earthfall had seen North Pole Colony and Taiko Colony move rapidly in opposite directions. While kids in North Pole Colony continued to get normal educations at least through high school, most kids in Taiko Colony dropped out of elementary school as soon as they were strong enough to work in the mines, or even earlier so they could beg for hardtack bars. Governor Katana was one of the few governors who wasn’t corrupt, but under him, Taiko Colony had crumbled into the armpit of the United Moon Colonies.
Maybe it’s time for a change, Strike thought.
“Strike,” Rock whispered in his ear. “Back there. Is that Torch?”
Strike’s heart raced upon hearing the name of his boyhood hero, the legendary QB for the Farajah Flamethrowers. Strike’s memory was usually terrible, but when it came to Ultraball, every detail got burned into his brain. Images flashed through his head, Torch in his yellow number 7 Ultraball suit, stampeding through an electrical disruptor zone, lit up by a firestorm of
crackling sparks. Torch had blasted three defenders off their feet on his way to scoring a spectacular touchdown in the first play of his Ultraball career. He had only played one season four years ago, but the superstar had set records that still hadn’t been broken.
“Can’t be Torch,” Strike whispered to Rock. “He’s not wearing a Farajah yellow jumpsuit. And why would he be in Taiko Colony, waiting for hardtack bars . . .” He trailed off as he reached the tall boy, slumped over, his hair a wavy black curtain hiding his face. “Torch?”
The teenager turned farther away from them. “Got the wrong guy,” he mumbled.
Stepping closer, Strike sucked in a breath. “Torch,” he said with awe. “You were my idol.”
“I’m telling you, you got the wrong guy.”
“If it hadn’t been for that interception in the Ultrabowl—”
“I can’t take that back, all right?” The teen grabbed Strike and yanked him away. He looked over his shoulder to a little girl. “Save our place in line, okay?”
When they were well away from anyone else, Strike cleared his throat. “I didn’t mean to bring up bad memories. It’s just that you were my favorite player. If it hadn’t been for that one interception, you would have been a legend. You still should be a legend. It was just one throw.”
Torch pinched his eyes shut. “It was a terrible frakkin’ throw, and it cost us the Ultrabowl. It cost me everything.” His fists trembled. “Stop calling me Torch. Torch is dead. I’m just Taj Tariq now.”
“But you were the greatest,” Strike said. “You nearly pulled off the impossible.” Against all odds, Torch had led the Farajah Flamethrowers all the way to Ultrabowl VI, in what was supposed to be a rebuilding year. But during the last minute of the big game, Torch had tossed an ugly interception, allowing the Tranquility Beatdown to seal the victory. It had been Torch’s first season playing Ultraball, and his last. Ever since then, Flamethrowers fans blamed their team’s streak of losing seasons on the Torch’s Curse.
The tall boy sighed. “You’re probably the only person on the entire moon who gets that, Strike. Everyone else remembers just one thing: the interception that cost the Flamethrowers the title. The throw that cursed the team.” His voice cracked. “That’s all I heard about for weeks. Months. Years. People kept on writing all sorts of horrible things on my door. Death threats, saying that I had to be killed to break the Torch’s Curse. My sister and I finally had to leave Farajah Colony.” He pointed to the tiny girl still in line, coughing and sniffling as she wiped her nose on her jumpsuit sleeve. “None of the heat generation factories wanted anything to do with me. I couldn’t even get work as a boiler room monkey. I was lucky to land a job here in the mines last month.”
Strike blinked. It was crazy to think that this shattered, slumped-over teenager had once been Torch, the sensational quarterback who had been destined to carry on the Farajah Flamethrowers’ dynasty. During his one season, he had been featured in LunarSports Reports’ Top Ten Plays every Sunday night. There had even been serious talk about Torch running for governor of Farajah Colony. He had been headed toward becoming one of the most powerful people on the moon. But because of a single play, he was now waiting in line for hardtack bars, breaking his back down in the Taiko Colony mines.
That same miserable life awaited Strike and his teammates if they didn’t win the Ultrabowl. It didn’t matter that they had made the big game three years in a row.
No one cared about the losers.
“I’m one of your biggest fans, Mr. Tariq,” Rock said. “Strike and I watch your game film every time Taiko Commons broadcasts it. The slingshot V reinvented Ultraball. How did you even think of it?”
A tiny smile crept to the former quarterback’s face. “It’s been years since anyone’s brought that up. Me and Dragon, we used to stay up all night dreaming up plays.”
Strike bit his lip as memories bubbled to the surface. Torch and Dragon had pulled all-nighters to dream up new plays—just like he and TNT had done.
“We never thought we’d use that play,” Torch said. “It was complicated. But we needed something huge. Unexpected. You should have seen Dragon’s face when I called it—”
“To win your semifinals game against the Neutrons four years ago,” Rock said. He consulted his notebook. “You lined up behind Dragon and Barbeque, all three of you deep. Napalm long-snapped you the ball. You charged forward and tucked it in before Dragon and Barbeque slung you into the sky. You slammed into the back wall of the arena and fought all five Neutrons while falling into the end zone.”
Strike and Torch watched each other as Rock recounted the play, both of them grinning. A surge of emotion connected the two quarterbacks, a bond that only a select few people on the moon could ever understand.
“You single-handedly changed the game of Ultraball,” Rock said. “Before then, it was hardly different from Earthball.”
“Now superjumps and slingshots are a standard part of every team’s playbook,” Strike added. “You were the greatest mind in Ultraball history.”
Light from the flickering roof panels glinted off a sheen in Torch’s eyes. “My Flamethrowers were the last team to beat the Neutrons during the playoffs. Best moment of my life. Best year of my life. Until the interception, anyway.” He stole a nervous glance at Strike. “How did tryouts go? You find a rocketback 1 anywhere as good as TNT?”
The familiar dread seeped back into Strike’s bones. He chewed at a fingernail, studying the tall, lanky teenager in front of him. If NASA had delivered just one adult-sized Ultrabot suit before Earthfall, all of Strike’s problems would have been solved—Torch would be an ideal addition to the Miners. “Can I get your opinion on something?” Strike asked.
“Me? I’ve been out of the game too long. And I don’t want to curse the Miners, too. I can’t help you.”
“You might be the only person on the moon who can help me.”
Torch’s black eyebrows knitted together. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “What do you need?”
Strike took a deep breath and leaned in. “Don’t tell anyone, but tryouts didn’t go well. They were garbage, actually. Only twenty kids showed up.”
“That’s it? Why so few?”
Strike stole glances around him before whispering, “I think Zuna threatened people to stay away. Or paid them off them. Or both. He showed up after tryouts with Chain Reaction and Fusion, to taunt us. And worse.”
“Zuna.” Torch spit on the ground. “He’s destroyed the game. And now he’s going to become governor of Taiko Colony.” He flinched. “I mean, if you don’t win the Ultrabowl this year.”
Strike winced. “Anyway, I got two guys who might be a solid RB1. And then I got a guy who might be great. But he also might be a bomb. He’s so rough. What would you do?”
Torch looked off into the distance through the haze. “That’s a little like my decision with Dragon. You should have seen his tryout. He made this incredible spinning catch after launching himself off Inferno’s shoulders halfway up to the roof. First time I had ever seen a superjump. It was like he was a real-life superhero. But he also fumbled twice on routine handoffs. And one of those times, he had his glove electromagnets activated. How is that even possible?” He chuckled, shaking his head. “But with all the pressure to bring home the Flamethrowers’ third Ultrabowl title in a row, I had to go big or go home.”
That was exactly the answer Strike wanted to hear. “Thanks, Torch. Sorry. I mean, Taj.”
“You know what?” He smiled wistfully. “You can call me Torch. Brings me back to better days. When I had a whole lot more.” He shoved one hand deeper into his jumpsuit pocket, clenching it into a fist. “All I have to show for a year of playing Ultraball is twenty-six U-bucks. How am I supposed to support my kid sister like this? It’ll be at least another year until she’s strong enough to work in the mines.”
“I can work,” his sister said, her sudden appearance making everyone jump.
“Jasmine,” Torch sai
d. “I told you to stay in line. Strike and I have some stuff to talk about.”
“Hi, Strike,” Jasmine said, starry-eyed. “You’re my favorite player ever.”
“Not me?” Torch said.
“Oh.” Jasmine knotted her fingers up, fidgeting. “I meant, besides you. Yeah, that’s what I meant. But. Um. Well, the thing is . . .”
Torch tousled her hair. “Just messing with you. Strike’s my favorite player ever, too.”
“How did you sneak up on us so quietly?” Strike asked, looking around. “Where did you come from?”
“I might be small, but I’m nimble,” Jasmine said. “I can work as a mine shaft crawler—” She erupted into a storm of coughs, nearly choking.
People in line looked over in disgust as Torch thumped her on the back. Finally, the coughing fits died out.
“Do yourself a favor, Strike,” Torch said. “Think about life after Ultraball more than I did. Come on, Jasmine. We need to get back and make sure we don’t lose our place in line.” He put an arm around his sister and trudged away. “Good luck with the season.”
Strike nudged Rock, and they headed down the line to where it disappeared around another corner. “Hard to believe that’s actually Torch,” Strike said. “I mean, the guy was a legend. And he sure had great advice. We have to go big and take the risk. Let’s work out Jin-Lee some more.”
“But Strike,” Rock said, “I really don’t think that’s the best idea.”
“Can’t we just—”
Shouts broke out behind them, and Strike swiveled to catch sight of a boy in a grimy jumpsuit running off.
Torch was splayed out on the ground, holding his side as he grimaced in pain. “Stop him! He robbed me!”
People took awkward steps away from the fallen teen. No one wanted to get mixed up with the Blackguard police. Everyone turned away, pretending they hadn’t seen a thing.
Strike ground his teeth together as the thief sprinted away. “Come on!” he said, yanking Rock with him. They tore down the street in hot pursuit.