The Dome Page 3

  A team of avatars in Global merc uniforms circle our ankles like mice. They are cybermercs, men and women designed to battle Black Tech from hacker attacks. All big companies use them, especially in important Vex events.

  The roar of the audience presses in on us. The urge to flee rises inside me. I recall the time Mom convinced me to try out for a Vex drama club when I was a kid. After a humiliating audition where I stuttered, forgot half my lines, and broke out in a real-world sweat that stained the couch, she never mentioned drama club again. Standing in front of this crowd brings back those uncomfortable childhood memories. I study my feet, trying to ignore the wave of discomfort growing inside of me.

  That’s when I notice my outfit.

  I’m dressed like a stripper.

  White stilettos give me several extra feet of height. I’ve been stuffed into a skimpy white blouse that thinly resembles a lab coat. It has big pockets in the front and white buttons that fasten to the neck. I have on a matching white miniskirt so tight it looks like it’s been painted onto my body. I tug on the hem, unable to stop myself from working a quick calculation in my head.

  Based on my towering avatar height, everyone at or below a 163-degree angle has a perfect view up my skirt. There’s no way to know exactly how many avatars can see my virtual underwear, but I’d rather it be zero. The cybermercs have the best view in the house, although to their credit their attention is on the crowd, not me.

  I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life. Not only do I look like a stripper, but in the eyes of the crowd, I’m a one-hundred-foot-tall stripper. Just how is this outfit supposed to embody the idea of a secretive mathematician? I’m not sure the glasses perched on my nose are enough to reinforce my persona, especially when the view up my dress is probably way more interesting. The Winns must be going for sex appeal.

  I rock unsteadily on my high heels. It takes me a beat to realize this is because Hank’s avatar is elbowing my avatar in the ribs. There’s no physical sensation in Vex.

  “Your face,” Hank whispers, wearing a big, manufactured grin. Her voice is barely audible, incongruous with her large avatar. Apparently, the Winns had our avatars modified so the crowd would be unable to hear us even if we spoke.

  “Smile and quit looking like you want to let loose with a machine gun on the crowd,” Hank says.

  I take a moment to focus on my real-world body, sensing my wrinkled brow and pursed lips. Though a Vex set isn’t tied to what I physically do in the real-world, it is linked with my mind. My physical frowning is strong enough that it reflects in my mind, making it show up on my Vex face. I spend several seconds smoothing the indignation out of my mind.

  “Better,” Hank whispers.

  That’s when I take a moment to assess my friends’ outfits. I’m not the only one who looks like a stripper. Hank is dressed in a skin-tight chain-mail dress. Dark, dramatic makeup surrounds her eyes. A chain-mail gorget cinches around her throat, with matching bracelets on both wrists. Her heels gleam like polished steel and her short red hair is spiked.

  I blink in surprise as my gaze shifts to Taro. He’s dressed in black boots, camouflage pants, and a camouflage vest. The vest hangs open, revealing smooth, dark skin over a well-muscled torso. He looks at home in the get-up, like he’s been in the outfit his entire life. Which, in a way, he has—minus the chest-exposing vest, that is. I’ve never noticed how good-looking he is.

  Yep, the Winns are definitely going for a sex appeal angle. This realization makes me feel cheap. I nearly choke on a desire to yank off my Vex set and escape back into the real-world, away from the thousands and thousands of eyes.

  That’s when I notice Taro staring at me, too. I wish I had a blanket to hide under.

  “Don’t make fun of me,” I say, doing my best to maintain my smile for the crowd. “Not everyone is lucky enough to look amazing like you.”

  Amazing? When he’s half naked in front of millions of people? What’s wrong with me? Why did I even say that?

  I look away before he can respond, worried I have offended him.

  I turn my attention to Billy, the only one who’s decently covered. He’s dressed all in black—black suit, black tie, black button-up dress shirt. They’ve even made his hair black and concealed his eyes with black sunglasses.

  Here we all are: the merc, the mathematician, the hacker, and the programmer. Displayed like made-up dolls for the world to gawk at.

  At least we aren’t expected to talk. I’m having enough trouble maintaining my facial expression. If I had to say something, no doubt I’d make an idiot of myself.

  Hank seems right at home. She waves to the crowd, going so far as to strut to the edge of the dais and blow a few kisses.

  “We can do this,” Taro says. His face is the perfect stoic mercenary mask. He looks strong. Like a warrior. “Come on, we have to give the Winns a good show.” He clasps my hand, raising it up in the air in a gesture of triumph.

  I’m filled with a gush of anger. The Winns want a show? I’ll give them a show. But it will be my show, not theirs.

  I smile at the crowd, striding forward with Taro—then I yank off my nerdy black glasses and fling them to the ground. I grind them under the toe of a stiletto. The crowd goes wild, and my smile turns genuine. How’s that for a show?

  Next, I step out of my shoes and kick them to the edge of the stadium. The Winns might have me dressed up like a stripper, but I can still be me. I can show them I will never be their lapdog.

  Hank spins on one high heel—where did she learn to do that?—and rushes toward us. I see her eyes flick to my bare feet, but her stride never wavers. She ushers us into a chain of linked hands and marches us to the edge of the dais, beaming at the crowd. Billy raises my other hand high into the air.

  We are a united wall of triumph. It’s a beautiful maneuver. My best friend is a natural on stage.

  As the hysteria of the crowd mounts, Hank breaks our chain and we all retreat from the edge of the dais. I move proudly on bare feet, taking my place with head held high.

  A tiny black bird flies out of the audience. There’s a sudden flurry of activity from the cybermercs. They stand shoulder to shoulder, each raising their right hand. Bright, silver wrist cuffs are revealed. Beams of light shoot from the cuffs; the rays materialize into a giant, electronic grid.

  My friends and I are suddenly enveloped in a mesh, protected from the little black bird—almost. As the bird circles around us, one of the mercs is thrown off balance when a group of avatars fires a catapult full of bras into the stadium. The merc takes the onslaught of the bras full in the face and stumbles. The grid wavers, a slash briefly opening. The bird seizes the opportunity, darting forward—and flies straight into my ankle.

  I start in surprise, shaking my leg to dislodge the bird, but it’s too late. The creature has morphed into a gelatinous mound that adheres to me.

  I stumble back into Taro. He catches me as I claw at my ankle, trying to rip off the dark goo.

  There are several cybermercs not part of the defense grid. One of them rushes toward me. He flicks his wrist, and a bright yellow glove materializes, completely encasing his hand. The glove must be some sort of anti-Black-Tech device.

  Before the cybermerc can reach me, my avatar ripples. I brace myself for whatever’s about to happen.

  My stripper dress darkens, lengthening and morphing. A heartbeat later, the awful thing is gone. I’m encased from ankle to neck in a dark, form-fitting black jumpsuit.

  I look sleek and fit. I look like a merc.

  I look like me.

  My head snaps up, scanning the audience. The crowd is a seething mass, everyone moving and gesticulating with excitement over the breach. My eyes fall on a tall figure that stands unmoving among the mass. It’s a woman, tall and pale with luxurious black hair that falls to her waist. She stands nearly eye level with me in the stadium, her strategic position the only reason I’m able to spot her. A gold crown with a gleaming red star rests on her head. She wears a r
ed-white-and-blue leotard.

  From the vault of my memory, I recognize her. She’s a pre-’Fault superhero character, one of Gun’s favorites. Wonderous Woman was her name, or something like that.

  Longing spreads through my chest. Gun? Is that him?

  As our eyes meet, the woman lifts her arms and crosses them over her chest. On each wrist is an indestructible gold bracelet.

  All doubts are erased at the sight of those bracelets. They are flat, gleaming gold cuffs. I spent many hours training with them. Marstons, Gun had named them.

  Gun.

  It’s him. It’s got to be him. I got rid of the glasses and the shoes, but he took it one step further. He turned me back into myself.

  My face blooms into a smile.

  The cybermercs follow my gaze. I sense the moment when their eyes lock on Gun. One barks an order. Three mercs break from the ring around us, whipping out tablets and frantically tapping their fingers over them. The rest of the mercs close in around us, reforming the protective net.

  Gun nods at me, giving me a familiar, dimpled smile I would recognize anywhere—even on the face of a woman. Then he disappears.

  As soon as he winks out of existence—either returned to the real-world by choice or forced out by the cybermercs—the avatars nearest him flow into the place he vacated. In less than a heartbeat, the space he occupied has disappeared. All evidence of him has vanished.

  Except for my sleek jumpsuit. I rub my hands along the arms, grateful for his intervention. Only a true friend could have known how much I wanted out of that skimpy outfit and into a merc uniform.

  The crowd is wild, cheering and stomping their feet. As far as they’re concerned, this was nothing more than a show for their entertainment. They don’t know an outsider figured out a way to hack Global security.

  “Was that him?” Taro asks.

  The edge in his voice is unmistakable. I choose to ignore it.

  “Yeah,” I reply. “That was Gun.”

  The three cybermercs dispatched to subdue Gun abruptly wink out of sight. Did they return to the real-world, or are they pursuing Gun through cyberspace?

  The rest of the cybermercs turn off the electronic grid, resuming their loose circle around us. To the casual observer, they appear at ease. But I see them scanning the stadium with new intensity, fingers resting on their wrist cuffs. Whatever form of defense they have against Black Techs and hackers, it resides in those cuffs.

  My outfit abruptly brightens, returning once again to the skimpy white get-up. My lips part in dismay.

  “Pretend like this was planned,” Taro says into my ear. “You have to make Global look good.”

  He’s right. At least my feet are bare and they didn’t put me back in the glasses. I focus on this small triumph, forcing my face to relax and running my hands along my hips and waist, as if I’m at home in the awful dress. I crinkle my eyes in what I hope looks like amusement—like this is all part of the show, even though I feel like I’ve just been trampled. The crowd cheers.

  Inside, I say goodbye to Gun. There’s no telling when I’ll see him again.

  5

  Press Conference

  AS I STAND THERE, missing my friend, a fifth avatar materializes beside us.

  It’s Claudine Winn, and she’s as tall as the rest of us. She’s in a long navy blue dress that ends at her ankles in a flounce of ruffles. Small white polka dots cover the dark fabric. A blood-red headband holds hair away from her face. Despite the fact I’ve spent the last few years loathing the sight of her, seeing her avatar is something of a comfort after seeing her wasted real-world body.

  I study her, looking for a sign of displeasure at Gun’s antics. Her face is smooth and relaxed, no sign of anger or agitation anywhere on her features.

  “Welcome!” Claudine says, her voice projected to fill Infinity Stadium. “Are you ready to meet our young heroes?”

  The crowd roars in approval. It takes several minutes before they collectively settle back, the noise dwindling. Hank draws the four of us back so that we stand in a tight circle near the center of the dais.

  Claudine moves around the dais, her body animated as she speaks. She gives a lively description of each of us: Sulan, the math prodigy, daughter of the renowned Dr. Hom; Henrietta Simmons, talented hacker; Billy Long, infamous Black Tech programmer; and Taro Hudanus, the young warrior who has been trained as a warrior since childhood.

  She pauses after each description, letting the crowd roar its approval. I flex my bare toes and put on my best smile.

  “And now,” Claudine says, “the part you’ve all been waiting for. Live footage of events surrounding their heroic slaying of Imugi.”

  Cheers from the crowd swell. A giant two-hundred-foot hologram appears above us.

  I expect to see our faces in the hologram. Instead, I’m greeted with soundless footage of Riska. The camera is zoomed in on him as he flattens his ears and bares his teeth, feet digging into the black fabric of a merc suit.

  I instantly know when this video was taken; there’s only one time in my life when I’ve been allowed to wear a merc suit.

  “This is from our kidnapping,” I murmur to Taro, staring at the hologram. “The day we first met.” Sure enough, a moment later the frame pans out to show my profile as I’m escorted by Taro to the top of our apartment building in San Francisco. Riska rides on my shoulder.

  “What you see here is cutting-edge technology from Global Arms,” Claudine says, narrating the video. “This is a genetically engineered animal crafted by the mind of Dr. Hom. We call it a Risk Alleviator. He’s designed to provide personal protection to his owner. Sulan Hom received this prototype Risk Alleviator from Global as an extra measure of security. You will see how this technology saved her life and the lives of her friends.”

  The footage is unsteady and often out of focus, but whoever is filming keeps the camera centered on Riska. From the angle, I can only guess the unseen cameraperson was on a nearby building rooftop.

  “The Risk Alleviator can spray venom from his mouth,” Claudine says. The video segues into a picture of a dead Asian man. “This is the face of a Leaguer after he attacked Sulan. The Risk Alleviator saved her life.”

  The dead man’s face is horribly mutilated by dark red streaks where the venom eroded his flesh. Bits of skin around the bloody parts are blistered. His mouth is open in a silent cry of agony. Parts of his navy blue ski mask are stuck to his face.

  I can’t let anyone—not anyone—see how deeply this footage cuts at me. The kidnapping feels real all over again. Memories of the fear and panic of that moment threaten to overwhelm me. I straighten my spine, throwing all my willpower into maintaining an expressionless exterior.

  The picture of the dead Leaguer fades away, replaced again by the footage from the attack.

  “And these,” Claudine says, gesturing as three Gavs fly into view, “are more biological creations of Dr. Hom. We call them Green Attack Vehicles, Gavs for short. They are our first generation of biological tanks. You will see how they played a key role in rescuing our young heroes from the League.”

  No chance of anyone forgetting this is a Global-sponsored event, I think.

  The video keeps playing. Not everything is visible from the cameraperson’s angle, but most of the rooftop attack is captured.

  I see myself dragged through the air by a cord made from synthetic diamonds. Taro hangs from my hands like a superhero, following me up in the belly of the League chopper. The audience is hushed as they watch the scene unfold. How much did the Winns pay to obtain this video?

  I can’t watch anymore so I shift my gaze away. The beat of the helicopter and the patter of gunshots assault my ears.

  “And now,” Claudine says, “you will see the Risk Alleviator in action. Each Risk Alleviator has the ability to excrete a tracking pheromone from their claws. As soon as the animal sensed Sulan was in trouble, he scratched her and excreted the pheromone.”

  Riska is a smudge against the sky as the
camera films him flying away. He disappears from sight as the angle of the building cuts him off from view.

  “The Risk Alleviator tracked Sulan to a freighter ship off the coast of California. This footage was taken from a security loop on the League ship. It was recovered by our extraction team, which was led by Dr. Hom. He selected a Gav prototype for this important mission to rescue his daughter.”

  Our extraction team. Yeah, right. Global didn’t send help for us. And the Gav prototype Dad selected for the mission? He stole it from the Global compound before picking up Mom, Aston, and Uncle Zed to rescue us. I knew Global would take the credit for our rescue, but it’s still galling to witness.

  Riska is once again on the giant holograms—running upside down through a corridor on the ship. I stare, amazed. Riska can’t run upside down. Can he?

  Dad hinted Riska had other abilities, but surely I would have known he could hang from the ceiling like a gecko. Dad also hadn’t said anything about taking security footage from the League ship, but it would be the sort of thing he’d think of. This is the same person who thought it would be a good idea to equip our other rescuers with tiny cameras, after all. He knew Global would grant us pardons if he had something valuable to trade.

  “The Risk Alleviator eluded capture and located Sulan,” Claudine says. “A tracking beacon embedded under his skin allowed the Global extraction team to follow him. The Gav evaded the surveillance of the League, which searched only for old-fashioned electronic war crafts, not biological vehicles. Our team soon found our kidnapped teens—and the remains of Imugi.”

  Next is a series of jumbled clips. There’s footage of Mom hugging me and Aston hugging Taro, followed by a still shot of Imugi’s dead body. His bloody form is heaped with a pile of other dead Leaguers. His iconic white SmartPlastic mask stares eerily out at the crowd. On the left side of the mask is a blue sea serpent, Imugi’s signature. At the sight of his body, the audience erupts into thunderous applause.

  I force myself to stare at Imugi’s face, recalling his merciless eyes when he ordered Taro’s finger to be chopped off. I won’t let anyone see how much it curdles my insides to be confronted with his image. This isn’t for Global’s sake, but for mine.