12

Fallen Star

A DAY AFTER their romp over the Yangju Venom, Strike sat quietly in disguise as he rode a Tunnel Ring tram, his face and jumpsuit caked with dirt and filth. He stared out the window as the tram slowed and then did its obligatory stop at Moon Dock station. An eerie chill tingled up his spine as he squinted at the airlock door at the far end of the cavern. Why did Rock have to notice how weird it was for the door to have no dust on it? he thought. As if there weren’t enough things for Strike to worry about. The last thing he needed to think about was the ghastly unending blackness of outer space beyond the door, and the dead planet Earth, nuked to oblivion by the tyrants known as the Earthfall Eight. It was slowly dawning on Strike that Zuna might be even worse than those eight power-hungry dictators. He flinched when the tram beeped, its doors closing before it exited the station.

Trying not to think about the horrors of outer space made him think about them even more. Kids back at the Tao Children’s Home told ghost stories about monsters from other planets, wraiths held at bay by the airlock door, waiting for their chance to cross the threshold to feed off people’s nightmares. Maybe the door has no dust on it because something’s opened it, Strike thought.

He jolted in alarm when he spotted what looked like a set of footprints inside the Tunnel Ring, near the wall. Throwing himself up against the window, he strained to focus on what he had seen, but the tram had already moved out of range.

Shivers wracked his entire body, the terror mounting. This was Operation Deathstrike. In just a matter of seconds, he was going to die.

Squeezing his eyes tight, he struggled to fight back his panic. He managed to eke out a small chuckle. All the rumors about something haunting the Tunnel Ring late at night were stupid. There were no such things as monsters. Or ghosts. Ghosts didn’t leave footprints, anyway. Or use doors, for that matter. And he couldn’t have seen footsteps, because the tram had been moving too fast. He was being ridiculous.

Wasn’t he?

A beep sounded as the tram slowed, approaching Salaam Colony’s station. Strike let out a sigh of relief at the opportunity to think about something else besides ghosts. His heart sped up, thumping in his chest as he scanned for Torch. Images from years ago flashed through Strike’s head, of the superstar in bright Flamethrower yellow, Farajah Colony fans screaming at the tops of their lungs for the savior who was going to take their team back to the Ultrabowl. Torch had been on fire. He had been one of the best players in the history of the game, but more importantly, one of the greatest minds.

Strike spotted a hunched-over teenager who looked a little like Torch, except that this guy was way older, with a wrinkly gray face and heavy folds of skin sagging under his eyes. Strike continued to scan the tram station, but he couldn’t find Torch anywhere. Where is he? Strike thought, increasingly worried. Nitro had said that her brother would meet Strike at the station and go over the plan to sneak inside the hospital.

Strike wandered through the crowds, searching for Torch. As the moments passed, Strike got more and more paranoid, wondering who might see through his disguise. Dressed in a pink jumpsuit of a Guoming Colony junker, he’d be pretty much ignored wherever he went on the moon. He kept on glancing at the Blackguards by the airlock door. All it would take was for one of them to recognize him, and then there would be trouble. If Zuna could have Fusion arrested and hauled into Han-Shu Prison, he could do the same for Strike.

“Nice disguise,” someone whispered into his ear.

Strike jolted. It was the old guy who looked a little like Torch. But as Strike studied the guy’s face, a horrifying realization struck him. “Torch?” he said. “You look terrible. I mean . . .” He winced at his ever-present stupidity.

Torch gave him a melancholy smile. “The disguise didn’t take much. It’s been a rough couple of months.”

“Nitro—er, Jasmine—says you’ve been working here?”

“Among other places,” Torch said. “I pick up work wherever I can. Another two years and I’ll have paid off her medical bills.”

Strike’s eyes widened. “How much do you owe?” he asked.

“Not easy to earn five thousand U-bucks.” Torch looked away. “Well, forty-five hundred. I did make some money selling . . .” He gulped. Although Torch towered over Strike, he looked like a little kid melting in shame, his head hung low in front of a disappointed parent.

“Let’s not talk about that,” Strike said. “Can you really get me in to see Chain Reaction?”

“I think so,” Torch said. “It’s not going to be easy. But I’m pretty sure you’ll have maybe five minutes with him before the guards come.”

“Five minutes? That’s it?”

“The security around Chain Reaction’s room is super tight. I’m not even sure it’ll be five minutes.”

Strike studied the Blackguards at the front of the line, checking IDs. “So how are we going to do this?”

“First, we have to get you past those guys,” Torch said. “Here.” He handed Strike an ID badge.

“Where did you get this?” Strike asked. A stupid grin stretched across his face as he read the name on the front. “Riku Kawasaki. Wildfire’s real name.”

“I thought you might get a kick out of that,” Torch said. “No one remembers Wildfire anymore.” The corner of his mouth crinkled. “No one ever remembers the losers.”

Strike slowly nodded. It wasn’t fair that Wildfire—Torch’s old crackback 2—had faded from everyone’s memory. Despite having lost the Ultrabowl, they had made it to the big game, against all odds. That entire Flamethrowers squad deserved a place in history. Strike turned away as memories of last year flooded through his head, of him and Torch talking Ultraball like old buddies.

Torch kicked at some pebbles on the station floor. “I’m going to make up for last year, I swear it. I’ll get you in. It’s going to take a lot of coordination. And some luck.” He glanced over his shoulder and held out his hand, a folded piece of paper hidden in his palm. “Here’s the plan.”

Strike took it as nonchalantly as he could, covering it with his other hand to protect it from prying eyes. As he studied the details and diagrams, his breath caught. “Will this work? It can’t. Can it?”

“I’ve been over it a hundred times. I know all the security protocols now.” Torch nodded. “It took me a ton of time. And money. But I’m sure it can work.”

“You had to spend money to make this happen?” Strike asked.

“Fake ID badges don’t come for free,” Torch said. “But don’t worry about it. I have a debt to you that I can never fully pay off. Even if you never forgive me, at least I’ll die knowing that I spent the rest of my life trying to make things right.”

As if Strike hadn’t felt conflicted enough, he felt even worse now. Torch had spent money on this crazy mission of Strike’s—money that Torch badly needed, to continue paying off Nitro’s hospital bills. “Nitro is lucky to have you as a brother,” Strike said.

Torch peered out of the corner of his eye at Strike. “How is she? Been a long time since I’ve seen her. Not since . . . you know.”

Strike looked over in surprise. “You haven’t seen her since last year? How did she arrange this, then?”

“Through a mutual friend. She doesn’t want to talk to me ever again.” Torch sighed. “She has this crazy idea that I should have let her die. Better than saddling her with all the guilt that she carries around with her now. But you know what?” He thrust his jaw out, his eyes steely. “I’d do it all over again. Ever since our parents died, she’s all I have left. The most important thing is that she’s still alive. That’s all that matters.”

Strike wanted to keep hating Torch for selling out the Miners. But a similar thing had happened with TNT two years ago, when he had sold out to Raiden Zuna in order to protect his mom’s safety. Strike had learned to forgive TNT, wanting so badly to help his best friend gain redemption.

Shouldn’t I forgive Torch, too? he thought.

Maybe he and Nitro both should.

“Keep your head down so they don’t notice anything,” Torch said. “Junkers always look down at the ground.” He nudged Strike’s hand. “And eat that piece of paper. Talk about collecting garbage and cleaning up and stuff.”

The two of them mumbled to each other about their long days ahead, Strike doing his best to pretend he was an actual junker from Guoming Colony. Even when he had been an orphan at the Tao Children’s Home, he’d been higher on the social ladder than junkers. He had to admit, Torch had come up with a really good plan.

When they got to the front of the line, Torch handed his ID badge to one of the guards, his eyes fixed onto the ground in a submissive pose. “Taj Tariq, sir,” he said.

“Okay, Tariq,” the guy said. “Next.”

Strike handed the Blackguard his fake ID badge, forcing himself to stare at a spot between his feet. Waves of heat rose from his head as he waited for the guard to let him through. But seconds passed, and nothing happened. Strike didn’t dare look up for fear that the guy would recognize him. A trickle of sweat ran down Strike’s back.

The guard took out his billy club and jabbed Strike. “Are you mute, or just a moron? State your name.”

“My name?” In a flash of panic, Strike realized that he had forgotten what was on his ID badge. It was the real name of a former Ultraball star. But which one? It was someone that both he and Torch admired, an underrated player.

“Do we have a problem, you dirty frakkin’ junker?” the Blackguard said. “State your name.”

“Uh.” Strike tried to swallow, but his throat was raw. “I. Uh. What?”

“Stupid frakkin’ idiot,” Torch said. He grabbed Strike by the front of his jumpsuit and threw him hard to the ground. “Can’t even remember his name. Riku Kawasaki, dumb as a bag of rocks.” He jabbed a kick to Strike’s ribs before shooting a quick glance to the guards. “Stupid frakkin’ frakhead.”

The Blackguard nodded. He leaned over and spit in Strike’s face. “Get up.” He dropped the fake ID onto Strike’s head. “I said, get up.” Raising his billy club, he readied to blast Strike with it.

Torch quickly scooped up Strike, who was moaning and clutching his ribs, and ushered him in. The airlock doors slid open when a guard pressed the entry button, and they slid closed behind them.

Strike was still doubled over, trying to catch his breath. Torch propped him up, keeping both of them walking forward. “I’m so sorry about that, Strike,” Torch whispered. “I had to do something. Violence is sometimes all the Blackguards can understand.”

Strike tried to say that it was okay, but he couldn’t speak through the pain. All he could think was if this was the easy part of the plan, the hard part might end up with him and Torch dead.