2

The New-Look Neutrons

THE FIVE MINERS trudged toward the Ultraball tram, their armored boots clomping along the ground. The fans cleared the way, giving the players a wide berth. Strike led his team into the high-end tram, fitted out to the max by the Underground Ultraball League. Everyone silently docked their suits into their spots along the far wall before clicking out of them. Strike breathed a sigh of relief as his helmet rotated clear. His chest plate unclicked, and he jumped out of his suit as soon as the final panel opened.

The Fireball Five, nicknamed after the Fireball Blast tragedy that had taken the lives of at least one of each of their parents nine years ago, had never started with an opening-day loss. Guilt ate away at Strike. How much longer can I hide my secret?

And Wraith’s words . . . Strike shook his head. It was incredible to hear that Boom was still alive, hidden on the Dark Side of the moon. But whatever her rebellion was, and as important as it was to stop Raiden Zuna, it would have to wait. This season was probably Strike’s last shot to secure his teammates’ futures. He had to redouble his efforts toward a singular goal: winning the Ultrabowl. Who did Boom think he was, anyway? Strike Sazaki was an Ultraball player, not the leader of a revolutionary army.

“Hey.” TNT pointed to the TV hanging on the side of the tram, tuned to LunarSports Reports. “What the frak is going on?”

Strike turned to watch highlights of the Neutrons game. He blinked. “That can’t be right.”

“Who’s that at quarterback?” Nugget asked.

“It’s Fusion, dummy,” Pickaxe said. “Who else would quarterback the North Pole Neutrons . . .” He trailed off, his mouth hanging open. “That’s not Fusion.”

Strike peered in, all of them crowding the screen.

The screen cut to a press conference, the five Neutrons sitting behind a table, all lined up on either side of the team’s owner, Raiden Zuna.

A seething rage surged inside Strike. Zuna had fired his deadly Meltdown Gun at Boom during last year’s Ultrabowl in an attempt to kill her. But nothing had happened to him afterward. Minimal questioning. No arrest. Nothing.

“What happened to Fusion?” a reporter asked Zuna. “Why did you replace him with White Lightning, of all people? And what happened to Chain Reaction?”

Zuna stared silently at the reporter, his fiery glare burning a hole into the guy’s head.

Strike squinted, studying the kids who were flanking Zuna. Chain Reaction was not among them. The brash superstar rocketback had been the North Pole Neutrons’ focal point, their entire offense built around his playmaking abilities. The four-time league MVP held most of the Underground Ultraball League records and was the driving force behind the Neutrons’ four straight Ultrabowl titles. White Lightning replacing Fusion at quarterback was surprising, but the Neutrons parting ways with Chain Reaction was astonishing.

Zuna’s eyes narrowed, his focus on the reporter intensifying. “I’m going to go over this only one more time,” he said. “Fusion and Chain Reaction played great for four years. They helped bring Neutron Nation four Ultrabowl titles. But as owner and general manager of the Neutrons, it’s my responsibility to field the best team possible. Meltdown is my rocketback 1 now. White Lightning is my quarterback. The Saladin Shock made a major mistake in cutting him after last season. I capitalized on it. White Lightning led us to a huge win today.” He pointed to a stoic boy with black hair parted down the middle, his eyes sunken, dark folds of skin drooping under them.

“But how did you keep the quarterback and rocketback 1 switches secret until just before kickoff?” another reporter asked. “You must have paid a fortune to pull this off.”

A thin smile appeared on Zuna’s face, the freeze thawing. “Can you get a load of this guy? Asking if Raiden Zuna has a lot of money is like asking . . . it’s like asking if the guy who asked that question is a moron.”

Nervous laughter rippled through the room. A camera focused on the reporter who’d asked the question, the guy’s face going bright red. He tried to laugh along with his fellow reporters, but his bald head beaded up with flop sweat. “Sorry,” he finally said. “Dumb question.”

“But Mr. Zuna,” a reporter from the Lunar Times asked, “didn’t you lose a ton of money on last year’s Ultrabowl? You bet heavily against there being a blackout in Neutron Stadium, and there was one. It’s rumored that you lost most of your fortune on that bet alone. And then you spent forty million Universal dollars to buy LunarSports Reports. Your war chest has to be low at this point.”

The crowd of reporters fell silent, an icy chill hanging over the room. Zuna gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles white. “Media people make up whatever they need to in order to support their liberal agenda,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Lies. That’s why I bought LunarSports Reports, the only trustworthy media outlet. As of now, I’m revoking reporters’ press passes if they’re proven to be liars. So get out. And if I ever see you again . . .” He smoothed out his red jumpsuit before shooting glances at the Blackguards in the corners of the room. “Leave.”

A low buzz went up in the audience. The Lunar Times reporter shriveled into his brown jumpsuit. Everyone else stared off in other directions, as if the guy didn’t exist. Finally, the reporter slowly got to his feet and left.

Zuna stared down the rest of the room. “Now. Any other questions?”

After a pause, a person in the back of the room, dressed in the blue jumpsuit of Taiko Colony, stood up in a show of defiance. “You can’t do that. Since when is the press censored?”

“My press conference, my rules,” Zuna said. He motioned to the Blackguards, who quickly zeroed in on the man and lifted him off his feet.

“Hey!” the man cried. “Get your hands off me.”

“Your press pass is revoked, too,” Zuna said.

The man struggled, protesting as the Blackguards hustled him out and carried him away.

“Now,” Zuna said, “are there any other questions? Smart questions?”

A LunarSports reporter got to his feet, glancing down to read off a cue card. “Mr. Zuna. Can you comment on the five Dark Siders now making up the Molemen’s roster? Do the Dark Siders pose a threat to our safety?”

“I’m glad you asked,” Zuna said. “Yes. What happened during last year’s Ultrabowl was an act of terrorism. The Dark Siders are extremely dangerous. They’re criminals. Felons. My people will be watching Wraith’s and her teammates’ every move. I will not allow terrorists to go unpunished.” He raised a fist, squeezing it tight. “The Council of Governors isn’t willing to do anything about it. But I am. I promise you that I will keep the moon safe. I will make the moon strong once again.”

“But the Molemen are just Ultraball players,” a guy in a beige jumpsuit said. “Really good ones, too, considering how they upset the Miners today. You can’t really think all Dark Siders are terrorists . . .” He trailed off as Zuna motioned toward the Blackguards in the corners of the room. “Uh. Never mind.”

“Since there are no more questions, I’ll end by saying that Neutron Nation will take home our fifth straight Ultrabowl title,” Zuna said. “We are that good. White Lightning will lead us to the promised land. That’s a guarantee. End of press conference.”

The screen cut back to replays of the Neutrons’ game, White Lightning throwing a pass through a slingshot zone, the ball accelerating to a silver blur before slamming into Meltdown, cannonballing him across the goal line for a score.

Inside the tram car, the Miners all looked at each other in silence. Finally, Pickaxe said, “What the frak is going on? Last time I checked, White Lightning was the butt of the league. Cut by the Shock, in disgrace. Now he’s the Neutrons’ quarterback?”

“White Lightning is a joke,” Nugget said. “Zuna must be losing his mind.”

Rock’s face was tense with concentration. “Zuna always has reasons for doing what he does. There must be something we’re missing.”

Someone knocked at the tram door, waving through the window, holding up a souvenir. “Time to go sign some more autographs,” Pickaxe said. He grinned at TNT, giving him a friendly elbow to the ribs. “The fans all want a piece of me, the real star of the Taiko Miners.”

Strike was glad for Pickaxe’s attempt to break the ice, to get the old TNT’s brash, funny side to show through. But TNT just nodded and pressed the button to open the tram door.

Pickaxe shot a look at Strike and shrugged.

The game had been over for two hours now, and despite the Miners losing, there was still a big crowd waiting for them. People at the front held out small rocks shaped like footballs, most of them elbowing their way to Strike, but many with their eye on TNT.

Strike took a deep breath. Bringing home a championship would finally give Taiko Colony something to be proud of. But for the five Miners, it was life and death. A win would secure all their futures, with unlimited opportunities laid at their feet.

If they failed . . .

He jolted as a kid popped up by his side. “Uh. Hi. Do you remember me?” It was a scrawny girl, her arms and legs sticks.

“Kind of,” Strike said, his brow furrowing. “Where do I know you from?”

Rock pulled out his notebook, flipping through it. “Jasmine Tariq,” he said. “Torch’s little sister. After she got sick with dust poisoning last year, Torch sold some of our plays to Zuna in order to— Oof!” He held a hand over his ribs, where Strike had elbowed him.

Strike and Jasmine looked at each other uneasily. Finally, she cleared her throat. “About what Torch did . . .”

“It’s okay,” Strike said. “He did it for a good reason.”

“No,” Jasmine said. “I can’t live with the guilt. I have to make it up to you. I’ll be your personal assistant. I’ll follow you around, do anything you need. I’ll clean waste recyclers. Dig field pits. Anything.”

“Really, it’s okay,” Strike said. “Those plays didn’t even affect anything last year.”

“Give me a chance,” Jasmine said, her hands clasped together. “Ask me to do something. Anything.”

Strike looked over to Rock. “You need anything?”

“Can you gather information about the Dark Siders on the Molemen’s roster?” Rock asked. “Not just their Ultraball skills and tactics, but if they might have ulterior motives, as Zuna claims.”

Jasmine faltered for a long moment, but then she nodded. “I’m on it. I collected and analyzed statistics for the Flamethrowers back in the day. I was good at it, too. I’ll find out everything there is to know. You’ll see, Strike. I’m going to be the best personal assistant you ever had.”

She made to run off, but Rock kept going. “I’d also like to know more about why the Neutrons replaced Fusion and Chain Reaction.”

Jasmine paused. “Okay. I’ll see what I can—”

“Speaking of the Neutrons, can you analyze their gameplay, identifying the weaknesses in their new defensive schemes?”

“Seriously?” Jasmine said. “I’ll try, but—”

“Give it a rest,” Strike said. “You can’t really expect her to analyze the Neutrons’ game.”

“She’s Torch’s sister,” Rock said. “I would bet twenty hardtack bars that she knows a great deal about Ultraball.” He paged through his notebook. “That reminds me. I’ve always wanted to know more about how hardtack bars are produced, and why no one can make them taste good. Can you take a tram to New Beijing Colony and— Oof!” He held his side, where Strike had elbowed him again.

“You better get going before he asks you for anything else,” Strike said to Jasmine.

“You won’t regret this,” Jasmine said. “I’ll find out everything there is to know. About everything.” She raced away, zigzagging between fans, threading through the smallest of spaces.

“Think she’ll actually find out anything useful?” Strike asked.

“I’d bet everything that she does,” TNT said. “Making up for the past . . .” He bit his lip. “We’ll both make up for our pasts.” He motioned to the Ultraball tram. “Eight weeks left until the Ultrabowl. And just one week to prepare for our biggest game of the regular season. Come on. Enough with the autographs. Let’s go practice.”

Strike nodded. In seven days, they’d have to face their rival Neutrons—at Neutron Stadium. He rubbed his left shoulder, wincing as phantom pains shot down the length of his arm.