21

The Fireball Five

A FEW DAYS later, all the Miners followed Strike up to an airlock door leading into Taiko Arena. “Okay, enough mystery,” TNT said. “Just tell us why we’re here, already.”

“Nope,” Strike said. He hit the entry button, and the door slid back with a hydraulic hiss.

Rock was the first one through the door. He stopped suddenly, the others bumping into him. “Is that . . .” He squinted. “Wraith?”

“And Smuggler and Cutter?” TNT added.

“Don’t forget Big Bertha and Catacomb,” Strike said, pointing to the two frail-looking crackbacks in gray jumpsuits. “The Cryptomare Molemen.”

“What are you guys doing here?” Nugget said.

“I owe Wraith, big-time,” Strike said. “She saved my life. Twice.” He stuck out his hand. “I should never have doubted you. The rebellion. It’s way more important than I ever imagined.” Fiery tears started to burn his eyes. It had been three days now since Rock had made the connection between Zuna and the Fireball Blast that had killed so many people, including at least one parent of each of the Fireball Five. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to channel that anger, that fury, into a single-minded goal: to take down Raiden Zuna.

“Took you long enough to figure that out,” Wraith said, a wry grin on her face.

“Have you heard from Boom?” Strike said. “Do you know if she’s okay?”

Wraith’s face fell. She shook her head, turning away. “They all went into hiding. I have to believe that they’re fine. The rebellion has to rise.” She cut her eyes to Strike. “So you’re in?”

“I’m in,” Strike said. “I don’t know what I can do. But I’m all in.”

“What you can do is lead us.”

“You mean, like I led my team to our fifth straight Ultrabowl loss? To making it look like we threw the game?”

Wraith’s face hardened. “You might not see it right now. But you are exactly what the rebellion needs. Who else would have made the call to leave the Ultrabowl and find a way to blow up the Deathstrike Device? You saved Boom’s life. And a whole lot of others.”

Deep down, Strike knew she had a point. But the sting of his Miners’ fifth straight Ultrabowl loss—people all over the moon were calling Ultrabowl XI “The Strikeout Bowl”—was still raw. He was oozing despair, an overwhelming feeling of total failure blanketing his shoulders. “How are we going to stop someone as powerful as Zuna?” he asked. “Especially after winning his huge bet on the Ultrabowl? He has the entire moon thinking the explosion was a frakkin’ solar flare.”

“It’s ridiculous,” Wraith said.

“Yeah. But people are buying it. Eating it up. No one believes that we’re crazy enough to go out an airlock.” He shook his head. “With so many news reports confirming the solar flare story, giving so many details on what ‘really happened,’ even I’m starting to believe it a little.”

“You and Boom will figure something out,” Wraith said. “Together, the two of you are unstoppable. I have faith in you. We all do.” She turned, all her Molemen nodding their heads with confidence. “Okay. Enough of this right now. Let’s go play.”

“Play?” Rock asked. “Play what?”

“Ultraball, of course,” Wraith said. She turned to Strike. “I thought you said he’s the smartest person you’ve ever known.”

Strike grinned, nudging Rock. “There are a lot of different types of smart,” he said.

“There certainly are,” Rock said. “I count twelve so far. Let me show you.” He rifled through his notebook before Strike grabbed it and shoved it back into his pocket.

“Let’s go,” Wraith said. She waved to her teammates, who followed her toward the visiting team’s locker room.

“You have your Ultrabot suits?” TNT said. “Here?”

“I said I owed Wraith, big-time,” Strike said. “And she called in the favor.”

“Losing to the Neutrons in the semis . . .” Wraith trailed off, her face tortured. “I’ll never be able to forget that.”

“It was my fault,” Strike said. “I was the one who got you trapped in the junk hole. You wouldn’t have gotten injured if it hadn’t been for me.”

“Forget about it,” Wraith said. “Let’s just see who would have won the real Ultrabowl. Even on your home field, we’re gonna put you in a world of hurt.”

“Big talk from a little girl,” Pickaxe said. His eyes flashed wide open as he realized what he had said. “Uh. I didn’t mean . . . uh . . .” He turned to his brother. “Help!”

Wraith’s entire body tensed up, her fists trembling. She strode to Pickaxe, who held his ground at first. But as she approached, he backed up.

“I didn’t mean it,” Pickaxe squeaked. “It just slipped out.” He held his hands in front of his face as Wraith leaned menacingly in. A little squeal escaped from his mouth.

Wraith broke into a chuckle and punched Pickaxe in the chest. She waved her team toward the locker room. “Come on, Molemen. Let’s go suit up and then beat them down.” They ran off in a tight formation, zigging and zagging, moving together like a machine. The five Molemen broke into a perfectly orchestrated roll, popping into a series of synchronized high-flying kicks and punches on their way to their locker room.

All the Miners turned to Pickaxe, who had flushed deep red. “Why’d you have to go and call her a little girl?” TNT said.

“Thanks a lot for making them angry, dummy,” Nugget said.

“You’re the dummy,” Pickaxe grumbled.

Rock shook his head as he wrote in his little notebook. “This is going at the top of my list of ‘Most Idiotic Things a Miner Has Ever Said.’” He held up his notebook. “Hey, look. Pickaxe now has the top three slots.”

Nugget broke into laughter, cracking up so hard he farted. “Stop,” he said through his uncontrollable giggles. “You’re going to make me poop my pants.”

“Okay, enough of that,” Strike said. “Our Ultrabot suits—” He paused. “I mean, your Ultrabot suits, are waiting in the locker room.” All the excitement, the anticipation, the awesomeness of this upcoming game drained right out of him. Even though it had been over a week now since he had stepped down as quarterback, the realization that his Ultraball career was over kept on slugging him in the gut. The raw hunger to play, to battle his way to the Ultrabowl title he had worked so hard for, felt as urgent as it had that horrible day when he had made his decision to hang it all up.

He closed his eyes, too tired to fight the pain. Will I ever get past the end of my Ultraball career? At age thirteen, he had already reached the peak of his life. Without Ultraball, he was a hollow shell. Empty inside.

“Uh . . . Strike?” TNT said. “Coach? You okay?”

Strike turned away, wiping his eyes. He wanted so badly to tell everyone that it was nothing. That they should head to the locker room and prepare for this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. But all he could do was eke out a nod.

“It’s probably not what you want to hear, but you’re critical to the Miners as a coach,” Rock said. “You’re the one who decided to listen to my rants about Boom sending us secret messages. You’re the one who put Nitro in at quarterback. You’re our leader.”

Strike started to protest again, but Nugget jumped in. “I love playing,” he said. “But way more than that, I love playing for you. You’re my coach, Strike. You always will be. Even after my Ultraball career ends, you’ll still be my coach. For the rest of my life.”

“Even if you’re not playing, you’re our leader,” Pickaxe said. “I would follow you to the ends of the moon. I’d go into outer space for you. Frak, I did go into outer space for you. I’d die for you, Strike.”

“We all would,” TNT added. “There’s a reason why Boom needs you to lead the rebellion.”

“There’s no one else on the moon who could,” Rock said.

With everyone gazing at him, Strike had to choke back all the emotions welling up. For years, he had led the Taiko Miners as their quarterback, letting his play on the field speak for itself. Yes, he had been the coach, but in name only, leaving most of the analysis, strategy, and tactics up to Rock. Maybe if he worked hard enough at it, one day he could become a good coach. A great coach.

Maybe even lead his Miners to an Ultrabowl title.

He nodded, turning to wipe away the tears still stubbornly brimming over. A jumble of thoughts careened through his head, and he struggled to figure out what to say. But a glance over at their locker room started to bring everything into focus. “We have a lot of work to do for next year, both on and off the field. But for right now, we have a game to win. Let’s go kick some Molemen butt.”

As they approached the locker room, Strike looked up at the five Ultrabot suits lined neatly along the wall. Even after five years of playing, a sense of awe filled him every time he saw the suits. Although it was no longer his, he couldn’t help but stroke the chest plate of the number 8 Ultrabot suit, its shiny blue paint chipped from the hits and collisions of the season, but the impactanium armor underneath completely intact.

“Ow,” Nitro said. She leaned against a wall, holding her ankle, wincing with pain.

“You okay?” Strike asked. “What happened?”

“I twisted it. Tripped over my own feet. How frakkin’ stupid. Guess you’ll have to play quarterback out there.”

“How did you trip over your own feet? You’re the least klutzy person I know . . .” Strike trailed off. “You’re not hurt. You’re the best person to play quarterback. So suit up.”

“No, really, I’m hurt,” Nitro said. She rubbed her ankle. “Seriously. It’s bad.”

“You’re the worst actor I’ve ever seen,” Strike said. “You realize that even if you were really hurt, I’d play TNT at quarterback instead of me, right?”

Nitro shot TNT a meaningful look, raising an eyebrow.

“Ow,” TNT said. “I hurt my . . . butt?”

Everyone burst out laughing.

“Enough jokes,” Strike said. “Your ankle is fine, Nitro. And TNT’s butt . . . Let’s not go there. Now come on, it’s game time.”

“I’ll always do whatever you say, Strike,” Nitro said. “After this once. Today, you’re going to play quarterback for the Taiko Miners.”

“We’re not going to take no for an answer,” TNT said. “This one’s yours, Strike. You’ve earned it.”

“But—”

“Suit up one last time,” Nitro said. “Do it already, before I change my mind.”

Strike studied all the faces watching him, beaming at their leader. He took a long, hard look at the number 8 Ultrabot suit.

Pickaxe shoved him toward it. “Will you hurry up already? We got a game to play.”

With a cautious step into one of the foot supports, Strike raised himself into place. Would the suit even seal up around him at this point? The chest plate slowly winched shut. The armor around his legs clicked together. Impactanium panels hinged closed around his arms. For a horrible moment, a warning light flashed onto the heads-up display inside the helmet lowering into place. But it was only a yellow light, only cautioning him of a tight fit. Strike relaxed his arms, trying to make them as small as possible, and the last armored panels clicked into place. His left shoulder was already pinching up, but he could manage it for one last game.

One last game. The prospect of living the rest of his life constantly looking backward, at his incredible days of playing Ultraball, had haunted him for weeks now. It was a gloomy specter filling all his nightmares. His teammates had granted him one more game, and he had to make it count.

He waited as his teammates suited up and got in formation around him. He lifted a fist into the air. “Miners together,” he said.

“Miners forever!” came the united cry from his teammates.

As Strike walked toward the door, he looked over at Nitro, hanging back by the lockers. It took an incredible person to give a gift like this. It was impossible to understand her sacrifice until you had experienced the pure joy of locking into an Ultrabot suit and transforming into a superhero. Giving up even a single game was something that hardly any Ultraball player would do.

“Go get ’em, Strike,” Nitro said. “It might not be official, but when the Miners crush the Molemen out there, we’ll know who the champs really are. Miners forever.”

Nitro’s words made Strike pause, filled with appreciation for how lucky he was. The Fireball Five had been his only real family for so long, but he had quickly grown to trust and depend upon Nitro. Although today would be the very last time he’d mount up inside an Ultrabot suit, maybe his future wouldn’t be nearly as grim as it had seemed.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “As the general manager and coach of the Miners, I’ve made a decision.” He took a deep breath.

He started clicking out of his Ultrabot suit.

“What, you have to pee?” Pickaxe said with a chuckle. He halted, looking back toward the waste recyclers. “Frak. Now I have to pee.”

“I don’t have to pee,” Strike said. “I have to make way for the Miners’ quarterback.” He motioned to Nitro. “What are you waiting for? We don’t have all day.”

Nitro shook her head. “Play one last game, Strike. I want you to.”

“I know, and I appreciate that,” Strike said. “But as the coach and general manager of the Miners, it’s my job to field the team that gives us the best chance of winning.” He stepped down from the leg mounts and moved aside. “For that, I need you at quarterback. For today, for tomorrow, and for as long as you can still suit up.”

“Are you sure?” Nitro said. “I mean, I would hate to give up even one game, but if you really don’t want to play . . .”

“Will you just suit up already?” Strike said. A huge part of his brain was screaming at him to push Nitro aside and click back in. But he gritted his teeth, holding that urge at bay, as Nitro stepped into the leg mounts and sealed herself into place.

After her helmet locked down, Nitro’s voice came onto Strike’s headset. “Ready, Coach.”

“Okay, QB,” Strike said. “Give the Molemen no mercy. I’ll be talking to you out there from the stands.” He began the traditional Miners’ cheer, but then backed off. He nodded to Nitro. “It’s all you, QB.”

“You sure?” Nitro asked.

“Lead out your team,” Strike said. He paused. “Zuna took away your chance to win a big game for your brother. So go do it now. Win this one. For Torch.”

The other Miners stared in silence at Nitro as she blinked hard, her eyes welling. “Thanks, Strike,” she finally said. “You don’t know how much that means to me.”

“Actually, I think I do,” Strike said. He glanced toward TNT and nodded.

TNT took a deep breath. “Thanks, Strike. For everything. I . . .” He choked up.

“Okay, okay,” Pickaxe said. “Enough with the kissy-kissy stuff. Time to go smash up the Molemen. We still owe them for beating us back in—”

He jumped and shrieked when Nugget whacked his butt with a reverberating metallic clang. “Let everyone have their moment, fart-face,” Nugget said.

“I’ll fart in your face,” Pickaxe muttered, holding his hands protectively over his rear end.

“I have no doubt that you will,” Nitro said. She threw one arm around each brother, grinning as she pulled them in tight. “We’re going to win a lot of titles for you, Strike. The Miners’ dynasty starts today.” She huddled everyone up, putting out a gloved fist.

Everyone slapped their hands on top of hers.

“Miners together!” she bellowed.

“Miners forever!” everyone yelled back. Behind Nitro’s lead, they charged through the tunnel toward the playing field, their war cries amplifying into a deafening wall of sound.

Strike started to run out behind them, but he paused, slowing to a halt. Standing back, he shoved his hands into his jumpsuit pockets, watching in silence as his players burst out into the arena in formation. They thundered toward their opponents, roaring at the tops of their lungs, primed and ready for the smashmouth battle to come.

Drawing in a deep breath, Strike held it for a long moment before exhaling.

With a bittersweet smile on his face, he made his way down the empty tunnel and headed out toward his coach’s box.