Since he’d spent most of his childhood aboard space stations, Zare was unprepared for the arrival of winter on Lothal; he’d accompanied his parents to planets that felt too hot, too cold, or just right, but it seemed bizarre to have the same planet change temperature. If not for Auntie Nags’s built-in weather sensors, he would never have remembered to take a coat to school.
It rarely if ever snowed on Lothal, but in the winter the grasslands turned pale green mixed with brown, and the winds blew hard from the west. As fall turned to winter, those winds brought more and more dust, which left everything wearing a fine coat of tan—and longtime residents grousing that the dust storms were peculiar.
The winter also brought exams, which meant two weeks with few grav-ball practices and no games. During review periods Zare found himself staring out the classroom windows. Somehow he preferred trying to catch sight of the grid to boning up on the dynamics of water retention in various soil types. These daydreams inevitably ended with an elbow in the ribs from Merei.
Merei admitted she hadn’t told the Imperials about Beck’s misleading the stormtroopers, either. Beck, for his part, avoided his friends’ questions, curtly telling them that he had to study.
As the weather cooled, the tension that had settled over the three of them ebbed as well, though it never really vanished. When Zare was in the same room with Merei, or on the grid with her in practice, he was always aware of the slightest movement she made; if she touched her hair or turned her head his senses alerted him to the change. And Zare frequently caught Merei glancing in his direction during quiet moments, then hurriedly looking away when their eyes met.
His parents knew none of this, and when Dhara inquired, he changed the subject then tried to ignore her delighted laughter. But the incident in the orchards remained a stubborn topic of discussion at home, with Zare’s father often muttering darkly about Separatists and splittists.
“This insurgency is a disease,” he said over breakfast, one hand coming down on the table hard enough to rattle the plates. “It’s the same selfishness that left the Republic weak and useless, prey to the Separatists and their mechanical murderers.”
“Oh, that’s crazy, Dad,” Zare said.
His mother and father looked at him in surprise—and in truth he’d surprised himself.
“Why is that crazy, Zare?” his mother asked.
“Yes, Zare,” Leo Leonis rumbled ominously. “I’m curious to hear why you’ve become a supporter of disorder.”
“Whoever tried to blow up those droids wasn’t trying to kill anybody,” Zare said. “I think they were just frustrated—and looking for a way to protest.”
“That’s not the way civilized beings protest,” his father said. “And what are they protesting, exactly?”
“Seeing their farms turned into mines, for one thing.”
Leo shook his head. “Not this again. Did your friend Beck’s parents have their land seized?”
“No,” Zare admitted.
“Ah. So they sold it voluntarily, for a fair price?”
“They wouldn’t have sold it if they knew what the Empire was going to do with it,” Zare said angrily. “And I think their neighbors feel the same way.”
“Zare,” his mother said with a warning look at her husband. “You know I feel the same way you do about that land. I tried to convince the Ag Ministry that it was making a mistake, remember? But blowing up equipment is violence. And protests and civil disobedience inevitably lead to violence, too—violence and anarchy.”
“I don’t believe that,” Zare said. “If a protest makes the Empire realize a policy is bad, doesn’t that make the Empire stronger?”
“Not in the real world,” Leo said. “Such things only create opportunities for evil people to exploit for their own purposes, Zare. Please believe us—we’ve seen it happen. The best minds of the galaxy work for the Empire—and while mistakes do get made, in the end the Empire figures out the correct policies. The way to make the Empire stronger is to trust in the experts, learn from them, and be patient.”
With the long grind of exams left behind, it was a relief to return to the grav-ball grid, which the maintenance droids had kept lush and green even as the fields of Lothal turned pale and dry.
The SaberCats’ first game back was against the South Capital City Volunteers, and took place at AppSci in a cold drizzle. The stands were full anyway: the SaberCats’ first-half record meant a trip to the league championships was a possibility. Zare’s parents were huddled under a stasis field, near Athletic Director Fhurek.
The Vols won the chance-cube roll and started with the ball. Before first chime it started to rain harder, the cold raising bumps on Zare’s arms.
“And to think you wanted exams to be over so you could get out here again and enjoy this,” Zare told his miserable teammates in the huddle.
His teammates grinned, and Hench removed his tusk-guard and chuffed laughter.
“Be alert for trick plays—the Vols love to hand off to their weak-side fullback and then have him pass deep to the strikers,” Zare reminded them.
The chime sounded and the SaberCats grunted as they came together with their opponents with a crunch of armor, Zare lurking behind the line, waiting to plug a hole in the defense. He leapt in the air and batted away a low pass, shaking the rain from his helmet.
The Volunteers pushed the SaberCats steadily down the grid, gaining octets through a slow but effective combination of carries and short passes. But Atropos and AppSci’s other defender, Roly Umber, kept them from securing a touch-score, forcing the Volunteers to settle for a kick-score and two points.
Standing at center, Zare rubbed his arms in a futile attempt to get warm.
“Okay, deuce-sixteen gamma,” he said.
“No fancy stuff, Zare,” grunted Beck. “Just give me the ball.”
“Get back to the line, Beck,” Zare said sternly. “The play is deuce-sixteen gamma.”
They gained four meters on the carry, then five on a short pass, carrying them into the next octet. Both teams’ uniforms were already dark with mud.
“Three-twelve delta,” Zare said, and Beck nodded. That was a handoff to Beck, who’d follow Hench, tossing the ball back to Zare behind the line if Kelio or Bennis had an opening downgrid.
“March!” yelled Zare and slapped the ball into Beck’s big hands. Hench broke right, grappling with a Volunteers defender and opening a hole for Beck to break farther right and go up the sidelines. Then Zare saw Frid cut in front of the goal just outside the scoring circle while the Volunteers’ keeper fixed his attention on Beck.
“Beck! Downgrid! Pass back to me!”
But Beck ignored Zare and chugged straight ahead, arm in front of him like a battering ram, his feet kicking up mud. The Vols’ center striker got his arms around him but Beck shrugged him off as the AppSci stands erupted in cheers.
Beck just kept going and was finally brought down just inside the seventh octet. Zare shook his head and trudged up to the new drive line with his teammates. Frid had left his normal position downgrid to join the huddle, wrinkling his snout in confusion.
“Did we change three-twelve delta?” he asked.
“One of us did,” Zare said, glaring at Beck. “How about we follow the playbook from now on, Ollet?”
Beck just glared back.
“Like I said, Zare—just give me the ball.”
The SaberCats won by twelve, but Zare was too chilled and too annoyed with Beck to do more than lift a hand to acknowledge the cheers. Waiting on the sidelines, Coach Ramset pumped his fists in delight.
“Lots of plays changed at the line, Zare, but I won’t argue with success,” Ramset said, wiping the rain off his bald green head. “That’s what happens when you play with passion! I don’t know what got into you today, Ollet, but whatever it is let’s have some more of it—you were like a runaway hover-train. And now Athletic Director Fhurek has a few words to say.”
Fhurek descended from the bleachers, his ruddy face shielded from the rain by a stasis cone attached to his AppSci cap. The SaberCats moved aside so he could stand in the center of their circle. The raindrops bounced off the stasis cone’s deflection field and into the players’ faces, but Fhurek didn’t seem to notice.
“You took no prisoners out there,” Fhurek said, nodding at Beck. “I’ve always been a fan of smashmouth grav-ball—no trickery, just a question of who wants it more.”
Zare looked at the athletic director in disbelief. What had happened to tactical intelligence?
“Hench had a great game too, sir,” Zare said.
Fhurek’s eyes jumped to the big Aqualish, whose hide was steaming in the cold rain. His face seemed to twist and he looked away. Zare risked a glance at Merei but found her face stony and unreadable.
“You all did,” Fhurek said, then smiled again. “Keep it up and I see a shot at the league championship in this team’s future. And that would do wonders for your prospects after graduation, wouldn’t it?”
The SaberCats muttered agreement, thinking of hot sanisteams and the chance to go home.
Zare told his parents not to wait, and rode his jumpspeeder home at a measured pace so its repulsorlift wouldn’t sling water on the pedestrians unfortunate enough to be out on a miserable night in Capital City. He was a block from the apartment when one of the people walking caught his eye: he was big and trudging along as if he didn’t notice the rain or the cold.
Zare looked again, then stopped.
“Ames!”
He had to call twice more before Ames Bunkle came to a halt and looked to see who was calling his name. He regarded Zare for a moment, then nodded and walked slowly to the edge of the sidewalk. His hair was cut to a few millimeters in length and rain was running down his face and dripping off the end of his nose.
“Ames, it’s me—it’s Zare Leonis. What are you doing out here?”
“My mother,” Ames said, blinking slowly. “She’s ill. Two-day leave to see her.”
“That’s right—Auntie Nags told me,” Zare said. “She must be glad to see you.”
“Yes,” Ames said after a moment.
“And how are you, Ames?”
“DX-578,” Ames said.
“What did you say?”
“DX-578. My operating number is DX-578.”
For a moment Zare thought his neighbor was joking, but Ames had never been one for jokes.
“Of course,” Zare said. “But since we’re not at the Academy, I can call you Ames. That’s okay, right?”
Ames considered the question.
“Yes,” he said.
“Dhara said you’ve been away on stormtrooper training,” Zare said. “It must be hard work.”
“Yes,” Ames said. “They wouldn’t let me take my E-11 on leave. Blaster rifles are restricted to Academy grounds. I can field-strip it blindfolded now, you know.”
“I guess that’ll be good if you ever go into combat blindfolded,” Zare said.
“Yes,” Ames said, and let the rain keep running down his face.
“It was a joke, Ames!”
Ames didn’t say anything.
Zare turned back to his jumpspeeder, trying to think of a way to end the disturbing conversation. But then he turned back to where Ames was still waiting in the rain.
“Ames?” he asked. “Do you like it? The Academy, I mean?”
“Yes,” Ames said. “I’m serving the Empire.”
And then he smiled—the first expression Zare had seen on his face.
Dhara commed to congratulate Zare on the win, and sensed—as she always seemed to—that her brother wanted to talk to her without their parents on the feed. After a few minutes catching them up on what was happening at the Academy, she raised one eyebrow and told their parents that she and Zare had to discuss preparations for Tepha’s birthday.
Zare took his datapad into his bedroom and let the door slide closed behind him.
“How do you always know?” he asked Dhara.
“Because I’m a sorceress,” Dhara said, wiggling her fingers and laughing. “I don’t know, little brother. Maybe it’s that what you’re thinking is always so obvious. Now, what’s on your mind?”
He told her about running into Ames and she nodded.
“Stormtrooper training is intense, Zare,” she said. “They’re turning boys—and a few girls, in case you didn’t know—into soldiers. They do that by breaking them down, then building them back up as soldiers. It’s essential training in following orders, understanding tactics, and executing plans as a team.”
Teamwork again, Zare thought. But at what price?
“Ames seemed like he wasn’t all there,” Zare said. “Like he was someone else.”
“Like I said, it’s intense,” Dhara said. “But it’s also temporary. Ames is only halfway through the process. Besides, look at me. Has the Academy made me different?”
Zare shook his head.
“Good. I promise you I’m not being brainwashed or anything like that. And Mom would think this was a snobby thing to say, but I’m not going to be a stormtrooper and neither are you. Officer training is a lot different. You’ll see.”
The SaberCats split their next two games, running their record to 7–2. The day before their tenth and final regular-season game, Zare’s datapad beeped. Fhurek wanted to see him in his office immediately.
Zare arrived to find the athletic director behind his broad desk. Coach Ramset was hunched in a chair, looking down into his lap.
“You wanted to see me, sir?” Zare asked, looking at the Duros coach for any hint about what was going on.
“Sit down, Zare,” Fhurek said. He put his elbows on his desk and steepled his fingers. “I’m afraid we’re going to need some changes to the SaberCats’ roster.”
Zare glanced at Coach Ramset, puzzled, but the coach didn’t look up.
This is about Beck, Zare thought, fighting down panic. Ramsy told him about Beck ignoring the playbook, and now Fhurek’s embarrassed. Maybe he even knows about the incident at the orchard.
“I think our roster’s pretty good, sir,” Zare said carefully. “We’ve got some weaknesses, but every team does. I know in our last game we had a little problem with discipline and sticking to the game plan, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. I feel like we’ve really come together as a unit over the last few games.”
Fhurek shook his head. “Coach Ramset, perhaps you can explain the issue?”
Ramset looked from Fhurek to Zare, his face dark with misery. “I wouldn’t know how to put it, sir,” he said.
Fhurek’s face darkened to an alarming purple. “Very well, then. I’ll do it. It’s the alien players, Zare. Kelio and the other one…Sina. If we win this game, we’re guaranteed a shot at the championship. But if that happens, those two will need to be removed from the roster.”
“What? Why?”
Fhurek smiled thinly. “Because I said so, Leonis. I have no issues with aliens myself—some of my best friends are nonhumans—but some grav-ball fans object to alien physiognomies, seeing them as giving nonhumans an edge.”
“You want to kick Frid and Hench off the squad?” Zare demanded. “They’re important members of the team! They’ve earned this!”
“I don’t want to do anything,” Fhurek said. “As center striker, it’s your job to deliver a grav-ball title for the SaberCats. But as athletic director of AppSci, it’s my job to make sure that title isn’t…tainted by talk that we had an unfair advantage. Isn’t that right, Coach Ramset?”
“I can see why misguided people might think that,” Ramset mumbled, and Zare felt his anger at the old Duros evaporate, replaced by pity. He was too scared to protest any more vigorously than this.
“That’s the right word exactly, Coach—‘misguided,’” Fhurek said. “I couldn’t agree more. It’s a shame some people feel that way. But we shouldn’t be worrying about social change—just winning that grav-ball title.”
“Which is more likely with Frid and Hench,” Zare said. “There’s no league rule against nonhuman players. How am I supposed to—”
“By leading, Leonis,” Fhurek snapped. “You need your best team on the grid for the championship game. I’m sure your two nonhumans are fine individuals, but are you sure they have the necessary capabilities to grasp strategy and tactics?”
“I’ve told you they do!” Zare said, his voice rising. “A minute ago they couldn’t play because they were too good. Now it’s because they’re too stupid?”
“That’s enough, Leonis! I’m an honorable man—Kelio and Sina can play tomorrow, but they’re out by the championship game. I’ll let the two of you decide how to break it to them.”
“You want leadership?” Zare asked. “Then here it is: Coach Ramset and I spent the entire fall making these players into the best possible SaberCats team. And that’s the team that’s going to play.”
And then he stormed out of the office.
“Obviously that man wasn’t raised right,” sniffed Auntie Nags, her photoreceptors blazing red.
“Obviously not,” Leo Leonis said. “That’s the problem with the Outer Rim—small-minded thugs like this athletic director get little kingdoms to rule, when closer to the Core Worlds they’d have to compete with more qualified people, and would wind up fixing droids or cleaning streets.”
“Honestly, Leo,” Tepha said. “Let’s not blame the entire Outer Rim for the actions of one man.”
Zare’s father muttered something.
“Zare, I agree this is awful,” Tepha said. “But is it worth damaging your chances of getting into the Academy?”
“Oh, come on. Anyone can sign up for the Academy, Mother.”
“But they don’t accept everybody. This isn’t the time to make enemies, dear—and remember Athletic Director Fhurek’s connections at the Academy. He can only affect your life for a few more months—after that he’ll have no power over you.”
“But he’ll still have power over AppSci players! He’ll still be able to do things like this!”
Tepha nodded, clearly troubled.
“And he shouldn’t be allowed to,” she said. “Your father may not agree with me about this, but there’s too much of this everywhere in the Empire, particularly in the lower levels of the bureaucracy. Mean little men like Fhurek may not rise very high, but that’s no comfort to the people whose lives they control.”
“Exactly,” Zare said. “Somebody needs to stop them.”
“Unfortunately, an AppSci student isn’t in a position to do that,” Leo said. “People like Fhurek always get found out. Take comfort in that.”
“And what about Frid and Hench?” Zare demanded. “How will that help them?”
Tepha shook her head. “It won’t, at least not now. And I hate that. But if you take on the athletic director you’ll only wind up hurting yourself, Zare—and then you won’t be able to help anybody.”
Zare stared down at his hands for a moment. Then he raised his eyes and nodded.
“I know what to do now,” he said.
“And what’s that?” his father asked.
“You’ll see,” Zare said. “I can’t stop Fhurek from doing this. But I can force him to make it clear to everybody why he’s doing it.”
What made it worse was that Hench and Frid were the two SaberCats most excited about the chance to play for the title, reminding their teammates over and over again on the speeder bus to Forked River that it was “win and we’re in.” Zare sat in the front next to Merei, turning his helmet over and over in his hands.
When she asked him what was wrong, he just shook his head.
Zare already knew that the Mavericks weren’t a good team; they were 1–8 on the season, and even in warm-ups Zare could see that their center striker was erratic and their kicker didn’t have enough range. But more than that, they had no discipline: their coach had to yell repeatedly to get them to listen, and at any point during pregame drills at least half the team was wandering around or chatting with spectators.
The SaberCats won the roll of the chance-cube and began on offense. Before Bennis and Kelio could trot down to their positions outside the enemy scoring circle, Zare called them back to the huddle.
“Frid, get ready to run,” Zare said. “You’re going to be busy today. You too, Hench.”
The Rodian and the Aqualish looked at each other, puzzled, then nodded.
“All right, SaberCats,” Zare said. “Remember—win and we’re in.”
The starting chime sounded and the Forked River fans began to cheer. Zare called the first play: handoff to Hench. Beck drove the opposing back for the Mavericks into the ground and Hench hurdled him, making it nearly to the next octet. Zare promptly called the same play again, and this time Hench crossed the octet boundary with a short gain.
“Eighty-three epsilon,” Zare said.
Every play was coded so the opposing team didn’t know what was being called. Beck and Hench worked through the calculations in their heads, then looked at Zare in surprise. It was the same play.
“Eighty-three epsilon!” Zare repeated.
Hench bounced off Beck and rumbled to within a meter of the seventh octet.
“Get to the line,” Zare barked. “We’re not standing around today.”
“You gonna call any other plays in this game?” Beck asked.
“Yes—starting now,” Zare said, not caring if the Mavericks heard him. “Three-niner gamma.”
That was a quick strike to Frid. Zare dropped back, noting approvingly that his offense was holding the Maverick defenders at bay with little effort. Frid was juking and weaving in the eighth octet. Zare gauged the weak-side wing’s speed, then fired the grav-ball on a line right at the Forked River keeper. Frid snagged it in front of the boy’s face on the edge of the scoring circle, spun around the keeper, and slammed it through the goal for four points.
The Mavericks didn’t make a single octet during their drive and the SaberCats recovered the trap-kick in the middle of the third octet. Zare immediately ordered a handoff to Hench. Then another. Then he fired a long pass in Frid’s direction that went wide, caroming off the goal stalk and sending a cam droid diving out of the way.
A stuttering chime signaled a coach’s time-out.
“Leonis!” Coach Ramset barked from the sideline. “Get your team over here.”
Zare and his teammates assembled in front of the Duros coach.
“Not the most sophisticated game plan,” Ramset said. “Switch to attack pattern beta—end sweeps and short passes to a mix of receivers. That’s an order, Zare.”
Zare nodded, but as the SaberCats headed back onto the grid, Coach Ramset grabbed his shoulder.
“I know what you’re doing,” he said.
“Good,” Zare said. “Then you also know why I’m doing it.”
The SaberCats won by thirty-two and returned to AppSci knowing they were going to play for the league title. Hench Sina had broken Ames Bunkle’s school records for carries and meters gained in a single game, while Frid Kelio had wound up two completions shy of tying another single-game mark.
A crowd of cheering students was waiting for the SaberCats’ speeder bus. The SaberCats slapped hands with the students, grinning and joining impromptu choruses of the school fight song. But at the back of the crowd Zare spotted Fhurek, his eyes bulging with fury.
Zare took his time making his way through the crowd, then nodded at the man.
“Proud of yourself, Leonis?” Fhurek all but spat.
“Proud of my teammates, sir,” Zare said. Then he turned and raised his voice: “Hey! Weren’t Frid and Hench incredible?”
The students began cheering again. Fhurek pumped his fist in celebration, a sickly smile plastered on his face.
“We’re going to play for the league championship!” Zare yelled.
When the commotion died down again, Fhurek leaned close to Zare, wagging his finger. “If I had another center striker, you wouldn’t be playing next week.”
But you don’t, Zare thought. And we both know it.
He started to walk past the athletic director to the locker room, but Fhurek caught him by the arm and spun him around.
“Enjoy your little stunt, Leonis,” Fhurek hissed. “But you best watch yourself. You have no idea what I’m capable of.”
The day after the SaberCats beat Forked River, Zare was eating lunch at home when his comlink started beeping.
He ignored it, but when it happened a third time he looked apologetically at his parents and slipped away from the table, trying not to notice that Auntie Nags’s photoreceptors had changed instantly from green to red.
It was Beck, and it took Zare at least a minute to understand what he was trying to say.
“Gone,” he kept saying. “Everything’s gone.”
“The orchards?” Zare asked, feeling sick to his stomach.
“Yeah,” Beck managed.
“And you’re there now?”
“Yes.”
“Okay,” Zare said. “I’m coming. Don’t do anything crazy. Just wait for me. Promise me, Beck. You’ll just wait.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Zare raced west on his jumpspeeder, the cold air stinging the exposed skin beneath his goggles. Ten kilometers outside of Capital City, he caught up with a line of vehicles. The first was an Imperial troop transport, nearly silent on its efficient repulsorlifts. Zare passed the hulking transport, which was at the tail end of a convoy of ramshackle civilian speeders. They had belongings tied atop their roofs. Men and women behind the speeders’ controls looked over at the boy on the jumpspeeder, their faces etched with misery. At the front of the line was another transport. The stormtroopers in their side compartments stared straight ahead, motionless. Zare accelerated, forcing himself not to look back at the strange procession until he was sure it was far behind him.
Zare stopped at the narrow bridge over the river to wipe the dust from his face. The river was dark, choked with dirt and debris. Zare peered over the parapet and saw dead fish floating everywhere, swollen and white. Ahead, he saw the hills were crowned with greasy-looking black smoke.
He crossed the river at the new bridge and found Beck’s jumpspeeder at the turnoff to the Ollet homestead. The garden gate was gone. So was the house. A ferrocrete road had replaced the path up the hill, and empty pits and churned-up soil marked where the trees had been.
He found Beck at the top of the hill, seated on a boulder still dark with soil where it had been pried out of the ground. He was looking out at what had once been his family’s orchard. Where the trees had been Zare saw stacks of construction equipment. He could hear thumping from the other side of the hills and a whine that rose and fell, making his head hurt.
“Are you all right?” Zare asked, wiping his dirty face on his sleeve.
“No,” Beck said. “I don’t think I am.”
Zare looked out over the wreckage of the orchard and shook his head.
“I don’t believe it,” he said.
“I know you don’t,” Beck said, getting to his feet. “That’s the problem, Zare. Come with me—you haven’t seen anything yet.”
He inclined his head and picked his way through the equipment. Zare followed, trying not to think of what the orchard had looked like just a few months ago.
Beck stopped at the crest of the hill and Zare joined him. He gasped. Below them, the ground had been leveled, then ripped open. Machinery was everywhere—whining drills, massive construction droids, and repulsorlift haulers surrounded deep pits. Behind them were rows of prefabricated buildings, split by a road choked with speeder trucks. Miners in filthy jumpsuits were everywhere, hurrying between tasks. A massive crane lifted a load of rock from one of the mines, dropping it with a crash in the bed of a hauler. Dust billowed into the air and then the hauler started up, belching exhaust.
“This equipment is primitive stuff that should have been melted down before the Clone Wars,” Zare said. “My parents have worked alongside mining installations before—they were nothing like this. They were pinpoint operations that left the surrounding land intact.”
“That would cost credits the Empire isn’t willing to spend,” Beck said. “It’s like this for kilometers, you know—they’re strip-mining the land, then leaving whatever’s left to blow away in the wind. They don’t even fill in the pits.”
Zare stared out at the mining camp, feeling numb.
“So enlighten me, Zare,” Beck said. “Since Merei wouldn’t come, you run the numbers for me. Explain to me why destroying Lothal will make life better everywhere else. Because this is a good thing, right? It must be, because the Empire you adore would never do anything wrong.”
Zare could only hang his head.
The long ride home through the cold night left Zare feeling stiff and tired. His parents were asleep, but Auntie Nags was still puttering around in the kitchen, hunting for nonexistent particles of dust.
“Don’t come in here, Zare Leonis—you’re caked in filth,” she warned, photoreceptors yellow. “What a disgrace! Where have you been?”
“Riding with Beck,” Zare said. “I just wanted something hot to drink—maybe a cup of caf?”
“At this hour?” Auntie Nags chirped, hands on hips. “You’d be awake all night, and you need your sleep. It’s important that you be well-rested this week. Your sister’s coming home for winter break, your application for the Academy isn’t finished and needs to be transmitted, and of course there’s the championship game.”
Zare sat down at the table, legs splayed, and stared at the floor. The Academy. He’d been sitting at this same table when Dhara got her acceptance message. He’d watched their mother enfold her in a hug, and their father blink back tears as he waited with a broad smile to offer his own congratulations.
Zare had been happy, too—but also jealous that he had to wait a year, twiddling his thumbs in some Outer Rim bantha school while Dhara got a head start on serving the Empire.
He didn’t feel jealous now. All of a sudden the Academy felt like…like what, exactly?
Like a trap. That’s what it feels like.
His parents thought the way to fix the Empire’s mistakes was to serve it and show people a better way, but what if they’d been tricked? What if they’d all been tricked? What if the Empire really belonged to the faceless bureaucrats who’d signed the orders turning orchards into wastelands? What if it really belonged to bullies like Fhurek—bullies with Academy connections?
“How about some hot chocolate?” Auntie Nags asked. “With tang bark, the way you like it.”
Zare looked up, momentarily puzzled, then realized the old nanny droid had been nattering on about the perils of caffeine at night for growing children.
“That…that would be great,” Zare said. “Thank you, Auntie Nags.”
And then, to his horror, he felt his eyes well up and tears start to roll down his cheeks. He wiped them away, embarrassed, and saw the backs of his hands were covered in dirt from the wreckage of the orchardlands. He scrubbed futilely at the dirt for a moment, then gave up, sobbing.
“There, there,” Auntie Nags said, patting his shoulders, photoreceptors pulsing with soothing green light. “There, there.”
Over the weekend AppSci had come down with a serious case of SaberCats fever. The hallways were festooned with green-and-white banners, students were wearing face paint, and Zare and his teammates couldn’t get from one class to the next without running a gauntlet of high-fives and backslaps and fist bumps.
He should have been happy about all the attention, but it just made him feel slightly ill. He dreaded running into Hench or Frid, worried he wouldn’t be able to keep his composure if they wanted to talk about the game that Fhurek didn’t think they should play.
Somehow he managed to get through an entire day of classes without seeing either player. He didn’t see them in the locker room, either, though Beck was there, grim and silent. The two of them put on their armor and headed for the grid, saying nothing, helmet straps dangling from their fingers.
Hench and Frid weren’t on the grid, either. Now Zare was worried. It wasn’t like either of them to be late.
On the sidelines, Coach Ramset was instructing Merei on the finer points of trap-kicks. Zare waved mechanically at the knots of cheering AppSci students who’d braved the cold to watch practice.
“Coach, where’s the rest of the squad?” he asked.
“Not here,” Ramset muttered.
Zare looked over at Merei, who shrugged.
“Not here?” Zare asked, his stomach knotted with anxiety. “Where are they?”
“You better ask the athletic director,” Ramset said.
Zare’s cleats echoed in the hallway. He forced himself to think. Fhurek couldn’t have ordered Ramset to simply cut Hench and Frid; the AppSci students and parents would have a fit about dropping two of the team’s better players before the championship game. And something told Zare the athletic director wouldn’t want to display his prejudices quite so obviously. But then what had he done?
Fhurek’s office door retracted into the wall before Zare could buzz for entry; the athletic director had heard the sound of his cleats. One corner of Fhurek’s mouth twitched, then swelled into a predatory smile.
“Ah, Leonis,” he said. “I was just about to have Coach Ramset send you up here. Too bad you didn’t get a chance to congratulate your former teammates before they left.”
“Former teammates? Congratulate them for what?” Zare asked. He stood tentatively at the doorway.
“You haven’t heard?” Fhurek asked, approaching Zare. “Sina and Kelio have been transferred to the Technical Institute for Agricultural Research, effective immediately. The Institute may not have as good an academic reputation as AppSci, but it has some excellent programs—it’s a great opportunity for them.”
Zare just stared at him.
“Fortunately, you and Coach Ramset have the week to work with whatever members of the practice squad you choose to take their places. Best of luck, Leonis—we’re all rooting for you.”
And with that Fhurek stepped back into his office and left Zare staring at the closed door.
Coach Ramset was running tackling drills in the center of the grid when Zare returned. Merei saw Zare first and intercepted him on the sidelines.
“Fhurek arranged for them to be transferred,” Zare said before she asked.
“That dirty conduit worm. So are we promoting Windrider and Rennet from the practice squad?”
“What? Who cares? We’re not going to play,” Zare said as he stomped onto the grid. “Coach? I need to talk to the team for a minute. Players only.”
Ramset saw the anger on Zare’s face and nodded, retreating to the sidelines.
“Huddle up,” Zare said, and then told them what had happened. Kord Plandin, the sleepy-eyed keeper, said a word that would have had him running laps if Coach Ramset had heard it. Beck stared into space, hands on his hips. The other players kicked at the grass, eyes down.
“So what are we gonna do?” Bennis asked.
“Boycott the title game,” Zare said. “I’m sorry, Windrider and Rennet—none of this is your fault. But Frid and Hench are our teammates—Fhurek doesn’t just get to send them away. If he wants a title for AppSci, he can bring them back to play for it.”
“And if he won’t?” Orzai Atropos asked. “What do we do then?”
“Like I said, we don’t play. Fhurek told me our title would be somehow tainted if we won with alien players. That’s a bunch of poodoo—but it really would be tainted if we let him get away with this.”
He looked around at the SaberCats, but they weren’t looking back. Their eyes were on the ground or their own equipment.
“I don’t know, Zare,” Atropos said. “I don’t like this—it’s a lowdown dirty thing to do. But what can we do? I mean, he’s the athletic director—this is way bigger than us.”
“He’s the athletic director, not the Emperor,” Zare said as his teammates turned away.
Ramset walked over from the sidelines, clapping his hands and talking about blocking drills. The other SaberCats put their helmets on, and Zare saw that several of them were grateful for their coach’s interruption. He looked at them in disbelief, then shook his head and marched off the grid.
“Zare!”
Merei was jogging to catch up with him.
“I can’t believe it,” Zare fumed. “They’re just going to let this happen? They don’t even care!”
“Of course they do. They just don’t think they can do anything about it.”
“Then they’re wrong. But they don’t care about that, either, the cowards.”
Merei shook her head. “They’re not cowards. That’s not fair and you know it. You don’t get what this means to them, Zare.”
“I don’t?” Zare turned to stare at Merei, who had to backpedal to avoid colliding with him. “Then explain it to me. I know you will anyway.”
“I will if you’ll listen,” Merei said. “You’re headed for a different life, Zare—highly paid agricultural scientist at least, maybe an Imperial officer. I am, too—it’s stupid to pretend otherwise. But most of them will be lucky to get jobs as field technicians for one of the ministries here on Lothal. Whatever happens in the title game, you’ll be at the Academy a year from now, probably already starting officer training. But they’ll be in trade school—and being academy-league champs could make a big difference in what school they get into, and in their lives after that.”
“And that’s not true of Frid and Hench, too?”
“I didn’t say that. But you can’t help Frid and Hench.”
Zare kicked at the grass. “So I should just let Fhurek win, then,” he muttered.
“I didn’t say that, either. But remember those guys back there on the grid are your teammates, too.”
The other SaberCats didn’t say anything when Zare walked back onto the grid, helmet on. Neither did Coach Ramset; he just tossed him a grav-ball. The team worked through passing drills like nothing had happened, with Zare calling out routes for Hanc Windrider. Then they began practicing blocking and carries, as poor Firmus Rennet tried not to look nervous.
Zare never stopped being angry—the thought of Fhurek made him want to break something—but the routine did prove comforting. Afternoon practice was divided up into tasks that made sense, and that he could accomplish. Do a dozen carrying drills with Beck and Rennet. Now execute twenty passes to Windrider and Bennis. Then block for Merei on ten trap-kicks and ten kick-scores. Then drop back to assist Atropos, Umber, and Plandin on a dozen defensive routes.
Midweek brought an unseasonably warm day, and Zare emerged from the locker room after practice to find Merei waiting for him, datapad tucked under one arm.
“I’ve been scouting Kothal,” she said.
“And?”
“And we can beat them,” Merei said.
“You seem awfully confident,” Zare said. “Roughnecks is a good name for Kothal. Don’t they have that beast of a fullback? Farm boy, even bigger than Beck?”
“Yep—his name’s Targol.”
“That’s right. And their alien wing striker—the Aqualish—has both speed and size.”
“Horst Prajil.”
“I didn’t know his name. I guess Kothal’s athletic director thinks aliens are good enough to play for him. So when do we get to the part where you’re confident?”
“Right now,” Merei said, tapping at her datapad. “Look at their center striker. I’ve put footage of several plays together.”
“Let’s go sit on the bleachers,” Zare said. “If I don’t sit down I might fall down.”
It was almost dark. The eastern sky was black, decorated with stars and the lights of starships in orbit, while overhead the sky was purple, shading to dark blue and then green in the west, the last sign of the departed sun. Zare settled himself on the bleachers and Merei sat beside him, turning toward him to share her datapad.
“These are all carry plays to Targol,” Zare said after they watched for a minute. “Are you trying to depress me?”
“No. Pay attention to the center striker. Now watch the plays again.”
Zare frowned down at the bright light of Merei’s screen, hunting for whatever had her so excited and trying not to think of the pressure of her hip against his.
“Wait, go back,” he said. “When he’s going to Targol he holds the ball against his right thigh. Probably to get the ball to him a little earlier.”
Merei grinned.
“And he does it every time? Because you’ve taught me not to trust my eyes unless they’re looking at a math equation.”
“You’re not funny,” Merei said, wrinkling her nose at him. She smiled at him, then looked down quickly. “No, he doesn’t do it every time, but pretty much,” she said. “Here. I put together footage of some random plays. Watch and see if you can predict which ones are going to be carries to Targol.”
Zare got six out of seven.
“Nice work,” he said, and Merei gave a little bow. Zare thought it over. If he could spot the center striker positioning the ball, a quick yell would warn the SaberCat defenders to break toward that side and bring up the wing defenders. That would make it harder for Targol to rack up big advances, and tire him out more quickly.
“But we still don’t have Frid and Hench,” Zare said. “Windrider and Rennet have been okay, but they were on the practice squad for a reason.”
“I know,” Merei said. “But we’re better than Kothal at most other positions. If we can slow Targol down, he’ll tire by the third period. We can beat these guys—I know it.”
Zare nodded, then noticed Merei biting her lip.
“There’s something else, isn’t there?”
“Fhurek,” she said. “Turns out he doesn’t just have Academy connections—he also hangs out with some shady company. He’s put a pretty big bet on us in the title game. Two thousand credits that we’ll win by at least eight points.”
“How do you know that?”
Merei turned off her datapad and looked at Zare for a long moment. “I might have gained access to his personal messages,” she said.
“You might have?”
“Mm-hmm. He made the bet after an argument with a friend at the transportation ministry, about whether mixed-species teams suffer from poor morale. It’s nasty stuff.”
Zare nodded, then smiled.
“So we need to win, but only by six.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” Merei said quietly.
“Isn’t what you did illegal?”
“Highly. Are you going to report me?”
Zare grinned. “Are you kidding?” he asked. “I could kiss you.”
And a moment later, he did.
He drew back after a moment, thinking that her hair smelled like jogan blossoms.
Merei smiled at him. “I’ve been wondering for a long time what that would be like,” she said.
“And?”
She put her hand behind his head and pulled him closer.
“And shhh,” she said.
With Dhara’s return for winter break, Zare’s spirits lifted and even Auntie Nags’s photoreceptors seemed locked on green. On the night of Zare’s fifteenth birthday, the Leonises sat over dinner into the night, laughing over stories from Hosk Station and Moorja and Viamarr and other worlds they’d half forgotten. His sister’s easy smile and warm eyes let Zare forget Fhurek, and the orchardlands, and the feeling that everything he had relied on was untrustworthy and dangerous.
Then Auntie Nags brought out a decorated glaze cake and his father told him that since he was now fifteen, it was time to get his datapad and transmit his application to the Imperial Academy.
Zare forced himself to smile as his family applauded, then headed for his room, grateful that none of them could see his face. He picked up his datapad and took it back to the kitchen table, thumbing the activator.
His application was almost completely filled out. Both of his parents had checked over the form at least three times for the smallest mistake.
“Dhara, I believe we’ll need you first,” Leo said, handing the datapad to his daughter with a flourish.
“Let me see,” Dhara said, peering at the screen and pretending to be solemn. “‘I, Dhara Leonis, of Capital City, Lothal, do hereby certify that Zare Leonis is personally known to me and of good moral character.’ Well, I suppose that’s true if you don’t count a history of stealing sweet-sand cookies and sassing poor Auntie Nags. But perhaps we should get Merei Spanjaf’s opinion?”
Zare rolled his eyes. Dhara grinned at Zare and their parents, then looked back down at the datapad.
“Uh-oh, Zare—this next part’s more problematic,” she said. “‘Applicant Zare Leonis has no history of insurrection, rebellion, or rendering aid to the enemies of the New Order, is fit in every way to serve the First Galactic Empire, and enters into this agreement legally and voluntarily.’”
She looked up at Zare, smiling…and then her smile faded when she saw his face.
Zare felt his cheeks flush.
“What?” Leo asked. He’d missed the look that had passed between his children, and was still smiling. “I didn’t twist the boy’s arm!”
Zare grinned desperately, wondering what his sister had seen. She hurriedly smiled, too, then looked back down at the datapad.
“Okay, Dad says there was no arm-twisting, so we can move on,” she said. “Let’s see. ‘I have been personally acquainted with Zare Leonis for fifteen years and zero days in the following capacity: sister.’ You didn’t write ‘inspiration,’ or even ‘tormenter,’ but we’ll let it slide. Everything looks in order. Anything I missed, Zare?”
Zare was aware of her eyes on him. What would happen if he said nothing? The moment would be funny at first. Then the delay would turn awkward. His father would tell him to hurry, Auntie Nags’s photoreceptors would turn yellow, and his mother would become quiet and still, sensing that something was wrong.
Which Dhara already knew.
“Let’s do this,” he said.
“All right then,” Dhara said. She pressed her thumb on the datapad’s screen and it flickered, verifying her identity. She scrolled to the bottom of the application and nodded. “All done, Zare. You just need to hit ‘transmit.’”
Zare reached for the datapad, forcing himself to meet his sister’s gaze. The future was clouded, but he couldn’t bear the idea of bringing grief and strife to his own family’s kitchen table.
He hit ‘transmit’ and tried to smile.
Dhara waited, as Zare had known she would, until their parents had gone to bed and Auntie Nags and her occasionally overactive auditory sensors were busy in the kitchen. Then she inclined her head and he obediently followed her into her bedroom. The bed was immaculately made—blanket folded and creased, pillow perfectly straight.
“Academy training,” Dhara said, seeing him studying the bed. “I remade it the second I got home, before it could bother me. Inspections and demerits get in your head.”
“I’m not looking forward to that,” Zare said. Auntie Nags complained every morning that his own bed looked like an ion storm had hit it.
“You want to tell me what happened back there?” Dhara asked.
Zare sighed, looking out the window at the lights of the city. “How do you always know? It’s annoying, sis.”
“Like the form said, I’ve been personally acquainted with you for fifteen years and zero days. Now quit stalling and talk to me.”
Zare started to sit down on his sister’s bed, then looked at the perfect sheets and reconsidered, settling into the chair at her desk instead. And then it all came pouring out of him—the orchardlands and how they’d been wrecked, Fhurek and what he’d done to Frid and Hench. He left out Beck misleading the stormtroopers, and Merei’s accessing Fhurek’s messages, but he told his sister everything else, head either buried in his hands or thrown back to stare at the ceiling. When he was done he felt empty and exhausted.
“Well,” his sister said quietly. “You’ve had quite a winter.”
Zare just nodded.
“And now you’re wondering if we’re wrong about the Empire.”
Zare hesitated, then nodded again.
“There’s no reason for what they’re doing in the orchardlands,” he said. “They’re destroying everything—nothing will ever grow there again. Is that why we came to Lothal, Dhara? To help them do that? Remember the day we arrived? Remember how good the air smelled, and how it felt to see blue skies instead of a durasteel ceiling? Now it’s all being ruined.”
“You’re reading a lot into one mining operation,” Dhara said. “This is a big planet, with room for mining and industry as well as farms. I understand why your friend Beck is upset—I would be, too. But should the Empire let valuable ore or crystals or whatever they found out there go to waste because someone’s grandfather picked that spot to plant jogan-fruit? Does that really make sense?”
“Maybe not,” Zare said. “But they don’t need to wreck whole kilometers to extract ore. They’re using machinery out there that the Trade Federation would have been embarrassed to use.”
Dhara frowned. “Look, Zare,” she said, voice low. “The Empire isn’t a machine. It’s made up of people. Most of the ones I’ve met are pretty great—they want to make the galaxy a better place. But a few of them aren’t so great. They make mistakes—bad ones, sometimes, like what happened to your friend’s old farm. And some of them are bullies, or worse—like your athletic director. They’re the kind of people who give the Empire a bad name. The way I see it, it’s up to the rest of us to find them and stop them from doing more harm.”
“Agreed,” Zare said.
“Good,” Dhara said. “But that kind of change only happens from within.”
“Be patient, in other words. Just like everybody else says.”
“Yes,” Dhara said. “But you also need to be careful. That goes for your friend Beck, too.”
“What are you saying, Dhara?” Zare asked, trying to keep the fear out of his voice.
His sister saw his nervousness and smiled. “Relax, Zare—people don’t go to jail because they disagree with the way a mine’s being run. That’s not the way the Empire works. But you do need to remember where the Empire came from—it rose from the ashes of a government that was so consumed by conflict and jealousy and greed that it couldn’t function, and from a terrible war in which billions died. The Empire won’t let the galaxy go back to that—here on Lothal or anywhere else. That’s why it takes safety and security so seriously.”
“Well, sure,” Zare said. “I understand that.”
“Then you also understand the importance of not getting mixed up in something that could make you look like a threat to that security—particularly since you’re a candidate for the Academy,” Dhara said. “You’re so close, little brother—just get through a few more months and everything will change. I promise.”
“SABERCATS! HUDDLE UP!”
The AppSci students nearest to the SaberCats’ bench heard Zare’s call and began to yell and wave their green-and-white banners. Zare swatted at a cam droid that flew too close and reached out his arm to draw Merei into the circle of their teammates, finding Beck with his other hand. He brought the two of them close and looked around the little group. Hanc Windrider was wide-eyed and pale and Zare smacked his helmet.
“So this is the championship game,” Zare said. “Wow! There sure are a lot of people yelling, and a ton of cam droids.”
He let the moment linger, looking at each of the SaberCats in turn, trying to assess who was ready and whose nerves were threatening to get the better of them.
“But guess what—the grid’s the same length it was yesterday,” he said. “The ball’s the same size. The clock will count down the same way it always does. Remember the plays, listen to me, and give it everything you’ve got. If you do that, the rest will take care of itself. You got that?”
Heads nodded.
“Not good enough. YOU GOT THAT, SABERCATS?”
This time his teammates roared that they did.
“That’s better. Now Coach wants to say a few words.”
Ramset stepped into the circle, blinking his red eyes. “You’ve played like champions all year,” he said simply. “Now go make it official.”
The SaberCats jogged to the center of the grid, accompanied by cheers from their home fans. They lined up opposite the Kothal players, wearing their orange-and-gray visitors’ uniforms. Both squads stood at attention for the Imperial anthem, helmets under their arms, then shook hands.
“Good luck,” Zare told the Kothal center striker. The other boy looked at him quizzically.
“Well, kind of,” Zare added, and the Kothal player nodded and smiled.
AppSci won the opening roll of the chance-cube and started with the ball.
“March!” Zare yelled over the cheering crowd, which included his parents and sister. Fhurek was up there, too, he knew; Merei had made sure he found out about the Kothal center striker’s habit, and told Zare that the athletic director had doubled his bet on the SaberCats to win by eight or more.
But Zare immediately had other problems than trying to foil Fhurek’s schemes. Targol was indeed huge: the Kothal fullback wrapped up Zare on the first play, a blown carry to Rennet, and slammed him to the turf, forcing the air out of his lungs.
“Gonna be a long day,” the boy said with a grin.
“Keep bringing it,” Zare managed through gritted teeth, patting his opponent’s helmet.
AppSci marched slowly down the grid, but the Roughnecks spoiled passes to Bennis and Windrider in the sixth octet, and on third drive Zare signaled for Merei. Her kick sailed cleanly through the circle to give AppSci a 2–0 lead.
It was the Roughnecks’ turn, and they started with a mix of weak-side carries and passes, with Horst Prajil leaping high above Umber for a graceful catch on third drive. On the next play, Zare saw the center striker set up with the ball against his right thigh.
“OMEGA! OMEGA! OMEGA!” he yelled, sliding left behind AppSci’s fullbacks.
Targol shrugged off Firmus Rennet’s tackle, but Zare and Beck were right behind him and brought down the hulking Kothal player with only a short gain. They sniffed out the next carry to Targol as well, and Kothal had to settle for a kick-score and a 2–2 tie. But two series later, Targol smashed Firmus aside and collided with Beck, who stumbled and fell. Before Zare could get his arms around the big Kothal fullback, he whirled and tossed a lateral pass to Prajil, who’d faked out Umber and dropped back to put himself in perfect position. Zare and Beck turned to each other in disgust as Prajil steamed down the grid, slammed the ball past Plandin’s fingertips, and gave Kothal a 6–2 lead.
“Stang,” Beck told Zare and Firmus as the Kothal players whooped it up in the scoring circle. “That guy’s a one-man wrecking crew.”
“I know—but he’s only one man. Stick to the plan.”
Merei’s kick-score cut Kothal’s lead to 6–4 as the first triad ended. In the second triad, the Roughnecks leaned hard on Targol, who rumbled through octet after octet for a touch-score and a 10–4 lead.
“We know when they’re giving the ball to him but he’s still scoring,” Beck said.
“We’re making him earn every carry,” Zare said. “He’ll get tired.”
“I hope it’s soon,” Beck replied. “Because I already am.”
“After we win you’ll have all spring to rest.”
Merei and the Kothal kicker alternated kick-scores, making the score 12–6 in Kothal’s favor. With time ticking down in the second triad, the Roughnecks went back to Targol and marched down the grid, with the big fullback harried on every carry by multiple SaberCats. Responding to the SaberCats’ coverage, Kothal’s center striker tossed a short pass to Targol instead of handing off for a carry. Targol caught the ball and rumbled into the scoring circle. He smashed Plandin aside, raising the ball above his head and aiming at the goal.
Zare turned away in disgust.
“No goal!” yelled the referee.
Zare turned back, shocked. The big fullback’s jump had come up short. He’d missed the touch-score.
Beck nodded at Zare. “He’s getting tired.”
Zare smiled and smacked the side of Beck’s helmet.
“Twenty minutes left,” he said. “We can do this. Concentrate on Targol’s side. Let’s make him more tired.”
The SaberCats went to work on the strong side of the Roughnecks’ defense, with Zare mixing up carries to Firmus with passes to Windrider. Hanc missed an easy catch in the sixth octet and AppSci had to settle for a kick-score, but Targol was walking slowly now, breathing hard and stopping after each play to put his hands on his knees. The SaberCats kept Kothal from scoring on the next series and recovered the Roughnecks’ trap-kick in the second octet.
“It’s twelve–eight,” Zare reminded his teammates. “A touch-score ties it.”
The SaberCats had to settle for another kick-score instead, but now they were within two—and they quickly regained the ball as Kothal’s offense sputtered. As Zare walked to the line the crowd began to cheer, sensing the momentum swinging AppSci’s way.
“March!” Zare said.
Beck slammed through the Kothal defenders for a long run that took AppSci into the third octet. Then Zare went to work, forcing Targol to defend against repeated carries to his left, his right, and straight at him. Trying to help their tiring fullback, the Roughnecks doubled the coverage on Targol’s side—which allowed Zare to hit Bennis for a pass that took AppSci into the eighth octet and let the SaberCats take aim at the scoring circle. Two plays later, Beck lowered his shoulder, stomped past the Kothal center striker, and handed the ball off to Windrider, who flung it behind his head through the goal for a 14–12 AppSci lead.
“Nothing fancy,” Zare chided Hanc, but they were both grinning.
On Kothal’s first play after the score, the center striker handed off to Targol, who shoved Firmus aside. But Beck covered the hole in the AppSci defense and hit Targol in the midsection. As the crowd gasped, the ball popped into the air, then seemed to hang suspended under the lights for an impossibly long moment.
Zare felt like he was floating. He watched his hands come up and saw the ball come down in them. He juggled it for a moment, then squeezed it to his side. Targol reached up for Zare, eyes wide, Beck sprawled across his legs. The Kothal player got his fingers on Zare’s knee, but then Zare twisted away from him. He lowered his head and chugged down the field, dodged the Kothal defenders, and heaved the ball through the goal, then put his hands on his knees, gasping. A moment later his teammates arrived, happily pounding him on the back and helmet. He fended them off and lifted his head, looking first to the sidelines where Merei stood beaming, then up into the stands where Dhara was jumping up and down, howling with glee.
AppSci 18, Kothal 12. Six minutes to go. Then Kothal’s center striker sent up a wobbly pass that Umber intercepted, giving the ball back to AppSci. Zare alternated between carries to Beck and Firmus, with both players pushing through the exhausted Kothal defense, and Hanc Windrider scored a touch-score with four minutes left to put AppSci up by ten.
The students cheered wildly, but Zare caught Merei’s eye on the sidelines. She nodded, eyes flicking momentarily to the stands behind her, and Zare knew she was thinking the same thing he was: Fhurek must be already counting his credits.
Kothal used up a minute on a drive that stalled in the middle of the grid, and AppSci got the ball in the second octet. Zare flipped a short pass to Windrider and wound up entangled with Prajil as the play ended. Unable to help himself, he looked into the stands and saw Fhurek grinning, slapping hands with a gaggle of white-haired alumni wearing fancy tunics and green-and-white AppSci scarves.
“I’m sending all but one striker hard right,” Zare said to Prajil. “Be a shame if we got our signals tangled and I missed a pass hard left.”
“You trying to insult us?” the Aqualish rumbled, his small black eyes hard with anger. “We don’t need your charity.”
“It’s no gift—I’ve got my reasons,” Zare said.
Prajil shook his head, tusks parting slightly in anger. But then Zare saw him summon the Kothal defenders to the huddle. Zare called the play, then looked hard left to Windrider, who was shadowed by a defender in orange and gray. He fired the ball that way, aiming short, and watched as the Kothal player darted in front of Hanc and caught the ball, then charged back down the grid. Zare turned to chase him down, then was knocked sprawling—Prajil had run back from his position to receive a lateral pass. Through the legs of the other players, Zare watched as Prajil made the touch-score, then tried not to smile.
AppSci twenty-two, Kothal sixteen. Tough luck, Fhurek.
AppSci took the ball back at center grid. Zare looked at the clock. There were two minutes left—plenty of time to go down the grid against the Kothal defense and score again.
“Gamma offense,” Zare said, forcing himself not to look in Fhurek’s direction.
“We’re not going for another score?” Firmus Rennet asked.
“We’re up by six with two minutes to go,” Zare said. “Just burn the rest of the clock and don’t drop the ball—no need to rub it in their faces.”
Well, except one face, he thought.
The SaberCats moved steadily but methodically and found themselves in the sixth octet with the clock stopped and five seconds to go. They had one play left. Unable to resist, Zare looked over to the sidelines, where Merei stood. She had her helmet on the bench beside her, knowing she wouldn’t be asked to kick.
Zare smiled, then walked to the line.
“March!” he yelled.
He dropped back, glanced at the clock, then hugged the ball to his chest and knelt down in the grass as time expired. The AppSci stands exploded in delirium and the students began to pour onto the field, hands raised. Zare stood, turned, and Beck plowed into him, lifting him in his arms as his other teammates converged from all sides. He raised the ball triumphantly over his head. The SaberCats had won by six and were league champs.