Page 40 of Galaxy Games Four-Book Box Set (Galaxy Games)

40

Terrible Timing

T itan

People aren’t even trying to be subtle. None are actually on Altair’s property, small as it is. There are a few on the street in front of the house, and a few down the small residential street that heads toward a main thoroughfare.

Of course, they’re all wearing red.

“This must be why Altair’s fingers were flying,” Blaze says. “He must have put the call out. Looks like we’re going to get an escort from here to the flag.”

“If one of our opponents fires on us with all these civilians around, they’ll be immediately terminated by their collars,” she says. “Or at least, that’s what the rules say.”

I’ve lost any belief that this is going to be a fair fight or that the network will follow its own rules. They’ve shown no interest in civilians other than parting them from their hard-earned credits.

We hurry to the edge of Altair’s weedy lawn and are swallowed up by the small crowd when we reach the street.

A few of them call our names as if we were celebrities.

“Where’s Red?” a woman calls.

“We wanted to keep him safe,” Blaze tells her even as someone says, “On his shoulder.”

I swivel my head and sure enough, the little fellow is gripping the thick plating on my shoulder. He’s perched right where Blaze made a cut so I could wear this small, uncomfortable shirt. I wore the red shirt for Sprout, but now I see how important it is.

We’re blending into the crowd, which is growing as we walk. There’s safety in numbers.

If Blaze weren’t wearing that fucking slave collar, I’d have her fade away into the mob and never be seen again. I could go to the flag, do whatever needs to be done, and win or lose, this nightmare would be over for both of us.

That won’t happen, though.

A tiny, blue four-armed Mordite elbows her way through the crowd, a small loaf in her hands. When she gets to us, she bows her head and offers it to us.

“Anathen cake,” she says. “I made it myself. Would either of you like a slice?”

“I’ll just toss it up,” Blaze admits as she leans close to the female. “I’m pretty nervous.”

“Oh. I didn’t think,” the female says, biting her bottom lip in embarrassment.

“It was very thoughtful,” I say as I reach for it. After grabbing a slice, I ask, “Can we share with the crowd?”

The female looks thrilled that her cake will be distributed to the others. I pass the cake back among the throng.

“I always wanted to be a celeb. This is surreal,” Blaze says as she grabs my hand. “We need to discuss our strategy before we’re close to the flag.”

Blaze

If I were a different person, it would be easy to get carried away in the exuberance of the moment. I could imagine we were in a mob at Disney, or waiting at the finish line for the New York Marathon.

But I’m me, Blaze, with no last name because I didn’t give myself one. I didn’t give myself one because I have no family, no allegiances, no belief in any system.

That’s not exactly true, though. I’ve become attached to one person. Xzavic.

I glance over at him. Even though his features are tight and worry is etched into the folds that bracket his mouth, he’s the most handsome male on this or any planet.

Look at him. So serious, so determined, yet he lets little Red ride his shoulder as if he belongs there.

I’m going to die today. I need to tell him I love him before that happens. I owe him that.

Instead, I say, “We need a computer pad. We need real-time feedback about where our enemies are, or at least where we are in relation to their last known whereabouts. That’s assuming the network gave us accurate intel.”

“Aye.”

Two red Halckons, a head taller than most of the crowd, are making their way toward us. The last Halckons we met, other than Jahzara Zedd’s evil face on our vids this morning, were the ones we slew on the way into town.

Xzavic and I draw our swords as we keep walking.

“Titan!” One of them calls. “Titan!”

When we stop and turn, we almost get trampled by the crowd.

“We have intel!”

This is interesting. Is this a trick to get close enough to kill us? Are they going to give us misinformation?

They hold their hands up “don’t shoot” style and say, “We wear red. We came to help.”

After flanking us, the one on my right says, “We should keep walking.”

As we keep pace with the crowd, he pulls out a computer tablet, hands it to me, and shows us where our opponents are.

“TMN has been broadcasting from outside your opponents’ hiding places. We’ve caught snatches of pictures outside their windows and used visual clues to triangulate their location.”

I’m holding the pad where both Xzavic and I can see it. The male reaches over me and his thick, red finger jabs at the three locations on the screen.

“So the network was telling the truth? Trent and Scurge are together?” Xzavic asks.

“All their interviews have been together. That’s how they’re still alive. They’ve fought many foes as a team. No one knows what’s going to happen if they’re the last two standing.”

His words ring in my ears. I imagine there’s been the same speculation about Xzavic and me. He must realize how his words affected me, because he mumbles, “Sorry.” Then says, “If we keep on our current route, you’re going to reach those two first. Is that your plan?”

“What do you think?” I ask Xzavic.

“Perhaps. Where would you suggest we set up?”

I’m still not sure we should trust these two males. Their intel could be faulty, or it could be outright lies. But really, we’ve got no better options.

Their suggestions sound valid, so we begin to implement them.

Soon, Xzavic and I are wearing the Marentine equivalent of baseball caps—red, of course. When we get closer to our destination, we fade toward the middle of the pack. I jump a few times to get a good look behind us. I’m no judge of these things, but I think there are thousands of people. It’s a sea of red. And we’re right in the middle of it.

When the time is right, a male almost Xzavic’s height, wearing a tight red shirt cut in the exact same way his shirt is cut, approaches on Xzavic’s left. I’m not sure what color his skin is, but the exposed areas have been dyed blue.

The two males bump, slyly exchange hats and places, and we surge forward with the crowd. It suddenly strikes me that this male is risking his life to help us. He’s now the target.

“Thank you. You might be saving our lives, but you’re risking your own,” I say.

“It’s time,” he says, nodding vigorously as he quotes the rebellion’s motto. “Slavery and the abuses of the rich upon the poor have to stop. I’m willing to take this risk and many more.”

I look into his eyes for the first time. He’s young. Perhaps barely twenty. I’m awed by the look of raw passion on his face. In all my life, I never felt that fervid about anything. I do now.

A female about my size approaches on my right. Her skin is only slightly browner than mine, although she’s got interesting ridges on her forehead and cheekbones. At a distance, though, our frames are the same. We exchange hats. I slow and let the crowd surge ahead of us.

Xzavic grabs my upper arm in his meaty palm and tugs me to the edge of the moving crowd, then we slip out and hunker in an abandoned doorway.

While the mob passes by, we change out of our red shirts and into pale blue ones the Halckons handed us. I shake my head, thinking it would be a shame if they were in league with Zedd or one of our other enemies. Our clothes or caps could carry tracking devices, although we’re already wearing them around our necks.

I console myself with the thought that without their help, we’d have no better plan, so I decide to proceed.

“Our destination is one block up,” Xzavic says after consulting the pad the Halckon gave us.

We’re still skirting the edge of the mob, staying in the shadow of the buildings by the side of the street, when a thunderous explosion rocks the ground. Xzavic moves at the speed of light to loom over me, protecting me from the falling edifice of the abandoned two-story shop building we’re standing in front of.

Another explosion rocks the ground. Xzavic’s body bounces against mine, sometimes accompanied by grunts of pain. He’s a giant, a titan, but he’s not superhuman. A building is literally falling on him, and he’s trying with all his might to protect me.

Suddenly, everything is quiet. Well, that’s an odd word to describe what’s going on. Although there’s no more thunderous sound of falling buildings, a high-pitched squeal rings in my ears which is overpowered by the sound of crying, then wailing.

I hear the words “ion cannon” more than once. Was this terrorist act perpetrated by the network? The Feds? The local “peacekeepers”? Or was it Drezin or the two Frains, whom Zedd informed us had ion cannons?

“Xzavic, are you okay?” I rise to my feet and inspect him. His back is more thickly plated than any other part of his body. I’d often wondered why that was his superpower. Frankly, I thought it wasn’t impressive as those things go. He doesn’t have fangs, claws, or the ability to fly.

As I look at the amount of rubble surrounding us and realize most of it hit his back before falling to the ground, I become a little more impressed.

“I’m okay,” he says as he stands with effort to his full height.

“No. You’re not. You’ve got a thousand scratches. You’re bleeding heavily from three gouges, and your gorgeous black hair is so dusty it looks gray.” I flash him a smile like some feisty heroine in a movie. All at once, though, my emotions escape from the tight cage I’ve kept them in.

My terror at the explosion, the fear that raced along my veins as I felt him getting pounded from above, all of that finally comes into my awareness. I watch my hands tremble in fear. It’s as if they belong to someone else.

Then I’m hit with a second wave of emotion. Look at him. He’s bleeding profusely. He could have died.

“I love you,” I blurt. “I love you, Xzavic.”

Terrible timing.