[ Truyện tiếng anh] The Hunt

The Hunt
The Hunt Page 20



I take off my underwear and leap into the pond.

The water is overpowering at fi rst; the sudden cold pummels air out of me. But there's no time to dil ydal y. I submerge my whole body under water, the frigid liqui***y a shock to my system. The water, even in the subdued light of disappearing dusk, is surprisingly clear.

I can stand. The bottom is a gentle decline, smooth and metal ic to the touch. I don't waste any time. I scrub myself, my face, my underarm, all the crevices and nooks in my body. I am not gentle with myself: I scrub myself raw. I turn my fi ngers into pitchforks and rake my scalp, washing my hair as best and quickly as I can.

Then I feel it. A deep vibration coming from the bottom of the pond, weak at fi rst but getting stronger quickly.

The heper stands up. It's looking at the perimeter of the vil age, then back at me. I understand immediately. The Dome is about to start closing. I need to get out now.

I run out of the pond, spraying up water with my thighs and knees. Hop over the edge, start sprinting.

The vibration is now a ful - fl edged thrumming that shakes the ground. Then a loud click, and the hum turns into a loud groan. A wal of glass emerges out of the ground, encircling me.

It ascends faster than I expect. Much faster. It is shin- high and then knee- high in a matter of seconds. I sprint to the glass wal , leaping up from a few yards away. My hands land on the top of the glass; they fi nd a tenuous grip on the near corner of the smooth top. My legs scrabble and thrash on the glass wal s for traction even as it continues to rise.

But the glass is made slippery by the water dripping off my body. I'm about to slip off. If I fal now, there's no way I'd be able to mount it again. I'd be trapped inside.

I close my eyes, shout a silent scream, and heave my arm across the top of the glass width. My hand fi nds the outer edge, and from there it's easier. I pul myself up, rol over the top width, and fal on the other side of the Dome, on the outside.

It's not a graceful fal . I land on my side; my vision whites out momentarily. Already the wal is twice my height and stil rising.

The heper girl is standing beside the pond. It picks up my briefs, holds them up for closer examination. Its nose crinkles—“crinkle”

is this thing hepers do when they pul their facial skin together— in mild disgust. And another emotion crosses its face, an unfamiliar, nuanced one. It's disgust, but there is a hint of something else: laughter? No, that's too strong. A hint of a smile touches its lips and mouth, barely perceptible. As if the smile doesn't quite have enough energy to break the surface.

The heper girl impales my briefs on one of its fl ying daggers.

One quick look at me, and it fl ings its arm. The dagger sails through the air, my briefs waving like a fl ag, arching just over the enclosing Dome. The dagger lands a few yards from me, my briefs draped over it like slain prey.

The Dome closes with surprising quietness.

I dislodge my briefs from the arrow. They do stink. In fact, now that I've washed myself, the briefs positively reek. And then I do something I've never done before. I crinkle my nose.

Just for size, to see how it feels. It feels forced and alien on my face, as if something artifi cial were cinching my nose.

The heper girl walks over to the glass wal s of the Dome. I can't see it too clearly; the purpling skies cast a refl ective smear over its face. I walk over until we're standing only a few yards apart, separated by the glass wal . It stands close to the Dome, its breath frosting the glass. A smal foggy circle that disappears as quickly as it appears.

There's fear on its face, there's anger, there's curiosity.

And something else. I look into its eyes, and instead of the glossy plastic shine I'm used to in people's eyes, I see something different. Flecks dance in them, like the trapped fl akes in a snow globe.

I turn and walk away. On the way back, I pick up my clothes, quickly put them on. I turn around to take one last look at the Dome. The heper hasn't moved; it stands stationary, watching me.

Hunt Minus Two Nights THE EVENTS THAT transpired yesternight at the Introduction,” the Director says, “were a tad on the aggressive side.”

We are back in the lecture hal after a quick and somber breakfast. Gaunt Man and Crimson Lips had sat ner vous ly at their own table during breakfast while everyone else veered far away. By their look, neither one had slept a wink all day. A strange quietness hung over everything, the tables, the chairs, the soppy breakfast food, like the mist that hovers over a beaker of acid. And the dining hal was emptier than usual, the escorts oddly absent. We were half expecting staff offi cials to come trooping in during the meal to lead away Gaunt Man and Crimson Lips. But they never came. That seemed to set Gaunt Man and Crimson Lips at ease as we headed over to the lecture hal after breakfast.

I'm also relieved, but for a different reason: I don't smel anymore. At least, not enough to attract attention. The quick scrub down at the pond seems to have done the trick— nobody seems hot and bothered by any odor. Or perhaps after the heper kil ing at the Introduction yesternight, everyone's become desensitized to smal er amounts of heper odor. Either way, I win.

The Director is anchored behind the lectern as he speaks.

If anger brews within, he hides it wel beneath his clinical y precise articulation. His eyebrows do not arch, his head does not snap forward. He speaks with the disinterested emotion of one reading random epitaphs, without a hint of reproof for the very serious breach that was committed. His slender voice: the quietness of a razor blade sashaying from side to side, daring contact.

“You had your fun. But consequences . . .

There are conse- quences to your actions.” His eyes don't gaze anywhere close to Gaunt Man and Crimson Lips, who are now sitting especial y rigid in their seats. “In society, the pa ram e ters are clear. It is a capital offense to hunt and kil a heper. Kil and be kil ed. However, yesternight's kil ing was not— shal we say, technically— an il egal hunt. It was part of the training of the Palace- endorsed Heper Hunt. As such, it fal s under the overal auspices of the Hunt.”

I see Gaunt Man and Crimson Lips relax a touch.

“But there are consequences. Because a heper who, old and emaciated as it may have been, was kil ed. Gone. No more. Years of possible scientifi c research never brought to fruition. It will simply not do for its death to go unaccounted for. A crime against a heper is a crime against the Palace. And so there must be consequences for these dastardly acts. Punishment must be meted out.”

Gaunt Man and Crimson Lips stiffen in their seats again.

“Of course,” the Director continues, his eyes drifting down and settling upon them, “nothing can be done against you.”

Their heads **** to the side.

“We have invested too much in you,” the Director continues.

“To expel you and seek a replacement so late in the game, mere nights from the Hunt, is simply not a feasible option.”

His voice drops off as he gazes at the empty seats in the back row.

“But punishment must be meted out. So nobody gets any notion that the government is getting soft. Because a capital offense demands a capital punishment. Or two. Or three. Or seven.”

His next words are razor- sharp. “You will have noticed that the escorts are gone.” It is an ambiguous statement. And then it is not.

A chil runs down my spine. And he says nothing else as he walks slowly across the stage to another lectern, this one made of glass.

“So, with that unpleasantry out of the way, some good news to report. A rather pleasant surprise, in fact. The Palace has directed us to host a banquet Gala. Hundreds of dignitaries will be arriving, high- standing offi cials, men of infl uence, their wives and mis-tresses. It is very short notice, but we do have a smidge of a window tomorrow eve ning. This Institute used to host many a banquet Gala back in the day, so it's shovel- ready. The facility just needs a dusting up. It'l be ready. And so will you. We're canceling all other training events. Who needs training, anyway, just chase down the damn things and eat them.” He peels back his sleeve like a snake shedding skin and delicately scratches his bony wrist.

“And one more thing. The media will be covering the Gala.

We want you looking your best. Tailors are arriving in a couple of hours to mea sure each of you. They'l be busy with you the rest of the night.” He runs his hand back along the gel ed arc of his hair.

“Two nights after the banquet, the Hunt will begin. all guests to the banquet are required to stay for the start of the Hunt.

And so you will have quite the send- off, what with the hundreds of spectators and media coverage. Should make for quite the spectacle.”

He stares at us, then scratches his wrist. “My, my, my, don't you all look so petrifi ed. You should see your sil y, worried faces. I know exactly what your concern is: you're afraid the hundreds of guests will all rush out after the hepers. You needn't worry. This building will be locked down three hours before dusk on the night of the Hunt. A total lockdown. No one will be able to leave the building except the hunters.”

Without saying more, the Director, as is his wont,...

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Questions?”

Phys Ed raises his arm. “I don't get it. If they get there before dark, they'l be safely holed up before we even get to start. This is supposed to be a Hunt, not a siege.”

By the number of head jerks all around, it's clear that Phys Ed has struck a common nerve.

But Fril y Dress is unperturbed, slowly scratching her wrist.

“My, my, a little antsy this eve ning, aren't we? One thing you have all forgotten is the sheer gul ibility of the hepers.

They'l believe anything we tel them. After all , we domesticated them, we know how to pul their strings.” Her face suddenly turns stern.

“There is no shelter. No building, no shutters, no wal s, not even so much as a brick. The hepers will be completely exposed for you to hunt.”

At this, a smacking of lips ensues, so loud that, again, we can barely hear Fril y Dress speaking.

“. . . stash of weapons,” she says, fi nishing her sentence.

Phys Ed raises his arm again. “What did you mean by ‘a stash of weapons'?”

Fril y Dress scratches her wrist, obviously pleased with herself.

She pauses, knowing she has our attention. “There is a very signifi - cant change from the previous Heper Hunts. We've decided to arm the hepers. With a stash of weapons. This wil undoubtedly slow down the Hunt, make it more chal enging, and help you derive greater enjoyment out of it.

Raise the stakes, raise the plea sure.”

“Arm them? With what kind of weapons?” asks Beefy, his voice gruff, more curious than alarmed.

An image of a spear and dagger is projected on the large screen.

I recognize them as the ones the female heper had brandished— and thrown at me— the day before. “It was once hoped that the hepers would learn to use the spear and dagger as weapons. They did, but their lack of strength rendered these weapons as useless as toothpicks. Fortunately, however, our staffers here at the Institute have come up with some more robust weaponry, something with real zing.

Something that can actual y hurt. And possibly maim.”

The wrist scratching that began with the images of the spear and dagger comes to a sudden stop. “What kind of weapons?” Beefy asks again, warily now.

Fril y Dress turns to him, and there is suddenly nothing fril y or dressy about her gaze. “This,” she whispers, and another image is projected on the screen.

It looks like a rectangular cup, but instead of an opening on one end there is a glass encasing behind which three glassy bulbs point outward. The surface of the weapon is paneled with a highly re-fl ective metal, mirrorlike. A large chrome button sits atop the weapon on the other end.

“This is the three- bulb Flash Uniemitter, or simply FLUN for short. FLUNs can infl ict devastating fl ashes of light. Push the button situated at the back, and out shoots a continuous ray of light— not mercuric, mind you— that lasts up to two seconds. The beam is quite powerful: at a luminous effi cacy of about ninety- fi ve lumens, it will singe your skin deeply and painful y on initial contact. If the beam is held for a second or longer, the ultraviolet resonance will cause vomiting and loss of consciousness. If you happen to look directly into the beam, you will be blinded, perhaps permanently.”

It is, as the saying goes, quiet enough to hear a heper hair drop.

“That is the lowest setting.”

Silence.

“How many settings are there?” Beefy asks.

After a dramatic pause, Fril y Dress says, “Five. At the highest setting, a single shot is powerful enough to burn a hole through you.

It has fi ve times the potency of the noon sun rays.”

Ashley June's arm wisps up like a plume of smoke. “How many?”

Her question is vague, but Fril y Dress seems to understand perfectly. “There are fi ve FLUNs in total. Each heper will be armed with one. Each FLUN shoots upward of three shots. It has a range of about thirty feet.” She purses her lips as if sucking out stuck entrails from between her teeth.

It is very, very quiet. “Why?” asks Beefy.

This question is also ambiguous, but again Fril y Dress has no problem understanding it. “We're doing it for you, my dear. To make this Hunt truly memorable, to make it surpass the excitement of any previous Hunt.”

Nobody is moving now, nobody seemingly breathing. Only her dress moves, swaying about her wide body, embroidered fronds and ferns and sunfl owers spinning about her.

“In fact, not only do we want to increase the combativeness between the hunters and hepers, we want to increase the level of competition between the hunters as wel .” Her voice has taken on a robotic tone, as if she's spouting a script.

“This will indubitably make the Hunt that much more interesting and ultimately enhance the winner's enjoyment.”

“How are you going to increase it?” Ashley June asks, glancing at the others. Her voice is a whisper in the airy lecture hal . “The competition between us?”

“Sometime later to night, you'l each be given a piece of equipment. Nothing that will help you actual y kil the hepers, but it will make the chase to them more interesting. The equipment is designed to give you an advantage over your fel ow hunters. Perhaps.

They're all still in the prototype stage, so their ability to deliver as advertised is unproven.”

“What kind of items?” Abs asks. She's leaning forward, intrigued.

“Wel , some of you will be given shoes designed to give more bounce and speed. We estimate that it will make you about ten percent faster. Others will be given either a SunCloak or SunBlock Lotion. Worn and applied properly, they can be used to block the early- dawn and late- dusk sunlight. We think, anyway. You'l be able to leave perhaps ten minutes before the others, an eternity of difference in a race like this. Some of you will be given an adrenaline shot.

You get the idea. Things that will give you minor advantages over the others in the chase. But again, let me emphasize: These products haven't been completely tested. You use and rely on them at your own risk.”

“I was hoping for something more along the lines of a protective suit— against the FLUNs,” Crimson Lips says.

“I wouldn't worry about the FLUNs,” Gaunt Man says before Fril y Dress can respond. “Remember, they're animals.

They won't even be able to fi gure out how to operate the FLUNs.”

“Believe that if you will ,” Fril y Dress says, her voice even and cold. “If you think that gives you a competitive edge over the others, then think that. The others here will be only too glad to take advantage of your will ful ignorance.”

“Hey, you can't talk to me that way—”

“Funny, that. I was just about to ask for a volunteer, thank you for offering.”

“Volunteer? For what?”

“That's right, just make your way up to the stage.” Fril y Dress takes out a pair of shades from her belt, puts them on. “I suggest you all put on your shades now. Except you,”

she says, looking at Gaunt Man.

Gaunt Man gets up slowly, his hand creeping up to pul his earlobes. He stops himself. “What's this? What's going on?”

“Nothing the escorts haven't already gone through this morning.”

“What's this? I'm not getting out of my seat,” he says, sitting back down now.

“That's not a problem.” And then Fril y Dress takes out a secreted FLUN from beneath her dress. “ Didn't I just tel you this thing has a range of thirty feet?”

Gaunt Man strains back against his chair. He's pinned, got nowhere to go.

“Consider yourself lucky. I've set it on the weakest setting.

But I think you'l still be impressed.”

“Wait!” Gaunt Man's head snaps forward, then to the side.

“The Director said punishment had already been meted out. Upon the escorts. There's nothing left—”

“But to show what you were so lucky to miss out on. Albeit a very watered- down demonstration, compared to what they had to face. You'l live.”

There is a click as her thumb pushes down on the button. A sharp, clear beam shoots out of the FLUN. Arms raised before our eyes, we're all blinded by the fl ash. Except me, of course. I see the beam hit Gaunt Man on his chest. His arms fl y to block it, but already there is black smoke shooting out of his chest. He fal s to the ground as if toppled by a sledgehammer, his body writhing in pain. His mouth is wide open, but no sound emits. He turns to the side, his tongue thick and dry and protruding out of his mouth; a sludge of yel ow vomit pours out.

Fril y Dress releases the button. “Oh, stop being such a drama queen,” she says as she fl oats by him and out.

We're ushered out of the lecture hal and taken on another tour of the facilities, more empty classrooms and laboratories. After our face- to- face encounter with a live heper yesterday, looking at heper teeth and anatomical heper diagrams fails to arouse any excitement. The only area remotely interesting is the kitchen. Gaunt Man rejoins us there, having gotten clearance from the doctors, looking even more bitter than usual. The chefs are busy in the kitchen preparing for...

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“What is this about?” she asks.

He ignores her question, turns to me. “And you too. Come with me now.” He pivots around and walks out, not bothering to look back.

Something is off; I sense it as we fol ow the staffer outside and along the brick path toward the library. His pace is more than just brisk and urgent; there is fear propel ing his boots forward. No one speaks.

Walking through the front doors and into the library feels like walking into the lion's den.

Inside, the fi rst thing I sense are bodies. Lots of them, perhaps two dozen, staffers and sentries standing just inside the foyer. all of them are wearing shades, all off to the side, standing stiffl y at attention.

Don't swivel your eyes back and forth. Don't.

Nobody moves. I let my eyes adjust to the darkness slowly, taking long, sustained breaths. It's cold inside.

Nothing good is going to come out of this. The only silver lining: They don't know yet. That I'm a heper. If they knew, I wouldn't still be standing here. They'd have pounced on me the second I entered.

I hear his voice before I see him.

“I trust you have found these accommodations to your satisfac-tion?” the Director says in a tempered tone. He is standing in the center of the room, just off the side of a table, the right side of his face lit by a mercuric lamp, his left side blanketed in blackness. His lithe fi gure, cutting an inconspicuous line in the room, possesses the thinness of a slashing razor. As he speaks, even the books on the shelves seem to tilt slightly away from him.

“Yes, they have been wonderful. Thank you.”

His head arcs upward as if fol owing a fl ock of birds hastily taking fl ight. “We worried about the size of the sleep- holds. They weren't custom- fi t for you. We apologize for that.”

“They were a coincidental y good fi t.”

“Were they now?”

“Yes.”

He gazes casual y at me with seeming disinterest, but beneath his stare a keen coldness lingers. Without warning, his feet suddenly lift off the ground as he leaps toward the ceiling. His body spins upward, his feet a half second later locking into the sleep- holds, the very sleep- holds I have never used. Minutely, his body sways lan-guorously, like the pendulum of an ancient grandfather clock. His eyes, upside down, are still locked cool y on mine.

“Amazing how different the world is from this position, when everything is turned on its head. Do you fi nd that to be true?”

“Yes. I do,” I answer.

“Makes you see things from a different perspective. And that's why I'm upside down, looking at you now.”

“Sir?”

“Because I'm trying to see you in a different light. Trying to see what's so special about you. Trying to see why the Palace is singling you out, giving you the royal treatment.

Because I just don't see anything about you that's distinguishing.” He closes his eyes, luxu-riating in a long, drawn- out blink.

“Royal treatment, sir?”

“Ah, playing dumb, I see.”

I don't say anything.

“Take a look around,” he whispers, “at this whole wide library that is yours alone. It's even bigger than my chambers! And you tel me the Palace is not giving you the royal treatment.” He descends slowly from the sleep- holds and lands unnervingly close to me, an arm's length away.

I fi ght the urge to step back.

“You know, just a few minutes ago, I received yet another directive from the Palace. Concerning you. Again.” He pauses, a glint in his eyes. “There are very few things in life that leave me at a loss.

But this kind of attention from the Palace for someone as bland and insignifi cant as you . . . wel , quite frankly, it's left me fl ummoxed.”

“I confess I'm not sure what you're referring to. Another directive, sir?”

“No confessions, please.” He takes a step back to a nearby desk, his fi nger trailing along the back of a chair. He pul s it out, sits down. And that's when I notice the two attaché cases. On the table, refl ecting the faint gleam of the mercuric lights. They stand straight up like everyone else in the room, at attention. But with an ominous air.

“If there's one thing I disdain, it's being kept in the dark. It's a cold stiff arm of disrespect. And the Palace has been doing this repetitively over the past few weeks. To me.

Random directives arriving on my desk daily, without explanation or rationale, last minute twists and turns regarding the Hunt. Fortunately, my bright intel ect helps me see the method to all the madness of these directives.” His lips downturn. “Except when it comes to you.”

Standing off to my right, Ashley June hasn't moved. Her arms hang still by her sides, her face lost in the dark shadows.

“I've done my research on you. Apparently, you're quite an intel-lectual standout at school, not nearly as dumb as you've been pretending to be here. Quite the brains, so they say. A natural, despite your only moderately above par grades. How did the report put it?

Ah, yes, that yours was a stupendous and prodigious intel igence not ful y tapped. That's the intel on you, anyway.” He pauses.

“Could that be what garners all this attention, favoritism?

Your so-cal ed intel igence?”

he says, staring condescendingly at me with the naked disdain of someone feeling threatened. “Tel me: What do you think this Hunt is about?”

He's testing me. Sizing me up. “Hunting hep—”

“And don't say ‘hunting hepers.' Because it's never been about hunting or hepers or hunting hepers. So don't use any of those words separately or in combination.”

“It's all about the Ruler,” I answer, strangely emboldened.

His eyes snap to mine, but there is no menace in them. “Ah, the lad might have a mind, after all . Expound, then, if you wil .”

I pause. “I'd rather not, I think.”

His head snaps back. “You'd rather so, I should think.”

After a pause, I speak, in as even- keeled a voice as I can muster.

“The Ruler knows that his popularity rating has been sagging recently. This is unfair because he is a truly dynamic leader, the best this land has ever known in all its storied and glorious past. But our Ruler is not so much interested in his popularity numbers as he is in the happiness of his people. And nothing else brings as much communal bliss and sense of societal camaraderie as a Heper Hunt. It is to that end that he plans and executes the Heper Hunt with such adroit skil . Of course, it is merely incidental that— as history bears out— nothing will help his numbers as much as a Heper Hunt.”

“Bingo,” the Director whispers, his eyes closing in ecstasy.

“My, my, my. The boy wonder surprises after all .” He scratches his wrist.

“But that was an easy question. The warm- up.”

A slight shake of the head and then he sets his eyes on mine, a hardness fl itting across his face. “Explain to me . . .

all of this,” he says, his arms fl oating above him momentarily like a bal erina. “Explain the reason for this training orientation. After all , who needs training to hunt down hepers? Why the idiotic lectures, workshops, training sessions? And explain the festivities, the fanfare of the Gala, explain the reason for the media, reporters, and photographers fl ooding into this Institute as we speak. And explain why on earth we are arming the hepers with FLUNs.”

“I'm sorry, I don't know.”

“Don't say sorry,” he says. And he waits.

“I don't know.”

“Not so smart after all . Are you?” His upper lip snarls up re- proachful y, exposing the lower half of his fangs. “Fact is, you're just like everyone else around here, all the incompetent staff who need to be hand- fed intel igence, my intel igence. Clueless. Brainless. Empty-headed.” His eyes stare out at me, fl aring down his nose and upturned chin.

“Empty as this Institute,” he says, bitterness souring his words. “Empty as this Institute,” he says again, quieter.

He turns his back to me, stares out the window. When he speaks, the cratered emptiness of his voice surprises me.

“It wasn't always this way. The hal ways used to hum with foot traffi c; classrooms spil ed over with the very brightest fi rst- rate minds; laboratories were hives of activity, brimming with experiments conducted by top- notch scientists. And the heper pens! They were fi l ed, from top to bottom, with dozens of hepers, young to old. Our breeding program— my breeding program— was about to really take off.

There was energy about this place, a spark running along the wal s.

We had purpose, recognition, admiration, respect, even envy. We had everything.” He stops speaking, stops moving, his chest so still , it is as if he has stopped breathing. “Everything but self- control.”

And then his eyes turn to the sentries and staff standing stiffl y around us, his icy stare pinning each of them like moths to the board.

“Until one day, we had virtual y no hepers left,” he continues, turning to face me. “This will be the very last Heper Hunt.

The...

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To make the stakes that much higher. The experience of the Hunt all the more enhanced, the victory all the more rapturous.”

The Director nods me on.

“I mean, the training period alone will take up fi ve chapters.

And it'l be a chance to fl esh out the hunters. The competitiveness between us, the confl icts within, all that wil only be grist for the mil .

It'l build up anticipation, leading up to the Gala, then, to the climax, the Hunt itself. The book will practical y write itself.”

The Director's eyes shine with reluctant approval. “And the FLUNs? Why arm the hepers with FLUNs? Go on, go on, you're doing wel so far.”

“For excitement. No, more than that.” I pause, thinking. “To slow the Hunt down. Because these are the very last hepers in existence. What a waste to devour them into extinction in mere seconds.

Chomp, chomp, gone, scarfed down in a frantic feeding frenzy. It'l be almost anticlimactic. No, better to draw out the experience, to kil off the hepers slowly, one at a time. One chapter stretched into three.”

I fi ght the urge to furrow my brow. “But that's possible only if the Hunt is slowed down— by arming the hepers. It'll the Hunt is slowed down— by arming the hepers. It'll increase the drama, the excitement, the payoff for the eventual winner. And then the last chapter will be amazing.

Drama to the hilt as the winning hunter drinks down the very last drops of heper blood. Down, down his throat . . . into oblivion.” I look at Ashley June, then at the Director, understanding at last. “Everything is for the book. For the Ruler.”

The Director is staring with a look of genuine surprise, his eyes wide, his jaw drooped and slack. Then his head snaps forward, then back again, a sharp staccato movement that cracks his neck. “Wel done,” he says. “You really are quite the surprise.” His neck cracks THE HUNT 133 loudly one more time, a bone- snapping clap that ricochets down the library.

Then he pauses: his eyes suddenly narrow into a dark and intense disdain. “And so that brings us back to you. The one thing I cannot fi gure out. How do you fi t into all of this?

And why the directive I received just a few minutes ago, again concerning you?”

“What directive, sir?”

“Why is the Palace so interested in you?” he asks, ignoring my question. “Everything else, I've fi gured out.” And every last vestige of brightness in his eyes is fl ung away. Only razors of darkness stand in his eyes now, so keen on mine, I feel them slicing into my eyebal s.

“I don't know.”

“You're lying,” he says, caressing his forearm with the backs of his fi ngers as if stroking a hairless kitten. “Tel me. Now. Tel me what's going on. The Palace thinks it's so smart with these random directives, thinks it can keep me in the dark. Every other day comes some new directive wil y- nil y, some new twist on this Hunt. They want to keep me on my toes, they want to keep me in the dark. But I have my ways of fi nding out.” His words drop out of his mouth, sharp icicles fal ing into a dark canyon. “And of coercing it out, if necessary.”

My fi ngers, hung by my side, begin to tremble. I press them against the side of my leg. “I don't—”

“Tel me!” His voice booms off the wal s. Even as his words echo down the length of the fl oor, I see the anger rising in his eyes.

He begins to move toward me— “I know why,” Ashley June suddenly whispers.

The Director stops. Everyone turns to look at her.

She looks at me briefl y, as if about to commit an unforgivable betrayal, then says: “It's because”— her voice lowers even more— “he's different.”

“What do you mean?” the Director asks.

She is standing in the shadows; now she steps forward, into a splash of moonlight. “He's exactly what the Palace is looking for.”

Hesitation. Then: “Explain.”

“You said the winner will pen this book. So they need someone who can write. And with the media here, there're going to be magazine interviews, TV talk show appearances, radio interviews after the Hunt. So they need someone wel - spoken. But Heper Hunt winners have typical y been loutish brutes, masters of physicality but not exactly the most articulate or ce re bral of people. The Palace needs someone who is wel - spoken, thoughtful, restrained, detail-oriented.” She fl icks her chin in my direction. “And with him, you've got all that. I know: I've been his classmate for years. He's always been an academic star, unwittingly. His intel igence is effortless.

He'l be terrifi c. In press interviews, in front of the camera, penning the memoir. And the Palace knows this; it sounds like they've thor-oughly vetted him. Of all the hunters here, he's by far the most media- ready.”

The Director turns his eyes on me, scrutinizing me as if from a newly discovered angle.

“He might be a bit on the shy, quiet side,” Ashley June continues, “but even that's a plus: it's a quietness that's compel ing and attractive. Girls love it.” She pauses. “Trust me on that one.”

The Director shifts his stare away to look outside, a fl icker of annoyance fl itting across his face. “Who's been giving you all this intel?”

“Nobody. It's just guesswork, that's all .” Alertness shines in her eyes. “Nothing you haven't already thought of, I'm sure.”

“I see.” His left hand, glowing with a suffused paleness, strokes one of the attaché cases. His bony fi ngers lilt on the handle, brushing it with fear and disdain. “So you're just guessing— you could be way off base.”

“Maybe. But I don't think so.” She pauses. “But what about me?

Why am I here?”

The Director raises his eyes to her and scratches his wrist in long, lethargic strokes. His plea sure is easily evident.

“You are what we would cal Plan B.”

“I'm not sure I fol ow.”

“Pity that. And to think you'd been doing so wel .” The Director sniffs. “Evidently, you're just like everyone else, always needing me to spel things out for them. An hour ago, I received yet another directive. Concerning both you and him. You are Plan B. In case Plan A— him—fails to pan out, in case he fails to execute, you're the safety net.

Something goes wrong during the Hunt, he fails to deliver or is taken out of the action, you're there to win the Hunt.

You're the insurance policy, the understudy winner.”

“I don't think it'l work.”

“But of course it will !” he says, mild irritation seeping into his voice. “You're every bit the package he is. Smart— though I'm beginning to have my doubts; verbose— though a little too much, I'm coming to think; and very knowledgeable about hepers. They've told me about you, little girl, about all the heper clubs and societies you've been involved in over the years. Your heper knowledge wil come in handy during post- Hunt interviews and whatnot.

And besides, you're quite the eye candy. You'd look good on camera, in photographs. Your pretty face would grace the covers of instant best sel ers quite wel . Yes, I can see it now.”

“You need to think about the bigger picture of the Hunt,”

Ashley June says, her voice steely.

“I need to think? . . .”

Ashley June is silent: the silence of regret.

“You think you know better than me?” The words pepper her like pel ets out of a shotgun, rancid with scorn. “Don't tel me what I need to think, little girl.”

The Director closes his eyelids, his long eyelashes delicately interlacing. And with that, the temperature in the library, already low, plummets. Beams of moonlight freeze into pil ars of transparent gray ice. I shoot a look at her. She knows she's crossed a line— her skin is even paler than before, and her eyelids are fl uttering.

The Director's eyes draw down to the two attaché cases.

He pul s them closer. “One of you'l need to win the Heper Hunt for this plan *****cceed. That's what you wanted to tel me, isn't it, little girl? Please. Don't presume to share with me your pedestrian ideas. Because I already knew that. In order for you to grace the covers of magazines, to appear on talk shows, to be the talk of the town, one of you must win. Because yes, I'm wel aware that there're other hunters, many of whom are not only as desirous to win, but far more capable of doing so.”

He presses a button and the attaché cases open with a snap. He spins them around for us to see inside. A FLUN inside each case.

The Director takes one out. “Nobody knows what real y happens out there in the Vast during the Hunt, how dirty it can get. For one, the Hunt has never been videotaped: videocameras are too heavy, and besides, cameramen wil simply throw the cameras down and join in the Hunt, unable to resist. And nobody really cares how . . .

unsportsmanlike things can degenerate. Hunters have been known to . . . wel , resort to dirty tricks. It's a dog- eat- dog world out there, and the more dog it is, the more interesting it'l be to read...

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The Hunt Page 24



there can be only one. You will know what to do. Correct?”

Neither Ashley June nor I answer.

And he starts scratching again, long, slow strokes. “I see. I see. I see that I have not made myself clear. That I have not ful y conveyed to you just how vested I am in the success of this Hunt. That I have not made clear how important this is to me, how one of you— and only one— must win the Hunt.”

He places the tips of his forefi ngers on each eyebrow, runs them down their thin, soft arches. “Many people think I have a dream job here at the Institute. To be able to work in such proximity to the hepers. Those people are ignorant fools.

This place is hell .”

His face turns graven, darkness shadowing over him. “A successful Hunt would give me a chance to leave this place,” he whispers.

“This purgatory where heaven is only a glass wal away; but that glass is as thick as a thousand universes laid side by side. You can only take it for so long, to be tantalized with the sight and smel of hepers, yet to be deprived of it at every turn. It is its own type of hell, to be so teasingly close yet so impossibly far. To get away from this faux heaven . . . and be promoted to work where heaven is real— the Ruler's Palace. To fi nal y be promoted to Minister of Science.”

Another long pause pregnant with angst. “Have you ever . . .

no, of course you haven't. But I was there for a day. The Ruler's Palace. When I was offi cial y appointed to this position. There, in all its glory and grandeur. The reality surpassed even the loftiest of my expectations. Towering sphinxes of hyenas and jackals, slippery-smooth marble edifi ces, the endless, elegant retinue of cupbearers, scribes, harpists, pages, message runners, court soothers, guards-men, the silky- robed harem of virgins. But that was not even the best of it. Have you any idea what that might be?”

I do not say anything.

“You might think it is the elegant pools lined with waterfal s, or the grottoes, or the symphonic hal with the petal- cupped mercuric chandelier. But no, you would be wrong. Or the aquarium fi l ed with oysters and clams and squid and octopus that you can simply pluck out like a dandelion and devour. But you would be wrong again. Or the paintings, or the royal stable with rows of regal stal ions as far as the naked eye can take you. But again, you would be wrong.”

He lifts his index fi nger weighed down by a heavy emerald- cut inset ring. Immediately, the staffers and sentries about- turn and walk out.

When the front doors close, he wets his lips and continues.

“It's the food. The most exotic yet fattiest of meats, the choicest and bloodiest parts to sink your teeth into even as the animal's heart pumps. Pump- pump, pump- pump, just like that, as you chew on its liver and kidney and brain. Of dogs, of cats. And that's just the appetizer. After that, the main course.” Out of the dark, I hear his lips quiver wetly. “Heper meat,” he hisses.

I stare blankly, a horror dawning on me. Don't widen your eyes, my father's voice bel ows, don't widen your eyes!

“Suppose I tel you there's a secret stash,” he whispers.

“That somewhere on the Palace grounds is a top- secret heper farm. Just supposing, of course. Because everyone knows that the last hepers on the face of the planet are in that Dome outside. But now, suppose that heper farm is underground, kept from view, spanning the whole length and width of the Palace grounds. Just supposing, of course. How many hepers? you might be asking. Who can say? But during the one night I stayed there, I could hear their howls and cries at night. Sounded like there were dozens, possibly hundreds.”

He strokes his cheek. “Perhaps— just supposing— enough to provide the Ruler a heper meal for the rest of his life. Just supposing, of course.”

He looks at us in turn. “So now you know, yes? I am fi rmly committed to this Hunt's success. Meaning one of you— and only one!— will come out the winner. You do not want to know the consequences of failure.” He stands up. “Trust me on this one. So you will give me this. One of you will win. That is all . I have made myself clear.” He brushes by me and exits the room. The door closes behind him.

I let out my breath, and it's a long time before I inhale again.

Afterward, Ashley June and I are sent to our respective rooms to be mea sured. A team of tailors— somber with hangdog faces— takes mea sure ments for my tuxedo, their voices hushed in the airy library. It's a stressful experience for me, especial y when the tailors 140 ANDREW FUKUDA lean in a little too close for comfort. I see their nostrils fl aring; one of them even shoots me a curious look. I shoot him down quickly enough, but he gives me another odd look as the team packs up and leaves.

I head outside, wanting to be in open space. The last few hours have been intensely stressful. And it's a beautiful night, perfect for calming my nerves. The sky is sprinkled with pretty sparkles of starlight; the crescent moon hovers high, layering the snow- capped eastern mountains with a fi lm of crusted silver. Soft gusts of air sigh across the plains, lifting the tension from my shoulders.

I hear footsteps behind me, the soft kick of sand.

It's Ashley June, walking toward me, her eyes tentatively on mine. When our eyes meet, her eyes fal shyly. She's wearing a new outfi t: a black satin camisole, hung low and tight. Her long pale arms glide down her sides, shimmering under the moonlight, slippery marble columns. The sand shifts and swirls under me, dizzying me, disorienting me.

“I walk all the way back here, the least you can do is say hi,”

she says. She stands in front of me. “Oh, I see, you're not even talking to me now.”

“No, it's not that. I'm sorry.”

A breeze bil ows her hair with soft undulations, exposing the skin of her neck. “Look, I'm not your enemy here. Yet.” She scratches her wrist. “I guess we're supposed to wait until the Hunt for that.”

And I fi nd myself scratching my wrist in return. “Do me a favor,” I say. “If it comes down to only you and me in the Hunt, just shoot me in the pinkie toe, okay? No need to take me out with a shot through my eye.”

“Right pinkie or left?”

I scratch my wrist. “I'l take the left. Just aim careful y, okay?

It's a smal toe.”

“Deal,” she says.

High above us, the shape of a large bird sails across the night sky. Its wings span disproportionately large, unwieldy, and stiff. It circles around us, then dissolves in the distance.

“I came here to ask you something,” she says.

“No, you can't have my FLUN.”

She doesn't say anything. I turn to look at her, and she's waiting with those emerald green eyes of hers, quietly, hopeful y. As if she's been waiting for this moment for a long time: when I'm really alone with her, not distracted, our eyes fi nal y meeting and merging.

“Take me to the Gala.” Her voice is soft and even.

I start lifting my wrist to scratch it. But her arms dangle by her side, stationary. “For real?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“I don't even know if it's . . . it's not like a school prom, you know. It's the Gala. A splashy government affair. It's a whole other thing.”

“I know,” she says. “It won't be like a prom at all . It will be a thousand times more special.”

“I don't . . . I don't know.”

“It'l mean a lot to me.”

I glance over her shoulder, scan the horizon. “Look, I don't know how to say this. I know the Gala will be special and classy because of the music, the media, the red carpet, the dancing, the food—”

“It will be special because of you. Because you've asked me to be with you.”

I look away. “I don't know.”

And she moves suddenly toward me, swiftly closing the distance between us. She takes my elbow in her hand. The touch of her skin on mine jolts me. “Is it so hard to like me?”

she asks, whispering, her eyes searching mine. “Is it real y that hard?”

I don't say anything.

“Can you just pretend, can you just put on a mask, then?”

And something about those words— or maybe it's the way she says them— makes me look into her eyes, longer than I ever have with anyone but my father. “Because you're real y ripping me apart inside.”

“It's not you—”

“Just pretend,” she whispers, “that you're really into me.

That you like the shape of my lips, the softness of my skin, the scent of my breath, the color of my eyes. And pretend that you can even see past all that, the surface, that you know me deeper than that. The hidden beneath. And that you are still drawn to me, except even more so. Imagine there is nothing else right now but me standing before you, that no one else in the world exists. Not the other hunters, not the staffers, not the hepers. Not even the moon or the stars or the mountains. And that you have longed for me for a long time, and I am here now, right before you. Pretend al that, just for one night.” Her free hand reaches to my back and pul s me closer to her. We're...

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The Hunt Page 25



Why have I let myself forget, why, in a moment of weakness, did I give in? I can never forget that her beauty is laced with poison, that her lips veil twin rows of knives, that her heart is enclosed by a razor- sharp rib cage. She is impossible to me, untouchable, unreachable.

My hand on her elbow clamps down hard, with anger, with loathing, sinking deep into her bloodless fl esh. But she misinterprets the force of my emotions and lifts her face to the night sky, shaking more fervently. And I realize how, from the outside, on the other side of the mask, how easy it is for loathing to be mistaken for longing.

With dawn soon approaching, I walk Ashley June back to her room.

We make arrangements to meet tomorrow after dusk— she wants to come down and get dressed in the library so we can head to the Gala together, linked arm in arm. “It's going to be so amazing,”

she gushes as I leave.

I head back to the library. Within minutes, the shutters come down. I wait a while longer to be safe, then head outside.

I'm thirsty again and in need of another wash. Stepping outside under the brightening skies, I glance at the main building to make sure the shutters are down. And then I'm making for the Dome, double time. This time I have three empty plastic bottles, tied together with a short length of twine, slung over my shoulder. The bottles bump against one another, making random hol ow sounds like the thumps of a drunken drummer. The Dome hasn't descended yet; I keep saying now and pointing at the Dome. Now. It doesn't move. Now.

Stil doesn't heed my command; the glass wal s don't budge.

Halfway there, a hum vibrates in the ground, barely discernible at fi rst, then unmistakable. The Dome wal s descend, the circular opening at the top widening as the glass wal sinks into the ground.

Dawn light plays off the moving glass, swirling like ribbons around the plains in a menagerie of color. And then the lights tail off, the humming stops. The Dome is gone.

I stand about a hundred yards from the pond and wait. It's better not to take any chances: despite what they must now know about me, they might still charge out of their mud huts (at least that heper girl, anyway) ready to spear me. That's the thing with these hepers: they can be so unpredictable, like zoo animals gone wild.

The front door to a mud hut suddenly swings open. A male The front door to a mud hut suddenly swings open. A male heper— young, about my age— stumbles out, bed- headed, legs rickety and stiff as it makes its way to the pond. It doesn't see me; it's squinting against the harsh morning light.

It's not until the heper splashes water on its face and is gulping water from cupped hands that its eyes drift up at me. Its hands instantly drop to its sides, water fal ing down to its feet. It beats a hasty retreat toward the mud huts, then suddenly stops as if catching itself. Glances back. Sees I'm stil standing, that I haven't moved at all .

I raise my hands, palms facing forward, hoping to convey: I mean no harm.

It turns tail and begins to fl ee.

“Wait! Stop!”

And it does. Over its shoulder, eyes wide, face ridden with fear.

But with curiosity as wel . As with the heper girl yesterday, feelings pour off its face without restraint, like a zoo animal shamelessly scratching its behind before a crowd of derisive spectators. These expressions: so extreme, fl owing like a waterfal . It stares at me with wide eyes.

“Sissy!” it yel s, and it's my turn to take a few steps back. In shock. The thing talks. “Sissy!” it says louder, the infl ections coming out clearly even in that short word.

“No, I—,” I stammer, uncertain what to say. Sissy? Why is it cal ing me a sissy?

“Sissy,” it shouts urgently, but its tone is bereft of ridicule.

It's a neutral tone, but with a hint of urgency, as if cal ing for help.

“I don't understand,” I say because, wel , I don't understand.

“I just want water.” I gesture toward the pond. “Wa- ter.”

“Sissy,” it shouts again, and a door to a mud hut fl ies open.

It's the heper girl, slightly disheveled, its eyes grabbing at alertness, fl icking off sleepiness. It surveys the scene quickly, soaking in the scene. Its eyes land on mine for a second, fl icks behind me, then returns to me again.

“It's okay, David,” it says to the fi rst heper. “Remember what I told you yesterday. He won't hurt us. He's like us.”

I'm thunderstruck. These hepers speak. They are intel igent, not savages.

The heper girl walks toward me, strides long and confi dent.

As it walks past mud huts, doors open and more hepers come out, fol owing the heper girl. It stops in front of the pond. “Right?” it asks, staring at me.

all I can do is stare at it.

“Right?” it asks again, and for the fi rst time I realize it's wield-ing a long ax in its left hand.

“Right,” I say.

We stare at each other for a long time.

“Have you come back for more water?” it asks.

“Yes.”

A group of four other hepers— all male— are gathered behind the heper girl, peering at me. I see one whisper to another, then a nod in agreement.

“Help yourself,” the heper girl says.

My thirst urges me along. I kneel by the edge of the pond and drink with cupped hands, keeping them all , especial y the heper girl, in my vision. Then I fi l the bottles with water, cap them off. I hesitate.

“Are you going to undress again?” it asks. This seems to relax the group behind it; they smile, look knowingly at one another. “If so, don't forget to take your undies with you this time.”

Over the years, I trained myself not to blush. But there's no stopping this one. A surge of heat hits my face, heat humming off it in droves.

The hepers see it, and they suddenly become quiet. Then the heper girl steps forward, and the group fol ows closely behind. It steps right up to me, an arm's length away, close enough for me to see the faint freckles sprinkled across the bridge of its nose. Its hand touches my face, pressing down on my cheek; even the tips of its fi ngers are cal used. It nods and beckons the others to approach.

They do, slowly, encircling me. I don't move. They reach out to me, their hands extending toward my face, then touch my cheek, my neck, poking, probing. I let them.

Then they step back. The heper girl is still standing in front of me, the knife no longer in hand. And for the fi rst time, I see something that is not fear or curiosity in its expression. I don't know what it is. Not exactly. But the smal fi res burning in her eyes are gentle and warm, like embers of a fi replace.

“My name's Sissy. What's yours?”

I look at her blankly. “What's a ‘name'?” I ask.

“You don't know what your name is?” a heper in the back asks.

It's the youn gest of the lot, a short boy, maybe ten years old, puck-ish. “My name's Ben. How can you not have a name?”

“He didn't say he doesn't know his name. He said he doesn't know what a name is.” The heper who says this stands off to the side alone. Its mouth is skewed at a slant on one side, as if inadvertently caught by a fi shhook. It towers above the others, as skinny as it is tal , as if, in the aging pro cess, its limbs were merely stretched without ad***ion of muscle or fat.

The short heper boy turns to me. “What do people cal you?”

“Cal me? It depends.”

“Depends?”

“Depends on where I am. Teachers cal me one thing, my coach cal s me another. Depends.”

The girl heper grabs the nearest heper by the arm, brings him forward. “This is Jacob.” It strides over to the next. “This one next to him is David, the one who saw you fi rst this morning. Standing off on his own there is Epaphro***us. We cal him ‘Epap.' ”

I run those sounds in my head: David, Jacob, Epap. Odd sounds, foreign. David and Jacob look young, maybe thirteen or fourteen years old. Epap is older, maybe seventeen.

“You mean designation. What's my designation?”

“No,” the heper girls says, shaking her head. “What does your family cal you?”

I'm about to tel her that I don't have a family, that they never called me by any “name” . . . when I stop. A memory suddenly surfaces, faint and crackly in my mind. The voice of my mother, singing, in broken, eclipsed fragments: just a melody at fi rst, the exact words indecipherable. But then a surfacing takes place, her words taking shape, a phrase here and there, still obscure, but— Gene.

“My name is Gene,” I say, and it is as much a revelation to me as an introduction to them.

They show me around the vil age. They've made the best of their lot. A smal vegetable farm around back, fruit trees dotted around the grounds. Laundry lines hung by a training ground, spears and knives and daggers littered about the sandy lot. Inside the mud huts, I'm surprised by the amount of sunlight pouring in. The roofs are punctured by large holes like a sieve. So strange, the absence of a barrier between them and the sky. A cool breeze blows through the huts.

“We only get the breeze in the daytime,” the heper girl says, noticing my enjoyment....

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The Hunt Page 26



On the side of the Umbilical is a wide slot door with hinges on the bottom that pul s open and fl at. Jacob peers in, takes out a large Tupperware container that I recognize. I smel the potatoes and noodles.

“Breakfast,” says David.

The green light stops blinking, turns to red.

I bend down, curious, sticking my head through the opening. A long, narrow tunnel— no wider than my head— runs underground, leading toward the Institute. This is the other end of the tunnel— the Umbilical, I guess— I saw in the kitchen.

“That's how we get our food,” Jacob says. “After we fi nish eating, we send all the dirty dishes right back. Every so often, they'l send us clothes. Sometimes, on one of our birthdays, they'l send us a treat. Birthday cake, paper and crayons, books, board games.”

“Why is it so far away from everything else?” I guesstimate the distance. “It's outside the perimeter of the Dome, isn't it? When the Dome comes up, the Umbilical is outside the glass wal , right?”

They nod. “That was intentional. They were afraid that someone smal would attempt to squeeze his way down the tunnel to get to us. At night, obviously. So they placed the Umbilical opening outside the Dome perimeter. That way, even if the smal person was able to burrow his way through at night, he'd still end up outside the wal s.”

“And nobody would ever do it during the day,” says Ben.

“For obvious reasons.”

“Recently, they've been sending us textbooks,” the heper named David adds. “Books on self- defense, the art of war.

We don't get it.

And then one night a few months ago, they left spears and daggers and knives right outside the Dome for us to col ect in the morning.

We've been messing around with them— Sissy's gotten really good with the fl ying daggers— but we're not real y sure why we have them. I mean, it's not as if there's game to hunt around here.”

“And then yesterday, we get these metal ic cases,” Ben jumps in excitedly. “Five of them, one for each of us. But the letter instructs us not to open them until further notifi cation.

So Sissy won't let us even touch them.”

I look at Sissy.

“I don't know what they're for,” Sissy says. “Do you?”

I glance down. “No idea.”

“But anyway,” Ben goes on, thankful y, “we have all these weapons. We've been practicing with them, the spears and axes and daggers, anyway. Sissy's the best, but we've run out of targets.”

“Until you came along.”

I don't need to turn around to know the heper named Epap said that.

“In fact, why did you come here?” it continues. I turn around.

The expression on its face is unmistakably hostile and cagey.

They're like open books, these hepers, with naked emotions swimming off their faces.

“He came here for water,” Sissy says before I can answer.

“Leave him alone, okay?”

The Epap heper circles around until it's standing directly in front of me. Up close, it seems even more gangly. “Before we start giving out food to him,” it says, “before we start showing him around like he's nothing more than a cute stray puppy, he's got some answering to do.”

Nobody says anything.

“Like how he's survived out there for so long. Like how he's survived living with them for so long. And what exactly is it that's he's doing here. He's got some talking to do.”

I look at the heper girl. “What's its problem?” I ask, pointing at Epap.

The heper girl stares intently at me. “What did you say?”

“What's its problem? Why is it so worked up over—”

The heper girl steps up to me until it's less than a yard away. Before I realize it, its arm blurs toward me, smacking me on the side of my head.

“Hey—”

“Don't.”

“Don't what?” I say, feeling the side of my head. No blood, just the sting of humiliation.

“Don't cal him it. ” She bends down and grabs a fi stful of dirt.

“This ground is an it. That tree over there is an it. That vegetable is an it. That building is an it. Don't cal us it, that's just insulting.

What's your problem, anyway? What makes you so high and mighty?

If you think we're a bunch of its, you can just walk on out and never think about coming back here. Besides, if you think we're nothing but its, then you're as much an it as we are.”

“Fair enough,” I say, the side of my face still smarting. “I apologize.”

But in my mind, there is a huge difference between them and me.

They are savages, undomesticated, uneducated. I am none of those.

I'm a survivor, self- made, civilized, educated. Next to me, though we might look the same, they are nothing like me.

But as long as I need them *****rvive, I'l play along as necessary. “Wasn't really thinking, no harm meant at all .

Look, I'm sorry, Sissy. Epap, I'm sorry.”

She stares at me, unmoved. “You're so ful of it.” The moment grows tense as the other hepers, taking their cue from Sissy and Epap, look back at me with suspicion.

It's little Ben who breaks the tension. “Come here, I'l show you my favorite fruit!” He then runs to grab me, pul ing me along by my arm to a nearby tree.

“Ben, don't—,” Epap cries after us, but we're already gone.

“Come on,” he says, leaping up to grab a low- hanging red fruit.

“The apples from this tree are the best. The south tree has apples, too, but not nearly as good as these ones. Love them.”

So strange, I think, to use the word love so openly. And for a fruit to boot.

Before I know it, an apple is sitting plump in my hand. Ben is already tearing into the apple he's plucked for himself. I rip into the apple, the juices bursting into my mouth. I hear footsteps behind us. The group has caught up. Maybe it's the sight of me enjoying the fruit with such kidlike joy, but they don't seem quite as hostile as before. With the exception of Epap, of course. He's still glar-ing at me.

“Aren't these fruit the best? Wait til you try the bananas from—”

Sissy places a gentle hand on Ben's shoulder. He quiets immediately and turns his head to look at her. She nods softly, then turns to me. It's with the same look she just gave Ben: reassuring, but with a strange command, a gentle insistence. “Actual y, we would like to know. Why you are here. Do tel .”

After a long moment, I speak. “I'l tel you,” I say, my voice hitching for some reason. “I'l tel you. But can we move inside?”

“Just tel us here,” Epap snaps back. “It's nice right where we are now and—”

“Inside is fi ne,” Sissy says. She sees Epap about to cut in again and quickly says to me: “The sun can't be comfortable for you.

You're not used to it.” She is already beginning to walk toward the nearest hut, not bothering to see if the others fol ow.

Gradual y, one by one, they do. And last to go is me, trailing all of them into the opening of a mud hut.

What I tel them is almost the truth. That's not as good as the complete truth, I know; but I like to think I don't so much lie as neglect to disclose certain parts. still , as my second- grade teacher used to say, the almost- truth is the same as an outright lie. But I do it— lying—with aplomb: easy to do when your whole life is essential y a lie, easy to deceive when your whole identity has been built on deception.

There are many of us on the outside, I lie. In every sector of community, at every level of society, hepers abound. Our existence is as widespread and diverse as snowfl akes during a night storm.

And yet, like snowfl akes in the night, our existence is unseen. We are joined by our shared lives of secrecy, of passing ourselves off as normal to the general populace.

We are scrupulous about shaving, fake fangs, maintaining a blank demeanor. We do not form underground societies but build smal networks of three to fi ve nuclear families. It is a dangerous existence, but an existence not without its joys and pleasures.

Like what?

Like the pleasures of family life, I say, continuing my lies, the freedom within our cloistered homes once the shutters have fal en at sunset. Foods we love to eat, songs we love to sing, laughter and smiles and (rarely, only when necessary) the crying of tears. The retention of tra***ion, the passing along of books and ancient tales.

Then there are the very occasional secret meetings we have with other heper families in the bright of day while the rest of the city sleeps behind shuttered wal s, oblivious. And as we get older, there are the possibilities of romance, the exhilaration of fal ing in love, the eventual beginnings of our own families.

Why are you here?

I was recently hired to be on staff at the Institute.

You replaced the Scientist?

Yes, I have replaced the Scientist, moved into his abode, am continuing his research. He was very diligent, extremely hardwork-ing; it will take me months just to catch up.

And so you know...

The Hunt
The Hunt Page 27



I nod. Of thirst, of starvation.

But they shake their heads. No: we will be hunted down and kil ed before we get halfway there.

Of course. Of course.

How will we get out?

I answer without looking at them. The Scientist. He will get you out.

Sissy nods with excitement. That's what he said. That he would lead us away. That we should always trust him. Even when all hope seems gone, he told us never to give up, that he'd come through for us. And then he disappeared one day. It was hard for us; we almost gave up hope. And now you. You appearing out of nowhere after all this time. You can help us, right?

Give me time, give me time. The Scientist left me mountains of papers to get through.

well , we have a lot of that. Time.

I wake with a start. It takes me a second to realize where I am. still in the heper vil age, still in a mud hut. On the fl oor, lying down, head atop a soft sack. The sun shines through the sievelike ceiling, leaving a patchwork of sunspots about me.

They are sitting in a semicircle around me. A few of them are lying down in a semidoze.

“He's awake!” Ben says.

I leap to my feet, heart hammering. I've never woken up in a crowd. In my usual life, I'd be dead by now. But they're looking up at me with amused, harmless faces. I sit back down, unnerved.

Sissy tel s Jacob to fetch some more water, David to see if bread has arrived in the Umbilical, and Ben to pick some more fruit and vegetables. The three scuttle off. Only the two oldest, Sissy and Epap, remain. Somehow, I don't think this is unintentional.

“How long have I been out?”

“Two hours. You were just talking, then next thing we know, you're knocked out cold,” Sissy says.

you're knocked out cold,” Sissy says.

“Snoring, too,” Epap sneers.

Judging from the position of the sun, it's about midday.

“This is my usual sleep time. And I've been really up and about the past couple of days. Sorry I crashed on you. But I'm that knackered.”

“I was going to kick you awake,” Epap says, “but she let you sleep.”

“Thanks,” I murmur, my voice hoarse with dryness, “and for the pil ow, too.”

“You looked like you could use some sleep. Here,” she says, handing over a jug of water. “Sounds like you could use some more water, too.”

I nod my appreciation. The water slides down my dry, sandy throat. I'm a bottomless bucket: no matter how much I drink, I can't seem to get enough.

“Thanks,” I say, handing back the jug. Hung on the wal s around me are brightly colored paintings of rainbows and the mythical sea.

On my right is a bookshelf fi l ed with worn- out books and a few pottery fi gures.

“How did you learn to read?” I ask.

Epap looks down. “From our parents,” Sissy answers.

I look at her.

“Some of us had both parents here. Most of us had only a father or a mother. None of us are siblings, in case you're wondering, except for Ben and me. We're half- siblings.”

“How many parents?”

“Eight. They taught us everything. How to read and write, how to paint, how to grow vegetables. Passed down to us ancient tra***ional tales. Taught us to grow physical y strong, to run long distances, swim. They didn't want us to get fat and lazy, just waiting for our food to appear every day. We had something called ‘school' every day. You know what ‘school' is?”

I nod.

“Our parents pressed us hard, made us learn quickly. As if they feared time was short. As if they believed they might one day be gone.”

“And what happened to them?”

“One day they were gone,” Epap says, an anger tingeing his words.

Sissy speaks, quieter. “About ten years ago. They were given maps describing the location of a fruit farm. We were suspicious, of course, but we hadn't been given any fruit or vegetables in weeks.

Our lips and mouths were breaking out in painful blisters.

As a precaution, our parents made us children stay behind.

The parents left at the crack of dawn. They never came back.”

“The fi ve of you can't have been much more than toddlers yourselves,” I say.

She pauses before answering. “Ben was only a few weeks old.

He barely survived. And there were more than fi ve of us.

There were nine.”

“The other four?”

She shakes her head, eyes downcast. “You have to understand.

It was just Epap and me looking after everyone. We were, like, seven years old. When the Scientist came, he real y helped us. Not only because of the extra food he'd smuggle in, the books, blankets, medicine when one of us would fal il . But he was such a morale booster, a great storytel er, really encouraging. That's why it was so crushing when he fl at- out disappeared on us.”

She looks at me. “And you're tel ing us he'l somehow lead us to the eastern mountains someday? The land of milk and honey, fruit and sunshine?”

I nod.

“You're lying,” Epap says. “About the Scientist. And about the heper civilization over the mountains. There's nothing beyond those mountains.”

“I'm not.”

“You and your damn poker face. Think you can hide behind that and fool us? Maybe the younger ones, but not us.

Certainly not me.”

“Tel us what you know, Gene,” Sissy says gently, earnestness in her brown eyes. So strange to be called by that name. Her eyes, with the sunlight refl ecting off the fl oor, are a shade lighter than I remember. “How do you know about the heper civilization past the mountains?”

“It's in some of the Scientist's journals I've been reading.

The Scientist made some entries. He had reason to believe there's a whole civilization of our kind beyond those mountains. Where hundreds, maybe thousands of us live.”

The lies slip off my tongue smooth as silk.

“How did he come by this information?”

“Look, I don't know. But he seemed to believe so.”

“Liar!” interjects Epap. “If there're so many of our kind, why haven't we seen any of them? Why haven't they ventured out here?”

“Would you?” I ask. “Knowing what you know, would you come out here and place yourself within reach of them?”

He doesn't say anything.

“It makes sense,” Sissy says. “Any heper colony beyond the mountains would be safe from people. It would take— even with their quickness— at least eigh teen hours just to reach the mountains.

They'd never get there before sunrise. No cover at all out there— the sunlight would incinerate them all . The distance is the perfect moat of protection.”

“You don't believe him, do you?” Epap asks incredulously.

“We don't know anything about this guy. He just appears out of nowhere, saunters in with this know- it- all attitude.”

“Epap,” she says softly, a hand on his shoulder. That's al she has to say. Or do. Immediately, his irritation fl utters off him in droves. “We know a lot. Gene's for real, there's no denying that.

We've seen him in the sun, eat our fruit, sleep, just act, wel , like us.

You saw him blush. You can't fake that kind of stuff. So he's one of us. And we also know— whatever you might personal y think of him— he's a survivor. He has learned how to live even in the midst of them. For years. He's valuable to us, to have someone like that on the outside.”

“But how do we know he's for us? He might be one of us, but that doesn't necessarily make him for us! I agree that he's a survivor. But it's his survival he's good at, not ours.”

Instead of disagreeing with him, Sissy looks at me. Her eyes betray wariness and suspicion. She knows. That I'm holding something back. But she has no idea just how much. Otherwise she'd never have said what she says next.

“I think we can trust him. I think he has goodness in him.”

“Excuse me while I barf in my mouth,” Epap says.

“Epap,” she says with less patience now, “Gene's brought us more information than we've been able to cul together in years. In two minutes, he's told us two lifetimes' worth of info. That says something.”

“Useless information,” Epap spat out. “Even if it's true— about the colony beyond the mountains— it's useless.

There's no way we can get to it, not even close. For us, the mountains are a two- week trek away. We'd be hunted down and kil ed within hours. Even if we leave as soon as the Dome opens at dawn and get an eight- hour jump on them, as soon as dusk hits, they'l be fl ying across the Vast and be on us within two hours. No, that kind of information is worse than useless: it's dangerous. It puts sil y notions in our heads, a fanciful pipe dream that some of us might try to bring to fruition. Think of David, Jacob. Those two were never born to be encased. They've wanted out since they were born.

Think you can restrain them if they set their minds on it?”

As Epap speaks, Sissy does something slightly odd with her lower lip. Nothing...

The Hunt
The Hunt Page 28



Sometimes, when it is especial y cold, they build a campfi re, smal enough that the smoke can escape through the pores at the top of the Dome. On those nights, gathered around the fi re, snow fal ing harmlessly about them outside the Dome, they can almost imagine that the normal orbit of the world occurs inside the Dome and that it is the vaster outside world that is fal en, dysfunctional, afraid.

Later in the day, they grant me privacy for the wash I need.

And more: a towel, something called “soap,” and a promise not to peek.

This time when I strip off my clothes next to the pond, I feel a thousand times more self- conscious alone than when I threw off my briefs yesterday in front of Sissy. The very memory makes me cringe.

I wade into the pond and scrub myself. The soap thing produces miniature bubbles where it rubs against my body.

It's scentless but removes body odor, they tel me. Perfect for my needs. Once in a while, I steal a furtive look at the mud hut they're all in. The doors and windows, as they've promised, remain closed. I listen in that direction, expecting to catch some derisive laughter. But it's quiet.

I'm scrubbing my hair underwater when I hear something pe-culiar. At fi rst, I think it's just my submerged ears playing tricks on me, but when I surface the sound is clearer. A melody of voices, warbling out of the mud hut.

The sound is eerie yet beautiful. I stand captivated, water dripping off my hair into the pond, ripples breaking out in circular emanations around me. I wade out of the pond, toweling off even as I grab my clothes.

At fi rst, they don't notice me. I peer through the front door, my damp hair dripping onto my hastily fl ung- on clothes.

They are seated in a circle, Ben and Jacob partial y facing me, their eyes closed as if in rapture. The warbling brings back memories of my mother. Times when she would sit on the edge of my bedding and stroke my hair, her face barely discernible in the gray darkness of the house. It's her voice I remember, more so than her face, lilted and unaffected by the sadness or despair that later hunched my father's shoulders down.

Stil unseen, I move away from the entrance and sit outside, out of sight but with the front door cracked open so I can hear. With my back against the scrabbled wal of the mud hut, I let their voices wash over me, even as the warm rays of the descending sun fl ood over me. Everything about me feels warm and soft, as though the world has gone buttery.

The song ends and there is a short discussion about what next to sing. At least fi ve suggestions— they must have dozens in their repertoire— are quickly made before they settle on a song titled “Up High.” It begins slowly. At fi rst, it's only Sissy's voice, undulating with the peaks and boughs of the melody.

The ground beneath your feet hums with the heat of the day's sun all alone, the heat trapped within your heartbeat until the night falls and the sun is done.

The other voices join in the chorus, harmonizing perfectly.

They're so fl uid and fl awless, it's evident they've sung this song hundreds of times before. Imprisoned by glass and distance, they probably have nothing else to do to while away the endless days but sing. Singing gives them what they most need: an il usion of hope, a transportation to other places.

Sailing through the bluest sky Above the hawks that sigh above the clouds that cry.

The song, though haunting in places, has an undeniable catchiness about it. At fi rst, I just mouth the words. Then, almost unwittingly, I fi nd myself pushing air through my larynx, formu-lating sounds. But it's not easy. It's all croaks coming out of my mouth.

Then something happens: it's as if a giant bal of phlegm in my throat is dislodged. For one verse, I hit the notes. For just those few moments, I'm completely lost in the rhythm of the song. I ride it, a kite fl ung in the air, catching the sweetest of winds.

The song ends, and there is laughter coming from inside.

They burst out seconds later, Ben leading.

“I thought I heard an asthmatic dog wheezing to death out here,” Jacob says, friendly laughter dancing in his eyes.

“Dog, what ever,” David says, smiling. “That was more like an elephant.”

“More like a herd of elephants,” Ben says, so beside himself, he's hopping from one foot to the next. They're al laughing now, the sun playing off their hair, adding dots of light to their eyes.

Sunshine glimmers off the hairs on their arms, little puffs of dust kick up at their feet, their carefree voices ring into the bright air.

“C'mon, it's funny, you have to admit it,” Sissy says to me.

Her face is all abandon and nakedness as she looks at me.

There is a smile in her eyes, her nose, her mouth, her cheekbones, her forehead, all of it spil ing so infectiously outward to me, past me, fi l ing the world like the sun. She busts out with sweet laughter, her eyes closing in sheer delight.

And just like that, something trickles out of me I thought was long ago irretrievably lost. A laugh shakes out, guttural and coarse through disuse, bursting through my constricted vocal cords. And my face— there's no other way to describe this— rips apart like a cracked hard- boiled eggshel . A smile crinkles across my mouth, 164 ANDREW FUKUDA spreading along my face. I feel pieces of the mask fal ing off, like crusts of dried paint fl aking off a wal . I laugh louder.

“What the heck was that?” Jacob says. “Did a goril a just fart through its mouth?”

And they crack up even more, their laughter lifting into the air, joined only moments later by the sound of my own laughter, guttural and coarse, free and thoughtless.

I leave the Dome not because I want to but because I have to. Not that the Dome will be closing anytime soon— after yesterday's close cal , I'm not taking any chances and I have at least fi fteen minutes to spare. I have to get back for some serious shut- eye. all two hours of what's left of the day, anyway. I've been running on fumes the last few nights, and there's a real danger, not so much of dozing off during to night's Gala, but of getting careless in front of all the guests and cameras: a yawn, a frown, an unsuppressed cough.

I can't get sloppy at such a crucial time. Just a couple more nights to hang on; then, as long as I can pul off my broken- leg stunt, I'l be home free.

With food and water in me, the walk back to the library seems so much shorter. What before was a signifi cant hike is now nothing more than a short strol . Even with the added weight of three ful bottles of water, I'm halfway there before— Hello, what's this?

In the distance, a dot, moving. Directly in front of the Institute building— no, not a dot, but a dark smear running. Toward me.

I freeze. There's nowhere to hide. Not a boulder to crouch behind, not even a depression in the ground into which to slink. It's got to be an animal lost out in the Vast. But then again, it's rare to see wildlife out here; most animals have learned not to stray too close.

A horse, I think to myself, it's got to be a horse, escaped out of the stable. Then I remember what my escort previously told me: There are no horses at the Institute out of fear the hepers might use them to escape. On rare occasions, like to night's Gala event, when guests arrive by horse back and carriages, the horses are kept under tight lock in the stable.

It runs closer, and I realize what it is. Not wildlife, not a horse.

This is a person.

I don't think I've been spotted. Yet. I quickly prostrate myself, my chin jutting into the crusty desert soil.

It's one of the hunters, it has to be, testing out one of the accessories. Donning the SunCloak or the SunBlock Lotion. Judging from the bulbous hooded shape around the head, probably the SunCloak.

And then I realize its intent.

The hepers. It's making a break for the hepers, trying to get at them before the protective Dome emerges. And now, just minutes from the Dome's closing and with the sun rays less potent, is its chance.

Just then, a door on the ground fl oor of the Institute building swings open. And something— someone—shoots out like a racing horse out of the blocks. It moves with wicked speed, a blur. Moving straight toward the heper vil age. Or me. I'm lying in a direct line.

The cloaked fi gure is at a ful sprint now— I can see arms pumping hard, legs pounding the ground. But it's the second fi gure that's just emerged that is far quicker.

Already, it's covered half the distance between them.

Within no more than ten seconds, both are close enough for me to recognize.

The cloaked fi gure is Ashley June, her pointed chin unmistakable under the hood. There's something off about her. But my attention is quickly diverted to the sprinting fi gure almost caught up to her now— Beefy. His appearance is bizarre and frightening. He's smeared over completely with the SunBlock Lotion, the rich yel ow white cream lathered SunBlock Lotion, the rich yel ow white cream lathered thickly over his torso like icing on cake. He's completely naked (for speed?) except for a pair of black goggles pul ed tight over his eyes.

I leap up, dropping the bottles of water, and sprint. Not to the library— it's too far away. But to the Dome. I'l pretend to be joining the Hunt, make them think I'm running with the pack....

The Hunt
The Hunt Page 29



Beefy's energy fl ags, I'm catching up, he's not going to make it. I glance back: Ashley June is nothing but a pile of clothes, the SunCloak useless.

Another cloud drifts across the sun. Ahead of me, Beefy regains his form. Ashley June remains behind, a discarded and motionless pile of clothes.

In the heper vil age, nothing moves. I'm close enough to see that all windows and doors have been shut closed. Then Sissy springs out, her hands quickly tying the dagger strap around her thin waist. Arms and hands from inside the mud hut reach out for her, trying to draw her back in, but she slaps them away. She races toward Beefy and me, her face a mixture of determination and fear, the fl ashing daggers in her hands pulsating rapidly like the hammering of her heart.

Her appearance rejuvenates Beefy. He picks up even more speed, starts racing toward the vil age. Even in his debilitated state, he must know. That he is fast approaching the point of no return. Even now, he can still turn around, make it back to the safety of the Institute, if not in one piece, then at least alive. But if he presses on toward the heper vil age, there's no going back anymore.

With kamikaze intent, Beefy's head snaps back, his legs pound the crusty ground, and he emits a snarled hiss from between fanged teeth. He is going for the hepers. Come what may, he is going to them. No matter the sun: he wil bound into the vil age, tear down doors and windows, rip the hepers to shreds, sink his teeth into the soft give of their necks, even as the sun burns into his skin and melts it into wax, even as his eyebal s explode and ooze vitreous juice down his sliding face, nose, cheeks. None of it matters even as he succumbs to the rays, even as he dissolves into a puddle of pus, so long as he dies with hepers in his arms and heper juice in his system. What a way to go, not so gently into the night.

Sissy, too, has picked up her speed as she sprints toward us. No one is backing off from anyone. Without breaking pace, she fl ings a dagger to my left, a ferocious sidearm thrust. The dagger shoots out, twirling as it sails across the plains, blinking with refl ected sunlight. Again, it looks as though she's missed the mark by a mile; but again, the dagger swings around in a wide arc, boomeranging toward us. With that dagger in midfl ight, Sissy, still charging toward us, fl ings another dagger, this time in the opposite direction to my right. My head tries to fol ow it. But within seconds, I've lost it.

And not just that one. I've lost track of the other dagger as well .

They've disappeared in the plains. But I can hear them: a gyrating whirr, growing louder, zeroing in on Beefy from both sides.

A second later, the fl ying daggers col ide midair right in front of me. There's a metal ic clink as blade hits blade, then a brief spray of sparks. Sissy has thrown the daggers with amazing accuracy, their joint fl ight trajectories forming a perfect circle. But not amazing enough. She's missed Beefy's head, her intended target; instead of striking the temples of his head, the daggers have clashed into each other and fal en to the ground three yards behind Beefy.

She underestimated his speed, his desire.

If Beefy notices, he doesn't slow down. Instead, he strides harder, faster. But the sunlight is doing a number on him.

His breathing is more labored, and despite his greater effort, he's slowed down some.

I'm catching up with him.

Then I hear another whirring sound. Sissy's thrown another dagger. But I have no idea from which direction it's coming, the left or the right. Panicked, I swing my head from side to side, a desperate effort to detect a fl ash of light. But I can't side, a desperate effort to detect a fl ash of light. But I can't locate it, can only hear it, the whirr slicing through the air louder and louder.

The dagger hits Beefy smack in the thigh. Sissy threw this one straight as an arrow at Beefy, head- on. But if anything, the impact, instead of slowing him down, seems to give him strength. He picks up speed and, though limping, is now leaping toward the vil age.

He'l be there within ten seconds.

But Sissy's not done. still running at us, she takes out her last dagger, gripping it in hand by the blunt side of the blade. In one fl uid motion, her arm shoots out from her waist, then up diagonal y across her chest, hand facing downward, her wrist fl icking upward with the rapid snap of a card dealer. It's a perfect under-handed throw, a reverse sidearm fl ick that propels the dagger with speed and aim. Right at us. I duck down.

Needlessly. The knife catches Beefy in front of me, impaling him square in the chest. Because of the liquefying effect of the sun on him, his body offers little re sis tance; the dagger disappears into it like a spoon into soup. For only the briefest of moments, he slows; but then he gives an ear- piercing scream and races toward Sissy with renewed vigor, the dagger lost somewhere in his body.

A glimmering halo suddenly forms around the vil age. The glass wal of the Dome. It's emerging. But too late. Beefy wil easily clear the wal in a single leap. Once inside the Dome, he will have at it with the hepers, be given free rein.

The Dome will become a sunny globe of death, a prison of violence for the hepers trapped inside and, soon after, for him. But he is beyond caring.

Beefy suddenly slows, screaming, a gurgling, swol en sound. The sun's getting to him. The gap between us closes. Just as he's col ecting his legs under him to jump over the rising Dome wal , I leap at him. I sideswipe both his legs out from under him; my arm comes away sticky. He spil s, crashing into the dirt in a heap.

His face, when he shoots me a look, is horrifi c. Pus oozes out from open sores in his skin, milky yel ow emulsions that coagulate with the creamy SunBlock Lotion. His upper lip, melted away and detached on one side, hangs on one end, fl apping against his cheek.

Without the upper lip, his upper teeth are bared now in a perpetual snarl. He wastes little time on me. To him, I am just competition, another hunter to outrace and outeat. He smacks me with the back-side of his hand, and I go fl ying backward. He is already on his feet, running to the closing Dome.

I'm col apsed on the ground, my head spinning, unable to fi nd my legs.

He's much slower. The sun is melting away not only his fl esh, but his muscles. His legs have become squishy bags of pus now, his calf and thigh muscles quickly disintegrating. With a cry, he leaps up at the closing glass wal .

He doesn't come close. His body slams against the glass no farther than halfway up. When he slides down the wal , his fl esh sticks to the glass like melted pizza. Yel ow, cheesy, fl eshy. He picks himself up, delirious with desire at the sight of Sissy, delirious with anguish at her unreachability. “I can smel you!” he hisses, and takes a few steps back and charges at the wal again. Then he is sliding down again. He slaps his open palms on the glass, hoists his body along the glass. The sticky melt of skin gives him unexpected traction on the glass, and he is crawling up with surprising effect.

He's going to make it. The hole at the top of the Dome is closing too slowly. Once he drops down on the inside, he won't have a lot of time before the sun disintegrates him completely. But the sight and feel and taste of the hepers wil give him an adrenaline boost that will let him get to at least a couple of them, if not all of them.

Sissy sees what happening. She barks an order at the others, who scamper into the mud huts. Then she's spinning around, trying to fi nd a weapon. But there is none, not that one would have helped at this point. But her shoulders don't slump; her arms tighten, readying for the fi ght she knows is coming. But her eyes: even from where I lie, I can see fear fl ood them. Her eyes fi nd mine. For a moment, through the glass of the Dome, our eyes lock. I remember the fi rst time I saw her, through the glass of my deskscreen. It's the same look. Defi ant yet afraid.

Ben comes fl ying out of a hut, tears in his eyes, gripping an ax.

Sissy takes the ax, barks him back inside. He stays, fi sts clenched.

Beefy is halfway up the closing Dome. He's going to make it, the Dome— There's no time to think or refl ect. I just react. I leap to my feet, run to the Dome in seconds. Only one way to catch up to him. I plant my hands and feet in the sticky patches of his skin left on the Dome. Rungs of a ladder made the texture of melted cheese. I scramble up, using the sticky goo for traction.

Above, at the cusp of the circular opening, he slips down a few yards. He regains his footing. Starts climbing again. My last chance.

I leap up, stretching out with my right arm as far as I can. My hand lands on his shin. Quickly, I fasten my fi ngers into a vise around his ankle. I pul him down a few yards. Then my fi ngers squeeze through his ankle as if they're going through warm butter. And then I'm sliding down on the glass, a screeching sound that fol ows me all the way down.

My grab isn't enough to drag him down, but it slows him.

Just.

He scrambles up with a scream fi l ed with lunacy and desperation, toward the closing hole, now no wider than the diameter of a street manhole. He gets one leg into it, is about to swing his body down through the hole, when— He doesn't fi t. He squirms his body, torquing it, trying to twist it into the closing hole, but it's no use. He's too big.

And it closes in on him swiftly like a no- nonsense vise, entrapping him. There's...