Ultraball #1 Read online

  Dedication

  For Tess and Jake, who always want to hear a story

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1. Open Tryouts

  2. The Meltdown Gun

  3. The Torch’s Curse

  4. The Thief

  5. Crackbacks 1 and 2

  6. Game 1 Vs. The Yangju Venom

  7. TNT

  8. Nuclear Waste

  9. Questions and Answers

  10. Game 2 Vs. The Cryptomare Molemen

  11. Boom’s Beatdown

  12. Cast No Shadows

  13. Game 3 Vs. The Kamar Explorers

  14. The Deep Prospect

  15. The Junk Hole

  16. Game 5 Vs. The North Pole Neutrons

  17. Meeting at the Mines

  18. The Traitor

  19. Game 7 Vs. The Saladin Shock

  20. Ultrabowl X

  21. The Fate of Taiko Colony

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  Open Tryouts

  STRIKE SAZAKI WAS the best quarterback on the moon. He had led his team to the Ultrabowl three years in a row, but each game had ended in agonizing defeat. This was finally the year his Taiko Miners would go all the way.

  It had to be. The future of Taiko Colony depended on it.

  Strike swallowed hard as he bounded down a tunnel leading to the home field of his Taiko Miners. He rounded the curve, Taiko Arena rising in front of him. Even though he had walked this tunnel from the locker room to the arena hundreds of times over the past four years, the awesome sight still made his breath catch. Taiko Arena was housed inside an enormous cavern whose walls were fused airtight. The arching roof was dotted with three-hundred-year-old lighting panels dating back to the first lunar mining colonies. Dust danced in the fluorescent light. Hundreds of gray-brick benches rose high on either side of the playing field, like the snaggleteeth of a monster leaping out of the ground.

  Strike focused on the Miners’ slogan—Miners Together, Miners Forever—freshly scraped into the high walls of the stadium in twenty-meter-tall letters. He closed his eyes, his face screwing up in agony. This preseason tryout wasn’t going like he’d hoped. Finding a new rocketback 1 for the coming season was proving to be even harder than he had thought.

  He jolted when someone bumped into him. Rock, his trusty rocketback 2, barely noticed that he had rammed into Strike. Rock mumbled a nonstop stream of consciousness as he scribbled furiously in a little notebook, pausing only briefly to scratch his stubbly black hair.

  Strike caught the back of Rock’s blue jumpsuit before his friend wandered out of the tunnel onto the field. Strike motioned toward the small group of recruits sitting in the stands. “You absolutely sure about this?” he asked.

  Rock circled various numbers in his notebook. “Chang could be a good rocketback 1. I need to collect more data on him.”

  “Chang,” Strike said, eyeing the lone adult in the crowd of kids. “That guy is ancient. He’s so old, he sat on Neil Armstrong’s baby.” He shook his head. “No. I meant . . . his baby looks like Neil Armstrong. Wait.” He pinched his lips together, straining in thought.

  Paging through his notebook, Rock ran a finger down a long list titled “Clever Insults,” written in tiny block handwriting. “That guy is so old, he babysat for Neil Armstrong.”

  “Yeah, that’s it,” Strike said. He put an arm around his best friend and smiled. Rock’s compulsive habit was annoying at times, but it sure came in handy. Rock cataloged and analyzed everything, from sixteen different types of jokes, to the moon’s water supply levels, to every Ultraball stat on record. Rock even kept track of all the poops he took. In eight years of being roommates, Strike had never seen Rock without his notebook.

  They walked onto the field, heading toward the near sideline. The Miners’ five Ultrabot suits were neatly lined up along the clear protective barrier separating the stands from the field, the blue mech exoskeletons gleaming under the spotlights. The motley bunch of recruits was gathered in the front row of the stands. Every single pair of dark brown eyes was locked onto Strike.

  Strike hesitated before speaking. A few of the kids he knew. A grimy-faced one had been a hero last month after his quick thinking prevented a mine shaft from collapsing onto fifteen boys and girls. Another hung around Strike’s apartment building, scrounging and stealing to stay alive. A third Strike remembered from years ago, when he, Strike, and Rock all lived together at the Tao Children’s Home. Strike nodded to him, hoping for his sake he’d play well enough to make the team. To escape a life working down in the Taiko mines.

  Strike pulled out a gray hardtack bar for himself and flipped another one to Rock. He gnawed on his as he studied the stooped-over adult, Chang, who was even shorter than most of the kids around him. The child-sized Ultrabot survival suits were the only ones that NASA had managed to deliver before Earth went nuclear ten years ago, so only kids had ever played Ultraball. The pint-sized Chang was an oddity, an adult still small enough to fit inside an Ultrabot suit. But could he fit in with four teammates less than half his age?

  Maybe if he can take a joke, Strike thought. He nudged Rock. “Hey. Chang is so old, he babysat for Neil Armstrong.”

  Chang let out a chuckle. But he jolted when Rock erupted in machine-gun laughter.

  Rock’s snickering abruptly halted. “You see, Neil Armstrong landed on the moon almost four hundred years ago, so that would make you comically old,” he said. “And if you babysat for Neil Armstrong, that would make you even more comically old. That’s why the joke is so funny.”

  Chang’s forehead furrowed. He sneered at Rock and let out a derisive snort. “Bunch of kids making dumb jokes,” he said, shaking his head. “Better than breaking my back down in the mines, though.”

  Strike’s eyes narrowed to slits. His arms tensed up, trembling. A raw fury burned through his body. “Get out.”

  Chang froze in shock. He shrank down as all the kids around him turned to stare. “Really? You want me to leave?”

  “You heard me,” Strike said through clenched teeth. “No one makes fun of Rock.”

  Looking around for support but finding none, Chang stumbled over his words. “I was just goofing. I didn’t mean it. I can’t go back to the mines. I can’t. Come on. Give me another chance. Please.”

  Strike folded his arms across his chest, stony-faced.

  Chang’s tone changed, his fists tensing. “Don’t be dumb, Strike. You know I’m the best one here. You need me. Bad.”

  Strike bristled at the word “dumb.” He set his jaw, clenching his teeth. He jerked his head toward the exit airlock.

  In the dead silence, everyone continued to stare at Chang. The man slowly got to his feet, his hunched shoulders making him look even shorter than he was, and slunk down the stairs toward the exit. “Frak!” he yelled as he trudged across the field. “A thirteen-year-old kid running the show is just idiotic.” The airlock squealed as it opened, and Chang disappeared.

  “I think that might have been a mistake,” Rock whispered to Strike. “But thanks.”

  Strike nodded. He scanned the others, landing on the kid who had been at the Tao Children’s Home with them. “Jin-Lee,” he said. “Suit up for more reps.”

  The skinny little boy jumped off his bench and bounded down the stairs. The rest of the kids let out deflated sighs.

  Rock’s forehead wrinkled as he choked down the hardtack bar packed with nutrients and calories but no flavor. “Odd choice,” he said. “But I suppose even if Jin-Lee isn’t star quality, he might be a decent rocketback 2.”

  Strike’s hardtack bar suddenly became even harder to stoma
ch than usual. He held up a hand, signaling Jin-Lee to wait in the stands. Gripping Rock’s shoulders, he took a deep breath. “For the last frakkin’ time, I am not replacing you. You’re my RB2. That’s the way it’s always been. That’s the way it’ll always be.”

  “LunarSports Reports brings up valid points.” A corner of Rock’s mouth twitched. He flipped his notebook to a page covered with miniature numbers and showed Strike. “The facts are clear. I am the Miners’ weak link. For the good of Taiko Colony, you ought to cut me. I insist that you take this opportunity to find both a new rocketback 1 and a new rocketback 2.”

  Strike turned and pretended to study his Ultrabot suit, his gut tightening into knots. Almost every Ultraball analyst from LunarSports Reports to the Touchdown Zone to the SmashMouth Radio Blitz ranked Rock as the worst rocketback in the league. But Rock wasn’t just Strike’s RB2. Rock was the smartest person Strike knew, having gone to school all the way through fifth grade—after Earthfall, most kids in Taiko Colony dropped out as soon as they were strong enough to work in the mines. Plus, Rock helped run the Taiko Miners, taking care of all the things Strike screwed up.

  Most important, Rock and the other Miners were Strike’s only family.

  “Look, you butt-sniffing turd,” Strike said. “The people of Taiko Colony made me the coach and general manager of the Miners. It’s my call, and I say you’re my RB2.”

  “But the fate of Taiko Colony—”

  “Could you just go rescue Nugget from Pickaxe? I need my crackback 2 in one piece.” He motioned toward two squat boys wrestling with each other by the fifty-meter line. The older brother was sitting on the younger one’s head, attempting to fart on him.

  Strike yelled out to the far end zone, where five kids in yellow jumpsuits were milling about next to their yellow Ultrabot armor. “Ready to get started again?”

  Supernova, the quarterback of the Farajah Flamethrowers, gave Strike a thumbs-up. The Flamethrowers went to their Ultrabot suits, starting the process of transforming themselves from runts into machines of war.

  As Rock went to retrieve the Miners’ crackbacks 1 and 2, Strike touched the mech suit of armor he had piloted for three years. Ultrabot suits weren’t much taller than him, but they were built like tanks. Strike’s hulking exoskeleton had served him well, taking him and the Taiko Miners all the way to Ultrabowls VII, VIII, and IX. He slapped the impactanium plating, still undented after years of use. The punishment of Ultraball was nothing compared to what the suits had been designed for—a week of survival against nearly anything, giving NASA time to launch a rescue mission—but big hits were big hits.

  Strike motioned for Jin-Lee to come down and join him. After Strike unlatched the clasps of the number 8 suit, panels opened with hydraulic hisses. He stepped into the foot mounts and placed his arms into the side slots. The suit winched closed and locked him in. The helmet rotated forward and lowered into place, squishing his hair down as it sealed shut. Flexing a bicep, Strike tried not to focus on how tight the Ultrabot suit was getting. A thought had been running through his mind every day lately: If only NASA had sent up some adult-sized Ultrabot suits before Earthfall. As soon as he outgrew his Ultrabot suit, Strike’s days playing the greatest game in the history of humankind would be over. He had to win an Ultrabowl for his teammates before that happened.

  Readouts flashed on the heads-up display, his power level at 37.6 percent, his visual targeting system online, and his glove magnetization at full strength. Strike ignored the barrage of other data he didn’t understand. The futuristic robot suit was in stark contrast to the moon’s scrambling frontier environment, the twenty-one United Moon Colonies still figuring out life after Earthfall. The Ultrabot suits were almost magical, one of the high-tech remnants from before that fateful day ten years ago.

  Green lights blinked inside Strike’s helmet, indicating that he was locked and loaded. He waited until the others were suited up. He gathered them into a huddle, gazing through his helmet visor at Rock, Pickaxe, and Nugget, his sworn brothers. If Strike could lead them to an Ultrabowl victory, he would set them all up for life. But if he failed at any point along the way . . . Strike pushed the horrible thought out of his mind and forced a smile to his face. “Miners together?” he said over the Ultrabot suits’ comm system.

  “Miners forever!” came back the united response.

  Strike waved to the Flamethrowers in the other end zone, their suited-up quarterback raising his yellow robotic arm in acknowledgment. Strike picked up the solid steel Ultraball, the Ultrabot suit allowing him to heft the fifty-kilogram ball like it was a pebble. He smacked it between his hands, adrenaline leaching into his veins. His entire body tingled with glee. So much about life on the moon was miserable, but every time Strike got into his Ultrabot suit, he became the luckiest kid in the world all over again.

  The five Flamethrowers jogged to the fifty-meter line, where the two teams met. Supernova flipped his helmet visor from reflective to clear. “Getting scrimmage time on your field is awesome,” he said. “Tough to get used to these crazy field pits.” He looked over his shoulder at the deep craters all over the field, some hidden, camouflaged, or booby-trapped—the home-field feature of Taiko Arena. “You getting what you need out of this scrimmage?”

  “I think so,” Strike said. He forced a smile at Jin-Lee.

  “Season’s coming up quick,” Supernova said. “Don’t go easy on us anymore, okay? Let’s go full speed from here on out.”

  Strike nodded. “I bet this is the year you break the Torch’s Curse. Maybe even go all the way. Well, to make the Ultrabowl. Not win it.” He grinned. “We’d have to put the beatdown on you guys if we met up there.”

  “It’d be an honor to face you in the Ultrabowl,” Supernova said. “But I’d just be happy to break the curse and finally give our fans a winning season.” He motioned his team to huddle up.

  Strike brought his Miners together by their forty-meter line, slapping Jin-Lee’s helmet. “Earn yourself an Ultraball name, okay? We’ll come up with something awesome if you make the team.”

  “I will, Strike,” Jin-Lee said. “What’s the play?”

  “Enough of the basics,” Strike said. “Time to see how you handle a slingshot V.” His mouth curled into a wicked grin. “A fake slingshot V.”

  Jin-Lee’s eyes widened for just a moment before he nodded. “I got this, Strike.”

  “Good. Back left corner of the end zone. I’ll zip it in to you after I scramble. Show me what you got. Pickaxe and Nugget, send him flying.”

  “Oh yeah,” Pickaxe said. “We’re gonna rocket you to the roof.”

  “We need a great fake out of you, Jin-Lee,” Strike said. “Really sell it. On two.” The Miners broke the huddle, Strike striding up to the Ultraball, his boots clomping on the hard-packed turf. Rock set up beside him, and Nugget and Pickaxe took their places ten steps behind. Deep in the backfield, Jin-Lee got into a three-point stance. It was the classic slingshot V formation, with Nugget and Pickaxe preparing to whip Jin-Lee forward at meteoric speed.

  On the other side of the line, Supernova immediately recognized the formation, signaling to his teammates with his arms raised into a V. He waved his two crackbacks in, both champing at the bit to leap over Strike and Rock and break up the play before the Miners could load the slingshot.

  “Oxygen,” Strike yelled. “Mad Mongol blue, Mad Mongol blue!” He pointed to Nugget as if directing him to do something, but the words were just fake signals. As Supernova looked backward in confusion, Strike screamed, “Hut hut!”

  Snatching the ball off the ground, Strike scrambled behind Rock, who got pounded by the two charging Flamethrower crackbacks. One of them tried to hurdle up and over, but Rock locked a magnetized glove onto his boot, whipping him down to the ground with a booming thud.

  In the backfield, Jin-Lee had raced forward, leaping like a superhero. Pickaxe and Nugget grabbed his hands and launched him forward. Right in Jin-Lee’s path, Strike held the Ultraball high and let
it clang into Jin-Lee’s magnetized gloves as he flew by. The Miners had executed a perfect slingshot V.

  The Flamethrowers’ two rocketbacks backpedaled to the corner of the end zone where Jin-Lee was flying, ready to spear him but good.

  Except that Strike hadn’t let go of the ball. Casually jogging backward with the ball tucked away, he looked over his shoulder at Jin-Lee, watching with everyone else. As the Flamethrowers scrambled to pursue the rocketback zooming through the air in a blue blur, Strike burst into a hard sprint. He pounded the turf behind Nugget, who was now his lead blocker.

  A moment later, Supernova caught on to the fake and jerked around, swiveling to race after Strike. The rest of the Flamethrowers charged in with their quarterback, all five of them targeting Strike like laser beams.

  Still behind Nugget, Strike juked to avoid an oncoming Flamethrower, and then pushed Nugget into another before spinning away. A third defender locked a magnetized glove onto Strike’s shoulder plate, but with a hard chop, Strike broke the guy’s grip.

  The last two Flamethrowers raced in to corral Strike, the situation seemingly hopeless. But Strike suddenly planted his back foot and charged right at one of the oncoming defenders. He jumped high and heaved a monster pass. A split second later, the defender blasted into Strike’s chest plate, slamming him backward. Warning lights flashed on Strike’s heads-up display, but an Ultrabot suit could dampen blows five times as hard as this one. He jarred only a little as he slammed down onto his butt.

  The speeding Ultraball soared through the cavern toward Jin-Lee, who was playing possum in the back corner of the end zone. He’d only have to leap ten or fifteen meters for it, an easy jump, even for a rookie. If he remembered to engage the electromagnets in the suit’s gloves, he’d only need to get within centimeters before the steel Ultraball snapped into his hands.

  Strike swore under his breath when Jin-Lee kicked off the ground into a tremendous leap. “Too high!” he yelled.

  Jin-Lee realized his mistake right away, windmilling his arms to slow himself down. But he still soared so high that he had to reach down between his legs to snag the Ultraball. It smashed into him like a cannonball, the force of the impact throwing him into a front spin. He managed to hold on, but the Flamethrowers would have plenty of time to race in underneath to prevent him from getting a foot down for the score.