The Quillan Games (10 page)

A moment later the woman who'd ducked into the store was dragged out by the dado, fighting against the much bigger guy. “I have children,” she whined. “I had no choice. Please. I have resources. I can make amends.”

The dados didn't care. They simply carted her off roughly to . . . who knows where? I imagined there was some central place where everybody who lost a bet had to go to pay up. The real question was, why? Who was collecting these bets and why did they have an army of scary robotlike guys to round up the losers? The whole scene was disturbing for all sorts of reasons.

I kept to the shadows, observing. I didn't want to get in the way or be involved. What I really needed to do was find
the two nut jobs from the video screen. Veego and LaBerge. Whatever Saint Dane was doing on Quillan, it was obvious that Veego and LaBerge had something to do with it. Since they seemed to be the people who staged the contests, and I was given the uniform of a challenger, the pieces of the puzzle were coming together in a way that made me a little nervous. Would I eventually end up high on that platform, fighting for my life the way the Traveler from Quillan did? The thought made me want to find my way down to the warehouse basement, dump these challenger clothes, and get the hell off Quillan. But that's not the way it was meant to be. I needed to be here and face whatever Saint Dane had set up for me. That's the way it worked in the life of Bobby Pendragon, lead Traveler.

“Do not move,” came a stern, gravelly voice that had the unmistakable growl of a dado. I really, really hoped he wasn't talking to me. Slowly I turned to see . . .

He was talking to me. Swell.

Two dados stood side by side. I wasn't sure if they were the same goons that had chased me out of the arcade. It didn't matter. One of them had his golden pistol out. It was aimed at me.

“You talking to me?” I asked innocently. “I didn't bet on the contest, see?” I took off my jacket to show them that my loop wasn't flashing yellow. It was flashing purple. I had forgotten. Oops. What the heck did purple mean?

“Challengers must never enter the city without an escort,” the second dado said. “Come with us.”

I wasn't going with them. No way. I needed to be on my own to find Saint Dane. Besides, I didn't want to be the next one on that platform and risk facing the same fate as Challenger Yellow. I pulled my jacket the rest of the way off and took a step toward the dados.

“Okay,” I said casually. “But first let me do this—”

Without warning I shoved the jacket into the face of the dado with the gun. At the same time I ducked down, spun my leg, and swept the legs out from under the second dado. He slammed into the dado with the gun, knocking him off balance, making him fire his gun. The sound it made wasn't a
crack
like you'd hear from a gun on Second Earth. It was more like a short, sharp discharge of energy that gave off a hollow echo.
Fum.
I had no idea what kind of ammunition it fired. I didn't want to know. I needed to get away. Before they could get their balance back, I took off into the crowd.

The chase was back on.

(CONTINUED)

I
'd been on the run from the moment I hit Quillan. How long had it been since I landed? An hour? At that rate I was going to drop from exhaustion before anything actually happened. Still, I couldn't imagine anything good coming from getting nabbed by a dado, so I bolted.

I made the quick decision not to run down the crowded street. I was afraid the pedestrians would get in my way, and step aside for the dados. So I made a flash decision and ducked into the store with the sign
FOOD
over the door, hoping there would be a back exit. If not, I'd be trapped, but at least this way I felt I had a chance.

The store was like no other grocery store I'd ever seen. There were long aisles like at home, but rather than seeing an array of different products, everything in this store came in similar rectangular containers. They were different sizes and colors, but they all fit squarely on one another like Legos. I didn't stop to browse, obviously, but as I ran by I saw that the labels were marked simply
VEGETABLE
and
MEAT
. Not exactly
tantalizing. One said
TRIBBUN
, whatever the heck
that
was. My Traveler brain always translated the local language for me, unless it was something unique to that territory that didn't have a similar word in English that I would know. Whatever tribbun was, it couldn't be found on Second Earth. Just as well. It didn't sound so hot. I also saw that there was the same word printed on each label above the contents.
BLOK.
There it was again. Blok. Over and over.

As I sprinted down one of the long aisles filled with multicolored containers, I heard the door smash open behind me. I didn't have to turn around to know the dados were right on my tail.

“On the ground!” shouted one of the dados in that low, robotic voice. Instantly every one of the people in the store moved to the side of the aisle and knelt down to let the dados by. It was scary to see how these people were so obedient. Were they afraid of the dados? From what I'd seen so far, I didn't blame them. I was too. I turned quickly into another aisle and kept running. My only hope was that there would be an exit on the far side of the store. I saw a counter ahead of me where people were paying for their purchases. At least that's what they usually did. Right then they were ducked down and cowering, because somebody was being chased. Me. I was relieved to see a doorway behind the counter. Without hesitation I ran for the counter, vaulted over it, and landed next to a very frightened-looking store clerk. I made quick eye contact. He was scared, no question, but as soon as he saw me, he whispered, “Good luck.”

Those words said a lot. He had no idea who I was, or why I was running from the dados. But that one brief comment from a very scared guy told me that they weren't rooting for the dados. At least as far as this frightened guy was concerned, the dados weren't the good guys.

Fum!

A container that was on a shelf near my head exploded. Somebody screamed. It might have been me. Everything had just gotten a little more serious. I was no longer being chased; I was being hunted. I dove through the door behind the counter, desperate to get anything in between me and those goons. I found myself behind the counter of another store. Of course I couldn't see the sign outside, but I could guess what it said. I had just come out of a store called “Food” to enter a store called “Drink.” There were long aisles in here as well, only they were all stacked with row after row of rounded canisters of different colored liquid. As I sprinted down an aisle, I glanced quickly to see that the labels on each had the same word:
BLOK
. Blok was everywhere . . . on plates, on food and drink products, even on the giant screens outside. Sooner or later I needed to find out what Blok was.

But not just then.

Fum! Fum!

Two canisters of bright blue “drink” exploded next to my head, splashing me. I didn't stop, but jammed for a door that looked as if it led back outside. Going into these stores had turned out to be a bad idea. I figured that at least outside, with so many people, there'd be less chance of them shooting at me for fear of hitting an innocent bystander. Innocent bystander? I was an innocent bystander too! What was I guilty of? Nothing! But nobody told the dados that. Nope. No bystanding for me, innocent or not. I was on the run. So I hit the door and crashed back out onto the street, knocking into a few people along the way.

“Sorry!” I shouted, but the people didn't care. They continued on their way, heads down, as if nothing had happened. All I could do was keep on moving and try to find a place to hide. I crossed over a street, running low, hoping that they
wouldn't see me. It slowed me down, but it wasn't like I could break into a full-on sprint anyway. It was way too crowded for that.

I reached the next intersection and saw something that gave me hope. Walking ahead of me was the older, gray-haired guy who had chewed out that woman for crashing the motorbike into the dados. He was walking his scoot along the sidewalk. I had to trust my instinct. I felt like there was something going on with that guy. If I was right, and he had helped that other guy escape from the dados, I had to hope he would do the same for me.

I looked back to see that the dados had run out of the store and were scanning the crowded sidewalk. I had a short window. I ran forward until I got ahead of the guy. He was walking with his head down, just like everybody else. I ran past him, then turned around, and walked backward.

“Hey,” I said breathlessly. “I need help.”

The guy looked up quickly. I saw the surprise in his eyes. I didn't know if it was because a crazy guy had just jumped out of nowhere asking him for help, or because I was wearing a challenger shirt. Or both. He didn't stop walking.

“How can I help you?” he said softly, with a touch of confusion.

His calm voice didn't fit with the surprise that he showed. The guy was very cool.

“They're after me,” I said, glancing back toward the dados. “I didn't do anything. I didn't bet on the match, but they're shooting at me.”

The guy glanced back toward the dados, then to me. He said, “I'm surprised to see a challenger on the street.”

There wasn't time for discussion. The dados were almost on us. If I didn't get through to this guy, fast, I'd be done. I took a chance and grabbed my left biceps with my right
hand—the same signal I'd seen him exchange with the woman who drove the motor scooter into the dados. I didn't know if the guy would react, or keep walking as if it meant nothing to him.

“Get on,” he said, suddenly all business.

Yes! The guy threw his leg over the motor scooter. I hopped on to the back as he kicked the engine to life. It hummed with a soft whine that didn't speak to the true power of this bike, for when he hit the throttle, we took off. Fast.

“Hang on,” he commanded, and made a hard right, turning into traffic. The instant he made the turn, I heard the familiar sound of shots being fired.

Fum. Fum. Fum.

So much for the dados not wanting to hurt innocent bystanders. A guy to the right of me was knocked off his feet. Another woman was hit, and spun around but was able to stay upright. I was horrified. Were people dying around me? Why were these dados so desperate that they were willing to shoot innocent people to get me? Did life mean so little to them? Or was I that important? If I was going to find the answers, I first had to stay alive. My fate was in the hands of this mysterious old guy and his scoot.

The guy may have been old, but he knew how to handle the motorbike. He drove us across traffic, weaving back and forth, threading between the slow-moving cars. I didn't dare look back, for fear of throwing us off balance. We hit the far sidewalk, bounced up over the curb, and turned into the flow of pedestrians. People had to dodge out of our way, but this guy didn't care. He drove the bike quickly and dangerously. For a moment I flashed back to riding behind Uncle Press on his motorcycle as he took me from home to my first rendezvous with the flume. It felt like a lifetime ago. Or six.

The guy made a hard right, turning into a narrow alley between buildings. We reached the end of the building, where he skidded us into another hard right and an even smaller alley. He seemed to know exactly where he was going. I had made the right call. He wound us through a few more turns until we were in a place of twisted streets, hidden deep within the cavern of buildings, where no people were walking. I was ready for him to stop because I didn't think the dados had any chance of following that wacked route, but he kept pressing forward. I didn't say a word. This was his show.

Finally he made an abrupt turn that nearly threw me off the bike. We side-slid a few feet, then shot inside a garage door. Once in, he hit the brakes so hard I thought I was going to fly over his head. Before we came to a full stop, the garage door was already closing. The door hadn't hit the floor before the guy pulled himself off the bike and turned to me. His eyes weren't so calm anymore. I didn't blame him. That was a pretty wild ride.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

Uh-oh. He had just risked his life to save me and now he wanted answers.

“Uhhh . . . ” was all I could get out. Nice answer, huh? I had been too worried about getting away from the dados to think up a plausible story.

“How did you escape?” he asked. “No challenger has ever escaped.”

“I, uh, you see, funny thing.” I chuckled, trying to sound casual. “I'm not a challenger. This isn't my shirt.”

“And I suppose that isn't your loop?” he asked with suspicion. I glanced at the silver bracelet around my arm. It was still blinking purple. I looked to the guy, sheepish. He reminded me of my father. He was about my size, with short brown hair that was going gray. At that moment it actually
felt
like I was being scolded by a doubting parent. I tried to pull the loop off, but again, it clung to my arm.

“It's
not
my loop,” I said. “I found these clothes and—”

“Who is that?” came a woman's voice. I looked deeper into the dark garage to see someone approaching. She took a few steps toward us, stepping into the light that came in through an overhead window. I immediately recognized her as the woman who skidded the motorbike into the dados, allowing the terrified guy to escape. She had short dark hair that was kind of spiked up. The collar of her dark shirt was turned up. That little bit of style made the drab outfit look suddenly . . . cool.

“An escaped challenger,” the old guy answered. “He was being chased by dados and asked for my help.”

“So you brought him here?” the woman said, angry, as if it were a totally stupid thing to do. When she had crashed the bike, the old guy acted all superior, like he was an angry boss. Now the roles were reversed. She seemed to be the one in charge. It confirmed my suspicion that the whole incident on the street had been staged to help that guy escape.