The Sky Drifter (19 page)

“Oh, goodness, no,” chortled Gamal Metafrick wryly. “No, they are kept well separate of riff-raff. They are in another wing altogether. You will not see them until the game begins.”

“Riff-raff?” exclaimed the coach angrily, raising his fists. “Listen you—”

Before he could continue, the Malac put his hands in front of his face in mock defense, and, still grinning widely, said, “I only say so in jest, sir, in the spirit of healthy competition. I refer to you as common rabble with cheeky rivalry and nothing more, I assure you.”

Those words seemed to go some way toward appeasing Mr. Hist, though he kept his left eye closed the way he did whenever he took a dislike to someone. “Yes, well, stop that.”

“Of course, sir. As you wish. The game will begin shortly, so I recommend you prepare yourselves quite expediently. When it’s time, you will be collected and escorted to the main arena.”

Looking from Gamal Metafrick to the door, and back again, Mr. Hist said, “That’s
it
?”

The Malac looked confused at the coach’s words, and batting his long eyelashes, stated, “I don’t understand.”

“What,” elaborated Mr. Hist, “we don’t get to see the arena beforehand? We don’t meet the players or
their
coach?” He had a long-standing tradition where he liked to meet and greet the opposing team before a game, shaking each one heartily by the hand. He said it promoted good, solid sportsmanship.

Gamal Metafrick threw his head back in laughter, then wiping fake tears from his eyes, replied, “Oh, no, no. There will be no need for that, Mr. Hist. No, the arena is, I am sure, like others of its kind—albeit designed to the highest of standards—and as I have previously mentioned, you will meet the team when the game begins and not before. Now, unless you have any further questions, I do believe the game will start soon, and as such, I would highly recommend your team get changed into their little uniforms. You wouldn’t wish to disappoint now, would you?” The Malac winked. Before Mr. Hist could say anything, however, Gamal Metafrick quickly added, “And I will be showing these two to their seats in the arena as, I believe, they are mere spectators, yes?”

Before the coach had a chance to reply, the Malac grabbed Iris and Pi by their wrists, turned on his heels, forcing them to stand on either side of him, and walked quickly away down the hallway and then out of sight as I heard Iris say something like, “See you! Good luck!”

For a moment, we just stared at each other, unable to know what to make of it all. From the moment we’d arrived, it had felt as though we’d quickly, and unceremoniously, been ushered through as if on a conveyor belt, as if we were some fans who had the honour of competing against their idols.

After a moment, though, Mr. Hist sighed resolutely, and said, “Come on, you heard him. The game will start soon, so you’d better all get changed.” He opened the door.

Inside, the locker room was just as the Malac had stated, and aside from the yellow and purple lockers that divided the room, it was decorated just like the foyer had been. Banners, posters and trophies lined the walls as life-size holographic Malac players posed and danced around.

As we began getting changed, laying our bags on the benches that ran through the locker aisles and steadily placing our clothes inside the spacious lockers, the automated service operators (I called them ASOs for short) which, by the looks of it, quite resembled the MOOs back at the academy, busied themselves spraying us clean.

Once we’d all changed, Mr. Hist asked us to sit on the benches and then gave us his usual speech, adding, “We don’t know very much about this team other than what I’ve already told you. If we’re lucky, we’ll get to see them practicing before the game starts, which could help. Apart from that, we’re blind, so we’ll have to use all our skill and cunning to beat them, understand?”

“Yes, coach!” we exclaimed loudly in unison.

“Keep cool heads—that means you, 64—and beat them with the skill I know you all have.”

A thinner, taller service operator, all in yellow, opened the locker room door, and with a smooth tone of voice resembling Gamal Metrafrick’s own, said, “It is time to take you to the main arena. Please follow me.”

AS WE ALL PLACED
our bags into the lockers, One walked right up to me and put his hands firmly on my shoulders, turning me to face him. “Listen, Simian, I’m only going to say this once.” His voice was a little friendlier than usual, which almost made my head spin. “I think you’re a joke, and I severely dislike you—”

“Gee, thanks.” 

“Don’t interrupt me. As I said, you make me sick, but here—today—we’re all on the same team and…Good luck. Got it?” He turned and walked away, the Morex, who’d been standing somewhere behind me, closely followed.

Turning back to close my locker, my mind was completely numb from what had just happened.

We followed the ASO out of the locker room and then down the hallway in the direction Gamal Metafrick had dragged Iris and Pi. We remained silent as we walked one behind the other, the atmosphere thick with nervous anticipation. Since we hadn’t been able to get a glimpse of the arena or the Malac team beforehand, my mind blew up what was to come to such heights my stomach hurt.

The ever-increasing sounds of cheering and music echoed along the walls until we reached a pair of tall double doors where they seemed to be banging and pushing against them like some wild beast.

The ASO stopped for a moment, and said, “This way, please,” just before the doors slid silently open. The sounds that had until that moment been muffled, now exploded down the hallway as blinding, colorful lights flashed in our eyes.

As the ASO hovered on, we diligently followed as I blinked my eyes until they slowly adjusted to my new surroundings. A moment
later, I saw the arena spread out ahead of me. We walked down a short, uncovered passageway on either side of which the edges of the stands rose high above like interminable walls. Coming to the end of the passageway, we stepped into the enormous arena for the first time.

The vast, circular purple floor had crimson and yellow stars scattered around. The stands ran the length of the whole arena, and rose almost to its very top. I’d never seen so many spectators gathered together in one place like that. There must have been hundreds of thousands of them, all cheering and singing to the loud music, their faces all exact replicas of each other. Sweeping my gaze from left to right across the stands, the tops of their heads resembled a field of dark red flowers. Somewhere in there were Iris and Pi, but as hard as I tried, I had no chance of spotting them.

Two huge circular platforms dominated the center of the arena with the smaller rising above the center of the larger bottom one. Two spheres stood left and right of the larger platform with a third in the middle of the second, smaller one. Both platforms were raised, the bottom one by three large metallic columns and the second by a single column running through the middle of the bottom one.

High above a colorful light show illuminated the top of the arena. Purple, yellow and crimson stars shot across in all directions, exploding in an array of yet more colors, as gigantic holograms of the Malac team dressed in the uniforms once again posed in various ways.

As the ASO led us through, a sudden wave of boos and hisses filled the air. Mr. Hist, who walked ahead of us, quickly turned and said something I couldn’t hear through the deafening noise, then gave us two thumbs-up before turning and walking again.

On either side of the arena were long, narrow players’ boxes that curved inward along the central Sphere platforms. Like in the academy arena, these were also partly covered. The one the ASO led us to, despite being perfectly unusable, was as plain and basic as it could be with nothing but one long bench running down the middle of it.

Moments later, the music stopped and a loud voice echoed around the arena. “Malacs of all ages! The moment you’ve all been waiting for has finally arrived. Within the walls of this stadium, your beloved Malacs will once again astound and dazzle you as they face yet another team that has yet to experience their crushing dominance.” At this, the enormous crowd cheered wildly and chanted the team’s anthem that had moments ago been playing.

“As always,” continued the voice, “players of each team will be randomly selected to face each other. The winners will be decided either when one of the two teams is first to reach six points or when one side no longer has any players.”

Four holographic scoreboards appeared above the stands, spread around the arena. The next moment, the entire place was plunged into darkness where only the scoreboards could be seen.

“Now,” resumed the voice, “without further ado—here is your team. The Malacs!”

Wild cheering and applause once again filled the air as the gigantic holographic image of a Malac player appeared above the center of the arena. Like the others, the only difference in him was his hair, which was shaved on both sides with a thick strip of crimson waves down the center of his scalp.

“His hobbies are dancing and playing percussion instruments, and Malanor Monthly named him ‘The Bad Boy You’d Love To Be.’ Heeeere’s Altec!”

A clear white spotlight shone down from somewhere above, illuminating a spot on the ground by the Malac team’s players’ box. A moment later, a player came strutting out and walked to the center of the arena to the sounds of cheering and applause, stopping every few steps to blow kisses into the crowd.

Once he stopped in front of the Sphere platforms, the voice announced yet another Malac player as a different holographic image appeared above. This time the Malac’s hair was shoulder-length and parted to the side, so it flowed down, obscuring half his face.

“Deeply romantic,” announced the voice, “you’ll often find him composing astounding poetry, but don’t let your guard down—he’ll steal your heart in half a beat! Heeeere’s Bertramis!”

Again the Malac player came out to the sounds of wild cheer and applause as he casually stopped and winked, posed and blew kisses into the crowd until he reached the middle of the arena and then stood next to his teammate.

The rest of the team was announced in the same way, each with a different hairstyle, each with different hobbies or attributes, each as adored and celebrated as the next, until finally all six team members stood side by side.

After what felt like an eternity of cheers and wild adoration, the large spotlight that had been fixed on the Malac team faded and the main lights came back on. As the team casually jogged back to their players’ box, the voice quickly droned, “Today your dazzling team will be facing the Cloud Runner School, who live on some ship.”

“What did he just call us?” spat One, closing his hands into fists.

“Don’t let it bother you,” assured Mr. Hist. “They’re just trying to get to us. You all just focus on what I said and forget all that stuff.”

Three sets of pairs, each with one name from each team, appeared at the bottom of the scoreboard, indicating which players would be facing each other. The first six selected opponents were number 208, (the Fumo), against Altec. One against Stamura (a Malac player who wore his long, straight hair in a ponytail), and number 64 against Bertramis.

The first round was split into two parts where three players faced each other in the first and the remaining six in the second. The winners of this round would all proceed to the second.

As One and numbers 208 and 64 stood, the three Malac players were already eagerly making their way up the platform steps on their way to the three spheres.

“Now, remember what I told you,” began the coach seriously, “whatever you hear—whatever they
say
—ignore it all and focus on beating them, understood?”

As numbers 208 and 64 nodded in unison, One remained still for a moment before spitting, “Those pretty boys don’t deserve my attention
or
my respect. I’ll crush them like every other insect along my path.”

“As long as you stay focused,” replied Mr. Hist. The coach knew better than to try to lecture One, who played better when he was angry. “Now, come on. Go out there and show them what ‘
Cloud Runner School
’ is made of!” he shouted ironically.

All three stepped out from the players’ box and quickly headed to their corresponding spheres to the deafening sounds of boos and hisses. Once all six players faced each other, ready to compete, the main lights went out and three wide spotlights shone down on each of the three spheres.

The air was thick with anticipation as all eyes focused on the massive screens above. Just when the unbearable tension was at its peak, a single loud, melodious chime sounded and the games began.

The screens immediately focused on the top sphere where number 208 was already contorting and twisting his body to dodge Altec’s powerful attacks. Loud clangs echoed throughout the arena as his metal ball crashed forcefully against the hard surface of the sphere. I squinted as I looked down, hoping to see what was happening in the other two spheres, but it was hard to make much out. I thought I saw One somersault over his opponent as he swung his light chain and ball wide, but I didn’t see what happened next. Over on the right sphere I saw 64 crash against the hard, metal frame after having tried to ram Bertramis, whose ball connected hard against the side of his face.

Turning my attention back to the screen above, which was still focused on 208 and Altec’s game, I found them standing opposite each other, Altec gasping for breath as 208 slowly waved his limbs and swayed his head from side to side.

In an explosive move, Altec dashed at 208, swinging his light chain and ball directly at his frame. As if made of smoke, 208’s body easily moved aside from the speeding ball as it once again crashed against the metal sphere. Far from discouraged, Altec tried to sweep 208’s legs from under him, but the latter’s merely bent sideways like thin vines caught in an updraft. Bringing his body back around, Altec stood explosively, furiously raising his fist above his head, making it connect with 208’s helmet. This caused him to float backward toward the frame of the sphere.