Freakling Page 7

  “Lower your voice,” Da said sternly.

  I’ll do better than that, Taemon thought. I’ll end this conversation. He stared resolutely at Da, then pushed past him and left the room. Taemon’s shoulder shoved against his father’s arm. It was a small shove, but it got the point across.

  The psiball tournament might not be such a bad idea after all.

  Only a few seconds were left in the game. Four psiball players stood inside one huge sphere, two teams of two. They were sweaty, spent, and tense. Taemon and Moke were ahead, but not by much. If the other team scored, they’d win.

  The sphere was made of lead crystal — smooth, sturdy, and perfectly transparent so that spectators could watch the game.

  The other team had possession of the ball. Taemon watched the girl’s eyes, looking for any indication of which way she would send the heavy leather ball. Blocking the hole wasn’t permitted, but blocking wasn’t what Taemon had in mind.

  The whole idea of psiball was to use psi to direct the ball toward the hole, turn the hole your team’s color, and send the ball through. The side holes were worth one point, the top hole worth three.

  Each team tried to send their psi more forcefully and more quickly to the ball. The ball would obey the psi order that was received first, or in some cases, the psi order that carried more authority. Players sometimes moved around the sphere, since field of vision and proximity to the ball might lend advantage, but these movements were not critical to the game. Players preferred to spend their energy on psi rather than muscle. Strong psi, quick psi, controlled psi — that’s what won psiball games.

  Until Moke and Taemon came along.

  They ran. They spun. They jumped. They did somersaults and backflips and handstands. Anything to make it difficult for the opposite team to mentally project a path to one of the holes. For Taemon and Moke, it was all about defense, aggressive and confusing defense. No one had seen anything like it.

  Of course Taemon and Moke did have to score at least a few points. Now and then they managed to gain possession of the ball and kick it or roll it into a hole. Physical contact with the ball was not illegal unless it lasted more than three seconds. Most players avoided physical contact because it was so tiring. The ball was heavy, and it didn’t bounce. But weeks of practice had made Taemon’s and Moke’s bodies strong and agile.

  This was their closest game so far. This team was good, very good. Taemon waited, alert and eager, watching for their opponents’ next move. He saw that one of the side holes had turned orange, which usually meant that’s where the ball was headed. But it could be a trick. Taemon thought he saw the other player flash a glance toward the top hole.

  Taemon smiled. Where you look is where you go. He saw where the player had looked; now he knew where the ball would go.

  The ball careened in a jagged path, heading for the orange hole on the side. But Taemon decided to defend the top hole instead. He didn’t have time to think anymore. He had to move. Now.

  He took a couple of running steps up the slope of the sphere, jumped, and flipped. He planted both palms on the floor of the sphere and pushed upward with everything he had. He needed as much height as possible. At this point, he couldn’t see the ball. All he could do was stretch his legs up, kick wildly, and hope he’d guessed right.

  He thought he felt something glance off his heel. Either he’d made contact with the ball or he’d kicked Moke in the head. Flipping his legs under his body again, Taemon landed and rolled with the momentum so he wouldn’t break any bones.

  The buzzer sounded. The ball rested inside the bottom of the sphere. No goal.

  The crowd responded with gasps and oohs. Not exactly applause, more like astonishment. It didn’t matter. Taemon knew his acrobatics had made an impression.

  Moke hugged him. “We did it!”

  “Victory awarded to the Blue Team,” the announcer said. The top of the sphere lifted up, and all four players climbed out.

  The boy and girl from the opposing team immediately ran to the umpire. “That was hole tending!” the girl said.

  “His foot did not linger in front of the hole,” said the umpire. “It’s bizarre, but it’s not illegal.”

  The boy glared at Taemon. “This is not psiball. This is pathetic.”

  Taemon turned away. Moke was using psi to squirt water over Taemon’s head from the drinking flask. Taemon laughed and shook his head, spattering the water in Moke’s face.

  They needed to rest. In only a couple of hours, they’d play in the championship match for their age group. He followed Moke into the locker room.

  “Brother, you sweat like a sow,” Moke said. “You’d better take a shower before the next match.”

  Taemon had to think quickly. He couldn’t turn on the water, not without psi, but he couldn’t let Moke see that. These moments happened many times each day, and Taemon had come to pride himself on finding creative ways to avoid certain situations.

  “Nah,” Taemon said. “Stink works in our favor, remember? Distracts the other team.”

  Moke laughed. “I’m not climbing inside a psiball sphere with you and your reek. You gotta shower.”

  “Fine, but I gotta pee first. You go ahead, take your shower. And leave the water on for me, cha?”

  “Cha indeed,” Moke said, heading for the shower.

  Taking his full water flask with him, Taemon went into the toilet stall. He didn’t need to pee. What he really needed was a drink. He couldn’t let anyone see him holding the water flask while he drank. In the privacy of the stall, he gulped down the water.

  He thought about the games they’d played at the tournament today. Five so far, with one more to go. All their strategies worked perfectly, just like they’d practiced. It felt good to win, to be skilled at something. It felt good to be clever, unique, impressive. It felt really good.

  Moke had been right. Taemon needed this tournament to prove to himself that his intelligence and physical strength could make up for his lack of psi. Being psiless was not the same as being powerless. For the first time, he felt there was nothing he couldn’t do, no one he couldn’t fool.

  He wasn’t even afraid of facing Mam and Da tonight and telling them about the tournament. Da would not be pleased, but if Yens could get away with being a psiball champion, Taemon could, too.

  Showered, hydrated, and rested, Taemon was ready for the final game. He and Moke joked while they stretched and warmed up.

  As they walked out to the sphere, Taemon saw the Eagle trophy, golden and glittering, resting on a table in front of the sphere. The winning team would take it home. He imagined it sitting in his living room, next to Yens’s many trophies. Eagle, the sign for achievement. Maybe this would finally convince Da that Taemon could make his own way in this world.

  A smattering of hisses came from the audience. So they were not the darlings of tournament, so what? Nothing could bring Taemon down. This was his day. His and Moke’s and all the other freaklings’ out there.

  The umpire motioned for the players to enter the sphere. The hostility showed clearly in the two boys on the Red Team. Their jaws were clenched, their gazes cold. Even their customary pregame nods had a certain menace in them.

  Taemon gave a curt nod. Let’s just get on with it, he thought.

  The umpire climbed out of the sphere and lowered the top half, enclosing the players inside. The buzzer sounded, and the game began.

  The game was crazy from the first second. These players had obviously been watching Taemon and Moke. They were using many of the same physical techniques to defend the holes. They weren’t very practiced or polished, but they had the right idea. At the end of the first quarter, the other team had a sizable lead. During the next two quarters, Taemon and Moke managed to cut down that lead, but they were still behind by three points.

  During the break before the last quarter, Taemon could hardly catch his breath.

  “These guys,” said Moke. “So aggressive. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re both
born Jaguars.”

  “Cha,” Taemon said, panting. “They got our number.”

  “We’ve gotta stir things up, get them off balance,” Moke said.

  “Cha.”

  “Here’s my idea,” Moke began, but the warning buzzer cut him off. Time to get back into the sphere. “Just follow my lead.”

  The frenetic pace of the game resumed when the buzzer sounded. The ball hurled in erratic patterns inside the sphere. Players hopped, twisted, kicked, and dove — anything to keep the ball away from the holes.

  Taemon found it more and more difficult to stay focused. In an unguarded moment, he lost track of the ball. Before he could get his bearings, it came rushing toward him, smacked him square in the stomach, and knocked his breath out. He clutched the ball and leaned over.

  For a moment, he was stunned. He couldn’t inhale. He opened his mouth, but no air would go inside.

  “Foul!” Moke yelled. “Rough play! That was intentional.”

  But the umpire hadn’t made the call. The game was still in play, and Taemon was still holding the ball.

  Moke called for a time-out and at the very same instant, the umpire called a foul on Taemon.

  “Holding!” screamed the two Red players.

  “Rough play!” screamed Moke. “That was dirty, and you know it!”

  “Dirty?” yelled one of the players. “You want dirty?” He leaped on Moke and started punching.

  Taemon was still trying to catch his breath.

  The other Red player jumped Moke, too. Horrified gasps came from the audience, many of whom had likely never witnessed such violent physical contact before. The three boys fought while the umpire lifted the top off the sphere. By the time they were pried apart by psi, each boy had smears of blood on his face. The three were ordered out of the sphere while the two umpires conferred.

  Taemon was finally able to take a breath. He pulled air into his chest in big shuddering gasps.

  The referee stepped up to the sphere. “Penalty shot awarded to Blue Team. First Red Player ejected for five seconds. Second Red Player ejected for five seconds.”

  Moke whooped. Taemon smiled. They could easily score in five seconds without the opposing team in the sphere. Physical contact wasn’t allowed for penalty shots, but Moke could use a little psi. He wouldn’t even have to color the hole since it was a penalty shot and the other team wasn’t in the sphere. It would be an easy score, even for a weak freak.

  But the referee hadn’t finished. “First Blue Player ejected for five seconds.”

  It took Taemon a few seconds to realize what had happened. Everyone had been ejected but him. He was the one who would take the penalty shot.

  “That’s okay,” Moke said. “You can do it. Remember what we said? Just a squinch.”

  Taemon was stunned. His mind went blank. He looked around at the crowd of spectators, then chided himself. What help did he expect? What could he do? Who could get him out of this?

  None.

  Nothing.

  No one.

  The top of the crystal sphere lowered with Taemon alone inside. The ball sat motionless at the bottom of the sphere, only a couple of feet from the nearest hole.

  No tricks could save him. No magnets, no sleight of hand, no clever distraction.

  “So easy a baby could do it,” one of the Red players said.

  The buzzer sounded to begin the penalty shot.

  Taemon stared at the ball. Each second that ticked off the clock seemed like an aeon.

  The crowd yelled.

  Moke cheered.

  Taemon could do nothing.

  “Five!” the crowd chanted. “Four! Three!”

  The tournament had been a mistake. Better to stay out of the psiball leagues altogether.

  “Two!”

  Da was right. You can’t make decisions, Taemon.

  “One!”

  The buzzer sounded.

  The crowd gradually grew silent. Then the murmurs started.

  “Is he powerless?”

  “Disabled?”

  “Feebleminded?”

  “No psi at all?”

  Moke ran up and placed his palms on the sphere, his face filled with shock.

  Taemon stared at him. “I can’t.”

  Taemon walked through the greenhouse, looking for anything that was ripe. With a gloved hand, he moved a broad leaf aside and found a bumpy yellow squash. He twisted the gourd off the vine and dropped it into the cloth sack slung over his shoulder. Continuing his search, he peeked under squash leaves, checked the color of peppers, judged the size of cabbages.

  He stared at the gloves on his hands. He’d never even seen gloves until he came to the powerless colony a month ago. In the city, anything dirty or rough was done with psi. Now he lived with a family who’d taken him in. He worked at a farm and wore gloves. Everything was different here — knobs on the doors, buttons on clothes, handles on everything, bizarre gadgets like scissors required to complete the simplest of tasks.

  Taemon pulled a knife from his tool belt and used it to remove a cabbage from its stem. A knife! He never thought he’d see one, much less hold one. He remembered Mam singing the calendar song to him every night when he was small. Most of the day signs were animals and things from nature, things he’d seen before. But he had to ask Mam what a knife was. Now he remembered her answer: a savage tool used to separate one thing from another.

  What would Mam and Da think of their savage son?

  Mam. Da. The last time he saw them was at the authority station. One of the referees at the tournament had escorted him there after the terrible moment when he’d revealed his secret. The authority officers had locked him in a holding cell and sent a runner to get his parents. Mam had come in first, pale and trembling. Taemon couldn’t remember exactly what he’d said, but it involved several repetitions of “I’m sorry.” Mam, however, never said a word. She looked so shaken, Taemon wondered if she even understood what was happening.

  Then Mam left and they let Da come in. Da, who blustered and argued with the guards, preaching tolerance and compassion. Let it go, Da, Taemon had wanted to say. I can’t stay here. I don’t deserve to stay here. Let them take me.

  And in the end, of course, Da had no choice but to do just that.

  Would he ever see his parents again? Powerless people were not allowed in the city any more than psiwielders were allowed in the colony. There was no reason for them to mingle. Psiwielders saw powerless people as worthless, and powerless people, he’d quickly realized, saw psiwielders as treacherous. With the religious exception of the innocents in the temple, the two groups had long ago agreed to keep their distance. There was a drop-off station between the two where messages and goods could be exchanged. He’d been hoping for a package from Mam or a letter from Da, but so far, nothing. Then again, in a city where people didn’t write anymore, letters would seem suspicious, like Da was planning something. Maybe his da was finally learning to keep quiet and stay out of trouble.

  “Need any help?”

  Taemon turned. It was Hannova, the leader of the colony.

  “I heard you wanted to see me,” Taemon said. “Had to finish in the greenhouse first.”

  “Why don’t I help you,” said Hannova. “We can work and talk at the same time.” Already she was plucking a red tomato from the vine.

  Taemon knew what Hannova wanted. He was turning thirteen tomorrow, and in the colony that meant it was time to start learning a trade. That was another big difference between the city and the colony. The only decision a city kid had to make was when to start his apprenticeship. Thirteen was the earliest age, but a person could keep going to school until age seventeen if he or she chose. As far as choosing your occupation, that just didn’t happen. Trade secrets were jealously kept within families. Children followed their family’s occupation. If Taemon had stayed in the city, he would have been a teacher, like Da. Exceptions were made only when a child showed exceptional talent in music, art, or sports — which was why
Yens put so much effort into psiball. If he was good enough, he could play for one of the professional teams instead of being Da’s apprentice.

  Taemon studied one of the peppers, then left it alone. How was he supposed to tell when a green pepper was ripe? And how was he supposed to know what occupation was right for him? He’d never thought about it before. Colony kids had thirteen years to figure it out. No one knew what to do with a thirteen-year-old who’d only just come from the city.

  At least they hadn’t made him go to school for the weeks before his birthday. Hannova had decided to let him test out two or three trial apprenticeships before he had to choose. So far, he’d worked at the bakery, the shoemaker’s, and the farm, and he still didn’t know what he wanted to do. Taemon was sure that’s what Hannova wanted to talk about.

  “Do you like working at the farm?” Hannova asked.

  “S’okay, I guess.”

  “You can stay here permanently if you want. I know Bynon would love to keep a hard worker like you.”

  Taemon shrugged.

  “I heard you made a new plow.”

  “The old one was rusted. Falling apart.”

  “Bynon said you made several improvements in the design.”

  Taemon reached for another tomato. “Seemed like there might be a better way to do it, that’s all. The blacksmith did the hard part.”

  “Hmm. Are we done here?” Hannova asked.

  Taemon nodded. “I think we got everything.”

  “Let’s take a walk. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.” She patted his back, which startled him. He was still trying to get used to the way people shook hands, held hands, clapped, patted, even hugged. It surprised him how often people communicated through physical touch. Most surprising of all was that he found he actually liked it.

  After dropping the vegetables off at the farmhouse, Hannova led Taemon to the square at the center of the colony. Today was barter day, and the square was festive with displays of colorful cloth, jams, knitted hats, warm bread, jewelry, herbal remedies, clay pots, hand-carved wooden boxes. Dozens of tables were laid out with peculiar assortments.