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Total, Iggy, Gazzy, and Nudge were working the crowd like old hands, bowing and soaking up the applause. Gazzy was spreading his wings and doing little six-foot hops into the air, and each time the crowd roared even louder.
Finally, one of the assembled officials tapped on a microphone located at the center of the stadium. Brigid Dwyer stood next to them, ready to give a speech about the CSM and what it was trying to accomplish worldwide.
The official said something in Spanish, and the crowd cheered and clapped, chanting quotes from Fang's blog. Then Brigid took the microphone and waited for relative quiet.
"Buenos días, señors y señoras," Brigid said, and people cheered. "Hoy nosotros—"
Right then, a piercing scream soared above the crowd's murmur and stopped Brigid cold. Gazzy saw them first: ninja-type thingies leaping over the upper ledge of the stadium and rappelling down to the field.
"Heads up!" Fang shouted. We had a second to exchange glances, thinking the same thing: We hadn't seen them on the roof, just minutes before. Where had they come from?
"Up and away!" I yelled to the flock, then saw the problem: Brigid couldn't fly out with us. We couldn't leave her to the ninjas' mercy, or lack thereof. We couldn't abandon her and the rest of the people who had hosted us.
The officials, Brigid, and the TV crew gazed openmouthed as at least sixty slim, dark figures hit the ground and headed for us. I sized up the situation in an instant: a hundred thousand people who might be injured or killed in crossfire; innocent people right here on the field who would only get in our way; the seven of us up against about sixty of whatever this new threat was.
It was like old times.
"Belay that!" I shouted. "Battle up!"
As a maternal figure, I always try to keep the flock safe, of course. But I admit, it did my heart proud to see the instant blood-lust pop into Gazzy's blue eyes and to see little Angel automatically tense up and get into fighting stance, ready to rip someone's head off. They were just so—so dang adorable, sometimes.
We were a tiny bit out of practice. I hadn't taken anyone apart in several weeks. But once you've learned the nasty, street-fighting, no-holds-barred art of Max Kwon Do, you never really forget it.
"Get 'em!" I shouted as the dark figures raced toward us. Liquid-fire adrenaline surged into my veins, making me jittery and lightning fast.
As soon as one was within striking range, I jumped up and out, both feet forward. They connected heavily, slamming the New Threat in its middle. It doubled over but snapped upright quickly, its dark hood slipping back to reveal a weird, humanish face. Humanish except for the glowing green laserlike eyes.
I landed, spun on one heel, and snapkicked backward as hard as I could. I caught it in the shoulder and heard a crunching, breaking sound.
With its good arm, it swung at my head, much faster than a human could and with more force. I leaped backward just in time, feeling the barest brush of its knuckles against my cheek.
A second one rushed up, followed by a third. One grabbed me from behind, tearing my jacket—my new jacket that my mom had given me. Brand-new, not from Goodwill or a Dumpster. He'd torn it.
Now I was mad. A split-second glance revealed that the flock was doing what it did best: deconstructing things. No one needed help, so I balled my fists, put my head down, and went after my attackers.
These skirmishes always seem to last much longer than they actually do. I felt like I was punching and kicking and swinging and whaling for two hours, but it was probably about six minutes or so. During that time, I figured out that these New Threat thingies had a
couple vulnerable spots: If you brought both hands down in a chopping motion right on top of their heads, their heads actually split open into several metallic strips, like a sectioned orange. Okay, a really gross orange, but you get the idea.
Another vulnerable spot: their trim little ankles. One good strong kick, and they snapped like balsa wood.
In less than ten minutes, thanks to us and the hired security force, the grassy lawn looked like a combination of an army field hospital and an automobile chop shop. Brigid and the officials were white-faced, huddled together by the podium. A quick inventory of the flock revealed the usual bruises, bloody noses, and black eyes, but nothing serious.
Fang came up to me, his face grim, his knuckles raw and bleeding.
I knew what he was going to say. "Okay. No more air shows," I said.
9
DR. DWYER AND the CSM had arranged for a special safe house for us—actually five, four were decoys—and kept the real location a secret until we were in a car headed there.
"Seeing battles is hard, if you're not used to it," Fang said, watching Brigid's white face. She nodded tensely, struggling to maintain her cool. She hadn't been hurt, but her clothes were spattered with blood—I'd been standing right next to her when I had happily discovered the New Threat's orangey weakness.
"It's not a picnic even if you are used to it," I said.
"What were those things?" Iggy asked, rubbing his bruised and scraped knuckles.
"Not sure," I said. I'd been trying to figure that out myself. They hadn't been Erasers, those wolf-human hybrids that had tried to kill us about once every hour for the last four years. They hadn't been Flyboys, which were the flying, cyborg version of Erasers. They hadn't been straight robots. They were roboty, but with a bit of flesh grown over their frames, and apparently didn't fly. They hadn't spoken, but that didn't mean they couldn't.
