The Rig by Joe Ducie Page B

stars.
    The field atop the centre platform had been fitted with a few more features since Drake had last seen it on his way to the infirmary. That building was all quiet, save for a few lights shining between the blinds. He wondered if Irene was in there, and thought it more likely she was in whatever passed for the girls’ common room on the northern platform. Fresh white paint marked the borders of the field – a football pitch made of stone – and at either end stood a goal about the size of an ice-hockey net. Strung above the hockey nets was a board of circular lights, three in a row, that looked like it had been nicked from a traffic intersection. A separate raised box of seating, with a shaded tin roof, stood behind the far net. A simple scoreboard hung from the roof of the box seating.
    â€˜What are the lights above the nets for?’ Drake asked.
    â€˜That’s so we can see how many passes we’ve made. Remember, three before we can score, and it resets if we lose possession,’ Mario said. He hefted a long, thin racquet from the trunk and tossed it at Drake.
    Drake caught it and his eyes widened at the weight. The handle was wooden, reinforced with strips of thin steel and wrapped with what looked like gauze bandages. There was a small button embedded in the handle about halfway along its length. At the top an oval-shaped plate was ringed with an array of small metal lumps, interconnected with wires that ran into the handle, and backed against a net of hard, stretched leather.
    â€˜Switch it on like this.’ Mario flicked a switch at the base of the racquet and a tiny blue light lit up the plate.
    â€˜Wait –’ Tommy cried.
    Half a dozen racquets were thrown from the trunk as something exploded from within and flew through the air. Drake only had time to gasp before a heavy metal sphere, about the size of a tennis ball, smashed into his racquet and tore it from his arm. The racquet landed with a dull clunk, handle sticking straight up and humming softly.
    Emir, the large Turkish goalkeeper, grunted harsh laughter.
    â€˜Blimey,’ Drake said, as Tommy gave Mario yet another slap. He hefted his racquet back up, with the ball in the net. It was heavy, but manageable if he was expecting the ball. He gave the racquet a practice toss, but the ball was well and truly stuck to the magnetised net.
    As the other lads picked up their racquets from the mess Mario had caused, Tommy explained a few more of the rules. ‘If you’ve got possession, as you do now, then you’ve got to pass within three seconds or we’ll be penalised. Understood? Better to lose possession than hold it too long, because that gives the other team time to organise their field.’
    â€˜How do I –’ Drake lifted the racquet over his shoulder and swung with all his might. The ball remained stuck to the net. ‘– toss it?’
    Mario snorted. ‘Thought a guy your age would’ve figured that out by now.’
    Greg and Neil laughed as Tommy pointed to the small black button on the handle of the racquet. ‘Swing just like you did then, and hit that button when you’ve got the aim right. Let’s do a practice one.’
    Tommy jogged across the hard, concrete field, about a dozen metres away. He switched his racquet on and, under starlight and the pale, poor lights blinking along the top of the platform, gestured at Drake.
    With a shrug, Drake took a lunge forwards and hurled the rigball as hard as he could. The racquet swung over his head and, at the top of the arc –
when you’ve got the aim right
– he pressed the button in the handle.
    The ball
flew
from his net, straight for Tommy, and snapped back as if on a tight elastic band. For the second time, the force of the impact pulled the racquet from Drake’s hands.
    â€˜You’re supposed to keep the net demagnetised until the ball’s properly away,’ Mario said, tutting and shaking