Death Match
Contents
Title Page
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1: Run Like It Matters
2: Tranqed
3: The Worst is Possible
4: Anchorage
5: Takeover
6: Crazy Carson
7: New Oluem
8: Things Get Worse
9: Hammer and Torch
10: No Good Deed
11: Plan
12: Weapons Check
13: Straight Flush
14: Rordan
15: Engagement
16: Infiltration
17: Blur
18: Cellmates
19: Wedding Present
20: Choices
21: Cellblock
22: Stillness
23: Passage
24: For Dad
25: Old Friend
Acknowledgements
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About the Author
Other Books by Camille Picott
Sulan
Episode 6: Death Match
By Camille Picott
www.camillepicott.com
Published by Pixiu Press
Windsor, CA
Copyright 2018 Camille Picott
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Her family teeters on the jagged edge of poverty.
Hank must barter her hacker skills for food and rent money.
All she has to do is work that is illegal. And deadly.
If she turns a blind eye, people will die. If she acts and gets caught, she and her family will pay the ultimate price.
Hacker is the novella prequel to Sulan, a fast-action YA dystopian series. It can be enjoyed at any point in the Sulan series.
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1
Run Like It Matters
“Lace up,” Aston said. “It’s time to go for a run.”
Taro looked out the window at the blurry world of white, brow furrowed. He knew better than to ask if his father was serious.
“Where are we running to?” he asked instead, sliding his feet into his boots.
“Not we. You,” Aston corrected. “There’s another hunting lodge ten kilometers from here, due west. Find it. I’ll meet you there.” Aston pulled a stop watch from one of the many pockets on his hunting vest. “Your time starts now.”
Taro wasn’t even done lacing up his boots. God, he hated that stopwatch. When the stopwatch came out, he knew pain was in store for him. A lot of it. His father put a lot of stock in stopwatch times.
Aston planted himself beside the door, arms crossed and stopwatch propped up between his fingers. Sometimes, Taro heard the ticking of the stopwatch in his sleep.
Boots secured, he pushed through the door and out into the cold. Wind drove the snow sideways, making it impossible to see the sun and even more impossible to gauge his bearings from his surroundings. But Taro had taken stock of his environment two days ago when they arrived, when the sun had been shining. He knew which way was west.
He set out at a brisk jog into the blizzard.
*
Leaving Sulan behind is the hardest thing Taro has ever done. As much as he wants to, he doesn’t let himself look back. He doesn’t want to see her face.
He falls into step behind Li Yuan, jogging through the ice-filled forest. Snow crunches underfoot.
Sulan. He says her name repeatedly in his head like a chant. Sulan. Sulan. Her name creates a cadence in his mind, helping him time his footfalls.
Unable to resist any longer, he glances over his shoulder. Sulan is gone, swallowed up by the cold white. Not seeing her summons a deep emptiness within him. The snowfall picks up, hundreds of cold pinpricks against his face.
“Are you sure leaving them behind is the best choice?” Taro asks, huffing with the exertion of running through snow.
“There are no good choices,” Li Yuan replies, also huffing. “Sulan isn’t in any shape to travel with us right now. We need my husband for his work on the plague vaccine. We need Maxwell and Aston as key witnesses against Global. In the larger scope of what’s at stake, we’re making the only choice left to us.”
She’s right, of course. Li Yuan wouldn’t leave her daughter behind if there was a better option. At least Billy is with Sulan. The Black Tech programmer has shown himself to be handy in a fight, which eases Taro’s nerves somewhat.
“You know how to run in the snow,” Li Yuan observes.
Taro grunts. “It’s easier with screws in the bottom of your boots for grips, but Dad made sure I could do it in regular boots, too.”
Snow training are some of Taro’s worst memories. The first time Aston took him to a remote hunting lodge during a week-long winter storm, Taro assumed it was to learn how to hunt and track in the snow. And it was. Partially.
It was common for his father to take him out into the wilderness for days on end. Taro learned how to track, how to hunt, how to build shelter and a fire. How to sleep in a tree without falling fifty feet to the ground. How to survive in the middle of nowhere for five days in pajamas with nothing but a screwdriver.
Normal childhood stuff. Or at least, normal in his childhood.
“Aston trained you to run in the snow?” Li Yuan asks, surprised.
“Yeah.”
“How old were you?”
“Twelve, I think. Maybe eleven.” He pauses. “Why didn’t you teach Sulan to fight?”
Li Yuan doesn’t look at him when she answers. “I didn’t want her life to be one of violence.”
Like mine, he thinks he hears her say, but with the wind picking up it’s hard to be certain.
“She’s gifted, like her father,” Li Yuan continues. “She has a chance to make a good life for herself. I wasn’t going to take that away from her by turning her into a mercenary.”
Taro doesn’t reply. Instead, he leans into the wind, following the sled tracks at his feet. His body is warm from running, but the sweat inside the snowsuit will cool, possibly even turn to ice. It will be cold and uncomfortable, but he can survive it. Thanks to his father, he can survive many uncomfortable and unpleasant things.
“You never know what task the world will lay at your feet,” Aston used to say. “You need to be prepared for every situation.”
Taro used to mimic those words in anger when he was alone. Now—and not for the first time since meeting Sulan—he glimpses wisdom in those words.
*
When he arrived at the door of the second hunting lodge, Taro looked forward to removing his gloves and warming his hands by the fire. Smoke puffed up from the chimney. A snowmobile sat in front of the lodge, a sure sign that Aston was inside. His father had taken a circuitous route to get here, as Taro had not seen or heard him during his trek.
Ten kilometers through the snow hadn’t been terrible. Yes, it was cold. Yes, it was hard to see. Yes, he had to move at a slower pace due to uneven terrain. He slipped once on a snow-covered rock and rolled his ankle, but it was only a dull ache, nothing he couldn’t push through.
He turned the lodge handle, fully expecting to push his way inside. Instead, Aston yanked it open and blocked the doorway with his big frame.
“One hour, thirty-seven minutes, forty-one seconds,” he said, clicking off the stopwatch. “Too slow. Did you think you were on a sight-seeing mission? What if your wife or child was out here, their life depending on you?”
Taro stared up at his father, hating him in tight-lipped silence. He knew what was coming. He didn’t give Aston a chance to finish his lecture.
Taro turned back into the
blizzard and set back out in the opposite direction.
“I expect your time to improve,” Aston called after him. “If you don’t arrive at the other lodge in under one hour, thirty minutes, you’re going again.”
I’ll be doing it again anyway, Taro thought darkly. Aston would find some reason to make him keep going. He could see it now. He’d slog through the snow between the hunting lodges for hours and hours on end until he puked or passed out from the exertion.
There were some days so dark, the only thing that kept him going was his hatred for Aston.
*
Taro and Li Yuan have been running for at least two hours. Snow still falls heavily, though it’s changed to a soft, fluffy snow, no longer an icy one.
As he predicted, his sweat has cooled into an icy layer on his body within the snowsuit. He and Li Yuan run a high risk of hypothermia. His father had induced hypothermia on multiple occasions, just to make him learn how to survive it. It would suck, but Taro could get through it if it happened.
“I need water,” Li Yuan rasps beside him. She slows, reaching down to scoop up a handful of snow.
It wasn’t until she says this that he realizes he, too, is thirsty. He copies her, scooping up a handful of powder and sliding it into his mouth. The cold is awful, freezing his tongue and making his teeth ache, but the liquid is welcome.
“It will be dark in another few hours,” Li Yuan says. “We need a plan in case we don’t find them before then.”
“We’ll need a plan if we do find them,” Taro replies.
“The sled tracks are getting harder to see.”
“I can see them.” He doesn’t mention the other signs he’s followed. The occasional discarded piece of trash. The frozen spray of urine on a tree trunk or in the snow. The stray boot print. As much as Taro dislikes admitting it, Aston taught him well.
*
Taro made three more treks between the hunting lodges. Fatigue dragged on him as he plodded up the porch steps. The storm was letting up, but this knowledge was not helping his mood.
He didn’t bother knocking on the door; his father would have heard the tread of his boots.
He lost count of the number of times he slipped or tripped. There was a layer of ice on the outside of his clothes from all the sweat. His gloves, too, were saturated with sweat, which had turned into a frozen layer. He was cold from the inside out.
Behind him, the door swung open. A blast of warmth bathed the back of his neck. He closed his eyes, savoring it, sure the door would soon be shut on him once again.
“One hour, twenty-two minutes,” Aston reports. “Much better. But not good enough. Next round, I expect you to make it in one hour, fifteen minutes. Run like it matters.” He placed a plate of food at Taro’s foot. “You have a ten-minute break.”
Aston went back into the lodge, closing the door behind him. The bolt slid into place with an audible thunk.
He counted to ten, trying to get his temper under control. When he got to ten, he was even angrier than when he started. He attempted to count backward down to one but only got to six.
“Screw it,” he snarled. He brought his booted foot smashing down on the plate. The porcelain shattered under the force. Taro stomped several more times, pulverizing the precious food and grinding parts of the plate into powder.
By the time he was done, he felt less angry. But hungry.
Oh, well. Being hungry wasn’t the worst thing in the world. Annoying, yes. Uncomfortable, yes. But he could deal with both. Another ten kilometers on an empty stomach was doable.
Flopping onto a bench, he pulled an ink pen out of his pocket. He always brought ink pens with him on these stupid trips. They were his only means of getting even with his dad.
Taro had lashed out at his father in every conceivable way over the years. Art was one of the few things that ever got a reaction. Aston despised the fact that Taro loved to draw, a fact Taro exploited as often as he dared. Even if it did get him extra push-ups. In this case, it would probably earn him an extra ten kilometers, but screw it. It was worth it.
Taro spent the next five minutes sketching an elaborate scene of death and destruction on the bench. There was a castle, horses, armed soldiers with lances swords, and a pile of bodies.
Too bad he only had a black pen. He could have used some red ink for blood.
The drawing made him feel marginally better. As he slid the pen back into his pocket, he spotted a hammer and a small pile of nails on the far side of the door. The head of the hammer was frosted over with cold.
Mind racing, Taro strode across the porch and scooped up the nails. He mentally retraced the damnable route he’d traipsed back and forth all day. If he had better grips on his shoes, he could go faster. He wouldn’t fall and slip so much.
He didn’t spend any more time thinking about it. Yanking off his boots, he grabbed the hammer and nails and got to work. A few minutes later, both boot soles were studded with nails.
“This could work,” he muttered, studying his creation.
Lacing them on, he set off. The difference was immediately apparent. His shoes now had grip. They no longer slid around. They were stable on the uneven and slippery parts of the trail.
Taro tried to recall if the hammer and nails had been there earlier in the day. Yes, they had. He registered them when he first set out, but hadn’t thought anything of them.
Idiot.
Renewed, Taro picked up his pace. Vapor plumed in front of him with every exhalation. It froze on his face, forming bits of ice along the tip of his nose and upper lip. Without breaking stride, he scratched it off and kept running.
When he arrived at the western hunting lodge—chest heaving, lungs burning, legs rubbery from exertion—he grabbed the side of the porch and vomited on the tips of his boots. His stomach was empty, sending up bits of stringy bile. A ripple of pain went through his abdomen as the dry heaves continued for several minutes.
At some point, his father clomped down the stairs and joined him in the cold. He handed Taro a warm, damp towel and a mug of black coffee.
“Good work,” he said, clapping him on the back. “One hour, twelve minutes, three seconds. Now that was a run. Took you long enough to find the nails and hammer. What have we said about our environment?”
If Taro wasn’t so exhausted, he would have glared. Instead, he straightened and rested his head on the snowy railing of the deck.
“Find weapons and tools in your environment,” he said, repeating one of his father’s mantras. “Make every advantage yours.”
Aston gave his back a final pat. “Good job. Hopefully next time you’ll remember the lesson sooner. Come on inside and get warm. I’ve had a stew cooking for three hours. This time, I trust you won’t break the dishes.”
*
Yesterday, if he’d thought about that day of training, Taro would have wanted to smash that plate under his boot all over again. Most memories of his childhood produced that reaction inside him. He did his best to suppress the feelings, but every once in a while they bubbled to the surface.
Yet now, as he runs through the snow, his recurring thought is that he wished he had some nails and a hammer.
His dad is out there, captured. The great Aston Hudanus, legendary mercenary, has been captured. Taro’s entire worldview has been turned upside down.
The man he calls Dad and mildly dislikes on a good day doesn’t get captured. The man who made him run fifty kilometers through the snow doesn’t get captured. That man is invincible. Enduring. Infallible in the world of tactics and fighting.
Taro pushes on. His chest heaves. His lungs burn. His legs and arms are numb from cold and fatigue. Ice chills on the tip of his nose and upper lip. The ache in his chest has nothing to do with the cold air pumping in and out of his lungs.
He picks up the pace, booted feet churning against the cold, hard ground. He takes the lead, moving in front of Li Yuan. The faster they move, the sooner they can rescue
his dad and get back to Sulan.
Li Yuan labors to keep up with him. He notices her falling behind, but doesn’t slow. Inevitably, she pushes to catch up with him.
Now isn’t the time to give in to physical discomfort. Now is the time to run like it matters.
Because it does.
2
Tranqed
“Taro.”
Li Yuan’s voice floats on the hazy edge of his focus.
“Taro.”
“Can’t let up,” he replies. “Have to find him.”
“Taro, stop.” She puts a hand on his arm.
He jerks away reflexively, but draws up short to face her. “What?”
The corners of her eyes are pinched with fatigue. Her chest rises and falls in time with her harsh breathing, white clouds puffing from her mouth. “We’re close.” She leans over, bracing hands on her knees. “Damn, you’re fast. You’re making me feel old.”
He doesn’t know what to say to this so he doesn’t respond. The few times he’s seen Li Yuan fight, he found her scary. On top of that, she was his father’s mercenary partner. It’s clear Aston respects her. Anyone who’s earned his father’s respect has to be insanely tough.
He looks away from Li Yuan, sharpening his focus on their surroundings. They’re close, she had said. He’s been focusing almost solely on the dog sled tracks for the last few miles . . .
The sled tracks. They stand tall in the snow, easy to see. A few miles ago, it had been a struggle to make them out. He’d relied more on periphery clues for tracking.
Taro lets out a breath, scratching bits of ice off his nose and cheeks. “Thanks. I was in a zone.”