Sulan, Episode 1: The League Page 2

  ***

  Watching Hank and Billy blush and stammer for the next two hours is a good distraction. As soon as I leave them for the Cube, my anxiety returns. I arrive at locker 266 with the Cloak snug on my pinkie finger and the Touch pills in my pocket.

  The room is empty. I pace. A single lightbulb hangs from the ceiling. An old wooden bench bisects the center of the room. The walls are lined with battered metal lockers covered in flaking red paint.

  Five minutes pass. Ten minutes. Fifteen.

  I sit down on the bench, dejected. For all my pent-up anxiety, I am disappointed. I should have known this was too good to be true. Maybe Baldy isn’t a corporate spy, but apparently he isn’t serious about me as a partner, either.

  I pull out the packet of Touch pills, letting the bright-green lozenges slide into my hand. I roll them back and forth on my palm. Touch was to be my savior. Too bad I’ll never get a chance to use it.

  “What are those?”

  My fingers snap shut over the pills. I jump to my feet in surprise.

  Baldy stands in front of me, the lightbulb reflecting off the shiny dome of his head. My forehead isn’t even level with his chest.

  “You . . . you came,” I say.

  “Of course.” Baldy gives me a quizzical look. “You thought I was going to stand you up?”

  “Maybe.”

  He chuckles, studying me. “Why would you think that?”

  “Why did you pick me?” The words burst from my mouth. “What do you want from me?”

  “Want from you?”

  “You must want something.” I square my shoulders, bracing myself. “It’s the only explanation. I was one of the smallest contestants at the Meat Grinder. I don’t have any skills. You did me a favor. So you must want something.”

  A moment passes. And then, of all things, Baldy smiles at me.

  It’s a nice smile. An affectionate smile. Not the least bit predatory. It takes me completely off guard.

  “I knew I was going to like you when you took out that girl with the rock,” he says. He sits down on the bench, making himself comfortable. “Have you ever read Sun Tzu?”

  I shake my head, wondering where this is going—and if he’s going to answer my question.

  “Who’s Sun Tzu?” I ask.

  “He’s a famous Chinese general who wrote the Art of War,” Baldy says. “In his book, he talks about standoff terrain. That’s fighting ground where neither party has the advantage, like the pylons over the quicksand. Tzu says that when facing an enemy in standoff terrain, the best strategy is to withdraw and lure your enemy after you—then strike as soon as you hit better terrain and have the advantage. That’s what you did.”

  I did?

  “You’re wrong about yourself,” Baldy says. “You may be petite, but you are clever enough to recognize a tactical advantage when it’s presented. That’s a quality lots of teams here could benefit from.”

  His words make something blossom in my chest. It feels like hope, like pride. I could ace a hundred math tests and never feel like this. I hold his compliment close, marveling at it.

  “But you are right,” Baldy continues. “I do want something from you.”

  I stiffen, narrowing my eyes. “What?”

  He reaches in his pocket and pulls out a flat gray device two inches square.

  “Know what this is?” He holds it up.

  I peer at it. “No. What is it?”

  I tense, waiting for the sword to fall. For the price to be named. My time in the Cube could end in the next thirty seconds.

  “This is a Cloak scanner,” he says. “Feds use it on sting operations.”

  Panic surges in my throat. I shift, about to bolt for the door, but by then he’s already flicked the on switch. The device vibrates as he holds it in my direction.

  “This is how I know you’re a minor,” he says. “You set off my scanner at the Meat Grinder. Here. Take a look.” He holds the device out to me.

  I hesitate, then take it. What’s his game? The scanner goes still in my hand.

  “It doesn’t scan the avatar that holds it,” Baldy says. “Point it at me.”

  I swing the scanner in an experimental arc past Baldy. I nearly drop it as it vibrates.

  Baldy grins at my look of shock.

  “You’re a—a minor?” I say.

  “Yep.”

  “But . . . how old are you?”

  “Seventeen.” He rubs at his shaven head. “I’ve always looked older than I am, even when I was a kid. I knew I wouldn’t have trouble fitting in here. You, on the other hand, look like you’re twelve.”

  “I’m sixteen. I do not look twelve.”

  “Yes, you do. I’m surprised the bouncers didn’t flag you for a second check.” He grins again, revealing a dimple on each cheek, and I am struck by the dark blue of his eyes. “Guess you got them on a good day. Now that you’re a member, they won’t bother you.”

  My mind struggles with these new puzzle pieces. I can’t fathom how they fit together.

  “Where’s your Cloak?” I ask.

  He pulls up his shirtsleeve. A simple leather cord encircles his wrist. I hold the scanner close to his wrist, and it nearly vibrates right out of my hand.

  “I figured it would be in my best interest to form a team with other minors,” Baldy says.

  “A group of people with like interests can be useful to one another. You were the only other minor in the Meat Grinder.” His smile goes all the way to his eyes. “So you are right: I do want something from you. I want you to protect my secret. I, in turn, will protect yours. Deal?” He holds out his hand.

  I feel a genuine smile creep across my face. Relief fills me from head to toe. All my paranoid hysteria, and it turns out Baldy is just another law-breaking kid like me.

  “Deal.” I shake his hand, daring to meet his eyes. “Why did you choose this site, anyway?”

  “My dad pays for merc training in the real-world.” He shrugs. “I don’t like playing on sites where everyone is souped up with Axcents. There’s no challenge in it.”

  He’s a bored rich kid.

  A bored rich kid with real-world merc training.

  “What about you?” he asks. “Why did you choose the Cube? With that Cloak, you could have donned an Axcent and gone to any of the other clubs. No one would have thought twice about your age.”

  As soon as the question is out of his mouth, I realize my mistake: I should not have asked him anything I don’t want to answer myself.

  He absorbs my silence, then says, “Let me see the pills in your hand.”

  “What pills?” I step back from him, hand still clenched around the Touch. I try to shove them in my pocket. Baldy is on his feet in an instant, plucking up my wrist in his gigantic hand. I tighten my fist.

  “Short Stuff.” He looks at me with an intensity that makes me feel naked—and not in the Vex way. His eyes are so blue. “If we’re going to be partners, we can’t lie to each other. I’ve seen Touch. I know what it looks like.”

  “Why’d you ask then?”

  “Why’d you lie?”

  Truth hovers on the edge of my tongue. I could just tell him. I should just tell him.

  I open my hand, letting light fall on the bright-green pills. Baldy takes one look at them, sighs, and drops my wrist.

  “So that’s why you came to the Cube? To play with this stuff? There are other clubs for that, Short Stuff.” He steps back from me, regarding me with a new kind of emotion. Scorn? Contempt?

  My mouth falls open as I suddenly realize what this looks like.

  “It’s not what you think,” I say hurriedly. “It . . . uh, I . . .”

  Baldy folds his arms over his chest, his eyes distant. “The truth, Short Stuff.”

  Touch is designed for one thing, and one thing only: cybersex. The technology hacks into a Vex set and allows the user to share the physical experience of an avatar.

  I am so embarrassed that I
consider hiding in one of the lockers.

  “Last chance, Short Stuff,” Baldy says.

  “I want to train with these,” I say in a rush, gesturing to the pills. “I want to learn how to fight.”

  I wait for him to laugh.

  He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t speak, either. There’s a shift in his eyes. The scorn for me disintegrates, replaced by pure shock.

  “I’ve got no one to teach me in the real-world,” I say. “I came here because it won’t do me any good to fight with a Viking warrior Axcent in Vex. I’m five foot two and barely one hundred pounds. I need to learn how to fight with my real body.”

  Baldy sits down on the bench. It creaks under his weight. After a long moment, he clears his throat. “I thought I had you pegged.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I’m here because I’m pissed at my dad,” Baldy says. “Teenage angst and all that. I sort of figured you had a similar story.”

  I occasionally get into arguments with my mom. I wonder if that counts?

  “Why do you want to learn how to fight?” Baldy asks. “I don’t know anyone with enough money for Vex who doesn’t lease some sort of merc security, even if it’s just a patrol unit.”

  “I don’t want my safety to depend on anyone else.”

  He pauses, digesting my words. “I can respect that,” he says after a minute. “But Touch is illegal for a reason. People die using it.”

  “Not very often. Besides, these are Uncle Zed pills. They’re the safest on the market.”

  “On the black market. You could die. If someone blows your head off in here, you’ll die in the real-world—”

  “You don’t get it,” I say. “This isn’t some weekend sporting event for me. I’m not playing out some Black Ice-Morning Star fantasy like other people here. None of this means anything if I can’t protect myself in the real-world.”

  “What is it you’re so scared of?”

  I see the girl, hear the bullet discharge, remember her blood. Remember Imugi’s malicious glee. I open my mouth, then close it again.

  Baldy sighs. “I’m not sure anyone’s ever used Touch this way. How do you even know it will work?”

  “I don’t. I have to try, though.”

  “Do you have access to any exercise equipment?” he asks.

  “Yeah. My apartment building has a workout room. Why?”

  “I think your idea to train with Touch may work, at least for building muscle memory. I’m not sure about building actual muscles, though. I’ll give you workouts to help build your strength and endurance.”

  I perk up. “Does this mean you’ll help me?”

  Our eyes meet. A slow smile spreads across his face.

  “I knew I was going to like you,” he says again. “You remind me of my little sister. She’s rash and strong-willed, just like you.”

  “Does your sister know how to fight?”

  He laughs. “My sister carries a gun in her bra.”

  “Really?” I sit next to him on the bench. “What kind?”

  He laughs again. “We’ll talk about guns next month. Let’s start with some basic hand-to-hand self-defense first.”

  That thing happens again, that blossoming in my chest.

  He’s going to help me.

  “I’ve always wanted a big brother,” I say.

  Something flickers in his eyes, but it’s gone in an instant.

  “You have to agree to one condition before we start training,” he says. “You can use Touch, but only when we train together. You leave them on the shelf when we compete against other teams. Agreed?”

  “Yes,” I say. “I promise.”

  “Good. My real name is Gunther. You can call me Gun when we’re alone.”

  The gesture is not lost on me. Some teammates never share real names with one another. I’m not under any obligation to return the gift, but I find myself wanting to.

  “I’m Sulan.”

  He smiles. I realize in that moment that I love his smile.

  “My dad has invested a lot of money in my training,” he says. “By the time I’m done with you, you’ll be as well-trained as any merc on the street.”

  6: Claudine

  “Sounds like you’ve met the male equivalent of yourself,” Hank says the next day. “Parental issues. Pent-up rage. Violent tendencies.”

  “Isn’t it great?” I grin at nothing in particular. “His sister carries a gun in her bra. He said we’d start training with guns next month. He said—”

  “Didn’t you swear off boys?” Hank raises an eyebrow at me.

  I stiffen. “Gun sees himself as a brother to me. He said so himself.”

  Hank snorts. “You’re gushing, Sulan.”

  “That’s because I’m going to learn how to fight! Did I tell you that his father hired private merc trainers for him?”

  “I have a brother,” Hanks says, “and let me tell you, I never talk about him the way you’re talking about Gun.”

  I ignore her. She knows I don’t want a boyfriend. Boyfriends lead to marriage; marriage leads to kids; and kids lead to prisons, just like the one my mother lives in. Even though Mom seems content, I don’t want to end up like her. She spends her days organizing socials and debating overtime charges with Pinnacle’s merc subcontractor. I’d rather hang myself.

  “Speaking of boys,” I say, eager to steer the conversation to a new subject, “how did things go with Billy last night?”

  Hank flushes. She scowls, but the blush ruins her attempt at severity. “I should kill you for ditching me with him.”

  “If I left you and Billy to your own devices, you’d never work up the nerve to talk to one another.”

  Hank giggles. The vision of a giddy Hank takes me aback.

  “We talked about programming,” she says in a rush. “We started building an archive query for his work at Collusion Underground. Billy wants to cross reference key themes from current articles with archived articles. We’re developing an algorithm that can actually analyze multiple databases concurrently and determine themes and idea topics, then sort them. Sort of like a souped-up thesaurus, only for conspiracy theories.”

  “Now who’s gushing?” I say.

  “I don’t expect you to understand,” Hank says. “Programming isn’t your thing. You should see what he can do with code, Sulan. I’ve never seen anything like it. He’s so . . . so brilliant.” The last word comes out in a breathy exhalation.

  “So you guys spent all last night making code together?” I grin.

  “Sulan! Don’t be gross. It wasn’t anything like that.” Her gaze sharpens. “Besides, you’re the one using Touch while hanging out with a strange bald guy.”

  “Yep,” I say cheerfully. “And I’m going to do it again tonight. What about you? You and Billy going to make more code tonight?”

  “We’re meeting at Café Blu after school.” Hank’s grin is as idiotic as any I’ve ever seen on Billy.

  Her expression sobers me. I don’t look like that when I talk about Gun, do I?

  “You know,” Hank says, “if you were half as excited about school as you are about shooting a gun, you could get really good grades.”

  I could get good grades, if I wanted to. For all the time I spend studying with Hank—tutoring her—she never wonders at my mediocre grades. She assumes I don’t apply myself. It never occurs to Hank that I get mediocre grades on purpose.

  “You may not be concerned about your grades, but I am. Here.” Hank shoves a tablet into my hands.

  “What is this?” I scan the two typed pages on the tablet. My mouth falls open. “Hank . . .”

  “Your report for Dr. Nguyen on mean internode length. Consider it a congratulations gift for getting into the Cube. Besides, I knew you weren’t going to write it.”

  Hank lengthens her stride and heads into class, not giving me a chance to thank her. I stare at the report a moment longer, then send it to my tablet. How late did Hank stay
up writing this?

  I pay cursory attention in our applied physics and quantitative genetics classes, jotting down a few notes to keep Hank’s elbow out of my ribs. Mostly I daydream about tonight’s meeting with Gun. I’ll finally get a chance to try Touch and start training.

  By the time we arrive at calculus, I can feel Hank’s tension over the upcoming test. She chews on her fingernails as we take our seats. Muttering to herself, she pulls out her tablet and does a last-minute review of her notes. All the other kids arrive, and the bell rings.

  Claudine Winn’s pristine avatar materializes at the front of the classroom. Hers is clearly the over-eighteen sort. Brown hair falls in sculpted waves past her shoulders. Flawless skin glows in its perfection. Everything is immaculate, right down to her eyebrows and symmetrical teeth. Not even movie stars look as good as Claudine’s avatar.

  She’s the twenty-something niece of Mr. Winn, the billionaire who owns Global Arms. A few years ago, she wrapped her car around a tree and destroyed her career as a concert pianist; Mr. Winn swooped in and put her in charge of Virtual High School. Her experience as a ruined classical musician clearly made her the perfect candidate for the job.

  She spends her time monitoring our tests scores and recruiting students from around the world. I’ve had more than my share of conversations with Claudine regarding my “scholastic potential.” She expects great things from the daughter of Dr. Hom.

  “Good morning, students,” Claudine says in a chipper voice that’s as manufactured as the rest of her. She makes it a point to broadcast herself into every classroom several times a month. She’s not an early riser, and her appearances generally take place later in the day. She always rambles on about the latest achievements of Global Arms. Today is no different; she rattles off figures on the company’s quarterly earnings, assuring us of Global’s vitality and longevity.

  I sigh and slouch down in my chair. A scrap of crumpled paper on the floor by Claudine’s feet catches my eye. The paper twitches. A plantlet sprouts from it. Roots plunge into the floor as a shoot arcs upward. It’s like watching one of those old time-lapse films. In several seconds, there’s a man-sized Venus flytrap towering over Claudine.

  Just as she says, “We’ve got a new marketing program in place that should yield a five percent revenue increase next quarter,” the giant Venus flytrap lashes out. It swallows Claudine whole, fake smile and all. Saliva drips from its maw as it lets loose a loud belch.

  The students burst out laughing. I scan their faces, trying to figure out who pulled the prank. Not Daruuk Malhotra—not his style—but maybe Crystal Lark or Nichomas Youngblood. If either of them had anything to do with it, I’m pretty sure there’s a Venus flytrap in every classroom today.

  About thirty seconds later, the system repairs itself. Claudine gazes out, camera-ready smile belying a dangerous anger in her eyes. I’d give anything to know what her face looks like in the real-world.

  “Normally I wouldn’t let such blatant disrespect go unpunished,” Claudine says. “I’m in a rather good mood today, so I’ll overlook it this time. Before I was so . . . creatively interrupted, I was about to make an announcement.”

  There’s something about the tone of her voice—almost a trill—that tells me this is no normal announcement. I sit up straight.

  “Global takes the threat of the Anti-American League very seriously,” she says. “While we’ve been able to provide protection to all Global families living in our controlled territory, the growing threat of the League has made us see the need for additional security measures.”

  Claudine pauses to let that sink in. Murmurs ripple through the classroom. I exchange curious looks with Hank.

  “I am pleased to announce that Global Arms has just purchased the Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory from the United States government. The purchase was ideal, as we already lease a large portion of the facility and have many scientists stationed there. Renovations will start immediately. We will transform the facility into a corporate compound that offers unparalleled comfort, safety, and sustainability. My uncle and I are pleased to offer this state-of-the-art living facility to our Global family.

  “In just a few months, Virtual High School students, along with their immediate families, will be relocated. Also joining us will be mercenary, scientist, and trade families.”

  The classroom erupts into cheering students. I observe the jubilant faces around me and try to internalize the emotion. Instead, I feel hollow. Hank nudges me, and I force myself to clap with everyone else.

  This announcement should make me happy. Feudal fascist societies are on the rise; they’re fast becoming the new American dream. Employment for adults, education for children, recreation, medical care, food, clothing, housing, security, and safety for the entire family—big companies provide it all in big steel-and-cinderblock compounds. Global isn’t doing anything new.

  I should feel relieved. I should feel like I will be safe.

  But I think of all those dead kids at Stanford, nearly five hundred of them packed into a single building. All murdered with one bomb. How easy will it be for the League to get at us, once we’re all packed into a confined space?

  Learning how to protect myself has just become more important than ever.

  Claudine beams at us, waiting for the clapping to die down.

  “As I’m sure you all know, the Global family is quite extensive. Unfortunately, there won’t be room in our new compound for everyone. All students who maintain a three-point-eight GPA or higher will automatically be admitted with their immediate families. Students failing to maintain a three point eight will be considered on a case-by-case basis.”

  Uneasy chatter rises from the students. Beside me, Hank whips out her tablet and pulls up all her latest test scores.

  “Why are you worrying?” I say. “You have a four point six.”

  “That was last week. Look!” She turns the tablet toward me. “I’ve slipped to a four point four.”

  It’s no use trying to comfort her when she gets like this. Her obsessive streak has kicked into high gear, and she’s going to be wound up until moving day, whenever that is.

  I have a different problem. Sliding by with my 3.0 isn’t going to work anymore. When Mom gets wind of this, she’s going to be on me. No matter that we’ll probably move to the compound because of Dad. She’ll still want me to meet Claudine’s bar.

  “And now, while I wish I could reveal more, my uncle has expressly forbidden it,” Claudine says. “I look forward to seeing you all soon. Remember, there is no room in the Global family for underachievers!”

  Talk fills the room as Claudine fades away.

  “A corporate compound,” Hank says, turning to me. “Sulan, you have to help me get in.”

  “You don’t need my help. You’ve never had anything lower than a four point one.”

  “Do you know what this opportunity means for my family? Timmy will get to go to a real school. We won’t have to share a bathroom with fifty other families.” She closes her eyes and lets out a slow breath. “We’ll have three real meals every day.”

  I feel a twinge of guilt. Hank doesn’t talk about her real-world life very often, and sometimes I forget we live so differently.

  “You could try looking a little excited,” Hank says. “Sulan, this is huge. People would kill to be in our shoes.”

  “We’re going to be like fish in a barrel,” I say. I’ve never actually seen fish in a barrel, but I heard the phrase used on season seven, episode seventeen of Merc.

  “Fish in a barrel? What does that mean?”

  “It means we’ll be an easy target for the League. A nice missile could wipe us all out.”

  “Well,” Hank says lightly, “good thing you have your new boyfriend. Maybe he can teach you how to dodge a missile.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  “Not yet. I give him six months.”

  “Really? I give you and Billy six weeks.” />
  That gets a scowl out of her. She opens her mouth to say something, but just then Dr. Dunham strides to the front of the classroom.

  “Students!” she calls, waving her arms. “You’re not doing yourselves any favors with all this chitchat. Tests have been sent to your tablets. They are due when the bell rings.”

  The room immediately quiets. Students bend over their tablets. Sure enough, I see the test file sitting on my screen.

  “How are we supposed to concentrate?” Hank says. But she leans over her tablet, stylus in hand and calculator poised beside her.

  I reluctantly tap my tablet screen and open the test.

  My future stares back at me: screen after screen of numbers. Calculus equations.

  My gift. No matter what I do, I am destined for a career in a laboratory.

  Around me, students hunch over their tests, fingers flying across calculators.

  The test consists of one hundred multiple-choice problems. I scan the first problem, then close my eyes; the numbers slide around in my head as I calculate the answer. When I open my eyes, I see the correct answer is bubble A. I mark B and move on.

  Normally, I keep my grades in the mid-Bs, mostly because Mom doesn’t freak out over Bs. Today I only answer 73 percent of the questions correctly. For the rest, I’m careful to make my mistakes look logical. For example, it’s common to forget the chain rule when calculating the derivative of a tangent, so I pick the answer that shows that mistake.

  I should be grateful for my opportunity to attend Virtual High School. I should be grateful that Global will give me a job when I turn eighteen. I should be grateful that my future holds security.

  And I am grateful, in an abstract sort of way.

  But there’s something gnawing at me from the inside out. Anger? Resentment? Whatever it is, some of that feeling goes away when I mark wrong answers.

  There will be hell to pay when I get home, but today I don’t care. In a few months, I’m going to be shipped off to a cinderblock prison. I will likely spend the rest of my life there—if the League doesn’t murder me first.