Sulan
Episode 1: The League
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Hank is a teenage hacker. Forced to barter her computer skills for a meager wage, she knows the work she does isn’t exactly legal, but Hank needs the money to support her family. When a colleague is murdered before her eyes, she is forced to question what she does. Confronted with a chance to save a girl’s life, Hank must choose between doing what’s right or protecting those she loves. Hacker is the novella prequel to Sulan, a fast-action YA dystopian series.
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Book Description
Sixteen-year-old Sulan Hom can’t remember life before the Default, the day the United States government declared bankruptcy. As a math prodigy, she leads a protected life, kept safe from the hunger and crime plaguing the streets. She attends Virtual High School, an academy in Vex (Virtual Experience) for gifted children.
Beyond the security of Sulan’s high-tech world, the Anti-American League wages a guerrilla war against the United States. When their leader, Imugi, publicly executes a teenage student, Sulan vows to learn self-defense. She acquires Touch, an illegal Vex technology that allows her to share the physical experience of her avatar. She then joins a Vex mercenary club and convinces a stoic teenage boy named Gun to teach her to fight.
Soon, Imugi turns his attention to the kids of Virtual High. Will Sulan’s Vex training be enough to help her survive his attack?
Sulan
Episode 1: The League
by Camille Picott
Pixiu Press • Healdsburg, CA
Copyright © 2012 Camille Picott • www.camillepicott.com
Copyedit by Erin Wilcox • wilcoxediting.com
Ebook creation by Chrissy Wolfe at EFC Services, LLC
For my husband, with love
Contents
FREE BOOK!
Book Description
Sulan Episode 1: The League
Contents
1: Imugi
2: Black Tech
3: The Cube
4: Meat Grinder
5: Baldy
6: Claudine
7: Touch
8: Prank
9: Attack
10: Black Ice
11: Gav
12: Prisoners
13: The Team
14: Riska
15: Ghosts
16: Auction
17: Mortality
18: Uncle Zed
19: Morning Star
20: Prodigy
21: Negotiation
22: The Dome
Acknowledgments
About the Author
FREE BOOK!
Other Works by Camille Picott
1
Imugi
“Mom!”
I throw open my bedroom door and race down the hallway of our San Francisco apartment. Riska, my genetically engineered pet, flicks my cheek with a leathery black wing as he streaks past my head.
“Mom!” I burst into the living room, waving a computer tablet in one hand. Riska growls in response to my agitation, hovering in the middle of the room.
“What is it, Sulan?” Mom looks up from the couch, where she folds laundry. Her elegantly slanted eyes widen at the panic in my voice. She wears her customary black pants and tank top. The light creeping through the bulletproof window shutters illuminates the scars that crisscross her arms.
“A bomb was just detonated at Stanford University. Look.” I shove the tablet into her hands, pausing only to turn up the volume.
Riska alights on my shoulder, still growling. I rest one hand on his black-and-white-striped fur, leaning over the tablet with Mom.
The screen displays a female news reporter in front of a collapsed building, black smoke billowing behind her. Yellow-gold media drones zip through the disaster area, capturing footage. The flying disks blink with red and blue lights.
“I’m reporting live from Stanford University in Stanford, California,” says the reporter. “Thirty minutes ago, a bomb was detonated in a resident dorm. Initial reports confirm that over five hundred students live in this building.”
A sick lump of fear forms in my belly. The image of the reporter cuts out as live footage from the drones flashes across the screen.
Fires burn. Search-and-rescue workers in bright-orange jumpsuits swarm the rubble. Some carry stretchers with bodies. Others have limp forms tossed over their shoulders.
The drones whiz through the wreckage, zooming in on the faces of the victims as they’re carried out of the debris. I see faces—slack, lifeless faces. My throat closes and I blink back tears.
In an attempt to keep myself from crying openly, I say, “Those search-and-rescue workers are from Global Arms.” The orange jumpsuits are clearly marked by the company logo: an old-fashioned fuse bomb that looks like the planet Earth, with the sun as the lit fuse. “I didn’t know we had patrols that far south.”
“Global recruits aggressively among Stanford students,” Mom replies. “The company has a vested interest in protecting the area, though they don’t patrol there as heavily as they do around here.” Mom should know; she used to be a Global mercenary. “Give NorAm Bank another hour,” she says. “They’ll have mercs and rescue workers on the scene, too.”
The drones reveal bright-yellow caution tape marking a wide uneven circle around the ruined dorm. Along with the Global search-and-rescue workers, there are also Global mercenaries in black bulletproof jumpsuits. They hold back a mass of reporters and hysterical students.
Scattered among the Global mercs are a dozen other mercs in light blue, the United States flag embroidered on the right breast of their uniforms. The government usually finds a handful of soldiers to spare for occasions like this, though it’s just for show. Ever since the Default—the day our country declared bankruptcy—people have looked to corporations like Global Arms for protection and security.
“Current estimates bring the death toll to ninety-eight students,” says the reporter, her voice overlaid on the footage of a line of bodies covered with white sheets. “No survivors have been recovered. And although no one has claimed responsibility for this atrocity, anonymous sources report the Anti-American League—”
The screen goes black.
I reach for Mom’s hand. She squeezes my fingers.
We both know what’s coming.
Ten seconds later, the Anti-American League symbol appears on the screen: an American flag in a white circle with a black X over it.
The insignia fades, replaced by the face of Imugi. The muscles along Mom’s arms flex. Her free hand moves toward a gun she no longer carries. She stops herself, fingers hovering just above her hip, then presses her palm between her knees.
Imugi’s face is concealed by his signature shiny white SmartPlastic mask, its only adornment a blue sea serpent that twines up his right cheek and across his forehead. As the leader of the Anti-American League, a Pacific Rim terrorist organization, he always makes an appearance after a strike.
The goal of the League is simple: to perpetuate the hardships of the Default. They quash any attempt on the part of our country to crawl back out of the hole we put ourselves in.
“Witness the latest triumph of the Anti-American League,” Imugi says, his words distinguished by a slight Asian accent. “A successful bombing of one of America’s few remaining universities. Consider this a warning strike. Those of you attending an educational institution would be wise to quit immediately. It is time for Americans to understand that your resources—all your resources, including your brilliant minds—are at our mercy. You would do well not to forget it.”
The mask reveals few facial expressions, except for Imugi’s smile. The corners of the mask turn up around his mouth. His white teeth flash in the camera lights. It’s the same inflexible, awful smile he always delivers at the end of his broadcasts.
Imugi steps back. The screen blurs, and there’s a muffled sound. The picture sharpens, revealing a young woman in a red Stanford sweatshirt. She is tied to a chair, her mouth gagged. Her eyes hold a profound amount of terror. Her face is bruised, dirty. Tears smear the muck on her cheeks.
She’s only a few years older than I am.
“Weep, America,” Imugi whispers, stepping back into the frame. “You are nothing.”
With that, he raises a gun. He fires directly into the head of the girl.
I scream. Riska bursts into the air, so freaked out that saliva sprays from his mouth as he hisses. Mom sucks in a breath and presses the tablet against her abdomen. She fumbles for the switch and turns it off.
Silent seconds tick by. Riska flies in frantic circles around my head, the wind generated from his wings curling over my cheeks. I look past him at Mom.
“They . . . they’ve never done that before,” I say at last, unable to shake the image of the girl, of her terribly frightened eyes. Of the gun fired so casually into her brain. “Mom, you have to teach me how to fight.”
“No,” she replies automatically.
We’ve had this conversation at least two dozen times. I hate waking up every day, knowing I’m completely defenseless against all the League whackos out there. But whenever I ask for self-defense lessons, Mom’s answer is always the same.
“Can’t you see things are changing?” I say. “They’re not just blowing up construction sites and food warehouses anymore. They’re blowing up kids.”
“College students,” Mom says.
“He said brilliant minds. That’s me.” I purposely don’t say math prodigy.
“Your school is in Vex,” Mom says. “It’s impossible for the League to target a virtual school.”
“Right. Until some League mole infiltrates Global and finds the locations of all the students, and they blow us up one by one.” The line of dead bodies before the collapsed dorm flashes through my mind.
“That would not be an efficient use of League resources. Besides, Pinnacle is well-defended,” Mom says, referring to our apartment building. “It would be very difficult for a League agent to get past our mercs and security measures.”
“Difficult, but not impossible.”
Mom ignores this. “You also have Riska.”
We both glance at my furry, winged miniature tiger—also known as a Risk Alleviator, a biological personal security device. A gift made by Dad for my sixteenth birthday.
Riska returns to his perch on my shoulder, fur fluffed along his spine and tail; Dad designed him to pick up my emotions. And to defend me, should I need defending.
I try to imagine Riska fighting off a swarm of League soldiers. I just can’t see it. He packs a mean hiss, but one bullet and he’d be gone. In all honesty, I suspect Riska was meant to be less of a protector and more of a companion; Dad knows I get teased by other kids in our building for being a “walking calculator,”and the only real social life I have is in Vex.
I try another tactic. “What about Dad?” I say. “Global touts the great Dr. Hom as the world’s leading geneticist. That makes our family a potential high-profile kill. We may as well be walking around with a neon bull’s-eye on our backs.”
“Sulan—”
“Please, Mom? Numbers won’t save me if I’m on the wrong end of a gun.”
“No.”
My chest tightens. “If Dad was here—”
“Dad’s not here,” Mom snaps. “Even if he was, he agrees with my decision not to train you. Take it up with him next month when he gets home, if you want. In the meantime, I expect you to focus on your studies.”
“Whatever.” I spin on my heel and stalk back to my room. Riska hisses at my mother. “When I end up dead,” I shout over my shoulder, “you’ll have only yourself to blame!”
It’s always easier to yell when I don’t have to look her in the eye. I slam my door, letting anger drive away my fear. Rage is much easier to manage.
It isn’t fair. By my age, Mom already knew how to fight. She trained in real merc clubs and worked in an underground bar as a bouncer. At eighteen, she participated in the Merc Games, the country’s biggest scouting event for corporate mercenary companies. There was a bidding war for her contract.
She traveled all over the world. Ran special-ops missions. Scaled skyscrapers. Jumped out of airplanes. Kicked ass from one end of the globe to the other.
She never had to be helpless. Not like me.
And what happens when I ask her for a little self-defense training? She slides a calculus book under my nose. Tricks me into getting a scholarship to Global’s elite Virtual High School for nerds. She wants me to follow in my father’s footsteps and someday become the director of Global’s product-development lab.
“It’s too dangerous,” I say, mimicking Mom’s words in a high-pitched voice. “Leave the fighting to others, Sulan. Concentrate on your schoolwork.”
How am I supposed to concentrate on anything when I’m worried about getting blown up or shot in the head?
Whatever. I don’t need her. I’ll figure this out on my own, and she can’t stop me.
I am not going to get cornered like those kids at Stanford.
2
Black Tech
Dreams of Imugi and his gun plague my sleep. I get up early, body chilled from the sweat of my nightmares.
It’s five a.m. I have another three hours before school starts. For a good sixty seconds, I weigh the pros and cons of waking my best friend.
I decide to wait until school. Before eight, Hank has the temperament of Godzilla. If I’m going to learn how to fight, I’m going to need her help—which I won’t be likely to get if I wake her up now.
Mom is still asleep, so I head downstairs to the workout room with Riska tucked into my gym bag. I’m not supposed to let anyone see him since he’s a Global prototype, but he goes crazy if I leave him behind in the apartment.
I punch in the security code to open our front door, then pad through the quiet halls of Pinnacle. Mom doesn’t trust elevators, so I take the stairs from the fourteenth floor down to the second.
The stairwell has been recently mopped; the chemical tang of cleaning solution still hangs in the air. Crisp beige paint covers the walls. No graffiti. No bullet holes. No refugees curled up on the floor, like in so many other San Francisco apartments.
My family has it nice, thanks to Dad’s job at Global Arms. Hank lives in an old public school converted into housing cubicles. She shares the gym bathroom with fifty other families. The school is in Livermore, a town about forty-five minutes east of San Francisco.
I reach the workout room. It’s empty, so I unzip the bag. Riska stays inside, curled into a ball and sleeping. I run eight miles on the treadmill, then lift weights for another thirty minutes. The exercise wrings out some of my tension, though I still can’t stop thinking about the murdered Stanford girl. Or Imugi’s last words. You are nothing.
I’m just about to head upstairs when I hear a gunshot. I drop into a crouch. Riska leaps out of the gym bag, fully alert.
There’s another gunshot. I scurry to the window and peek through the shutters. Riska hovers at my shoulder.
A plain white armored vehicle is parked outside our building. Four mercs in gray jumpsuits surround the van, while two more perch on top. It’s the food share delivery vehicle. Pinnacle gets deliveries twice a month, though the drop-offs are never scheduled. Schedules would make the trucks too easy to ambush.
A few refugees flee back into Golden Gate Park, all empty-handed. A quick survey of the street tells me no one was shot, thank goodness. The guns were most likely fired as a warning.
Some refugees are victims of the Default, but others are victims of the Shift
—the permanent climate change that turned most of Middle America into a baking wasteland. With Global patrolling the I-580 Corridor and San Francisco, this is one of the most popular areas for refugees; there’s relative safety on our streets.
I head down to the lobby with Riska back in the bag. The merc on duty at the front desk rises and nods to me, bending down to pick up a box.
“Miss Hom,” he says, passing me our food share.
I glance inside, hoping for something fresh. Usually we just get canned food imported from South America, but every now and then we get a loaf of bread or a piece of seasonal fruit.
No luck. Just cans this time.
I begin the long trek up the stairs, lugging both Riska and the food box. By the time I reach the fourteenth floor, I’m panting. Mom is in the shower, so I crack open a can of peaches for breakfast. I wolf them down with a pair of chopsticks, setting a few aside for Riska. Dad designed him to be omnivorous, so he can eat whatever I eat.
“Morning, Sulan.” Mom enters the living room, spots the food share box, and beelines toward it. “Raviolis,” she says, pulling up several cans with a smile. “We haven’t had these in months. Want to have them for dinner tonight?”
Mom knows I love raviolis.
“Sure. Whatever,” I say. I can’t help it; I still feel resentful from last night. “I’m gonna shower and go to school.”
I ignore her frozen expression and turn my back on her. Guilt gnaws at me, but I ignore that, too.
“I’ll be out most of today,” Mom calls after me. “HOA meeting.” She’s the president of Pinnacle’s homeowner’s association.
“Have fun,” I say sarcastically.
After showering, I return to my room. Time to go to school. I flop into the mountain of pillows on the bed. Riska settles into my lap. I put on my Vex headset, lower the goggles, and flick the on switch. There’s a swirl of blue as I connect to Virtual Experience, Vex for short.
The League Page 1