The League

by Camille Picott

  No Vex, no Gun. No Vex, no Gun.

  I look up and find myself standing in a lopsided circle with Hank and Billy, who somehow found us in the milling mass of students. Daruuk Malhotra, his black hair tousled to stylish perfection, glides by, talking to himself. He’s another third-year student.

  “I didn’t spend the last two years building my kingdom just to abandon it,” he says, smacking his right fist into his left palm. “I won’t stand for this idakarin tyranny.”

  “Your kingdom?” Hank asks.

  Daruuk looks up and drifts into our circle.

  “You are looking at the reigning emperor of Andala,” he says.

  “Is that a role-playing world?” Hank says.

  “It’s the role-playing world,” Daruuk says. “I went to great lengths to establish my rule.”

  I went to great lengths to get into the Cube and find a training partner.

  “Do you know what will happen if I abdicate?” Daruuk says, deadly serious. “Order will collapse. War will swallow the land. I can’t let that happen. My subjects are depending on me.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got a huge problem on your hands,” I say. No Vex, no Gun.

  “Your sarcasm is not appreciated, Hom,” Daruuk says.

  “We don’t have to obey the law,” Billy says.

  All three of us look at him in surprise. Suddenly the center of attention, Billy hunches his shoulders and tilts his head, hiding behind his shaggy bangs.

  “Laws are just sort of a guideline,” he mumbles. “That’s what my uncle always says.”

  “Long, you are brilliant,” Daruuk says. He lowers his voice. “We have to make our own Vex modem.”

  “How?” I ask, snatching this flimsy sliver of hope.

  Daruuk dry-washes his hands, grinning. He casts his eyes over the student populace; more and more kids congregate in the halls, anger snowballing around us.

  “Global will check our luggage and confiscate all electronics,” Daruuk says. “That means we have to work together. Each of us needs to smuggle in a different component, something small that can be hidden in the luggage.” His head swivels to me. “Hom, you’re in charge of an ultra-capacitor. Got it?”

  “Sure,” I say. “What’s an ultra-capacitor look like?”

  “No time to explain,” Daruuk says, waving a dark-skinned hand. “Look it up. Simmons. I want you to take one goggle from a Vex set. Long, you’re in charge of the other goggle.” He straightens, looking down his nose at us. “Today marks the birth of the Virtual High School Underground. We will vanquish the matter at hand.”

  With that, Daruuk ducks into the crowd and corners Alexi Ivanov, another third-year student.

  “I forget how . . . eccentric he is,” Hank says, looking after Daruuk.

  “Where am I supposed to get an ultra-capacitor?” I say. Daruuk can walk around speaking in tongues for all I care, so long as he can organize our miniature student rebellion.

  “I’ll get the ultra-capacitor,” Hank says. “You get a goggle.”

  “Right. Okay.” Gun is not lost to me yet. I follow Daruuk with my eyes. He and Alexi make their way through the third-years, presumably recruiting others to our cause.

  Dr. Curtis comes out of his classroom, taking in the milling students over the rims of his bifocals.

  “Alright kids,” he calls. “Everyone off to your next class. Go on!”

  Other teachers join him in the corridor, breaking up our groups and herding us into motion.

  “This is better than a hack,” Hank says, her eyes bright. “If anyone can pull this off, it’s Daruuk. He’s one of the best engineers this school has.”

  “I’m surprised you’re agreeing to help,” I say. “We are breaking a Global rule.”

  “Idiotic rules are different,” Hank replies. “I can make an exception for those.”

  I nod, feeling much better than I did ten minutes ago. You can’t pack a bunch of geniuses into a small space, piss them off, then not expect them to do anything about it.

  • • •

  The idea of being separated from Gun for any amount of time manifests as a physical ache inside me. I don’t know what I’m going to do without him. I tell myself I just have to hold out until Daruuk gets a modem built.

  After dinner that night, I leave Mom in the middle of the living room surrounded by a pile of stuff. Her single Global-issue duffel sits at her feet. She stares at the mountain of things, trying to figure out what to pack for our move. I don’t even have the energy to pick a fight with her.

  Global isn’t scheduled to pick us up until 7:30 tomorrow morning. I’m not sure how long Gun can hang out tonight, but if it’s up to me, I’ll be with him until 7:29.

  I head to my room and log into Vex. The swirling blue of the browser deposits me on the Cube’s doorstep.

  Gun is already in our locker room, stretching. His face relaxes into a smile when he sees me, a smile that goes all the way to his eyes and reveals the dimples on both cheeks.

  “Hey, Baldy,” I say.

  “Hey, Short Stuff.” His cobalt eyes sparkle. “Got something for you . . .” His voice trails off as he studies my face. “Sulan, what’s wrong?”

  A pang goes through me. I can’t believe I’m going to be forced away from Gun. We’ve seen each other almost every day for the past four months.

  It’s not forever, I remind myself. I’ll see him again.

  “I . . .” I stare up into his face, trying to dredge up the words.

  “Sit down.” He takes me by the forearm and guides me to the bench. “Talk to me.”

  Gun and I never talk in detail about our lives outside the Cube. He knows my parents force me to attend a private school I don’t like, but that’s about it. I skipped over the whole part about me being the daughter of Dr. Hom. And the part about my school being the world-famous elite academy for the world’s up-and-coming geniuses.

  “I won’t be able to see you for a while,” I say.

  A crease appears on his brow. “What do you mean?”

  I swallow. “My family is moving.”

  “Are you going to the South Pole or something?”

  He says it lightly, but I shake my head and look away.

  “Sulan,” Gun says, “you’ve made it pretty clear you don’t like talking about your real-world life. I’ve always respected that. But you’re being dodgier than usual. Is this about us?”

  “No!” I say quickly, my head snapping up. “Gun, you know that I love training with you more than anything. This isn’t about us.”

  “Then what’s going on?”

  I hunch over. “My family is moving to a corporate compound. We aren’t allowed to use Vex there.”

  “Who doesn’t let their employees use Vex in their free time? That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “A classmate of mine has a plan. . . . I should be able to get back to Vex in a week or so.”

  I meet his gaze. He looks bewildered, lost. I’ve never seen him like this before.

  “I don’t want to go,” I whisper. “But I don’t have a choice.” I’ve never had a choice.

  “You do have a choice.” There’s sudden vehemence in his voice. “I know we’ve never met outside of Vex, and I know you can take care of yourself, but . . .” He pulls a knife out of his locker and jams it into the wooden bench beside me. Dropping to one knee, he carves a rough sequence of numbers and letters into the wood.

  “You do have a choice,” he repeats, blowing away the shavings. “Don’t ever feel like you’re trapped.”

  He taps the carving. It reads 32-13-18-N, 110-55-35-W.

  “You can always come find me,” he says.

  “Coordinates,” I say. “Wouldn’t it be easier to give me an address?”

  “You wouldn’t remember an address.” He’s spent enough time with me to know I’ve got a thing for numbers, even if he’s never seen me calculate an inverse tangent in my head.

  “Am I going to show up at this location and find out you’re some f
at old pervert?” I mean it as a joke, but the words fall flat. Neither of us laughs.

  “I have the means to take care of you,” he says quietly.

  I nod, touched by his kindness. “What would I do, if I came to see you?”

  “Whatever you want,” Gun replies.

  I try to imagine it: me, with Gun, in the real-world. Training with real guns and real fists. Could I really do it? Could I really run away? What would Hank do without me to help her with homework? What would happen to Riska? Would I ever see my parents again? Confusion twists within me.

  “No pressure, either way,” Gun says. “Just think about it.”

  “Thanks, Gun.” I smile up at him. “You’re a good friend.”

  His eyes go flat. I pretend not to notice.

  “Well,” he says, “if this is the last time we’re going to see each other for a while, we need to go out in style. People are going to remember Short Stuff and Baldy. Here, check these out.”

  He opens a small cloth bag. Inside are over two dozen croaking frogs.

  “I made these for you,” he says. “I call them Twains, after Mark Twain.”

  “Mark Twain? Another dead writer?”

  “He’s from the nineteenth century. Wrote a story called ‘The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County.’ In the story, someone feeds a bullet to a frog to sabotage a jumping contest.”

  I perk up. “Bullets?”

  Gun’s grin is sly. “Yep.”

  “What exactly do these frogs do?”

  “You can see for yourself when we take on the Dread Twins.”

  “The Dread Twins?” Melancholy slides off my shoulders, and I allow myself to enjoy these last moments with Gun. “You mean they’re back for more?”

  “I suspect they’re still trying to scrape their pride off the pavement.”

  I laugh. “Come on. Let’s go pound those guys with ammo.”

  We dive into the lockers and deck ourselves out with weapons: grenades, machine guns, knives, even a few handguns for good measure. I hang the Twains from my belt, making sure they’re within easy reach.

  We head for our reserved training room. The Dread Twins are already there. Tall and blond, they have perfect dreadlocks and muscles pumped full of steroids; there are no rules in the Cube against artificially altering your real-world body. They think I’m hilarious, a tiny speck of a girl playing at being a mercenary. They think Gun is even more hilarious because he picked me for a teammate. Their sense of humor hasn’t been dulled by our beating them three out of the last four times we’ve competed.

  “Hello, gentlemen,” Gun says smoothly, flashing a slick salesman smile that doesn’t touch his eyes. “How ’bout capture the flag, suburban style?” Gun knows I love a good suburban street fight.

  “You’re on. Get ready to taste defeat.” Lox, the uglier of the two, talks like he’s got cotton stuffed in his mouth. He punches a few buttons on a tablet computer mounted next to the doorway.

  An old-fashioned suburban neighborhood springs to life around us: perfectly manicured lawns and neatly painted houses. Husbands hose off cars while kids ride bikes. Wives exchange baked goods and gossip with each other. The sun sparkles and birds sing. Everyone is well-fed, happy.

  I wonder if this is really what the world was like before the Shift. All those refugees who live outside Pinnacle, forced to migrate to a coastal state where food and water can still be found—could their lives ever have consisted of perfect lawns, clean cars, and neighborhood gossip? I can’t imagine it, though Mom says that’s how it was.

  A teenager throws a Frisbee to a dog. The disc crashes into a nearby tree—and blows up, nearly throwing me off my feet.

  I snap into focus. Gun and I dive behind a minivan, covering our heads. The Dread Twins hop a fence and disappear.

  “Head for the church,” Gun says, pulling out an AT-57 machine gun. The steeple is visible above the rooftops. “We’ll probably find the flag there.”

  “We can hide on the roof, set an ambush for the Dread Twins,” I say. “Make sure they get a chance to meet the Twains.” I pat the pouch at my waist, which twitches as the frogs move around.

  “Make for that alleyway. I’ll cover you.” Gun peeks around the edge of the minivan, weapon ready.

  Suburban perfection has turned into a battle zone. Housewives reach into gooey apple pies and pull out grenades. Kids jump off bikes and send them careening down the street, where they detonate against cars and trees. Hoses spout flames instead of water.

  I run like hell as Gun lays down cover fire.

  The sprint washes away all despair of the day. It’s always like this when I train. My hellish daily diet of numbers disappears, and I can forget for a little while that the whole world is pushing me toward a destiny I don’t want. Here, I work toward something I care about.

  I reach the alleyway. I chuck several grenades into the street. They go off in quick succession, buying Gun several precious seconds. He skids to my side, eyes scanning continuously.

  “What do you say we get ourselves one of the fire hoses?” Gun says.

  “Absolutely,” I reply with a grin. We could blaze a path straight to the church with one of those things. There’s a suburban dad about two hundred yards away, dousing a car with flames as he laughs like a maniac.

  “Sulan!” Someone shakes me. Gun’s mouth moves, but I can’t hear him over the voice in my ears, my real ears: Mom.

  “I’m in the middle of something, Mom!”

  “You’ve got to log off. Now!” She tears the Vex set off my head.

  My shadowed bedroom leaps into focus, the cocoon of pillows filling my periphery. Riska is in a fury, flying in circles around Mom’s head and hissing.

  “Mom! What are you—”

  “Mr. Winn moved up the timetable. You’ve got to get ready.”

  “I was in the middle of—in the middle of—” I was in the middle of stealing a fire hose and blazing through a good chunk of virtual suburbia, but I can’t say that. “I was in the middle of studying!”

  “You’ve got to get suited up. Captain Clay’s merc team will be here to pick us up in twenty minutes.”

  “In twenty minutes? Why so soon?”

  “A League mole infiltrated Global. There’s been an attack. We’re moving tonight.”

  10

  Black Ice

  My brain stops working.

  “Wha . . . what?”

  “The League has attacked a Global family.”

  “Who?” I lunge for my tablet to turn on the news, but Mom snatches it out of my reach.

  “Not now, Sulan,” she says. “Come on.” She tosses my tablet and Vex set into my open closet, out of reach.

  I stare at the closet, weighing my chances of getting one of the Vex goggles. One look at Mom tells me it’s a no-go. I palm the Vex modem instead; I might not be able to get the goggle, but I have to try and get something. Otherwise I may never see Gun again.

  Mom propels me out of the room. Riska flaps after us, growling and hissing.

  Goodbye, Gun, I think. Not as good as saying it to him directly, but it’s all I get. I push the sadness into a corner of my mind and lock it away. I’ll see Gun again, just as soon as Daruuk gets a Vex modem built.

  Once in the living room, Mom shoves a black jumpsuit bearing the Global logo into my hands. “Change.”

  She follows her own orders and strips down. She has scars all over her body, badges from her long years spent as a mercenary. I think they make her look tough in a glorious sort of way, but she doesn’t like them.

  At first glance, my jumpsuit looks like regular Global attire. As I zip into it, I register the thick weave of the fabric.

  “This is a bulletproof uniform!”

  “Just in case,” Mom replies. “We’re not taking any chances.”

  A real merc suit. I can hardly believe it. Riska ceases his agitated circling and hovers by my head, purring.

  “If I have to wear a merc suit, don’t you think—”


  “No weapons, Sulan.”

  I should be frustrated by this, but the possibility of real action distracts me. My palms are sweaty. Thank goodness I’ve been training. If a League attack does come, I’m going to be ready.

  I glimpse my reflection in the hall mirror and am stunned by what I see. I’m lean and small, my muscles taut and firm from my months of dedicated training. In the uniform, I look like a slice of night. Like a real mercenary. Riska lands on my shoulder in a crouch, incredibly exotic with his ink-black wings. Together, we look seriously badass.

  I wish Gun could see me.

  “What about Riska? Isn’t there anything for him?”

  “Here’s his harness.” Mom tosses it to me. “Hold onto it. He should be safe.”

  I harness Riska. Mom heads to the bookcase and pulls down her shotgun, then paces back and forth across our living room.

  She’s not paying any attention to me, so I hurry into the kitchen with the modem. I rummage through the drawers and find a screwdriver. The back comes off easily, and I find myself staring at the electronic innards of a Vex modem.

  Where is the ultra-capacitor? I am such an idiot. I should have researched it when I had the chance.

  I glance into the living room and see Mom peering out the windows, her shotgun gripped loosely in one hand. I consider trying to dash back into my room for a goggle but quickly rule it out.

  I’m going to have to wing it.

  Using the screwdriver, I pry out a small tube made of metal and glass, a black chip studded with gold circuitry, and a larger tube, this one stuffed with wires. I slide the items into my pocket and drop the remains of the modem into the trash.

  Riska’s head swivels toward the window. A second later, I hear a strange noise. A deep whooshing sound pulses against the glass. I edge to the window and peek through the shutters. Outside, it’s dusk. Three bulky shadows darken the street below. I look skyward, but can’t see anything. Global’s transport vehicles are probably in the process of landing on the rooftop of Pinnacle.

  A small part of my mind wonders at the strange sound of the engines, but movement across the street in Golden Gate Park distracts me. Refugees materialize out of lean-tos made of rotting mattresses, old warehouse pallets, cardboard—you name it, and someone in the camp has figured out how to make it into a shelter.