***
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 fat 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 a 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 h
ide 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.
Whatever’s landing on our rooftop is drawing their attention. The refugees move under bare-boned trees and over brittle grass, most with hoods and hats to protect them from the sun. They gather at the edge of the park, staring and pointing. Most of them have makeshift weapons: broken bottles, stout branches, and rusty blades rummaged from the local dump.
Someone bangs on our door. I drop into a fighting stance, fists ready. Even though it’s pretty hard to get through the building’s merc team, I don’t want to assume anything.
“Who’s there?” Mom calls, pumping the gun and bracing it against her hip.
A strong, muffled voice replies, “Global security, Mrs. Hom. We’re here to escort you to the Livermore compound.”
Something’s not right. The voice on the other side of that door is definitely male. Captain Clay, whom I’ve seen Mom talk to on her tablet, is a woman.
“Where’s Captain Clay?” Mom asks.
“Change of plan,” the voice replies.
Mom drops into a crouch. The expression on her face is enough for me to know I should be worried. I make a dash into the kitchen and grab a knife. Any other time, I’d never get away with this, but Mom isn’t focused on me right now.
“I’m not opening the door for anyone except Captain Clay.”
There’s a pause. Then the voice says, “Li Yuan, it’s me. Open up.”
For a split second, Mom’s eyes widen in surprise. Then she pads to the door and punches in her security code.
A dozen mercenaries swarm into our living room, each dressed in a black Global uniform embroidered with the company logo. Every last one bristles with
weapons: automatic rifles, grenades of various types, knives, submachine guns, pistols, shotguns. It’s like seeing my Cube weapons locker come to life. With so many weapons and people in our tiny living room, there’s barely room to twitch. Several of them cast wide-eyed looks at Riska.
The merc leader is the biggest man I’ve ever seen. He looks like he could single-handedly take on an entire army. He has dark hair and dark skin. High cheekbones give him an elegance that’s at odds with his gigantic bulging muscles. He’s incredibly handsome, even though he’s extremely old—at least forty, maybe even forty-five.
“Aston,” Mom says, addressing the big man. “Where’s Clay?”
He hesitates for a brief second, then says, “The League attacked two Global families. Clay was already airborne and got redirected to one of the scenes. I was next on the flight deck, so Mr. Winn sent me to pick you up.” The words are delivered by Aston with flat, emotionless precision.
“Who was attacked?” I ask, feeling my stomach flutter.
“Don’t—” Mom begins, but Aston is already speaking.
“The families of John Simmons and Agnus Long,” he says.
It takes a heartbeat for me to fully register his words.
John Simmons: Hank’s dad.
Agnus Long: Billy’s mom.
Hank and Billy. Two of the smartest kids in school. My friends.
I whirl on Mom. “You tried to hide that from me,” I say, fury lacing my voice. “My two closest friends, and you didn’t tell me!”
My legs feel weak. Riska whines, drawing more wide-eyed looks from the mercs. I suck in a breath, willing myself to keep it together.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Mom says. “I didn’t want to worry you.” She squeezes my shoulder, but I shake her off with a glare.
“Are they—are they okay?” I’m afraid to say the words, but I have to know.
Aston shakes his head, his gaze softening as he looks at me. “I haven’t received any updates from Global on their status.” Then he adds gently, “There is speculation that you might be the next target.”
His words send strength into my limbs. I tighten my grip on the knife. I have trained for this.
“What are we waiting for?” Mom snaps. In her anger, I see how afraid she is for me.
“Luggage,” Aston barks.
“Yes, sir,” two mercs reply, snapping crisp salutes before darting toward the three regulation Global duffels lined up in front of our couch.
A third merc joins them, reaching for the last bag. He looks about my age, but he must be at least eighteen if he’s a merc.
“Captain Hudanus wants you with the girl,” says one of the older mercs, taking the duffel bag from the boy. “Best if you keep both hands free.”
“Wouldn’t want to disappoint the almighty Black Ice,” the boy mutters, scowling over his shoulder at Aston.
I freeze. My mouth goes dry. I turn to face Aston.
“Black Ice?” I say hoarsely. “Are you the Black Ice?”
He raises an eyebrow at me and nods.
I could not have been more awestruck if God had walked into my living room.
Everyone bustles out the door. I’m anchored in place, unable to peel my eyes away from Black Ice—from this man my mother so casually addresses as Aston.
“You can ask for his autograph later,” says a dry voice in my ear.
I jump. Standing at my side is the merc boy. The sight of someone so young decked out with weapons is stunning. His eyes have a slant to them that hint at Asian heritage, and his nose is perfectly straight. His skin is dark. He’s tall and lean with close-cropped black hair. There are two smudged ink drawings on the backs of his hands.
“My name is Taro.” He eyes Riska, who sits on my shoulder and purrs like a miniature thunderstorm. “I’m assigned to you. Come on, let’s get to the roof.”
“Do you know how lucky you are?” I say, wondering at his bitterness toward Aston. “So many people would die for a chance to work under Black Ice.”
The boy shrugs. I let him usher me into the hallway and up the stairwell. Part of me realizes I should be sad about leaving the only home I’ve ever known, but between news of the League attack on Hank and Billy, my own danger, and the presence of Black Ice, I can hardly think straight.
Mom climbs the stairs beside Aston. I can’t hear what she’s saying, but from the look on her face I’d say she’s having an argument with him. She must know him from her old merc days. I can’t believe she never mentioned him to me.
“I’m surprised you know who he is,” Taro says, indicating Aston with a nod of his head.
“Are you kidding?” I reply. He frowns at this, but I’m too starstruck to pay any attention. “I’ve watched every episode of Merc, and every episode with Black Ice and Morning Star at least five times. I’ve even watched all the deleted footage that never made it to—” Taro’s derisive snort makes me bristle. “Black Ice and Morning Star won Merc five times in a row. No other merc pair has ever won more than once. Lots of people study their episodes.” Riska’s purring has completely stopped, his fur puffing up against my cheek.
“Mercs in training study their episodes,” Taro replies. “I didn’t figure a girl like you would be into that sort of thing.”
Riska growls, showing his teeth to Taro. “What do you mean, a girl like me?”
“You know, a smart girl.”
“Who says I’m smart?”
“Everyone.”
“Everyone?” Riska takes a swipe at Taro. “Who’s everyone?”
Taro deftly avoids Riska’s claws. “What’s up with your pet?”
“He’s cranky,” I snap. “He’s doesn’t like it when people say I’m smart.”
Taro gives me a level, inscrutable expression and says nothing.
I take several strides past him. Smart. Like that’s all I’m good for.
Riska directs a string of hisses at Taro. I scratch between his ears, encouraging him.
My eyes go to Aston’s broad back. I’ve always wondered what Black Ice looks like. Now that I look closely, I recognize the shape of his build. Even though he’s twenty years older, he’s maintained his physique.
I scan the rest of the Global mercs, wondering if Morning Star might be among them. But no, none of the women here is old enough to be Morning Star; most of them look like they’re in their midtwenties. Morning Star would be older, like Mom’s age.
We’re nearly to the roof when I notice Riska’s ears prick forward. His nose twitches as he sniffs the air.
At first I think he smells the open sewage from the refugee camp. A second later, a deep whooshing pulses through the stairwell—the same sound I heard earlier outside our window. I emerge into the fading sunlight. Riska lets out a yowl, and my jaw falls open.
Three things the size of a small school buses hover above the roof. They’re covered in thousands of tiny scales that glint black-blue in the dim light. Dark, leathery wings beat against the air—the source of the whooshing noise—sending dirt and debris flying in all directions. The creatures have powerful haunches and forelegs, with tails nearly twice as long as their bodies. The faces are wide and reptilian. The large eyes seem disconnected; they swing in opposite directions, looking left and right at the same time.
Dragons? I wonder dumbly. But that’s impossible. Dragons don’t exist.
Except I’m staring at three of them.
11: Gav
This is why the refugees were flocking toward Pinnacle. The dragons make tight circles over the rooftop, their blue-black wings beautiful in the fading sunlight. The shape of the wings is familiar, elegant and leathery, just like a bat’s. No—just like Riska’s. Only a thousand times larger.
I can’t suppress a sudden grin.
“Dad,” I say.
“You recognize your father’s handiwork?” Taro asks.
“Of course. What are they called?”
“Green Assault Vehicles. Gavs for short. They’re biologi
cal flying tanks.”
“Tanks? You mean, people ride inside them?”
Taro nods. “The Gav is the first in Global’s latest line of weaponry. The brand is called Green Combat—weapons that can be grown, rather than manufactured.”
No wonder Mr. Winn is shipping all his scientists out to live in a fortified compound. No wonder he’s cutting off all communications with the outside world. It has nothing to do with our safety. This is revolutionary tech. Everyone is going to want it. The compound is as much to keep the intellectual property in as to keep threats out.
I look at Riska, realization dawning. “He’s a Green Combat prototype,” I say to Taro, who’s watching me. “Dad calls him a Risk Alleviator.”
“You think we’re going to see flocks of miniature winged tigers when we get to the compound?” Taro asks.
“Maybe,” I say.
“Sulan.” Mom motions to me over the heads of the mercs. She’s standing at the front of the pack with Aston.
As I make my way toward her with Taro on my heels, I glance up and see several news helicopters hovering a safe distance away. Reporters crouch in the choppers’ open doors. They release a horde of media drones. Two dozen yellow-gold discs zip toward our rooftop, weaving around us like miniature flying saucers.
“The news is recording all this?” I do my best to ignore the drones.
“Mr. Winn is banking on it,” Taro replies. “Today is the first time he’s let Gavs fly in public airspace. News of them will be all over Vex in a less than an hour.”
“So not only are we at risk of being attacked by the League, but we’re part of a publicity stunt.”
What about Hank and Billy? Are they caught on camera as they fight for their lives against the League? Riska’s fur bristles.
We reach Mom. She’s on high alert. I can tell by the way her eyes move, by the way she stands with every muscle poised on the brink of action. She looks like she was born in her uniform. This is who she is, right down to her toenails. The woman who runs Pinnacle HOA meetings is a ghost by comparison. It’s hard to believe Mom’s spent the last sixteen years of her life trapped in an apartment raising me.
Mom’s hand comes up to rest protectively on my shoulder. One Gav angles toward the roof. The mighty flap of its wings pulls moisture from my eyes and makes me squint. The drones buzz away, leaving an open space around the landing area.
As the Gav nears, an awful aroma fills the air. It smells like rotting trash. I wrinkle my nose. For all the work that must have gone into the biological tank, you’d think someone could have addressed the smell.
The Gav touches down delicately, the stink intensifying. Its huge haunches curl up beneath its body. Its front talons make clicking sounds against the roof. The wings fold neatly onto its back. My mouth drops open as the scales on the right side of the creature slide back, revealing a dark interior.
Inside stands a merc with a cap of wires covering his head. Lights on the cap flash and blink.
“That’s a neural net,” I exclaim.
“That’s how he drives the Gav,” Taro says.
I’ve learned about neural nets in school, but up until now all the research has been weak. Or so I thought. Hank would go nuts if she saw this.
A shiver of fear runs through my belly. She’ll be okay, I tell myself.
“Load up,” Aston says.
As we move toward the Gav, Taro murmurs, “Do you know how to use that thing?” He gestures to the kitchen knife gripped in my hand.
“Well enough to defend myself if I need to.” I take a step away from him, just in case he’s thinking about wrestling it away from me.
A furrow appears between his brows.
I flip it three times in my right hand, then switch it to my left hand and repeat the move. The Touch pills have paid off; my hands and fingers move as if I’ve been flipping knives since I was five.
“If you like it,” I say, “I’ll trade you. How about my kitchen knife for a few of your grenades?”
I mean it as a joke, but Taro’s gaze slides past me toward Golden Gate Park. There is a slight widening of his eyes.
“Get down!” he shouts, and hurls himself at me.
I have just enough time to squawk before he knocks me flat onto the rooftop.
Two bright smears of light streak overhead. They collide with the two airborne Gavs and explode. Even with Taro on top of me, I feel the heat of the missiles’ blast all the way through my boots. There’s nothing but roaring in my ears. Biological matter rains down—blood and innards and indefinable muck. The smell is worse than ever—like garbage, fecal matter, and copper all rolled together. Riska is in a panic, flapping and yowling. He yanks against his harness, which is wrapped firmly around my hand and wrist.
I wriggle out from under Taro and get to my feet. Riska is nuts, fighting me every step of the way as I reel him in. I open the front of my jumpsuit and jam him inside. He yowls as I zip him in. The tight fit of the suit squashes him flat against me, but at least he won’t be able to get out. I leave just enough of the suit open for his head to poke out. He hisses at me, wriggling futilely.
Mom looms protectively over me and Taro. Blood and guts cover her head and most of her torso, though she doesn’t seem to notice. She looks like a demon—a powerful, kick-ass demon.
“Aston,” she says. “Give me a gun. Now.”
Aston pulls out two OS-15 handguns and tosses them to her. She catches them and flicks off the safeties.
“Sulan, stay close. Come on.”
I grip my kitchen knife and drop into a fighting stance beside her. Taro flanks me on the other side, a gun balanced easily in his hands. Aston is in front of us. As a unit, we move toward the remaining Gav, our footing precarious on the guts and other biological matter splattered across the rooftop. The rest of the mercs make a circle around us, weapons held at the ready.
A helicopter rises out of the park. At first I think it’s another news chopper, but then I see the missile launchers mounted on the stub wings.
“Run!” Mom cries.
I break into a sprint—and immediately sprawl across the rooftop, sliding across Gav goo. I’m not the only one. Taro hits the ground beside me, while in front of us several other mercs go down.
The helicopter reaches us. Men zip down on cables and land on the roof. They’re wearing dark-blue ski masks and bulletproof jumpsuits, the Anti-American League insignia embroidered on the breast. The Leaguers land on the roof between us and the Gav.
Taro and I scramble to our feet. My mouth is dry. I can hardly breathe. The nearest soldier leaps at me, and I freeze.
Taro steps smoothly in front of me, catching me in his left arm as he fires the gun with his right. He’s beautiful when he moves, like liquid light. The Leaguer goes down, but three more replace him.
“Stay behind me,” Taro says.
I wrench myself free as the three Leaguers attack. I summon my Touch training and aim a kick at a hand with a gun. My foot connects with just enough impact to deflect the gun aimed at Taro’s face. The bullet flies harmlessly away. Taro swings his gun and knocks out the next man. Mom appears at his side, firing her gun into the third man.
“Sulan,” Mom says, “follow me!”
The gunfire is deafening. My mind spins, and I’m trying to look everywhere at once. The knife handle is slippery in my grasp. Adrenaline courses through my bloodstream like a cannonball. My heart pounds so rapidly my chest hurts. Media drones weave in and out of the action.
I take a step after Mom, and the tide of battle shifts. Leaguers are all around me, fighting hand-to-hand with Global mercs.
I’m face-to-face with a man who zeroes in on me. From the sudden crinkling around his eyes—the only part that’s visible through the ski mask—I know he’s smiling. There’s a small mole next to his left eye that wrinkles with the smile. He grabs me, whirls me around, and pins me against his chest. I smell sweat and cigarettes.
I scream, absolute panic
gripping me as he raises a tranq gun toward my neck.
Thank goodness for the hundreds of hours spent training with Gun and Touch. My subconscious kicks in, knowing exactly what to do. My knife plunges down, slicing deep between the knuckles of his left hand.
He curses, grip loosening for an instant. It’s all I need. I jerk free and stumble away, struggling for balance.
I spot Mom several paces to my right, her arms rock-steady as she fires straight at an oncoming rush. Several Leaguers go down, blood fountaining from their heads.
The scene is sickening. Blood and brains ooze across the ground. Unconscious and dying bodies pile up like logs. Riska mews. My grip on the kitchen knife gives way, the blade slipping from my shaking fingers. Riska’s claws tear at my chest and abdomen, but I barely feel the pain.
Two bodies tumble to the ground in front of me. I see League blue and Global black, and hear a voice I recognize—
“Run, Sulan!”
It’s Taro, pinned beneath a man. His breath is cut off as the Leaguer delivers a string of punches to his ribcage.
The sight of him jars me out of my paralysis. Without thinking, I unzip my uniform. Riska bursts forth in a flurry of claws, streaking straight toward the Leaguer’s face. His claws rake across the man’s nose and mouth.
Taro bounds to his feet, grabs me by the arm, and hauls me toward the Gav.
“Riska!”
I’ve lost my grip on his harness. He attacks the Leaguer again. His claws catch on the blue ski mask, pulling it off. I see an Asian man beneath the mask, shouting as blood runs down his face.
And then something happens that’s never happened before. Riska opens his mouth in a hiss—and a stream of whitish liquid squirts out of his mouth. It sprays the Leaguer right in the eyes.
The man shrieks incoherently, falling to the ground and clawing at his face. Blood runs from both eye sockets. The skin of his face erodes, as though it’s being eaten by acid. Riska hisses again, spraying more liquid over the man’s face and hands. The Leaguer screams and screams.
My mouth falls open. Riska leaves the man writhing on the ground and zips toward me. Every strand of fur stands erect on his small body. He lands on my shoulder, wings poised for flight. He looks at Taro and growls.
“No, Riska,” I say. “He’s a friend.” I raise one hand and tentatively touch his fur. He leans into my touch, but his fur doesn’t lie down.
“That’s, ah, some piece of security,” Taro says, staring at Riska.
I shake my head, unable to find words. Why didn’t Dad tell me Riska can spray venom? Why would he omit that detail?
“We’ve got to keep moving.” Taro takes me lightly by the wrist, pulling me forward once more. We fall in behind Mom and Aston.
Mom’s lost one gun. She alternates between kicking, punching, and shooting. Her body is a black blur. Aston’s got two guns, and he does his own share of kicking and punching.
Their movements are seamless, complementary, like dancers sharing a single mind. Mom drops down to kick the legs out from under a Leaguer. Aston towers over her, shooting down two more before they close in. A woman lunges for Aston’s exposed midsection with a knife, but Mom pops up to intercept her, driving a shoulder blade into her gut and tossing her into three other oncoming Leaguers, all of whom go down in a tangle of arms and legs. A brief space opens up around us.
There’s a blur of motion from the helicopter. Something black spins through the air and wraps around my knees. I topple forward with a yelp, arms outstretched. I glimpse a thick black bola cinched around my legs like a constrictor. Then I hit the rooftop, landing hard on my stomach.
The tide of battle has carried Mom, Aston, and Taro away. I’m stranded in a tiny bubble of inaction. Fighting surrounds me. Black and navy-blue uniforms meld together amid a cacophony of gunfire, clashing knives, and media drones.
Riska hovers over me, flapping his wings and trying to look everywhere at once. His leash dangles in the air. A Leaguer darts toward me. Riska dive-bombs him and sprays venom from his mouth. The soldier drops, tearing at his ski mask and screaming as the venom soaks through to his skin.
I allow myself to focus on the bola, trusting Riska to keep the Leaguers at bay.
I twist onto my back, pulling my knees toward my chest. My breath comes in short panicked pants. I claw at the bola, trying to wriggle free, but it’s too tight, and it’s wrapped at least half a dozen times around my legs. I need a blade to slice through it, but I can’t even recall where I dropped my kitchen knife. I wriggle toward the first person I see in Global black, a woman with red hair, locked in a knife fight with a Leaguer.
Then I see the long cable attached to the bola. It runs like an umbilical cord between the chopper and me.
It snaps taut.
No!
My feet are swept into the air. Mom screams my name, but I can’t see her. I’m hauled upward, dangling upside down. Riska follows in my wake, his venom misting the air.
“Sulan!” Taro breaks free of the melee and launches himself after me. He grabs both of my forearms, clinging to me as he swings back and forth. “Sulan!”
I stare into his dark eyes, wordless, helpless. We are pulled skyward.
12: Prisoners
Riska flies in tight circles around me and Taro, growling.
“Cut the cord,” I say to Taro, gritting my teeth. “Cut it!”
“Can’t!” he shouts over the noise of the chopper. “It’s made of synthetic diamonds!”
A quick glance upward confirms he’s right. How had I missed the distinctive sparkle of the cord?
“Let go of me,” I say. “Let go before it’s too late.”
Taro’s grip tightens around my arms. “No way. I’m not leaving you to face the Leaguers alone.”
I groan. A few tears leak out of my eyes.
“Sulan.” Taro’s strong voice reaches me through the haze of panic. “Sulan, look at me! Focus.”
His voice reels me in. I sink into his gaze, letting my world narrow to his strong, steady eyes. The wind of the blades rushes over me, freeing wisps of hair and filling my ears with a roar. Riska struggles against the blast of air, ears flat as he flies beside my head.
A discordant pitch rolls out of his throat as the current becomes too strong. He snags the back of my jumpsuit with his claws and crouches between my shoulder blades. His tail whips back and forth across my neck and head.
“Be ready to fight when they pull us in,” Taro yells. He releases my left arm, hanging only from my right.
“Taro!” I grab his right wrist with my free hand, digging my nails into his jumpsuit.
He loosens a string of grenades and lets them fall. His rifle and machine gun follow the grenades down.
“What are you doing?”
“I can’t help you if they shoot me before we get inside.” Most of his voice is carried away by the wind.
“You think they won’t kill you just because you’re unarmed?”
“Calculated risk.” A knife flashes as it falls. “Besides, who says I’m unarmed? You should see what I can do with my index finger.”
I expect a smile, or at least a softening of the eyes to tell me he’s joking. But Taro’s expression is bitter and deadly serious. His look sends a shiver through me. His intensity is palpable even as he dangles from one hand thirty feet over a rooftop.
I’m covered in cold sweat and my arms shake. I’m about to be taken prisoner by the Anti-American League. All my training, all the skills I’ve managed to cultivate over the past few months—none of it prepared me for this.
I take a deep breath and imagine myself back with Gun. I’m never afraid when I fight in Vex. Why should this be any different?
Because it is different. Because it’s real. The sudden understanding makes me feel like a silly little girl. Why did I ever think Touch training would make me strong like Mom?
The shadow of the helicopter engulfs us. The wind from the blades pelts down. I squeeze Taro’
s hand. He squeezes back.
Hands grab us, haul us inward. I have a brief glimpse of the battle on the roof below us. The Leaguers have formed a semicircle around the Gav, blocking the Global mercs. Mom and Aston lead the Global assault, trying to break through.
The wind cuts off and I’m dumped in the chopper’s belly. I push myself onto my knees. I expect Riska to attack, but he clings to me.
“Hands above your head,” a Leaguer says to Taro, aiming a gun in his face.
Taro, hands over his head, rises slowly—and explodes forth in a black blur. The man’s gun goes off as Taro tackles him by the legs. Riska vaults into the air, raining venom into the face of Taro’s attacker. The man cries out—from Taro’s blow, Riska’s venom, or both. A gun skitters across the chopper floor.
I lunge forward, grasp the gun, and fire at the first body I see in navy blue. There’s movement to my right. I whip sideways, but not fast enough. A man seizes my gun hand, twisting hard. Breath goes out of me as I feel my shoulder about to pop out of its socket. The gun falls to the floor with a thunk.
Warm liquid gushes over me. At first I think it’s my blood, but then I see the bullet wound in the man’s shoulder as he grips me. I jam my finger into the wound, digging and twisting. He screams and throws all his weight down on top of me. I thrash beneath him, pinned on my stomach.
Riska flaps around the Leaguer’s head, lashing out with his claws. My attacker yells obscenities. Riska opens his mouth in a hiss, more venom shooting out. A few drops land on my back and burn through the fabric of my jumpsuit. Someone hurls something dark across the chopper. It’s a net, the sort used to haul supplies.
The net smacks into Riska and takes him down. He hisses as he hits the floor, legs going every direction at once. The momentum of the net carries him backward—right toward the open chopper door.
“Riska!” I whip my head back, smacking into the chin of my attacker. He grunts, but doesn’t ease up. I strain for the net with my free hand, but my fingers close on empty air.
For an instant, Riska’s eyes meet mine—and then he sails over the edge of the chopper, carried away by the weight of the net.
“Riska!”
As I struggle against my captor, I see Taro. He is pinned by three men. There are two dead bodies next to them. One man levels a gun at Taro’s head.
Time slows. The steady hum of the chopper fades. Even Riska and my attacker disappear into the periphery. All I see is Taro and the gun aimed at his forehead. He’s calm, unflinching, staring into the masked face of the gunman.
“Taro,” I scream, flailing like a snared rabbit. “Taro! No!”
The masked man with the gun glances at me, taking in my expression. He turns back to Taro, considering. He stands there for several long moments, trigger finger poised.
“Please don’t,” I beg. “Please!”
Another long look at me, then he holsters the gun. “We’ll keep him alive,” he says in a thickly accented voice. “For now.”
I suck in a breath to yell at the bastard, but there’s a sharp pain in my neck. Drowsiness sucks me under like a riptide. The last thing I see is Taro flat on the floor, a Leaguer pressing a tranq gun to his neck.
Sulan, Episode 1: The League Page 6