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.
• • •
By the time I get home from school, I am ready for an argument.
“Sulan, what is this?”
I stand in the kitchen, eating corn straight from a can with a pair of chopsticks. Mom marches in, holding out her tablet. She gets notifications every time a new test score is posted.
“It’s a seventy-three percent on my math test,” I say, not bothering to look at the tablet. Riska purrs, expanding his wings luxuriously.
“There is no excuse for this,” Mom says, her jaw tense. Her face used to bear scars from her days as a merc, but Dad had them buffed out as a birthday present a few years ago.
“What’s the point of a good grade?” I ask, shoving corn into my mouth. “Claudine and Mr. Winn have seen the test score on my entrance exam. Everyone has already decided my future.”
Global’s exam for Virtual High School is famous. Passing one is like winning the equivalent of an Olympic gold medal for your brain. Some kids spend years studying for it. Mom tricked me into taking it; I was homeschooled at the time, and she played it off as just another test.
I scored 100 percent. I was only twelve.
Mom’s lips tighten, her eyes narrow, and her brow furrows. When her mouth opens, I know she’s about to ream me. Right before she speaks, her tablet beeps, signaling an incoming call.
Mom and I both look at the tablet; we don’t get a lot of calls.
“Someone from Global,” Mom says, scanning the caller ID tag. Her irritation slides away. Her voice rises ever so slightly in pitch, and there’s eagerness in her eyes. I know we’re both thinking the same thing: Dad.
Mom answers. “Hello?”
I rise up on my tiptoes, trying to see over the top of Mom’s tablet. I expect to see Dad’s face looking out at us. Instead, I see manicured eyebrows, perfectly sculpted brown hair, and a fake smile.
I jerk back from the tablet. Riska growls.
“Ms. Hom.” Claudine’s chipper voice sounds tinny coming from the tiny speaker. “How are you this evening?”
Mom’s transformation is instant. Emotions are stripped off her face, replaced with a carefully constructed smile. The muscles of her arms and neck tense, but her face is perfect. If I didn’t know Mom better, I would say she’s afraid. Except that Mom doesn’t get afraid.
“Good evening, Miss Winn,” she says, the archetypal polite housewife. “I’m doing well, thank you. And you?”
“Very well. Do you have a few minutes? I would like to have a quick conference with you and your daughter.”
Riska growls again. Mom throws me a panicked look; I’m not sure why Claudine makes her react this way, but I understand what Mom wants. I duck and race out of the kitchen and down the hall. I pull Riska off my shoulder and toss him onto the bed, then shut the door on him. He immediately starts yowling, as he always does when we’re separated.
“She’s in her room,” I hear Mom say from the kitchen. “Let me call her.” She raises her voice. “Sulan! Sulan, please come out here.”
I wait ten seconds, then pad back into the kitchen.
“Yeah, Mom?”
“Miss Winn is on the line. She’d like to speak with us.” Mom motions me over. She’s propped the tablet up against the kitchen backsplash. We stand side by side at the counter.
Claudine uses her avatar, even when making phone calls. Her perfect, serene face gazes out at me, a creepy juxtaposition to her hard eyes.
“Hello, Miss Hom,” she says cheerily. “Did I pull you away from your studies?”
I don’t look at Mom, but I feel her tense beside me. I dredge up my most polite voice.
“Just looking over my notes from quantitative genetics,” I say. “Dr. Nguyen is giving us a test day after tomorrow.”
“Nice to hear you are applying yourself. I wish we could see the same amount of dedication in your calculus class.”
I know it takes all of Mom’s willpower not to look at me.
“I was disappointed to see your score on today’s test,” Claudine says. “I think we all know you can do better than a seventy-three percent.”
“I was distracted by your announcement, Miss Winn,” I say, hanging my head and trying to sound contrite. “I didn’t focus on the test as well as I should have.”
“With your gift, Miss Hom, that’s not a very good excuse.”
I bite back a retort and keep my eyes downcast to hide my resentment. This isn’t my first talking-to by Claudine, and I’ve found the quickest way to end them is to play along.
“Life gi
ves us choices, Miss Hom,” Claudine says. “You are being given a world-class education. I hope you elect to take advantage of it.”
What does a world-class education get people these days? It gets them executed on public media. It gets them blown up. It gets them shipped off to live in a cinderblock prison.
When I don’t say anything, Mom steps in. “I assure you, Miss Winn, Sulan will apply herself to her studies. I will see to it.”
She gives me a look. I glare up at her.
“I am relieved to hear it,” Claudine says. “We have great hopes for you, Miss Hom. We expect you to follow in your father’s footsteps and lead this company’s product development someday. Remember that as you make your choices.”
I finally look at Claudine. Why is she going on and on about choice? Does she really think I have any choices?
For a brief second, I wonder if she knows about the Cube. I dismiss the idea almost immediately. If she knew about the Cube, she wouldn’t talk in riddles. She’d cut off my exploits like an executioner.
Claudine’s hard eyes meet mine, her big smile still plastered to the face of her avatar. She ends the call without a word. The tablet screen goes black.
Beside me, Mom lets out a long breath and leans against the counter for support. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen Mom rattled by Claudine. Her discomfort disturbs me far more than Claudine’s displeasure.
I edge out of the kitchen. Mom whips around.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“To meet Hank.”
“Oh, no you don’t.” Mom charges past me.
I rush to overtake her, but Mom is fast. She beats me down the hallway and bursts into my room. Riska explodes through the doorway, flying at me with a wild yowl and bristling fur. He smacks right into my chest, digging his claws into my tank top and rubbing his nose against my chin.
“No more Vex until you start applying yourself,” Mom says, marching out of my room and waving my Vex set in the air.
Riska pauses in his snuggling just long enough to hiss at her.
“What about Hank?” I say. “She needs my help with homework.”
“You need to spend a little more time worrying about your own homework. You can worry about Hank when your grades improve.”
“Did you know about the Livermore Lab?” I say to her back.
Mom freezes.
“You knew,” I say. A cold, furious sweat breaks out along my arms and lower back. “You knew.”
Mom turns to face me. Riska leaps out of my arms and dive-bombs her. Mom, still ingrained with whip-quick reflexes, twitches aside and avoids him. It would be gratifying to see her get annoyed with him once in a while, but she never does.
“Yes,” she says. “I’ve known about the Lab for a while. I wasn’t allowed to tell you.”
I open my mouth, a hundred different things gathered on the tip of my tongue. Instead, I look her right in the eye—and slam the door shut in her face.
7
Touch
My rage threatens to swallow me. I deal with it by taking a nap. I fall asleep on my stomach, Riska curled up on the small of my back.
When I wake up, it’s dusk outside. I feel a little better after my argument with Mom; at least I got a chance to blow off some steam. A glance at the clock tells me it’s six in the evening. I flip over on my back, spilling Riska onto the covers.
This is not the first time Mom has taken my Vex set. I can access all my study materials on the tablet, but that doesn’t help Hank. Equally important is getting to the Cube for my first official sparring session with Gun. No way is Mom going to stand between me and my training.
I rummage around under my bed. I shove aside some old stuffed animals and pull out an old Vex set. I stole it out of the tech recycling bin in our underground parking garage a few months ago—my contingency plan for a situation just like this.
I pause before slipping on the set. If Mom walks in on me, she’ll implode. There’s no lock on the door, so I slip a chair under the handle.
“Bite me if she tries to get in,” I whisper to Riska. He arches his back under my hand, purring.
I jump into Vex and head to Café Blu. I study with Hank for an hour. Billy shows up around the time I head to the Cube. I leave them huddled together over four tablets, Hank negotiating for another hour of study time before they move on to Billy’s Collusion Underground project. That Hank is willing to relinquish any study time is a measure of how much she likes Billy.
When I arrive in our locker room, Gun is already there. He lies on the concrete floor, head cradled on one well-muscled forearm. A video holograph plays over his head, but I can’t tell what he’s watching from this angle.
“Hey,” I say, smiling a greeting.
“Hey.” He looks up, returning my smile. “How was your day?”
I shrug. “Got in a fight with my mom. Ate some canned corn. You?”
He laughs. “I had a round with my old man, too. You ever watch these old reruns?” He gestures to the holograph playing over his head.
I lie down on the floor beside him, pillowing my head with my arm. It takes me less than five seconds to recognize the footage.
“Merc, season twelve, episode seven,” I say. “I love when Morning Star and Black Ice take out those ten guys with the staple gun and pressure washer.”
Gun raises his eyebrows in surprise. “I thought you said you weren’t here to reenact Morning Star and Black Ice fantasies?”
“I’m not. But I’ve seen all the reruns. I’ve even watched all the cut footage.” I turn my head to grin at him.
“Ever been to Black Star?” he asks.
Black Star is a famous cult club dedicated to Black Ice and Morning Star. A lot of fans hang out there, spouting theories on the real-world identities of the pair. There are lots of Vex sites dedicated to the Merc duo.
“No, I’ve never been,” I say. “I’ve always wanted to go.”
“You’ve got a Cloak now,” Gun says. “Someday, we’ll go. Every night they reenact a scene from one of the episodes. Here, this is the part I wanted you to see.”
In the holograph hovering above us, Morning Star kicks open the door of a stairwell and prowls onto a rooftop. She wears a black merc jumpsuit that reveals a tall, slender figure covered with taut muscles. Her black hair is twisted into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. She is tall, gorgeous, statuesque.
The white SmartPlastic mask conceals her face, a single gray star on the left temple its only adornment. Weapons seem to be a part of her. She wears tranq guns, gas grenades, and laser knives programmed to wound, not kill. These may have been real competitions, with real merc situations, but no one ever died.
Morning Star stands in the darkness. Brilliant stars hang in the sky. A firework explodes above her, filling the night with a temporary flash of red, white, and blue.
As the firework fades, another figure appears on the edge of the building, hauling herself over the side.
“Took you long enough,” Morning Star says as the other figure scrambles into view. A voice distorter alters her tone, preserving her real-world identity. “You should have tried the stairs.”
The figure opposite her is a hand shorter and fuller-figured, but every bit as muscled. Her name is Wren, her namesake painted across the forehead of her mask. Wren hunches slightly, breathing hard from her climb.
Morning Star and Wren stand ten feet apart, sizing each other up. Then, before Wren can fully recover, Morning Star attacks. She flies forward, her leg hitting Wren squarely in the chest. Wren lands hard but throws the momentum into a back roll and rises gracefully to her feet.
Gun and I lie side by side on the floor. I watch, transfixed, as the two women fight with their hands and feet. Fireworks rain upward, illuminating them. They are beautiful, like two dancers.
The match lasts a good ten minutes, until Morning Star rams Wren’s head into the stairwell door and knocks her out cold.
Black Ice shows up in a stolen helicopte
r. He’s gorgeously tall, with broad shoulders, light-brown skin, and a crew cut. His SmartPlastic mask is pure black. He picks up Morning Star, and the two of them fly away into a sky full of fireworks.
“I love this episode,” I say, sighing happily.
“Morning Star and Wren used a lot of kickboxing moves,” Gun replies. “I thought we could start by practicing some of those techniques. What do you say?”
“Yes, please.” I can’t believe this eagerness expanding through my body. I’ve never felt this excited about learning before.
“Come on. I’ve reserved a workout room for us.”
I follow Gun into the hall, which is dark gray and lined with steel doors. We climb several flights of stairs. Other members come and go from their locker rooms. Gun, as always, gets appraising looks; I get sniggers and smirks. We ignore everyone. We arrive in a hall that looks a lot like the others, except the doors are spaced more widely apart. Gun leads me into the one marked T-89.
The room is a gray cube. Mounted on the wall beside the door is a tablet computer.
“We use this to call up any training gear we need,” Gun says, gesturing. “Handguns, nunchucks, whatever. We can even change the setting, if we want to work out in a different terrain. Here, I put this together for you.” He pulls out a folded white piece of paper. “It’s a workout routine for the real-world. It will help increase your strength and endurance.”
“Thanks.” I take the paper and slip it into a pocket. I can’t wait to get up tomorrow morning and work out.
“You should see results pretty quickly, if you’re disciplined,” Gun says. “Did you bring your Touch?”
“Yeah.” I dig into my other pocket and pull out the packet of pills.
“You sure you want to do this?” he asks.
“Positive.” I toss one green pill into the air, catch it in my open mouth, and swallow it.
The technology works immediately. Awareness tingles along my scalp. The feeling travels the length of my body, seeping across my neck, shoulders, chest, and arms. It sinks down and down, sliding over my knees and anchoring in my feet. The sensation is like warm sunlight coming out from behind the clouds, creeping over every square inch of me.
Sulan Box Set (Episodes 1-4) Page 6