“Totally. The minute I got out of Vex.” She prattles on, gossiping about the Vex party she attended last night.
Gun’s mind wanders to Sulan. He tries to imagine having this type of conversation with her, but fails. Sulan doesn’t care about stuff like this. She’d rather talk about guns.
As he and Andrea circle back to stables, he spots Hardon. As usual, the man has prepared lunch under the oak tree.
When Gun dismounts, he retrieves two packages from the stable. One is a gift for Andrea, a silk scarf commissioned from an artist in Italy hand-painted with horses. The other is for Hardon.
When he arrives at the lunch table with the gifts, Andrea is already through her first glass of wine. She gushes when she opens her package, hanging on him and covering him with kisses. Gun forces himself to beam down at her, when all he really wants to do is scrape her off.
“And what’s that?” Andrea points coyly to the second package sitting on the ground.
“Oh, I almost forgot about that.” Gun plucks up the package. “My mother sent this for Hardon.” It’s important the gift not be from Gun, lest it make Andrea jealous. “From one plant lover to another.”
Gun passes the wrapped gift casually, as if he couldn’t care less about delivering it. The real reason for Andrea’s gift was to distract from the gift he’d prepared for Hardon.
Hardon, after recovering from his shock, opens it. His mouth falls open at the tiny saguaro cactus start inside the red pot.
“What is that?” Andrea asks, wrinkling her nose.
“One of those desert plants my mom likes,” Gun replies. “I told her your man here likes desert plants. She insisted I bring this to him.”
“I don’t know what to say.” Hardon lifts the small pot, inspecting the tiny cactus with nothing short of awe. “It’s beautiful. I’ll share it with my refugee kids.”
Andrea snorts. “Hardon volunteers in a refugee camp. He gives science lessons to the kids. I don’t know why my father allows it. I keep telling him Hardon is going to bring home a disease and get us all sick one of these days.”
Not only is he a loyal employee, but he’s a good person. Gun tries not to gnash his teeth. He’d known about the refugee school, of course, but he hadn’t thought much on it until now. He’s not looking forward to blackmailing this man.
Hardon stashes the cactus out of sight behind the oak tree, hands reverent on the small pot.
To distract Andrea, Gun picks up the bottle of wine and refills her glass. “If you like the scarf, I’ll commission another. What type of picture would you like painted on it? How about one of the churches in Italy?”
• • •
Ten days later, Gun walks through the Anderson compound. The sun rests low on the horizon, suffusing the streets with dark shadows. He passes several open-air high rises, each level bursting with food crops.
He pauses, staring up at his mother’s creations. Using old farming methods from the Pre-‘Fault era that maximizes compost, she’s increase the density of food produced per square foot by ten percent over the last five years. They’re beautiful in so many ways, symbolizing the security, ingenuity, and comfort found inside the Anderson compound. If only the gardens could come without the killing and the blackmail and the lying.
Can they? he wonders. All his life, he’s assumed his father’s way is the only way. But is it?
Across from the garden high-rise is an apartment building. Gun climbs six floors to Nate’s flat. Music blares on the other side of the door. Gun hesitates, then rings the doorbell.
“Gun?” Nate blinks in surprise as he opens the door. “What are you doing here?” He wears a ratty T-shirt spattered with grease.
“What are you cooking?” Gun leans forward, inhaling a delicious scent.
“Chicken curry.” Nate furrows his brow. “Want some?”
“Yeah.”
Nate loves to cook. It’s what he does in the little spare time he has. Gun buys him odd ingredients—coconut milk, ginger root, lemon grass—whenever he asks. He only visits Nate’s apartment on occasion, but every time he does, Nate has something interesting cooking.
The apartment is modest, with a small kitchen and adjoining living room. The tiny window air conditioner rattles, battling the heat generated from the stove. The linoleum on the floor is chipped and discolored, but clean.
“Remind me why I have you programming and hacking when I could have you cooking?” Gun asks, digging into a bowl of curry.
Nate sighs, plopping into a chair beside Gun. “Because cooks are a dime a dozen. Good programmers are harder to come by.”
“True. Where’s your dad?”
Nate makes a face. “With his new girlfriend.”
Ouch. “Well, he’s missing out.”
“What are you doing here, bro? My cooking rocks, but we both know you didn’t come here to eat.”
“What are you talking about? This is way better than anything Dad’s chefs can make.”
Nate gives him a look. “Are you working up the nerve to plant the Lice on her tonight?”
Gun scowls. “I don’t know. Are you ever going to make up with Alissa?”
This time, the affable Nate returns his scowl. “Whatever, dude. You’re getting soft. If your dad finds out—”
“I’ll get them planted,” Gun snarls.
He’s put it off for nearly two weeks. He knows it, and Nate knows it. The truth is, Gun actually likes Sulan. He’d hazard to say they’re becoming friends. Planting Lice on her is a violation of that friendship. He doesn’t want to do it.
That’s why he’s here. It’s not for the curry. It’s for a pep talk.
“Corporate politics aside, it’s the right thing to do,” Nate says. “If the Winns are colluding with the League, exposing them is a point of national security.”
“In a way, I’m assuring Sulan’s safety,” Gun says.
“In a way, yeah.” Nate cocks his head. “Does that make you feel better?”
“Not really.”
Nate puts his fork down, leveling a serious look at Gun. “You’ve got it bad for her, bro.”
Gun pretends not to hear, instead spooning himself another helping of curry.
• • •
An hour later—not feeling any better about what he has to do—Gun logs into Vex and materializes in the locker room he shares with Sulan. She’s already there, dressed in her customary blanks pants and tank top. Her hair is pulled back in a tight bun.
“Hey, Baldy.” She grins at him. Before he can respond, she rushes on. “I have an idea. Just hear me out.” Her excitement is infections. “The Marstons are awesome.” She gestures to the golden bracelets she wears on either wrist. “But I want to try training on terrain. To practice footwork. I need to learn how to coordinate my upper and lower body.”
“Okay. We can do that. What type of terrain did you have in mind?” He settles himself on the bench. With her standing next to him, they’re almost eye level with each other. He likes being even with her, to see into her dark eyes.
“City streets,” she says. “You know, with uneven pavement and stuff. Can we try that?” She pulls out a Touch pill and holds it out to him.
He reaches out to take it, letting his hand linger a heartbeat longer than necessary. The moment he touches her, he flicks his forefinger two times to activate the Lice. He can’t see them, but a red light flashes in his vision, indicating successful deployment.
He feels like slime. This is to keep her safe from the Winns, he tells himself.
Sulan smiles at him, unaware she’s been bugged.
“I know just the simulation,” he says, rising. “Come on.”
8
Another Way
Two hours later, Sulan drops onto a park bench. The sun sits low in the sky, framing her with fiery orange light. She lays flat on the wooden planks, looking up at the sunset.
“Now that was training.” She laughs, delight clear in her voice.
Gun sits beside her, the side of
his leg brushing the top of her head. His body burns with exhaustion. He revels in the sensation.
“What do you think of Manhattan?” he asks.
“It’s sort of like San Francisco, except everything is taller.” She gestures to the sky scrapers framing Central Park. “Have you ever been to the real Manhattan?”
“Yeah. It’s nicer in Vex.” This skirts a little too close to his real-world life, a topic he avoids. “You did great today, Short Stuff. You learn fast.”
“That’s not always a good thing.” She wrinkles her nose. “I’m good at school stuff. Now everyone pressures me about homework and testing, especially my mom. She’d rather see me hunched over the kitchen table doing homework than doing something like this.” She gestures to the park around them.
“My dad always pressures me to put family needs ahead of my own,” Gun replies. He and Sulan aren’t all that different.
“What do you do about it?”
“Do about it?” he echoes. “Nothing. I hate him, but I follow his orders.”
“Really? All of them?” She squints up at him. “Why?”
The question stumps him. Why does he do everything his father tells him to do, even at the cost of his self-respect?
“I guess I never thought I had a choice.” He thinks about the mediocre grades he unearthed while researching her. “Do you do everything your mom wants you to do?”
She snorts. “I tried completely bombing my grades, just to prove I’m my own person. I suppose I did prove my point, but Mom lost it and grounded me from Vex. Now I make sure I maintain a certain GPA.”
That explained her lack of good grades. She did it on purpose. This revelation only endures her to him more.
“Mom isn’t completely satisfied,” Sulan continues. “She wants straight As, but she doesn’t ground me if I’m not flunking. At least I make my point that I’m not going to be a good student just because everyone wants me to be.”
“I never thought about things that way. I just . . . my dad tells me to do something, so I do it.” When boiled down like that, he feels like a meek dog. It’s not a good feeling.
“I get it,” Sulan says.
The sympathy in her eyes makes him feel vulnerable. He looks away.
“Just figure out a way to follow his orders on your own terms,” she says. “That’s what I do. I suppose it’s a waste of time, in some ways, but it makes me feel better. That has to count for something, right?”
“You have a right to be happy.”
Sulan reaches up and gives his hand a brief squeeze. The gesture leaves him too stunned to react. He can’t remember the last time anyone touched him with simple kindness.
“You have a right to be happy, too, Gun.” Sulan retracts her hand, lacing her fingers across her stomach.
“I don’t think of my life in terms of happy or unhappy.” It’s just assignment after assignment, never ending duty to family and company. “I mean, I have a comfortable life. More comfortable than most. It doesn’t seem like I have a right to worry about being happy when I have plenty of food to eat. That’s more than most people have.”
“That’s what my friend Hank says. Her family has it hard. They live in an old high school gymnasium converted into cubicles. When she does get a shower, it’s usually a cold one. She thinks I’m an idiot for fighting the system. She thinks I’m ungrateful. I guess I am.”
“Maybe we both are.” He wants to reach out and caress her hair, but doesn’t dare. He doesn’t want to do anything to threaten whatever it is that’s building between.
“Good. We can be ungrateful together, so long as we can fight together.” Sulan sits up, her expression brightening. “How about one more training round before we call it quits?”
He can’t help the return smile that pulls at the corner of his mouth. “All right. Let’s go.”
• • •
The next day, Gun sits with his tablet propped on his desk. Nate sits beside him, the two of them watching Hardon fold a pile of children’s clothes. He flattens each piece, then rolls it tight before putting it into a backpack.
“Rolling the clothes allows him to fit more into the backpack,” Gun observes.
“That’s his weakness,” Nate says. “Those refugee kids. The clothes are for them.”
Gun nods. He’s come to the same conclusion. This is the third time they’ve seen Hardon pack clothes into a backpack and take it out late at night.
“Are you going to go after one of the kids? Threaten them?” Nate asks. His face is neutral. He never comments on the morality of the things Gun does. It’s one of the many reasons Gun appreciates his friendship.
Gun doesn’t respond right away. Six months ago, that’s exactly what he would have done: threaten the kids—or worse, hurt one of them.
Who knows why Hardon has a soft spot for the refugee kids? Hardon had never been a refugee, but maybe he is one of those human beings who cares about something more than himself. Perhaps that’s why he spends his only day off teaching in a refugee camp.
Threaten the kids, and Hardon would be putty in his hands. He’d feed Gun any and all information. Gun sees the scenario play out in his mind’s eye, and it sickens him.
His father would clap him on the back and congratulate him on a job well done. And Gun would hate himself for hurting and extorting innocents.
What would Sulan do? His situation isn’t as simple as rebelling against the expectations of good grades and academic mastery. There’s much more at stake. But at the heart of it all is a rebellion against expectations. Is there a way Gun can accomplish what his father wants without hurting anyone? Can he salvage some of his self-respect and do what needs doing?
He needs to clear his head, to think things through. “Up for sparring?” he says to Nate.
• • •
It isn’t until Nate lands a solid kick to his gut, sending Gun sprawling onto his back, that the answer comes to him.
“I’ve got it,” he says, holding up a hand to keep Nate from pouncing on him. He’s sticky with sweat and stinging with bruises. His neck throbs from a choke hold.
“Got what?” Nate frowns, rubbing at a bruise on his cheek that will be purple and swollen by tomorrow.
“A way to deal with Hardon without hurting or threatening the refugee kids.”
Gun spends the next ten minutes laying out the details of an admittedly complex plan. Nate’s eyebrows climb so high they’re practically in his hairline.
“What do you think?” Gun asks when he’s finished. “I know it requires a bit more effort, but it could work.” And he wouldn’t have to hurt any kids.
Nate opens and closes his mouth several times before speaking. “You’re different,” he says at last.
“What are you talking about?”
“You’ve been different since you started seeing Sulan every night.”
“She’s a nice distraction from everything my father has me doing.” Gun shrugs, not wanting Nate to guess how much he likes her. “Sulan is entertaining.”
Nate leans over and pokes Gun in the neck, right in the sensitive spot from the choke hold. Gun knocks his hand away with an annoyed grunt.
“I can’t remember the last time I got you in a choke hold.” Nate pokes Gun once more for good measure. “You’re distracted. She’s distracting you.”
Gun stands, glowering down at his friend. “I’ve got Andrea clinging all over me and my father hammering at me to turn Hardon. In the meantime, I’m buried in all the minutia the twins are digging up on the Winns. I’ve got a lot on my mind, Nate.”
“Yeah, but that’s normal stuff.” Nate stands his ground, meeting Gun’s glower. “This stuff with Sulan—that’s not normal. You’ve never shied away from the dirty work your father asks you to do.”
“I’m not shying away from it,” Gun snaps. “I’m finding a solution to protect innocents.”
“That’s just what I’m talking about. You’ve never taken innocents into account in any of your planning. You alw
ays take the straightest route, even if it’s the most ruthless.”
That’s what he’s been trained do from a young age. Gun remembers the first time he beat up another kid to steal his wallet. Anderson needed a copy of the boy’s ID badge. Gun thought he’d be in trouble for hurting the other kid, but his father praised him and had the cooks make him a milkshake.
“I’m going to take a shower.” Gun rises, turning his back on his best friend. He doesn’t know how to communicate the things he feels.
“How long before your dad notices?” Nate calls after him. “What do you think he’ll do when he sees you losing focus?”
Gun doesn’t respond. He keeps walking, slamming the training room door behind him.
The worst part is that Nate is right. Sulan is a distraction. He can’t remember the last time he looked forward to spending time with anyone.
She keeps him guessing. Superficialness isn’t anywhere in her hemisphere; she couldn’t care less about how she looks or what she wears or who her father is. She’s fun to be around. Above all that, she makes him want to be a different person.
Sulan is changing him. He can only hope it’s for the better.
9
Double Date
“Have you talked to your sister since she left?” Gun asks Nate. “Or your mom? You might be pissed at them, but they’re still your family.”
Nate glowers. “They left,” he snaps. “They left me and Dad like we were nothing more than garbage.”
This is the most anger Nate has displayed since the divorce. Gun takes this as a good sign, so he pushes him further.
“I know Juliette has called you. She’s asked after you—”
Nate’s head snaps up. “You talked to her?”
“Just emailed. She wrote to see how you and your dad are doing. She’s tried calling you.”
“Juliette doesn’t want to admit she was wrong to leave,” Nate snarls. “She and mom broke up our family.”
“So—what? You’re just going to sit around and give her the silent treatment until she apologizes?”
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