Sulan Box Set (Episodes 1-4)

by Camille Picott

  “You’re settling.” Two blows to the rib cage.

  “I’m not!” An elbow to the throat.

  Nate reels, choking. Gun capitalizes on the moment, shoving his friend backward. Nate hits the padded training room wall and slides to the ground.

  “Yield!” Nate holds up one hand, still coughing from the blow to the throat.

  Gun drops his arms, recoiling from the string of punches he was ready to deliver. Anger sizzles along his arms and neck. He wants to hit something.

  Since he can’t hit his best friend, he stalks to the mini fridge and pulls out two beers. He tosses one to Nate and proceeds to pound his.

  Approximately a dozen beers later, slouched next to his friend against the wall, Gun says, “I’m settling.”

  Nate belches and rolls his eyes. “I know.”

  Gun stares down at his empty beer bottle. His head buzzes. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  Nate rolls his eyes again. “She’s the first girl you’ve been afraid to lose.” He fixes reddening eyes on Gun as he tosses away the empty beer bottle and pops open another. “Has it occurred to you that you’ll lose her if you don’t act? Someone will swoop in while you’re not looking.”

  “She doesn’t want—”

  “She doesn’t know what she wants. Look at the facts, Gun. The girl meets you every single night. She might have herself convinced that she doesn’t care about you, but there’s no way she’d spend that much time with you if she didn’t.” Nate gives him a congenial punch in the arm. “Grow a pair, buddy.”

  Gun says nothing, opting for another pull off his beer.

  • • •

  Sweat streams down his temples and dribbles into his eyes. Gun welcomes the sting, never pausing as he delivers a string of hits to the punching bag.

  It’s two in the morning. He can’t turn off his brain. His head keeps replaying the last sparring session with Sulan.

  They are in a sand arena, practicing on uneven surface. Touch zings through his system. His foot slips in the sand, sending him toppling into Sulan. They end up in a tangled heap on the ground, laughing.

  Their eyes meet. Her mouth is only inches from his. There is nothing he wants more than to gather her in his arms and kiss her.

  It had taken all his willpower to turn away and peel himself off her.

  I should have done it, he thinks, hitting the bag as hard as he can. It swings and vibrates on the metal chain. I should have just done it.

  Nate would never let him hear the end of it if he knew. Which was why Gun was never going to tell him.

  He could lie, steel, cheat, and fight, but he couldn’t work up the nerve to kiss one girl.

  What would happen, if he did it? Would she yell at him? Stalk out of the training room in indignation? Would it ruin their friendship?

  Or maybe, just maybe, would she kiss him back?

  His gloved hands connect with the punching bag in a frantic rhythm. Never in his life has he been so tormented by a girl.

  “There you are.”

  The unwelcome voice sends a spike of irritation through him. What’s his father doing here at this time of night?

  Gun doesn’t bother stopping or looking up.

  “What do you want?” he asks, rasping from the exertion of his workout.

  Anderson comes up from behind and places a hand on his shoulder. Gun jerks away.

  “What’s bothering you, son?” Anderson asks.

  “Nothing.” Gun yanks off his gloves and tosses them into the corner. He’s not in the mood to deal with his father right now. “I’m going to bed.”

  “Don’t you want to know why the Hardon mission was so important?”

  Gun’s temper ratchets up several notches. “You came down here at two in the morning to tell me about the Hardon mission?”

  “No. I came down here to do some yoga before bed. I was going to tell you about Hardon in the morning. But since you’re up and clearly not going to bed anytime soon, I thought you might appreciate a distraction.”

  Gun’s anger fizzles out. He could use a distraction. Maybe immersing himself in one of his father’s many plots would be the thing to take his mind off Sulan.

  “I thought you needed intel on the deal he was make for that steel mine in China.”

  “That was of importance, yes. But there’s more, if you want to know.”

  Gun is too exhausted to play his father’s games. “Sure, okay,” he says with a shrug.

  Anderson raises an eyebrow. Gun pretends not to notice.

  “Come upstairs to my office.”

  Once upstairs, Gun plunks down in one of the office chairs, not caring that he’ll leave sweat stains on the leather. Anderson sits across from him, picking up his tablet.

  “Do you remember the exoskeleton project?”

  Gun nods. “Yeah. The one pitched by Dr. Christakos. He proposed building a suit that resembled an external exoskeleton. A super soldier suit.”

  Anderson’s mouth curves into a smile. “Precisely. A super soldier suit.” His smile broadens.

  Gun’s brow lifts. “Are you saying . . . ?”

  “I found the material to turn Christakos’s vision into a reality.”

  “What does this have to do with Hardon? Andrea’s dad owns mines. You can’t make a suit like that out of metal.”

  “He does own mines, but he also dabbles in emerging technology. All cutting edge, speculative stuff. Most of it goes nowhere. Occasionally, he invests in something marketable. This time, though, he hit on something revolutionary. He backed a few garage geniuses who developed a flexible nanobot that’s durable under extreme pressure.”

  “Flexible nanobots,” he repeats. Gun’s mind buzzes as he grasps the significance of this new technology.

  “Yes.” Anderson’s smile is smug. “And because of your ingenious idea to plant nanos in Hardon’s retinas, I didn’t even have to buy the technology. I stole it.” He throws back his head and laughs.

  “How?” Gun asks. “That’s advanced tech. How did Hardon see enough for you to steal the tech?”

  “He happened to be serving breakfast when Thompson reviewed the specs with his lead engineer. We got snapshots of everything.” He laces his fingers behind his head.

  Gun pulls the tablet toward him. On the screen is live footage of the Anderson R&D lab. The scientists are busy assembling something that loosely resembles a human skeleton.

  “You already have a suit,” Gun exclaims.

  “I call the project Skeletex,” Anderson says. “I had Christakos begin work on it weeks ago. Standard nanobots collapsed under the pressure of the suit’s recoil, but that’s not an issue with the new flexible technology. We use them to connect with the transmitter in the human subjects. The transmitter will sync with the nanobots and ensure seamless interface. Five suits are in development. This is just what our company needs to set itself apart from Global.”

  Despite himself, Gun is impressed. His eyes rove over the tablet, taking in every detail of the Skeletex suit.

  “This is why we do what we do,” Anderson says, voice soft. “All our work is a means to an end. You will not always like what we do. Just remember it’s for the greater good of the company and all the people who depend on us.”

  “But you could have bought the technology,” Gun says. “You didn’t have to steal it.”

  Irritation flashes in Anderson’s eyes, but he suppresses it. “Cash flow is a boon, son. Don’t disregard it. Remember those new solar panels your mother wants for the gardens? Money we would have used on the nano tech can be used to buy them. The solar panels will increase food yield by at least five percent, which benefits everyone.”

  It’s a bald lie. They both know it. Anderson steals and cheats and lies because he thrives on the intrigue. He likes pushing others down so he can get ahead. Success isn’t measured by how well he does; it’s measured by how others around him fail.

  Gun doesn’t say any of this. There isn’t any point.

 
Instead, he says, “Mom will be thrilled to hear about the solar panels. I’ll tell her tomorrow morning.”

  Anderson’s brow is creased by a brief wrinkle. The millisecond break in his facade tells Gun he wasn’t really intending to buy the solar panels.

  He doesn’t give his father any quarter. “She’ll be so excited.” He yawns. “I’m going to bed now. See you tomorrow.”

  As he heads toward the door, he realizes something: He doesn’t have to use the same metrics as his father. He can decide for himself how to measure success.

  “Oh, and son?”

  Gun pauses, hand on the doorknob. “Yeah?”

  “I thought you might want to know Hardon died tragically three nights ago. His body was discovered on the Thompson ranch. He apparently went on a drunken moonlit walk and got trampled to death by the horses.”

  Gun feels the world fall out from under his feet. He grasps the doorknob, desperate for something to hold onto.

  He should have known better than to try and have the last word with his father.

  “Guess you lost your inside man,” he says without turning around.

  “No matter. He served his purpose,” Anderson replies.

  Gun’s feet are lead as he leaves the study and treads to the elevator.

  Did Anderson have Hardon killed? Or had Thompson fingered Hardon as a traitor? There’s no way to know for certain. Whatever the case, there is one inescapable truth: Hardon’s blood is on Gun’s hands.

  He realizes something else. Anderson is the one person on the planet who can make him angry enough to forget about Sulan. He decides this is not a good thing.

  • • •

  The weeks go by. Gun and Sulan log more wins. They train hard, spending long hours together in Vex.

  Gun’s father sends him out to recruit more scientists for Anderson’s R&D department. He finds creative ways to avoid blackmail and brute force. This requires a healthy amount of bribery, and, in one case, a favor.

  His father nods as each new scientist is ushered into the Anderson compound, though when he looks at his son, Gun notes the lack of approval in his eyes. William Anderson does not like this softer side of his son. Gun doesn’t care. He gives his father a mental middle figure and continues with his work. If it’s one thing he’s learned from Sulan, there’s more than one way to maintain one’s self-respect.

  Utilizing the new Lice planted on Sulan, the Dread Twins are able to hack into VHS. They spread among the students, giving Gun a look at the many projects they’re working on.

  The most interesting intel comes from the programming classes.

  “You know the defense software at Claudine’s party?” Nate says.

  “Yeah?”

  “She pieced it together from the programs written by half a dozen different students at VHS.” Nate spins a tablet around, displaying rows and rows of code. “I could tell you which student programmed each of the different components. That explains why the architecture was like a patchwork. Different, but effective.”

  Gun can’t help but admire this. Not only are Claudine and her uncle collecting young geniuses, they’re putting them to work for the company.

  “None of this links the Winns to the League,” Nate says.

  In their weeks of reconnaissance, they’d turned up nothing. Lots of interesting stuff, much of it related to the course work of the VHS students—many research projects centering around Alaska—but nothing to tie the Winns to the League.

  “There’s a connection,” Gun says. “We just haven’t found it yet. Keep digging.”

  “You’re the boss,” Nate says with a shrug. He glances up at Gun. “Have you asked her out yet?”

  Gun grunts and stalks from the room.

  • • •

  “Show me the supplies,” Gun says.

  The man on the other side of the tablet pans his screen around the back of the trailer truck.

  “Slow down,” Gun orders. “I want a good look at everything.”

  The camera slows. Gun takes in the piles of clothing and crates of canned food, the boxes of books, notebooks, pencils, calculators, and erasers. He crosschecks what he sees against his list. Though he can’t count everything, he sees enough to satisfy.

  “Thank you,” he says. “I’ve seen enough.”

  The black market dealer comes back onto the screen. His face is smooth and stiff, the result of a lot of plastic surgery. His eyes are a little too wide, his cheeks a little too hollow, his skin more plastic-like than flawless.

  All the man sees of Gun is the animated avatar of a giraffe face. A voice synthesizer adds another layer of disguise.

  “What should I do with all this stuff?” the man asks.

  “Take it to the Folsom Lake refugee camp,” Gun says. “I want all the supplies delivered to the school there.”

  “But—but that’s all the way in California!” the man sputters. “It’ll take two days to get there.”

  “Then you’d better start driving. I’ll reimburse you for gas and compensate you for your time. Contact me when you arrive and make the delivery.”

  Gun disconnects without another word. He might not be able to bring Hardon back, but he can make amends. Or at least, try to. As long as the Lake Folsom refugee camp stands, Gun will make sure the kids in that community get supplies.

  • • •

  Tonight’s the night. He’s going to do it. No more pussyfooting around. He’s going to ask Sulan out. For real this time.

  He arrives early in the locker room to mentally prepare himself. He’s in the middle of a stretching routine when she arrives. At the sight of her, he gives her his best smile, the one with the dimples.

  She smiles back. “Hey, Baldy.”

  “Hey, Short Stuff.” He launches into his plan, not giving himself time to overthink anything and chicken out. “Got something for you . . .” His voice trails off as he notices tension pinching the corners of her eyes and mouth. “Sulan, what’s wrong?”

  “I . . .” She stares up into his face, the distress clear in her dark eyes.

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

  “I won’t be able to see you for a while,” she says in a rush.

  He stares at her, briefly stunned speechless. “What do you mean?”

  “My family is moving.” The anguish in her eyes is unmistakable, which sends a spike of anxiety through him.

  “Are you going to the South Pole or something?” He means it as a joke to lighten the mood, but ends up sounding like a jerk. She shakes her head and looks 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?” Does she know how he feels? Is this her way of letting him down easy?

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

  “Then what’s going on?”

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

  What the hell is going on? She’s not making any sense. He’s been surveying Global for weeks and hasn’t caught wind of this.

  “Who doesn’t let their employees use Vex in their free time?” he asks, still fumbling to make his world right side up. “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.” Her eyes meet his, and her voice drops to a whisper. “I don’t want to go. But I don’t have a choice.”

  Of all the things Sulan hates, this is at the top of the list: loss of control. He can’t stand anyone doing this to her, most especially the Winns. A bizarre idea takes shape in his mind.

  “You do have a choice. I know we’ve never met outside of Vex, and I know you can take care of yourself, but . . .” Before he can think rationally about what he’s doing, he pulls a knife ou
t of a locker and jams it into the wooden bench. Dropping to one knee, he carves a rough sequence of numbers and letters into the wood.

  32-13-18-N, 110-55-35-W.

  If it’s one thing he knows, it’s that Sulan has an eidetic memory for numbers. These are the coordinates to his home, his family estate. Giving it to her is a pure lunacy. He knows it, but he does it anyway.

  “You do have a choice,” he repeats. “Don’t ever feel like you’re trapped. You can always come find me.”

  “Coordinates?” she says. “Wouldn’t it be easier to give me an address?”

  “You wouldn’t remember an address.”

  “Am I going to show up at this location and find out you’re some fat old pervert?”

  He knows she’s trying to make a joke, but finds zero humor in the situation. The Winns are taking Sulan away. He wants to stop it, to change the inertia of the tidal wave crashing down on him.

  There’s a moment when he debates coming clean and telling her everything. If she knows who he is, she’ll know he’s a viable resource for escape. She’ll know he can help her.

  He opens his mouth, but the words won’t come out.

  14

  Balor

  Breathing hard, Gun yanks off his Vex set and flings it across the room. There’s a crack as it hits the wall.

  In all his digging and spying, he hadn’t caught a single whiff of a secret Winn compound. How could they have constructed a secret compound without him knowing about it?

  The answer comes to him immediately; he did catch wind of it. He’d just been so focused on finding a link to the League that he’d dismissed it.

  “Nate, I figured it out!” he hollers.

  Alaska. They built a compound in Alaska. All the supposed leisure trips to the snow the Dread Twins had mentioned, the VHS students’ reports on Alaska—it was all there right in front of him. And he’d missed it. Like a blind, incompetent idiot.

  When Nate bursts into his bedroom, wiping sleep from his eyes, Gun has regained some of his composure.

  “The Winns have constructed a secret compound in Alaska,” he says. “Get the Dread Twins on the line. I want to know everything about it.”