Touch

by Camille Picott

  “I knew I was going to like you,” he says. “You remind me of my little sister. She’s rash and strong-willed, just like you.” Compliments are a necessity in his line of work, even if this one happens to be true.

  “Does your sister know how to fight?”

  He laughs. “My sister carries a gun in her bra.”

  “Really?” She sits down next him on the bench. “What kind?”

  He laughs again. “We’ll talk about guns next month. Let’s start with some basic hand-to-hand self-defense first.”

  The hope in her eyes stirs something within him. It makes him uncomfortable. He tamps down the feeling.

  “I’ve always wanted a big brother,” she says.

  Alarm bells go off in his head. It is never, ever, good to be viewed as a sibling in any situation with a girl. Too many doors slam shut on siblings.

  He made a mistake in comparing her to his sister, he realizes. Stupid, stupid, stupid. How many other mistakes can he make in one meeting? He’s acting like a complete amateur. This is almost as bad as his negotiation with Balor all those years ago.

  “You have to agree to one condition before we start training,” he says. “You can use Touch, but only when we train together. You leave them on the shelf when we compete against other teams. Agreed?”

  “Yes. I promise.”

  “Good.” And here Gun does his best to do damage control, to get the sibling notion removed from her brain. “My real name is Gunther. You can call me Gun when we’re alone.” In the Cube, sharing a real-world name is intimate, a sign of trust.

  “I’m Sulan.”

  He smiles, inwardly relieved. With any luck, he’ll leave the big brother hole far behind him.

  7

  Plant

  “Dude, you should have seen the Global hackers at work. The filleted your avatar!”

  When Gun gets up the next morning, he finds Nate fully dressed and already working in the study.

  “I got you some food.” Nate pokes a tray on the desk.

  Gun, squinting in the bright light, eyes the tray. Half the pancakes on the tray have been eaten. The glass of milk has been drained.

  Nate catches his sidelong glance. “Sorry, I got hungry waiting for you to wake up. Here, check this out.”

  He angles the tablet so Gun can see the screen. His face is gleeful.

  “I was monitoring them the whole time. They shredded this first eight facades. By the time they got to number nine, I had planted enough markers to make them think they’d found the real Virtual Identity. This is who they think you are.”

  He swipes the screen, revealing a pimply teenage boy. The poor kid is so ugly that for a second, Gun thinks he’s looking at an avatar. Then he sees the look on Nate’s face, and he knows it’s a real kid.

  “Global hackers think that’s me?” Gun asks.

  Nate bursts out laughing. He laughs so hard, he can’t even speak. All he can manage is a wobbly nod.

  It’s been weeks since Gun has seen Nate laugh. The sound is infectious. Gun plops into a chair across from his friend and finds himself chuckling, too.

  “I thought they’d get farther,” Nate says at last, dabbing at the corners of his eyes. “There’s an old woman in upstate Michigan with thirty-six cats. If they’d dug through the next six layers, they’d have thought you were her.”

  “Good work,” Gun says, still chuckling. He leans over the half-eaten pancakes and digs in.

  “How did your first meeting go with the Hom girl? I’ve been waiting for Lice intel, but nothing has come through.”

  Gun freezes, fork halfway to his mouth. “Damn. I forgot to plant them.”

  Both of Nate’s eyebrows shoot up. “You . . . forgot?”

  “I was . . . off-balance.”

  “A girl made you off-balance?”

  “She’s not like other girls. She wants to train with Touch.”

  “She wants to what?” Nate gapes at him.

  Gun gives him a recap of last night. “She’s crazy,” he says when he’s done.

  “Morning Star’s daughter wants to train with Touch?” Nate says. “Is that even possible?

  “We’re going to find out.”

  “Let’s go back to the part where you forgot to plant the Lice.”

  Gun waves a dismissive hand. “I’m meeting her again tonight. I’ll get them planted.”

  “You’d better,” Nate replies. “Otherwise, I’m going to think you’re losing your edge.”

  “I’m not losing my edge.” Gun glances up at the clock. “Damn. I overslept. I have a date with Andrea in two hours. Did the cactus come?”

  “You mean the saguaro? Yeah, it came. Your sister put it in a red pot. You said that’s Hardon’s favorite color, right?”

  “Yeah.” Gun rises. “Why don’t you come with me?” It would be good for Nate to get out. “We’re riding horses on her father’s ranch.”

  And just like that, the mirth fades from Nate’s eyes. “No thanks, bro. I’ll just stay here and—”

  A knock on the door interrupts him. Gun turns, about to call out. Before he can say a word, his father opens the door and strides in.

  “I need an update on the Thompson assignment,” he says by way of greeting. His dreadlocks swing around his dark face.

  Gun perches himself on the edge of the desk, facing Anderson with squared shoulders. “I’m taking Hardon a special gift today,” he says. “It will be planted with a spy cam. I should have the intel I need to turn him soon.”

  “Make it happen,” his father says. “I don’t care if you kidnap his firstborn or torture his mother.” Anderson strides out, slamming the door behind him.

  Gun stares after him, distaste churning in his stomach. He has, in fact, kidnapped and tortured for his father. He doesn’t want to do either of those things again. Ever.

  Appetite gone, he stalks into his bathroom to locate his razor and shaving cream. He goes to work on his head, shaving off every piece of stubble he can find. Nate remains in the study, giving him space.

  ***

  On the horse ranch, Gun sits astride a gorgeous palomino. The animal trots alongside Andrea’s dappled gray. Green grass swishes beneath the horse’s hooves.

  Gun savors the warm wind against his fresh-shaven head. They’ve been riding for over an hour, crisscrossing over the Thompsons’ ranch. What would Sulan think of this place?

  “Can you believe the Callins did that?” Andrea is saying.

  Gun, who hasn’t been paying much attention, pulls a standard line from his phrasebook. “They’re going to get themselves removed from every party list.”

  Andrea nods emphatically. “I know. Can you imagine buying discount Axcents? I mean, you could tell the programming was sub-par. Cammie Callin was pixelated.”

  Gun makes a concerted effort to focus on the conversation. “I heard their parents made some bad investments.”

  “That’s no excuse,” Andrea replies. “Wearing cheap Axcents is just embarrassing for everyone. I mean, did they even think how it would make their friends feel? Like, why would I want to be seen with them if they’re pixelated?”

  Gun clears his throat, taking a moment to compose his response. The woman is giving him a headache. “I hope you removed them from your standard invite list.”

  “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.”