Touch

by Camille Picott

  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 out 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.”

  ***

  In the normal course of life, intel is Gun’s specialty. Between himself, Nate, and the Dread Twins, he’s used to having the upper hand on information.

  “How did the Winns build an entire compound without leaving some kind of trail?” Gun demands, slamming his hands against his desk. The tablet jumps from the force.

  The Dread Twins wince. Even Nate winces.

  “They had to move people and equipment to build a compound,” Gun continues, trying to level his tone. “You can’t move those kind of resources without leaving a trail.”

  “It’s not impossible,” Lox ventures. “If he paid for everything in cash and conducted the transport work with his own people, it’s possible to be transparent. There are so few people living in the north that it’s possible to move without witnesses . . .” He trails off at Gun’s g
lare.

  “I want to know where the compound is,” Gun says.

  “We’ve looked,” Mage says. “We’ve called in favors. We’ve launched drones and hijacked satellite feeds. We haven’t found a trace of the compound. They must be using cloaking technology.”

  “We need feet on the ground,” Gun growls. “Hire scouts to scour the area.”

  “That’s six hundred thousand square acres of frozen land to search,” Lox argues. “Even if we could find enough people with the skills to scout it all, it would take too long.”

  “I don’t care what it takes.” Gun leans forward, knuckles white on the top of his desk. “I want to know where they’re taking her. Find her!”

  No one asks who her is.

  ***

  “Um, Gun?” Maia stands in the doorway of his suite, a tablet in her hands. “Have you seen the news?”

  Gun, hunched over maps and satellite footage of Alaska, doesn’t look up.

  “What is it?” he asks.

  “You’re going to want to see this.” She sets the tablet in front of him on the desk.

  Nate, hunched over his set of maps and satellite footage beside Gun, leans over for a look. At his sharp intake of breath, Gun peels his eyes away from his work.

  His heart does a somersault when he sees Sulan on the roof of a high-rise building. League agents drop out of a helicopter, converging on her and her family.

  Gun feels like his entire world is being swept out from under him.

  ***

  The next twelve hours are a waking nightmare. He watches, helpless, as Sulan is taken by the League. When Imugi announces her impending sale on the black market, Gun just about loses it.

  “I’m going to see Balor,” he snarls.

  Maia and Nate exchange looks.

  “Dude, that’s a bad idea.”

  Gun whirls on his best friend. “I’m not in the mood for your opinion.”

  Maia attempts to intercede, voice calm and soothing. “Big bro, I know you care about this girl. I know she’s special. I get that. We—”

  “Don’t try to talk me down.” Gun grinds out the words. “There’s only one way to help Sulan. I need Balor.”

  “We’ll find another way,” Maia says. “Sergio can help, or even the Barron—”

  “No, they can’t. Balor is the only one who can get me into the League auction.”

  Silence. Nate and Maia stare at him, mouths agape. It’s not often he can render both of them speechless.

  “Dad will kill you,” Maia says, at the same time Nate says, “Your dad will flip.”

  With a snarl, Gun stalks into his bedroom. He slams the door and locks it.

  Just because he stupidly bartered away an ornithropter to Balor for intel—good intel, although everyone ignores that point—doesn’t mean he’ll do it again. He’d been fourteen, a newbie in the world of negotiations. His father stripped him of his allowance for a full year after the blunder with Balor.

  Ignoring the pleas from the other room, Gun puts on his Vex set and enters a virtual Irish pub. Occupants are engaged in a dart throwing competition. Every time a dart hits a bull’s-eye, a different character from Celtic mythology steps out of the target to congratulate the player.

  A dragon materializes out of a target and wraps around the woman who threw a bull’s-eye. The dragon breaks into song, singing to the woman in Gaelic.

  Gun cuts through the crowd to the bathroom at the back of the facility. You’d think a bathroom in Vex would draw attention, but no one pays it any attention.

  Gun pushes through the doors and finds himself facing two black horses. They have slimy green manes and fangs that poke past their upper lips. At the sight of him, the horses transform into two voluptuous women. They have thick, rubbery skin, glowing red eyes, and sharp incisors. Their slimy green hair snakes around their breasts.

  Kelpies. Gun grimaces. Balor takes his Celtic obsession to the extreme.

  The kelpies smile at him. They’re not welcoming or seductive smiles; they’re the smiles of predators.

  “I’m here to see Balor,” Gun says.

  “William Anderson, Junior,” purrs the first kelpie, oozing toward him.

  Gun sidesteps, deftly avoiding her hair. He knows better than to let either of the kelpies touch him. Who knows what kind of Black Tech they ooze.

  “Our lord says you are most welcome in Tir Na Nog,” says the second kelpie, flashing her canines as she slinks closer to him.

  “Then let me in,” Gun replies.

  The kelpies purr, their predatory smiles deepening. “We here tell that you bring the best gifts,” they say, voices chiming in eerie unison. “Did you bring gifts for us, William Anderson, Junior?”

  Gun’s mouth tightens. After the ornithropter incident, he guessed they wouldn’t let him in for free. Still, he hates giving anything away.

  He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a slim metal square.

  “Uncle Zed Black Tech.” He holds up the metal square. “Touch. Piranhas. A few other goodies.”

  The first kelpie tries to snatch it, but Gun pulls back his hand.

  “Entrance into Tir Na Nog,” he says.

  The second kelpie hisses in annoyance, then waves her hand. The wall at the back of the room ripples and dissolves, revealing a verdant landscape with an Arthurian castle set atop an honest-to-god knoll.

  Without another look in their direction, Gun tosses the metal square at the kelpies and strides into Tir Na Nog.

  Fifteen minutes later, he stands in the palace throne room. Balor sits atop an ornately carved wooden throne inset with jewels. He’s a handsome avatar with too-smooth skin and mud-red hair. In the center of his forehead is a third eye, the lid closed. Gun has never seen the third eye open, though he’s heard it’s rigged with all sorts of nasty Black Tech.

  The throne room is filled with milling avatars. The men are in kilts and frilly shirts, the women in plaid gowns. They appear to be having a party. According to the rumors, Balor loves parties. He spikes the food and casks of mead with Touch. Since everyone still has their clothes on, Gun assumes the party only just started.

  “Anderson!” Balor booms, a grin splitting his handsome face. “Well met, old friend.”

  He sounds like he stepped out of the Renaissance. It takes every ounce of willpower for Gun not to roll his eyes.

  The crowd hushes and parts, opening an aisle for Gun. He strides to the base of the throne. Feeling like a complete idiot, he bows low before Balor. He can kiss ass when he needs to, even if he finds it galling. He can do anything for Sulan.

  “Rise,” Balor says. The crowd folds in behind Gun. The chatter picks back up, though there is a fair share of gawkers near the throne.

  “It has long been my hope you’d one day cross the veil back into Tir Na Nog,” Balor says. “It’s been too long, old friend.”

  Old friend. Well, Balor did acquire an ornithropter from their one and only meeting. Gun supposes one could buy friendship with that appalling negotiation.

  He puts on his best smile, not even caring that he flashes his dimple. “How’s the ornithropter?”

  Balor booms with laughter. “The beast serves me well. I don’t suppose you have another from your stable for trade on this fine day?”

  “Unfortunately, no.”

  Balor sighs. “Ah, well. One could only hope. So tell me, my friend, what brings you here?”

  Gun opts to skip the small talk. “You’ve heard of the League’s black market auction?”

  “Of course.” Balor sips from a goblet, its contents glowing green with Touch.

  “I want in.”

  Balor chokes on his drink. Surprise is replaced by amusement. “Why would you stoop to flesh trade, my friend? Surely one with your means can acquire someone without crossing paths with the League?”

  So Balor, whoever he is, doesn’t approve of the League. Gun takes mental note of this. It could be important one day.

  “I need to get into that auction,” is all he say
s in response. “Can you help me or not?”

  “It’s so distasteful.” Balor leans back in his throne, setting his goblet aside with a grimace. “They’re just children.”

  Gun doesn’t have time for discussions on the finer points of terrorism. “I’m sorry I bothered you. If you can’t help me, I’ll find someone who can.” He turns, angling for the door.

  “I didn’t say I couldn’t help,” Balor calls. “I just said it’s distasteful business.”

  Gun turns back. “I don’t disagree. Will you help me or not?”

  Balor’s eyebrows lift in surprise as he studies Gun. “There is very little Balor’s power cannot touch. However, what you ask will be costly. Even did you have an ornithropter for trade, it wouldn’t be enough.”

  Gun knows his next few plays have to be flawless. “What do you want in exchange?” he asks.

  Balor steeples his fingers, eyes slitting with pleasure. “A person in my position could benefit from having access to Anderson Arms mercenaries.”

  I bet you could, Gun thinks.

  “One corps, at the time and place of my choosing,” Balor says. “Any time, any place. When I need them, you send them.”

  Gun furrows his brow, pretending to consider Balor’s proposal. He can imagine his father’s face if he bartered away Anderson Arms’ soldiers. He’d lose a lot more than one year’s allowance.

  “Anderson soldiers aren’t mine to trade away.”

  Balor opens his mouth, but Gun cuts him off. “What I can offer is something more . . . appealing. May I approach?”

  Balor, intrigued, nods. Gun mounts the stairs one at a time, careful to keep his face impassive. When he reaches the throne, he slips a hand into his pocket and pulls out a slender hologram projector.

  “If you help me get into the League, I’ll destroy this.” Gun flips the hologram projector between his fingers.

  “And what is that?”

  “All the information I’ve found on Lucien McCarthy.”

  Balor goes perfectly still, though Gun doesn’t miss the flare of shock, then anger, in his eyes. The two men stare at each other without speaking. Balor’s grip tightens on the arms of his throne.