About Sulan, Episode I: The League
Sixteen-year-old Sulan Hom can’t remember life before the Default—the day the United States government declared bankruptcy. As a math prodigy, she leads a protected life, kept safe from the hunger and crime plaguing the streets of America. She attends the corporate-sponsored Virtual High School, an academy in Vex (Virtual Experience) for gifted children.
Beyond the security of Sulan’s high-tech world, the Anti-American League wages a guerrilla war against the United States. Their leader, Imugi, is dedicated to undermining the nation’s reconstruction attempts. He attacks anything considered a national resource, including corporations, food storage facilities—and schools. When Sulan witnesses the public execution of a teenage student and the bombing of a college dorm, she panics.
Her mother, a retired mercenary, refuses to teach her how to defend herself. Sulan takes matters into her own hands. With the help of her hacker best friend, Hank, Sulan acquires Touch—an illegal Vex technology that allows her to share the physical experience of her avatar. With Touch, Sulan defies her mother and trains herself to fight.
When Imugi unleashes a new attack on the United States, Sulan finds herself caught in his net. Will her Vex training be enough to help her survive and escape?
Sulan
Episode I: The League
By Camille Picott
Published by Pixiu Press
Healdsburg, CA 95448
Copyright 2012 Camille Picott - www.camillepicott.com
Cover by Joey Manfre - www.joeyink.com
Copyedit by Erin Wilcox - wilcoxediting.com
Raggedy Chan: A Chinese Heritage Tale, Book 1
Nine-Tail Fox: A Chinese Heritage Tale, Book 2
Warming Demon
CONTENTS
1
Imugi
2
BlackTech
3
The Cube
4
Meat Grinder
5
Baldy
6
Claudine
7
Touch
8
Prank
9
Attack
10
Black Ice
11
Gav
12
Prisoners
13
The Team
14
Riska
15
Ghosts
16
Auction
17
Mortality
18
Uncle Zed
19
Morning Star
20
Prodigy
21
Negotiation
22
The Dome
Acknowledgments
About the Author
1: Imugi
“Mom!”
I throw open my bedroom door and race down the hallway of our San Francisco apartment. Riska, my genetically engineered pet, flicks my cheek with a leathery black wing as he streaks past my head.
“Mom!” I burst into the living room, waving a computer tablet in one hand. Riska growls in response to my agitation, hovering in the middle of the room.
“What is it, Sulan?” Mom looks up from the couch, where she folds laundry. Her elegantly slanted eyes widen at the panic in my voice. She wears her customary black pants and tank top. The light creeping through the bulletproof window shutters illuminates the scars that crisscross her arms.
“A bomb was just detonated at Stanford University. Look.” I shove the tablet into her hands, pausing only to turn up the volume.
Riska alights on my shoulder, still growling. I rest one hand on his black-and-white-striped fur, leaning over the tablet with Mom.
The screen displays a female news reporter in front of a collapsed building, black smoke billowing behind her. Yellow-gold media drones zip through the disaster area, capturing footage. The flying disks blink with red and blue lights.
“I’m reporting live from Stanford University in Stanford, California,” says the reporter. “Thirty minutes ago, a bomb was detonated in a resident dorm. Initial reports confirm that over five hundred students live in this building.”
A sick lump of fear forms in my belly. The image of the reporter cuts out as live footage from the drones flashes across the screen.
Fires burn. Search-and-rescue workers in bright-orange jumpsuits swarm the rubble. Some carry stretchers with bodies. Others have limp forms tossed over their shoulders.
The drones whiz through the wreckage, zooming in on the faces of the victims as they’re carried out of the debris. I see faces—slack, lifeless faces. My throat closes and I blink back tears.
In an attempt to keep myself from crying openly, I say, “Those search-and-rescue workers are from Global Arms.” The orange jumpsuits are clearly marked by the company logo: an old-fashioned fuse bomb that looks like the planet Earth, with the sun as the lit fuse. “I didn’t know we had patrols that far south.”
“Global recruits aggressively among Stanford students,” Mom replies. “The company has a vested interest in protecting the area, though they don’t patrol there as heavily as they do around here.” Mom should know; she used to be a Global mercenary. “Give NorAm Bank another hour,” she says. “They’ll have mercs and rescue workers on the scene, too.”
The drones reveal bright-yellow caution tape marking a wide uneven circle around the ruined dorm. Along with the Global search-and-rescue workers, there are also Global mercenaries in black bulletproof jumpsuits. They hold back a mass of reporters and hysterical students.
Scattered among the Global mercs are a dozen other mercs in light blue, the United States flag embroidered on the right breast of their uniforms. The government usually finds a handful of soldiers to spare for occasions like this, though it’s just for show. Ever since the Default—the day our country declared bankruptcy—people have looked to corporations like Global Arms for protection and security.
“Current estimates bring the death toll to ninety-eight students,” says the reporter, her voice overlaid on the footage of a line of bodies covered with white sheets. “No survivors have been recovered. And although no one has claimed responsibility for this atrocity, anonymous sources report the Anti-American League—”
The screen goes black.
I reach for Mom’s hand. She squeezes my fingers.
We both know what’s coming.
Ten seconds later, the Anti-American League symbol appears on the screen: an American flag in a white circle with a black X over it.
The insignia fades, replaced by the face of Imugi. The muscles along Mom’s arms flex. Her free hand moves toward a gun she no longer carries. She stops herself, fingers hovering just above her hip, then presses her palm between her knees.
Imugi’s face is concealed by his signature shiny white SmartPlastic mask, its only adornment a blue sea serpent that twines up his right cheek and across his forehead. As the leader of the Anti-American League, a Pacific Rim terrorist organization, he always makes an appearance after a strike.
The goal of the League is simple: to perpetuate the hardships of the Default. They quash any attempt on the part of our country to crawl back out of the hole we put ourselves in.
“Witness the latest triumph of the Anti-American League,” Imugi says, his words distinguished by a slight Asian accent. “A successful bombing of one of America’s few remaining universities. Consider this a warning strike. Those of you attending an educational institution would be wise to quit immediately. It is time for Americans to understand that your resources—all your resources, including your brilliant minds—are at our mercy. You would do well not to forget it.”
/> The mask reveals few facial expressions, except for Imugi’s smile. The corners of the mask turn up around his mouth. His white teeth flash in the camera lights. It’s the same inflexible, awful smile he always delivers at the end of his broadcasts.
Imugi steps back. The screen blurs, and there’s a muffled sound. The picture sharpens, revealing a young woman in a red Stanford sweatshirt. She is tied to a chair, her mouth gagged. Her eyes hold a profound amount of terror. Her face is bruised, dirty. Tears smear the muck on her cheeks.
She’s only a few years older than I am.
“Weep, America,” Imugi whispers, stepping back into the frame. “You are nothing.”
With that, he raises a gun. He fires directly into the head of the girl.
I scream. Riska bursts into the air, so freaked out that saliva sprays from his mouth as he hisses. Mom sucks in a breath and presses the tablet against her abdomen. She fumbles for the switch and turns it off.
Silent seconds tick by. Riska flies in frantic circles around my head, the wind generated from his wings curling over my cheeks. I look past him at Mom.
“They . . . they’ve never done that before,” I say at last, unable to shake the image of the girl, of her terribly frightened eyes. Of the gun fired so casually into her brain. “Mom, you have to teach me how to fight.”
“No,” she replies automatically.
We’ve had this conversation at least two dozen times. I hate waking up every day, knowing I’m completely defenseless against all the League whackos out there. But whenever I ask for self-defense lessons, Mom’s answer is always the same.
“Can’t you see things are changing?” I say. “They’re not just blowing up construction sites and food warehouses anymore. They’re blowing up kids.”
“College students,” Mom says.
“He said brilliant minds. That’s me.” I purposely don’t say math prodigy.
“Your school is in Vex,” Mom says. “It’s impossible for the League to target a virtual school.”
“Right. Until some League mole infiltrates Global and finds the locations of all the students, and they blow us up one by one.” The line of dead bodies before the collapsed dorm flashes through my mind.
“That would not be an efficient use of League resources. Besides, Pinnacle is well-defended,” Mom says, referring to our apartment building. “It would be very difficult for a League agent to get past our mercs and security measures.”
“Difficult, but not impossible.”
Mom ignores this. “You also have Riska.”
We both glance at my furry, winged miniature tiger—also known as a Risk Alleviator, a biological personal security device. A gift made by Dad for my sixteenth birthday.
Riska returns to his perch on my shoulder, fur fluffed along his spine and tail; Dad designed him to pick up my emotions. And to defend me, should I need defending.
I try to imagine Riska fighting off a swarm of League soldiers. I just can’t see it. He packs a mean hiss, but one bullet and he’d be gone. In all honesty, I suspect Riska was meant to be less of a protector and more of a companion; Dad knows I get teased by other kids in our building for being a “walking calculator,” and the only real social life I have is in Vex.
I try another tactic. “What about Dad?” I say. “Global touts the great Dr. Hom as the world’s leading geneticist. That makes our family a potential high-profile kill. We may as well be walking around with a neon bull’s-eye on our backs.”
“Sulan—”
“Please, Mom? Numbers won’t save me if I’m on the wrong end of a gun.”
“No.”
My chest tightens. “If Dad was here—”
“Dad’s not here,” Mom snaps. “Even if he was, he agrees with my decision not to train you. Take it up with him next month when he gets home, if you want. In the meantime, I expect you to focus on your studies.”
“Whatever.” I spin on my heel and stalk back to my room. Riska hisses at my mother. “When I end up dead,” I shout over my shoulder, “you’ll have only yourself to blame!”
It’s always easier to yell when I don’t have to look her in the eye. I slam my door, letting anger drive away my fear. Rage is much easier to manage.
It isn’t fair. By my age, Mom already knew how to fight. She trained in real merc clubs and worked in an underground bar as a bouncer. At eighteen, she participated in the Merc Games, the country’s biggest scouting event for corporate mercenary companies. There was a bidding war for her contract.
She traveled all over the world. Ran special-ops missions. Scaled skyscrapers. Jumped out of airplanes. Kicked ass from one end of the globe to the other.
She never had to be helpless. Not like me.
And what happens when I ask her for a little self-defense training? She slides a calculus book under my nose. Tricks me into getting a scholarship to Global’s elite Virtual High School for nerds. She wants me to follow in my father’s footsteps and someday become the director of Global’s product-development lab.
“It’s too dangerous,” I say, mimicking Mom’s words in a high-pitched voice. “Leave the fighting to others, Sulan. Concentrate on your schoolwork.”
How am I supposed to concentrate on anything when I’m worried about getting blown up or shot in the head?
Whatever. I don’t need her. I’ll figure this out on my own, and she can’t stop me.
I am not going to get cornered like those kids at Stanford.
2: Black Tech
Dreams of Imugi and his gun plague my sleep. I get up early, body chilled from the sweat of my nightmares.
It’s five a.m. I have another three hours before school starts. For a good sixty seconds, I weigh the pros and cons of waking my best friend.
I decide to wait until school. Before eight, Hank has the temperament of Godzilla. If I’m going to learn how to fight, I’m going to need her help—which I won’t be likely to get if I wake her up now.
Mom is still asleep, so I head downstairs to the workout room with Riska tucked into my gym bag. I’m not supposed to let anyone see him since he’s a Global prototype, but he goes crazy if I leave him behind in the apartment.
I punch in the security code to open our front door, then pad through the quiet halls of Pinnacle. Mom doesn’t trust elevators, so I take the stairs from the fourteenth floor down to the second.
The stairwell has been recently mopped; the chemical tang of cleaning solution still hangs in the air. Crisp beige paint covers the walls. No graffiti. No bullet holes. No refugees curled up on the floor, like in so many other San Francisco apartments.
My family has it nice, thanks to Dad’s job at Global Arms. Hank lives in an old public school converted into housing cubicles. She shares the gym bathroom with fifty other families. The school is in Livermore, a town about forty-five minutes east of San Francisco.
I reach the workout room. It’s empty, so I unzip the bag. Riska stays inside, curled into a ball and sleeping. I run eight miles on the treadmill, then lift weights for another thirty minutes. The exercise wrings out some of my tension, though I still can’t stop thinking about the murdered Stanford girl. Or Imugi’s last words. You are nothing.
I’m just about to head upstairs when I hear a gunshot. I drop into a crouch. Riska leaps out of the gym bag, fully alert.
There’s another gunshot. I scurry to the window and peek through the shutters. Riska hovers at my shoulder.
A plain white armored vehicle is parked outside our building. Four mercs in gray jumpsuits surround the van, while two more perch on top. It’s the food share delivery vehicle. Pinnacle gets deliveries twice a month, though the drop-offs are never scheduled. Schedules would make the trucks too easy to ambush.
A few refugees flee back into Golden Gate Park, all empty-handed. A quick survey of the street tells me no one was shot, thank goodness. The guns were most likely fired as a warning.
Some refugees are victims of the Default, but others are victims
of the Shift—the permanent climate change that turned most of Middle America into a baking wasteland. With Global patrolling the I-580 Corridor and San Francisco, this is one of the most popular areas for refugees; there’s relative safety on our streets.
I head down to the lobby with Riska back in the bag. The merc on duty at the front desk rises and nods to me, bending down to pick up a box.
“Miss Hom,” he says, passing me our food share.
I glance inside, hoping for something fresh. Usually we just get canned food imported from South America, but every now and then we get a loaf of bread or a piece of seasonal fruit.
No luck. Just cans this time.
I begin the long trek up the stairs, lugging both Riska and the food box. By the time I reach the fourteenth floor, I’m panting. Mom is in the shower, so I crack open a can of peaches for breakfast. I wolf them down with a pair of chopsticks, setting a few aside for Riska. Dad designed him to be omnivorous, so he can eat whatever I eat.
“Morning, Sulan.” Mom enters the living room, spots the food share box, and beelines toward it. “Raviolis,” she says, pulling up several cans with a smile. “We haven’t had these in months. Want to have them for dinner tonight?”
Mom knows I love raviolis.
“Sure. Whatever,” I say. I can’t help it; I still feel resentful from last night. “I’m gonna shower and go to school.”
I ignore her frozen expression and turn my back on her. Guilt gnaws at me, but I ignore that, too.
“I’ll be out most of today,” Mom calls after me. “HOA meeting.” She’s the president of Pinnacle’s homeowner’s association.
“Have fun,” I say sarcastically.
After showering, I return to my room. Time to go to school. I flop into the mountain of pillows on the bed. Riska settles into my lap. I put on my Vex headset, lower the goggles, and flick the on switch. There’s a swirl of blue as I connect to Virtual Experience, Vex for short.
My avatar floats in swirling blue. I see through its eyes; I am the avatar. With my mind, I control the movements and speech. Back in the real-world, I lie silent and still on my bed.
“Browser,” I say through my avatar. “Site: Global Arms Virtual High School.”
The Global Arms logo fills my vision.
“State your first and last name,” says the androgynous voice of Global’s firewall.
“Sulan Hom.”
“Retinal authentication commencing.”
The Vex set projects a thin beam of blue light into the left goggle and scans my eye. I am careful not to blink.
“Retina verified,” it says. “Welcome to Global Arms Virtual High School.”
The logo fades, and I materialize in the school quad. As a minor, my avatar is required to be Naked—that is, to be unenhanced and unaltered by Vex software. All VHS student avatars look identical to their real-world bodies. I’m slim and short, with long dark hair pulled into a bun at the nape of my neck. Global automatically puts us into hideous school uniforms consisting of khakis and a white polo, with the company logo emblazoned on the left breast.
There’s no sun in the school quad, just a light that seems to be everywhere at once. There are no shadows, either. If you ever start to lose yourself and forget which world is real, all you have to do is look for your shadow.
Lots of kids are already here, and more materialize around me as they connect to Vex. Student ages range from thirteen to eighteen. None of the usual nerdy student exploits are taking place, unlike yesterday when a group of first-years let loose break-dancing crickets that formed a three-dimensional pi symbol in the quad. Instead, there’s a subdued quality around campus as kids huddle in groups and talk quietly. I hear them discussing and analyzing last night’s attack on Stanford.
“Hey, Sulan.” Hank Simmons materializes about ten feet away. She’s nearly six feet tall with spiky red hair. Her real name is Henrietta, but no one ever calls her that.
“Hey, Hank.”
By the shadows under her eyes, I know she didn’t sleep well. I wonder if she had as many nightmares as I did.
Hank arches an eyebrow at me. “You look like hell,” she says, and I know she’s attempting to dispel the gloom.
“That’s what a good night’s sleep will do to a person,” I say. “You’re lucky I have some self-restraint.”
Hank snorts. “Since when do you have self-restraint?”
“Since I didn’t query your Vex set at five this morning. I was tempted.”
“I’m not sure that’s self-restraint,” Hanks says. “That sounds more like self-preservation.”
Our banter usually cheers me up, but I can’t find the energy to laugh.
Hank’s face sobers as she looks at me. “You saw the news last night?”
“Yeah.”
“What did your dad think?”
I shrug. “He’s in Alaska working on some classified Global project. We’re not allowed to communicate with him while he’s there.” Hank always wants to know what my dad thinks about everything. She idolized “the great Dr. Hom” before we ever met.
“My mom pulled Timmy out of school,” Hank says. “Even though he doesn’t go to a real school, she doesn’t want to risk it. People all over the country are pulling kids out of school.”
“But she’s okay with you staying in school?”
“Yeah. She’s not as worried, since it’s in Vex.”
I make a face. “That’s what my mom said.”
Hank raises an eyebrow. “You don’t agree?”
“I hope she’s right, but after the bombing I tried to convince her to teach me how to fight.”
“Again? Sulan, you know she’s dead set against it.”
“I know, but I don’t care. I’ve figured out a way to train without her. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about this morning. I’m going to need your help.”
“My help? How can I help with that?”
I take a deep breath. She’s going to tell me I’m crazy, I think. I steel myself and plow forward.
“I need some . . . stuff.”
“What kind of stuff?”
I lean forward and lower my voice. “Black tech. Uncle Zed stuff.”
For once, Hank is speechless. I launch into my plan before she can recover. By the time I finish explaining everything, Hank has salvaged her wits. She reacts exactly the way I thought she would.
“You are crazy,” she hisses. We walk through the corridor to our first-period class, applied physics. “Crazy. The Meat Grinder? The Cube? You shouldn’t do this. It’s not safe.”
I wave a dismissive hand. A small part of my mind tells me she’s right, but I tune it out. Anything is better than sitting around and waiting to get executed.
“Will you help me or not?” I ask.
“What if you get caught? What if you get hurt? What if—”
“Hank.”
“What?”
“How long have we been friends?”
“Um, three years. Ever since we started attending VHS.”
“Right. And during those three years, how many times have I helped you study?”
Hank scowls at me and doesn’t answer. I tutor her almost every night.
“Have I ever asked you for help?” I say. “Ever?”
“Helping a friend with logarithmic differentiation is not the same as helping a friend get black tech,” she snaps.
“Well, I don’t need help with logarithmic differentiation. I need help with—”
“Quit saying it. Someone will hear you.”
“Does that mean—”
“I’m your best friend, aren’t I? Of course I’ll help. I think you’re an idiot, but I’ll help.”
“You think your hacker friends can get the stuff?”
“Of course they can get the stuff.” Previous to her life as a Virtual High School student, Hank was a hacker. She was good enough to get noticed by Global’s scouts.
“We’re not going to hackers for this,” Hank
says. “If you want hackers to go after black tech, you have to pay big bucks. What you want is common contraband. It will be cheaper to buy it than to pay someone to steal it. I know someone who sells it.”
“Who?”
At that question, Hank’s scowl deepens. “Billy Long.” Before I can say anything, she spins on her heel and marches into our applied physics classroom.
I hurry after her, frowning. Billy is another third-year student; he and Hank are always neck and neck for the rank of top student in our grade. Hank vacillates between hating Billy because he’s competition and admiring Billy because he’s competition.
“How do you know I can get black tech from Billy?” I whisper. I plop into my desk beside Hank’s at the back of the room as the bell rings.
“I . . . uh.” Hank clears her throat. “I’ve seen him dealing.”
“What? Where?”
“Café Blu.”
“When?”
She shrugs. “Here and there.”
I raise an eyebrow, but Hank ignores me. Apparently she’s been paying more attention to Billy than I have.
“Are you sure—” I begin.
“Did you wish to say something, Miss Hom?” Dr. Curtis, our teacher, looks at me over the rims of his bifocals. His avatar screams eccentric professor, right down to his brown tweed suit.
Apparently, class has started. The rest of the students settle down the instant I am singled out as an example.
“I was just wondering if we’re going to work on the physics of billiards again today,” I reply with my perkiest smile. “It was really interesting.”
Hank snorts. Thank goodness we sit all the way in the back so Dr. Curtis can’t hear her.
“Nice to see you have an inquisitive side, Miss Hom,” he says. “We’ll pick up where we left off yesterday with Newton’s second law and see how Hooke’s law plays a part in predicting the path of a billiard ball . . .”
Dr. Curtis turns to the blank white wall at the front of the classroom. Using a fat black pen, he starts scribbling formulas across its surface.
Hank hunches over her tablet, writing as fast as she can. I doodle in my tablet, drawing stick figures of mercs. This physics stuff is so boring. And seriously, billiards? Only old men with stinky cigars care about billiards in this day and age.
“Are you paying attention?” Hank hisses, prodding me in the shoulder. “I’ll need your help with this part later.”
I glance up at the board. Dr. Curtis is showing us how to calculate the perimeter velocity of the billiard ball.
“Got it,” I say, returning to my doodling. By the time the bell rings, I’ve completed a rendering of a full-scale merc battle using stick figures.
The worst part? Not even my ridiculous attempt at art can keep the math out. Dr. Curtis’s lesson has penetrated my brain. By the end of class, I’ve calculated the whole thing out. I can see the equations perfectly in my head, even though I purposefully didn’t look at the board. The numbers march around in my brain like well-trained soldiers. Show me a billiards table covered with balls, and I can predict the fastest way to a pocket for each one.
Hank and I gather up our things. I beeline toward quantitative genetics, our next class, leaving Hank to scramble after me.
“What’s your rush?” she asks, catching up.
“Him.” I gesture down the hall. Hank follows my gaze.
Walking toward us is Billy Long. We have the same second-period class, and I’m hoping to intercept him before he gets inside. His dirty-blond hair, always on the shaggy side, covers most of his eyes.
“Billy,” I call, cutting across the hall in his direction.
“Right now?” Hank says, slinking along beside me. “You’re going to do this right now?”
“Why not?” I whisper back.
“I just thought, you know, that you may want to sleep on the idea. For a few years. Or at least until the Meat Grinder date gets closer.”
I continue on my trajectory and cut him off.
“Hey, Billy,” I say, stopping in front of him.
“Hey.” He brushes his hair out of his eyes. As he looks past me at Hank, his face brightens. “Hi, Hank. You hear about that biodome Anderson Arms is supposedly building on the moon?”
Anderson Armaments is Global’s biggest rival. As a Global student, I should harbor a profound dislike for the other company, but I honestly never think much about it.
“Biodome?” Hank echoes. “On the moon?”
“Yeah. There’s this site I subscribe to called Collusion Underground. The newsfeed exploded this morning. Insiders say Anderson Arms has developed new technology to create a sustainable ecosystem inside a biodome. Supposedly they’ve genetically engineered miniature sentient bipeds that combine the functions of insects, birds, and earthworms. There’s some disagreement on where the biodome is going to be built, though most say it will be on the moon. I’ve also read it may be a located on an island, or on a giant ship in the ocean, or maybe near their corporate compound in Arizona . . .” He trails off, blinking at us. “I mean, uh . . .”
I clear my throat, deciding to ignore everything after genetically engineered miniature sentient bipeds. Collusion Underground is one of the most infamous conspiracy-theory sites in Vex. I should have guessed Billy hangs out there.
Hank frowns. “Isn’t anyone at Collusion Underground talking about the League attack on Stanford yesterday?”
Billy turns red. “Uh, yeah, but I’m on the team that specializes in corporate stuff.”
He looks down, studying something interesting on the ground. Everyone knows Billy is a little out there, which is one of the reasons teachers often don’t call on him in class. Dr. Sang, our chemistry professor, got stuck debating whether or not the Gillespie-Nyholm theory was actually a code developed for microscopic aliens who wanted to terracolonize particulate matter in the Earth’s atmosphere. After that “discussion,” Billy got moved to the back of the class.
“Um, Billy?” I say. “I have a favor to ask.”
“Yeah?” He looks up, clearly relieved at the change of subject.
I drop my voice and take a step closer to him. “I need some black tech.”
He cocks his head at me, but doesn’t miss a beat. “What kind?”
“I need Touch and a Cloak,” I say. “Uncle Zed brand.”
“Yeah, okay. When do you need it?”
The Meat Grinder tryouts aren’t for another three weeks, but I’ll feel better once I have the black tech in my possession. Up until this point, I wasn’t convinced Billy really did sell black tech, but apparently Hank was right.
“How fast can you get it?” I say.
Billy shrugs. “Whenever.”
“What will it cost?”
Billy’s brown eyes slide quickly to Hank. “No cost.”
“No cost?” Hank says. “No one gives away black tech. What’s the catch?”
He turns red again. “No cost,” he says. “I’ll bring it to Café Blu tomorrow night, when you guys meet to study.”
“How do you know when we meet to study?” Hank says.
Billy mumbles something and flees, shielding his eyes behind his shaggy hair.
Hank rounds on me. “Does he have a crush on you or something?”
“He wasn’t looking at me during most of that conversation,” I reply.
“He wasn’t looking at me, either,” Hank says.
“Uh, yes he was.”
Silence. Hank peers after Billy as he disappears into the crowd.
“We’re going to be late,” she says. “Come on.”
Apparently, Hank isn’t the only one doing some watching in Café Blu. As far as I’m concerned, they can watch each other all they want—as long as I get my black tech.
I am not going to be the girl with a hole in her head, or the girl with a bomb in her bed.
I am going to be the girl with the gun.
3: The Cube
I’ve heard Mom and Da
d talk about the Default. In a single day, thousands of pink slips were issued to public employees. Schools and colleges across the nation closed. Social and public service programs ground to a halt. Courthouses locked their doors. Bad checks were issued to military personnel, which led to a mass exodus of soldiers and the founding of some of the earliest mercenary companies.
It’s hard for me to imagine pre-’Fault times. I can’t fathom free education, or free food for poor people, or parks without refugee camps. I can’t even visualize waking up in a world without Imugi.
Outside, it’s dark. I cross to my window and flip down the shutters. Just before the white slats snick shut, I glimpse the thick gray smoke choking the night. It washes over the tents and lean-tos in the Golden Gate Park refugee camp.
The smoke means the fires on the freighter ships still burn. The Anti-American League hit three of them this morning just outside of the Oakland port, only three weeks after the Stanford bombing. Each ship was laden with precious canned food from South America.
Just last week, the League detonated a bomb at Yale University, killing over three hundred. They kidnapped five more students and publicly executed them. Hundreds of schools—elementary, high schools, and universities—have closed. More virtual schools have popped up. Imugi’s face is all over Vex, his videos replayed for analysis on every news station.
It’s time for me to learn how to defend myself. I settle onto my bed and log into Vex.
“Browser,” I say into the blue vortex. “Site: the Cube.”
My avatar materializes in front of a building that looks like a giant black die, the front adorned with one big white dot. The building floats in the black void of Vex, Cube glowing in white neon at the top. Avatars pop into existence around me, all headed inside.
I’ve spent years daydreaming about the Cube, one of the most infamous merc clubs in Vex. It’s a place where adults compete against one another in an interactive virtual game featuring merc-inspired obstacle courses.
I can’t believe I’m about to go inside. There’s a certain thrill to disobeying Mom and breaking the law. There’s a large amount of terror, too, but I focus on the thrill.
Several yards away, Hank materializes. She’s wearing dramatic dark makeup and a short skirt that displays every inch of her long legs.
Hank takes in the sight of the Cube and scowls. “You know only whackos hang out in this place, right? No one normal goes around Naked in Vex.”
“Some people might say the amount of time you spend studying makes you a whacko.”
“This isn’t about me,” Hank says. “It’s about you. What if some guy wants to have cybersex with you?”
“I’ll tell him to get lost.”
“There could be League agents in there. What if one figures out who you are?”
“Does this mean I can’t wear my VHS-issue polo?”
“Sulan, I’m serious. You shouldn’t joke about these things.”
“Relax. I don’t plan to give my real identity to anyone. Aren’t you here to wish me luck?”
“Yeah, but I was also hoping to talk some sense into you.”
“I’ve made up my mind, Hank. Stop trying to psych me out.”
Hank sighs loudly. “I just wish you could be content to let others sling guns and grenades.”
“I don’t like relying on other people for my safety.”
I reach into my pocket, pulling out two black packets. Both are marked with a blood-red “Z” on the outside. True to his word, Billy has given these to me—all the while blushing and staring at Hank. Though Hank goes out of her way to complain when he outperforms her on an exam, I notice her watching him a lot.
I open the first packet and find a dozen bright-green Touch pills nestled inside. I slip those into my pocket; I won’t need them until later. It would be literal suicide to go into the Meat Grinder with Touch activated.
In the second bag I find a tiny gold ring: my Cloak. This is what I need tonight. I slide it onto my pinkie finger.
Hank groans. “I can’t believe you’re doing this.”
The Cloak will hide my age from Vex software. There are a lot of places in Vex that don’t allow minors. The Cloak gives me access to all of them. Most importantly, it gives me access to the Cube.
“Do I look any different?” I hold my arms out so Hank can inspect me.
Hank scowls. “Of course not. That’s the whole point of being Naked, isn’t it?”
“I mean from the Cloak,” I snap.
“You look like Sulan Hom. Happy?”
“Yeah, I am.” I turn my back on her and start toward the entrance. Even though I know Hank’s prickliness is a manifestation of her worry for me, I’m not in the mood for it.
“Sulan, wait.” Hank grabs my arm. The anger is gone from her face. “Just . . . be careful, okay?”
“I’ll be fine,” I say quietly. “I have to do this.”
Hank releases my arm and steps back. “Good luck in there.” Her scowl returns. “Don’t expect me to attend your funeral if things go bad.”
I grin at her, then turn all my attention to the Cube.
Most avatars going into the merc club look like normal people, complete with acne scars, bald spots, and small breasts. Here, there are none of the outrageous Axcents—modifications to avatars—found in other Vex sites. It’s rare for adults to go Naked in Vex. Those who do tend to have an aversion to looking “fake.” Either that or they look so spectacular in real life that there’s no reason for them to bother with Vex Axcents. Whatever the case, they tend to congregate in places where other Naked avatars hang out, like the Cube.
I join the line in front of the building, straightening my back in an attempt to look taller. Those around me wear simple workout gear. My customary Vex attire—black pants and tank top—fit in well here. If I weren’t six to twelve inches shorter than everyone, I might blend in.
I’ve seen eighteen-year-olds who look sixteen, I think, feeling an edge of panic. So what if I’m a sixteen-year-old trying to pass as eighteen? The Cloak should get me in.
I stand behind two women also dressed in black. I inch forward; maybe the bouncers will think I’m with them. Behind me, a group of young men get in line. They jostle one another, cracking jokes and roughhousing.
Just inside the double-doored entrance is a gray archway, a scanner. The scanner checks all entering avatars to verify age. Adult Vex sites found with minors get slapped with nasty fines.
Beyond the scanner stand a dozen beefy bouncers. If my Cloak doesn’t work, those bouncers will have me out on my ass in a matter of seconds.
Relax, I tell myself.
I pass under the scanner. A neon-blue light sweeps over me. Nothing happens.
I take half a dozen steps into the club, and the scanner lets out a wail. I freeze.
The bouncers barrel toward the door, surrounding the pack of young men just behind me. The guys shout in protest, but they are no match for the burly bouncers. They are shoved out the front doors and rejected from the site by the firewall. Their avatars disappear.
No one pays any attention to me. I let out a shaky breath and head into the club.
The lobby is black-walled and cavernous. It’s packed with people. Club members stand in groups, talking and laughing as they size up newbies like me. To the right are five sets of double doors that lead into an arena. To the left are registration tables for the Meat Grinder, a semiannual event for people who want to try out for the club.
Anyone can join the Cube, but there’s a catch: a team’s got to pick you. And how do members of the Cube determine who’s good and who’s not? Simple. They watch Meat Grinder performances. Each applicant goes into the obstacle course with three other people by lottery. Since I’m Naked, I will only be as good as my real-world body. My avatar wears no Axcents to compensate for my lack of natural skills.
Getting picked will be tricky for me. I’m five foot two and wide as a bamboo stick. I’ll need to figure out a w
ay to showcase the benefits of having a small stature, such as being able to get in tight places. Maybe some team will have need of someone light and tiny.
I join the registration line behind a towering blond woman, who smirks down at me. With her tall build and full figure, it’s easy to imagine why she chooses to be Naked.
“What are you doing here, sweet thing?” she asks with a drawling Southern accent.
“Trying out, same as you,” I reply, trying to keep the defensive edge out of my voice.
“You are not the same as me, despite what you might think,” the woman says. “Girls like you aren’t good for much more than target practice and punching bags.”
I bristle, opening my mouth to retort.
And that’s when he walks into the club.
4: Meat Grinder
Words die in my mouth. A momentary hush descends over everyone in the immediate vicinity. The blond bimbo forgets all about me.
From where I stand, I have a clear view of him. He is taller than everyone around him by at least a hand, with thick shoulders and bulging biceps. His head is shaved, a perfectly smooth dome that gleams under the lights. He moves with the gliding grace of a cat. He wears a simple white T-shirt and black pants, his big muscles making rounded lumps beneath the fabric. Despite his bulky frame, he looks young, maybe eighteen or nineteen.
My mouth goes dry at the sight of him. He is so perfect. I’d probably find him attractive if I wasn’t determined to avoid a love life at all costs. Mom gave up an exciting mercenary life for love, and I’m determined never to make that mistake.
At first I assume he’s a member. Then I notice the way the bouncers lean toward one another and exchange whispers, their gazes locked on the bald guy as he passes. He has the same effect as he moves through the lobby, drawing all eyes and reducing people to whispers. No one looks at him in recognition; they look at him like he’s a new piece of meat.
I hope I don’t end up in the Meat Grinder with him, I think.
“Code name?” a man says.
I turn in surprise. I was so distracted, I didn’t realized I’d reached the registration table.
Everyone provides a code name in merc clubs. No one reveals a real-world name, except maybe to teammates. Up until this moment, I’ve been vacillating between Valkyrie and Artemis. Now I find myself glaring at the blond bimbo as she walks away.
“Code name?” the man repeats.
“Short Stuff.” The name comes out before I have time to think, but it feels right. Better to embrace my disadvantage, to make it my own.
“Nice name,” someone says behind me. The derision in his tone is unmistakable.
I draw myself up as far as I can, which of course means I still look like a midget in tall-person land. Two boys stand behind me, both big, strong, and confident.
It is so unfair. Mom is five foot nine. Dad is six foot one. Don’t I have the right to be at least five five? Five seven? I blame the dozens of short Chinese ancestors I must have on both sides.
“Shortness is a state of mind,” I tell the pair of them, dishing out my best glare. Better to pretend confidence in a place like this, even though my nerves are on edge. “See you in the Meat Grinder.”
I snatch my number off the table and stalk away. Their jeers fade into the throng around me. I glance around for the big bald guy, but he’s disappeared.
The Meat Grinder competition has already started. The goal is simply to get through in one piece. There’s a set path with various obstacles along the way. Any avatar that fails to complete an obstacle gets pulverized in the Meat Grinder. The sooner an avatar is ground up, the worse you look. You can also impress teams by sabotaging other contestants.
The main area of the Cube is a giant arena, which is where the obstacle course is located. Current members sit in bleacher seats above the arena, taking bets. The walls above the bleachers are giant screens, showing close-up footage of the applicants currently in the course.
I try to get close to the bleachers for a better look into the arena, but a bouncer jostles me down a wide set of stairs to a staging area for contestants. Luckily, there are screens mounted at intervals in the staging area. Applicants cluster around the screens, yelling and gesticulating. I find an isolated bench near the back of the room and manage to get a decent view of one screen.
I pin my paper number to my shirt, doing my best to maintain a calm exterior. Nervousness thunders through me. I catch myself fiddling with the Cloak on my pinkie finger and grip the bench instead.
The course looks similar to real-world jungle terrain. Towering trees with whip-like roots rise out of the ground. Monkeys swing through the trees, and birds flash bright against the greenery.
I can almost imagine it’s a real jungle—until I see the quicksand pits and fire-breathing snakes. Meat Grinder designers always like to blend real and imaginary elements on the course.
On the screen, two men set an ambush for a woman. As soon as she comes into view, they converge on her. She screams in surprise and tries to throw a punch, but she isn’t fast enough. One man grabs her by the legs; the other comes from behind and pins her arms to her side. She wriggles uselessly and tries to bargain with them. The men laugh at her and launch her over a cliff and into a river. As soon as her avatar hits the water, the stream parts to reveal giant grinding gears. She falls shrieking into those gears and is promptly ground to bits.
“Meat Grinder!” the crowd howls. Everyone loves it when an avatar gets chopped into hamburger meat. It makes for a good show.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a lone figure sit down on a bench not far from me. I know before I turn my head that it’s the bald guy.
He looks straight at me, studying me. I clench my fists and glower, just waiting for him to make some sly remark about my size. He doesn’t say a word. When a gang of young men descend on him, jockeying for his attention, he disappears from sight.
My number is called. My nerves spike, but I am careful to keep my face composed, my walk steady. I’m not going to let any of these jerks see me sweat.
Three others are headed into the Meat Grinder with me. The first is a man in his midthirties with one canine tooth missing. He is tall, skinny, and, judging by his glare, pissed at being pitted against someone as puny as me. There is a good chance I’ll make him look bad, even if he does kick the snot out of me and get me ground into pixel dust. There isn’t a lot of prestige in beating someone so obviously at a disadvantage.
The next contestant is a young woman who doesn’t look much older than me. She has a pair of shoulders that belong on a boy. She looks me up and down, raises her eyebrow, and says, “Who you trying to impress?”
I ignore her. Mental toughness plays a key role in the Meat Grinder competition; I will not let these bigger people intimidate me.
I take my place at the starting line. We are each in a small iron corral, like horses at the beginning of a race. The tangled jungle shines waxy green before us. Artificial light illuminates motes of insects and mist. Above the trees looms the ring of spectators, hundreds of people staring gleefully down at us.
Many of the members are in an uproar over me, some of them laughing so hard tears stream down their faces. As much as I hate to admit it, this is like throwing a mouse into a cage with bears. I can feel my face redden.
I hope the last contestant will be someone small like me, or maybe someone with little experience.
The bulky bald guy pads into his starting gate. Now I feel trampled. I don’t stand a chance.
His effect on the members is impressive. People scream themselves hoarse over him. Women rip off their shirts and bare their breasts. Men hoot their approval.
He ignores them. Strangely, his gaze is on me. He is so calm, watching me with steady, calculating eyes.
“What?” I snap. “Never seen a short person before?”
“Code name’s Baldy,” he says, extending his hand over the corral in greeting. “And you are?”
&n
bsp; I peer up at him, sure this is some trick. I do not return his handshake. He raises both eyebrows at me, a small smile on his lips. Then he turns away.
It is all so humiliating, but I can’t let that stop me.
When the bell rings, I leap out of the starting gate like there’s a fire under me. I’m a strong runner, but my short legs are a disadvantage. I barely outpace the first two, and Baldy overtakes me without even breathing hard. He looks me over as he passes, then disappears into the greenery.
The first obstacle is a quicksand pit studded with pylons of various heights. The only way across it is to jump from pylon to pylon. When I reach the edge, Baldy is already halfway across. Big surprise.
I don’t have time to think things through, not with Missing Tooth and Mean Girl on my tail. I jump for the closest pylon, which is only large enough to support one foot. I land dead center, my right leg bent for balance. At least short people have an easier time with balance. Maybe someone up there in the bleachers will notice?
I leap to three more pylons before Baldy reaches the other side. Mean Girl and Missing Tooth close in on me. Each takes a different direction, flanking me from either side. Apparently, they’ve worked out a temporary alliance to get rid of me.
“I’m flattered,” I say, leaping to the next pylon. I land lightly, bending my knees and extending my arms. “Two of you against me? Guess I’m quite a threat.”
“You’re nothing but a distraction,” Mean Girl says.
“Though it is nice of you to give the audience a few laughs,” says Missing Tooth.
I ignore them and pick up my pace. I wobble a few times, but make it over the pit. I pause on the shore just long enough to pick up a rock the size of my fist.
“Hey,” I say, “here’s a present from Short Stuff.”
I lob the rock at Mean Girl. It hits her square between the eyes. She wobbles, then curses and flips me off, which increases her instability. She tries to right herself, but it’s too late. With an angry squawk, she falls into the quicksand—which parts to reveal the Meat Grinder. Shining metal gears devour her avatar with a crunch.
The jungle vibrates with the spectators’ cheers. I feel a surge of triumph. Maybe some of them are reevaluating me. Maybe some team will want me. I grin and sprint away, avoiding eye contact with Missing Tooth.
The next obstacle is a swinging-rope course over a gulch. Fire-breathing snakes twine through the trees, spouting flame at anything that rattles their branches. Baldy is nowhere in sight.
I leap for the nearest rope and swing wildly into the air. I make a swipe at the next rope but miss it completely and sail right by. I snag it on the way back and send myself spinning in a useless circle. I try for the next rope, but I’ve lost so much momentum that I can’t reach it. I hang, stranded, trying to swing my body.
Hissing sounds fill the air. I look up and see several snakes disturbed by my thrashing. I have only a second to scream before their flames blast down on me.
They burn right through my rope.
I shriek as I fall, even though a distant part of my mind knows I can’t die here. A tree rushes up at me. I yelp as I hit the uppermost branches, flailing for a handhold. I manage to snag a fat branch. I cling there for a moment, trying to gather my wits.
“Don’t stop now,” says a voice.
Missing Tooth perches in the tree above me, his hand hovering above a nest of sleeping snakes. Leering at me, he hurls several of them down. The snakes awaken mid-fall. Fire erupts from their mouths as they strike me. I try to smack them off, but they wrap around my avatar. Within seconds, I am burning. I holler, slip backward through the branches, and plummet into the gulch.
The last thing I see is Baldy materializing in the leaves above Missing Tooth. He delivers a boot to the man’s back, sending him sailing out of the tree after me.
Then I hit the Grinder.
Just like that, it’s over.
There’s thirty seconds of swirling blue as my avatar reassembles. I appear back in the staging area with Missing Tooth. Laughter ripples through the crowd above us. I refuse to let any of them see me cry, even though all I want is to rip off my Vex set.
I am going to see this through. They can say I look like an oversized doll, but none of them can say I’m a quitter.
When the contest finally ends, the arena doors are thrown open to a room the size of a football field. Bright light illuminates the black walls. Teams stand in clumps all along the periphery, surveying the contestants as they pour in. The biggest and strongest people are pounced on immediately, several of them fielding offers from multiple teams.
I follow the crowd onto the field, hoping some team saw something in me—some strategic position I could fill. I wander around, trying to make eye contact. No one looks at me. No one speaks to me. Frustration bubbles in my gut. This is even worse than begging Mom for help.
I spot a pack of wimpier people milling around together. I sigh and start toward them.
If this doesn’t work out, I’m going to have to find another way to train. But how? And where?
Baldy appears out of the throng. A mob of oversized men and women follow in his wake—teams trying to recruit him. Baldy keeps his back to them.
“There you are,” he says. He intercepts me, cutting me off from the wimpy pack. “I was looking for you.”
“Me? Why?” I think for a second. “Are you expecting a thank you?”
“A thank you?” He frowns. “For what?”
“For kicking that rat out of the tree.”
He shakes his head.
“Then what do you want?” I ask.
“You. For a teammate.”
For the second time in one day, Baldy manages to make everything in his immediate vicinity go silent.
I wait for him to laugh at me, to declare his own clever joke. But he doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even crack a smile. He just stands there watching me, waiting for my answer.
It doesn’t make any sense. “Me?” I look over my shoulder, half-expecting to see someone behind me. But there is only the crowd of onlookers.
“You,” he says.
“Are you already a member?”
“No. But you only need two people to make a team. If you agree to form one with me, we can both become members.”
There’s no way he can be serious. “Sure,” I say, shrugging as if I’m indifferent to what he’s offering.
Again, I wait for him to burst out laughing. But he only nods and says, “Good. I took the liberty of giving our numbers to the registrar. Our locker is two-six-six.”
I am too stunned to be angry. Could he really mean this?
“Uh, okay,” I say.
“Meet me there tomorrow at seven p.m., Central Time,” he says. He pauses, and our eyes lock. Then he disappears.
5: Baldy
I should be ecstatic. I should be euphoric.
I made it into the Cube. I have a teammate with a drool-worthy physique. I should be jumping on my mattress and shrieking like a stupid girl at a Vex rock concert.
Instead I lie on my bed, watching sunlight inch across my ceiling. The Vex headset rests on the rumpled blanket a few inches from my fingertips.
“Mrow?” Riska, sitting on my chest, cocks his head at me.
I sigh and scratch him between the ears.
It’s too good to be true. That’s all there is to it.
People like Baldy don’t pick girls like me for a teammate. Not without a catch. There is going to be a catch. What could he want from me?
I could forget about the whole thing. Go back to being a student. Forget that I ever wanted to learn to use a gun.
I consider the option for exactly two seconds.
“I’m going back,” I whisper to Riska. “It’s probably stupid, but I’m going back.”
Riska purrs, kneading his claws against my chest.
“Sulan?” Mom knocks on my door. “Are you awake? It’s time for school.”
“Yeah, I
’m up,” I call back. “Going to school now.” I drop the Vex set onto my head and flick it on.
Hank is waiting for me in the VHS quad when I arrive.
“Thank God,” she says. “You’re still alive. How did it go?”
“Of course I’m alive. I didn’t use any Touch last night. Not for the Meat Grinder.”
“You’re avoiding my question.” Hank puts her hands on her hips. “Did you make it in or not?”
I hesitate. Part of me wants to tell Hank everything, especially the strange circumstances surrounding Baldy. A larger part of me doesn’t want to deal with her skepticism.
“Yeah, I made it in.” I force a smile. “I’m a member.”
Hank’s face falls. She suppresses the expression almost immediately.
“Congratulations,” she says, doing a decent job of sounding sincere. She even smiles.
We stare at each other in silence, then start toward class.
“You, um, don’t look very happy,” Hank says.
“No, I’m happy. Just . . . surprised I got picked, I guess. I did okay in the Meat Grinder, but not great.”
“Well, tell me about your teammates.”
“Teammate, actually. Just me and this guy named Baldy.”
“You’re on a team with a guy named Baldy? Is he old or something?”
“He’s not old. Baldy is his code name.”
“What’s your code name?”
“Short Stuff.”
“You should have gone with Peewee.” Hank grins to take the sting out of her words.
I make a face at her. We arrive at our class. I spend all of applied physics staring blank-faced at the whiteboard as Dr. Curtis gives us a lecture on diffraction and surface structure.
What could Baldy want from me? If he’s looking for a fling, there are dozens of other girls to give him that.
No, he doesn’t want me for a fling. That would be too easy.
By the time we get to second period, quantitative genetics, I’ve realized that the only thing special about me is my brain. My math gift. My ability to manipulate numbers and equations in my head better than any calculator. I go to great lengths to hide the extent of my skill. Not even Hank knows how easy it is for me. It’s bad enough that I get stares at school for being Dr. Hom’s daughter, and teased by kids in the real-world.
What if Baldy is some sort of corporate spy? What if he knows about my talent?
What if he knows what I can do?
An elbow in the ribs jars me. I blink and turn to Hank, who gives me a look. I turn and see Dr. Nguyen, our professor, standing at the edge of my desk. There’s a glitter of triumph in his eyes. It occurs to me that he’s waiting for an answer to some question. For whatever reason, the man has never liked me.
“Since you obviously didn’t do last night’s homework, Miss Hom,” he says, “you have earned the privilege of writing a two-page research paper on mean internode length and the significance it plays in predicting contributions to phenotypes. I expect it on my desk tomorrow morning.”
He strides away like he’s just put me in checkmate. I’m too distracted to be annoyed.
We head to third period, Calculus 2. Hank tries to talk to me, but I can’t focus on her. If Baldy knows what I can do, he likely knows who my father is. And if he knows who my father is . . .
I stop dead in the corridor.
My father, Dr. Hom. World-famous geneticist. Director of Global Arms’s product-development lab. And me, his daughter. What if Baldy wants information on Dad’s work?
By the time school ends, I’ve convinced myself that Baldy is a corporate spy out to extort me for Global secrets. I go through the motions of dinner with Mom but use the excuse of Dr. Nguyen’s paper to get back into Vex. I arrive early to meet Hank at Café Blu. Lots of our classmates come here, too. The entire place is surrounded by a circular tank filled with tropical fish.
I make a cursory attempt to start homework, then give up and pull out my tablet and watch reruns of Merc, a reality competition with real mercs who compete for cash prizes. The show has been cancelled for nearly twenty years, but it still has a cult following. Some merc schools even use episodes for training purposes.
I watch an episode highlighting the best Morning Star and Black Ice fight scenes. Morning Star and Black Ice are the most famous of all Merc duos—they won the show five seasons in a row.
“What is going on with you?” Hank appears in Café Blu an hour later, tablets in hand. Hank always does homework with two tablets: one for reference and research, the other for notes and calculations.
“I’m nervous,” I say, flipping off my tablet.
“About Baldy?” She flops into the seat next to me.
“Yeah.”
“He’s already picked you. He can’t renege, can he?”
I shrug, not in the mood to share my long list of paranoid musings with her. “Guess I’ll find out. I meet with him in two hours.”
“Two hours? But I need help with calc. I don’t think we can get through everything in two hours. I have to get one hundred percent on our exam tomorrow. If I don’t, Billy could move into the top slot.”
Her eyes flick across the café, where Billy sits alone at a table. He immediately looks away, pretending that he wasn’t staring at Hank.
I check a sigh. I’ve spent the last three evenings helping Hank study derivatives and implicit differentiation, enough math to make a normal person vomit. But Hank never stops. She spends her days and nights obsessed with being the top student in our grade.
“If we don’t finish, I’ll come back after my meeting with Baldy.”
“What time will that be?”
“I don’t know.” For all I know, I could be back in five minutes. I have to know for sure what Baldy wants from me. If there’s even a sliver of a chance that I can learn how to fight, I have to take it—so long as the price isn’t too high.
“Send a query to my headset if I’m not here when you come back,” Hank says. “I don’t care what time it is.” She pauses, looking me up and down. “Hope your meeting goes well.” She actually sounds sincere. Still, Hank can never leave things hanging on a sentimental note. “Don’t get yourself killed,” she says. “I’ll never get another study partner as good as you.”
I laugh, relaxing for the first time all day; Hank has that effect on me sometimes.
An idea occurs to me, and I have to quell a sudden mischievous grin. Without a word, I get up from our table.
“Where are you going?” Hank asks. When she sees the direction I’m headed, her voice rises in panic. “Sulan!”
I ignore her and slide into a chair at Billy’s table.
“Hey,” I say.
When he looks up from his tablet, his eyes are completely concealed by his bangs.
“Hey,” he replies.
“Are you doing homework?”
He shifts in his chair but doesn’t answer. He rests one hand on his tablet to conceal the screen, but it’s too late.
“Learn anything interesting from Collusion Underground today?” I ask.
He tilts his head, revealing two narrowed eyes. He studies me to discern if I’m making fun of him. I smile to show I’m not.
He leans forward eagerly. “There’s something big going down at Anderson Arms. There’s too much stuff on the newsfeed. When we get big dumps of intel, it usually means something is going on. We just have to filter through all the trash to figure out what’s real.”
By “we” I assume he means his team at Collusion Underground.
I could not care less about what Anderson Arms is doing. But my best friend has a crush on Billy, so it’s my job to act interested.
“What do you think is going on?” I say.
“I told you about the biodome rumors,” Billy says. “I’ve also heard they’re moving all their weapons manufacturing out to sea on a giant floating factory. Just an hour ago, an anonymous source sent me a report about Anderson Arms building a gian
t underground labyrinth.”
“Do you believe any of it?” It all sounds absurd to me.
“It’s not about believing or not believing,” Billy says. “It’s about drilling down through the rumors and propaganda to find the truth. All these reports lead me to believe they are building something, I’m just not sure what.” He leans forward another few inches. “You should see the rumors associated with William Anderson’s son. There are reports of him being given away at birth to a society of assassins in Asia for training, his real identity kept secret from him until he turned sixteen. Supposedly he’s quite deadly, though other sources say he faints at the sight of blood. Some say he likes to drink blood. Some say he’s taken a vow of chastity until marriage. Others say he’s a womanizer. Some people think he’s part alien. Yesterday I read that he has a boyfriend in some South American country. The day before that, I heard his sister was engaged to a South American warlord. See, there’s the South American theme. It may mean something.”
“Wow,” I say. “That’s some crazy stuff.”
Billy opens his mouth, clearly winding up to tell me more. I clear my throat to cut him off.
“Billy, I have a favor to ask you. It’s about Hank.”
Billy sits up straight, pushes his hair out of his eyes, and forgets all about conspiracy theories.
“What is it?” His gaze slides across the room.
Hank, hunched over her tablet, glares at me with the ferocity of a monsoon. When she sees Billy looking, she pretends to be absorbed in her homework.
She is going to be so mad at me for this, but it’s for her own good. Am I just supposed to sit around while the two of them continue to sneak covert glances at one another?
“You know Hank and I normally study together, right?”
“Yeah.” Billy manages to peel his eyes off her and look at me.
“Well, I’ve got something I need to do tonight, and Hank really needs a study partner to get ready for tomorrow’s calc test. Do you think you could study with her when I leave? She wanted to ask you herself, but she’s kind of shy around you because you’re so smart.”
Petrified glee steals over Billy’s features. “She really wanted to ask me for help?” he says, eyes wide.
“Totally,” I say. “Don’t tell her I told you that. Just act like you’re doing a favor for me.”
“Yeah, okay. I can do that.”
“Thanks, Billy.” I stand up. “Come on, just sit with us now.”
Billy gathers up his tablet, quickly navigating the screen away from Collusion Underground. I saunter back toward Hank with Billy in tow.