***
When I wake up the next morning, I am sore from head to toe. A quick survey of my body shows my arms covered in bruises.
Standing in front of my mirror, I swing my arm in a right hook. My muscles protest, but the move feels familiar—like I spent two hours practicing it last night. Which I did.
It worked, I think in wonder. The Touch worked. I’m developing muscle memory. I am going to be a fighter.
I recall my paranoia of yesterday, all my distrust of Gun. I was stupid. No one has ever helped me the way he is helping me. We are going to be very good friends.
8: Prank
The next four months fly by. My days are a blur. In the mornings, I go to the gym and follow the workouts Gun gives me. After school, I head to Café Blu to study with Hank and Billy. I ditch them later in the evening and meet up with Gun at the Cube. I maintain the all-important 3.8 GPA, which thrills Mom to no end and keeps Claudine out of my hair.
Workout, school, study, train. Workout, school, study, train. Rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat.
Imugi and the League are relentless in their attacks. They set off a bomb at American Spiritz, a liquor producer in the Midwest. The bomb detonated near a fermentation silo, causing a chain reaction that destroyed two-thirds of the newly constructed corporate compound. Hundreds of people were killed.
The League continues to sink food freighters off the coast. They plant land mines on some of the few farms we have left. They fly over corporate complexes and drop grenades. They even sink so low as to drop grenades on refugee camps.
They attack more universities and a few schools. More and more schools go virtual.
Life on the streets is chaotic and dangerous. Only the refugees living in territories patrolled by corporate mercs have any relative safety. Despite the Global mercs who make their rounds through San Francisco, I watch gangs form in the refugee camp across the street from Pinnacle. I see shootings, beatings, and theft from my bedroom window.
Although the world is crumbling around me, I can’t remember feeling so blissful and alive. The strangeness is not lost on me, but I’ve found purpose in my training sessions with Gun. I see him almost every night. My real-world workouts have resulted in increased strength and endurance. Gun and I have started to compete with other teams in the Cube, and to my delight, I’m turning into a decent fighter. I still get ridiculed for my stature, but not as much as I used to.
Mom and I get along pretty well most days, which is one of the reasons I’ve decided it’s time for us to have a talk. Especially since we’re moving to the Livermore Lab tomorrow, into Global’s much-publicized state-of-the-art compound.
It’s been months since I’ve asked her to teach me self-defense. We’re practically friends. I turn seventeen in a few months. Surely the concept of her daughter with a gun isn’t as outrageous as it used to be, not with the continuous League attacks.
She taps on my door. “Sulan? School starts in thirteen min—oh.” Mom pauses as the door swings open and she finds me already dressed.
I sit on the edge of my bed, which I’ve made with military precision for the occasion. Riska sits on my shoulder, wings folded at his side.
“Mom,” I say, “we need to talk.”
Caution fills her eyes. She steps fully into the room.
“Is this about a boy?” she asks.
“What?” I blink, surprised. “God no, of course not. You know I think boyfriends are stupid.”
“Okay.” Mom takes another step inside, watching me like I’m a feral dog. “What is it you’d like to talk about?”
I take a breath and begin my carefully prepared speech, which I practiced with Hank yesterday. (She told me I was crazy, but helped me anyway.)
“I really think it would be wise for me to be able to protect myself when we make the move to Livermore tomorrow,” I say, pleased at how calm and rational I sound. “Maybe I could carry one of your old guns—”
“No.”
The response hits me like cold water. Stick to the script, I remind myself, struggling to remain calm.
“How can you let me go out there unarmed? You know how dangerous it is.”
“Sulan.”
I hear the warning note in her voice. Riska’s wings snap open; his fur bristles. Hank warned me to watch my temper, but my heart rate spikes, pounding in time with my anger. The rest of my speech goes out the window. I feel like the last few months of peace with Mom haven’t existed.
“How about a stunner?” I snap. “Or a knife? Something. Anything. I’d even settle for a few toothpicks at this point.”
“Forget it,” Mom says. “I’m not giving you a weapon.”
Riska hisses at her. I throw my hands up in frustration. “But, Mom—”
“Your father is sending a full squad of mercenaries to pick us up tomorrow. There’ll be enough weapons to keep you safe.”
“But what if—”
“End of discussion, Sulan.” She walks out of my room, and I know there’s no changing her mind.
“Why don’t you just call some Leaguers up here and let them dice me up now?” I shout, leaping off the bed. This isn’t helping my case, but I can’t help it.
Mom, halfway down the hall, spins on her heel to face me. “I am not having this argument with you,” she says, then pivots back around and walks away.
I slam the door shut. I feel like I’ve spent a lifetime slamming this door on arguments with her.
Riska arches his back and hisses again, digging his claws into my shoulder. I just stand there, seething.
“It’s alright, boy,” I say, even though it isn’t.
How could I have been so stupid? I was so sure she’d give me a gun. So sure she’d stop treating me like a child.
Gun. I picture his face, his blue eyes. When he looks at me, I know I’m a fighter. It doesn’t matter what Mom says. I’m a fighter. She can’t change that.
I spend a few minutes pacing back and forth, trying to get my temper under control. I regret my explosion, but there’s nothing I can do about it now.
“Come on, Riska,” I say with a sigh, my heart rate at last back to normal. “I’ve gotta get to school.”
Hank will have an I told you so ready for me. I log into Vex and head to school, materializing in the quad. Hank arrives thirty seconds later and takes a good look at my face.
“Speech didn’t go so well?” she asks.
“Mmm.”
“I told you it was a bad idea.”
I give her a dirty look and change the subject. “Are we meeting after school?”
“I can’t tonight,” Hank says.
“You’re skipping out on study time? I might die of shock.”
Hank ignores my jab. “I have to pack,” she says. “I’ve been putting it off. Not that I have much to take. Those duffels they gave us don’t hold much anyway.” She glances at me, a sly smile on her face. “You’ll have some extra time with that boyfriend of yours tonight.”
“Gun is not my boyfriend,” I say. “He’s my training partner.”
“You see the guy every night and play with his guns. How is that not a boyfriend?”
“You are so gross. They’re my guns, not his, and even if they were his, I—”
“Relax,” Hank says, poking me in the shoulder. “I’m just kidding.”
My residual anger melts away. I normally hate it when she teases me about Gun, but today it helps me forget how frustrated I am with Mom. I smile at her gratefully.
“Speaking of boyfriends,” I say, “are you excited about meeting Billy in person?”
The levity leaves Hank’s eyes. She slouches, something I usually only see her do if she gets less than 95 percent on a test.
“What?” I say, suddenly alarmed. “Did something happen between you guys? You didn’t break up, did you?”
“No, nothing like that.” Hank shakes her head. “I’m, ah, sort of nervous about kissing him in the real-world. What if I’m really bad at
it?”
I stop dead in my tracks. “You have a boyfriend who sells Touch, and you guys haven’t tried it? Not even for kissing?”
“Of course not!” Hank straightens. “It’s against the law.”
“You’re a hacker. I thought hackers live to flout the law.”
“Former hacker,” she says. “And I don’t break the law anymore. I can’t risk getting kicked out of VHS.” She sighs. “Everything is just so . . . so good with him right now. I’m afraid it’s all going to change when we meet in person. What if he thinks I smell weird or something?”
“You’re overreacting,” I say. “Billy is crazy about you.”
It’s Hank’s turn to change the subject. “I finished my internship application. Will you make sure your dad reads it?”
I pause, considering whether or not to steer the conversation back to Billy. Hank is still slouched and looking miserable, so I drop it.
“He’s coming back from Alaska and meeting up with us in Livermore tomorrow,” I say. “He’ll read your application. Dad’s heard all about my supersmart friend, Hank Simmons.”
“Thanks, Sulan.”