Sulan Box Set (Episodes 1-4)

by Camille Picott

  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 sc
owl 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 Dad 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 sol
diers 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.”