I am aware of my own body mass, of the floor beneath my toes. I pinch my arm and feel the answering spider bite of pain. I stretch for my toes and feel the pull in my calf muscles.
Vex is a world that consists of sights and sounds. And now, with a single pill, I have feeling. Touch hacks into the Vex headset and accesses my parietal lobes, the part of the brain responsible for processing sensory information. This allows me to share the physical sensation of my avatar. I won’t be leaping around my bedroom, but my body should develop fighting reflexes—muscle memory—if I train enough.
Before I realize what I’m doing, I reach out and touch Gun’s arm. It’s thick and solid beneath my fingers.
“It’s working,” I breathe. “I can feel you.”
His blue eyes are intense as he stares down at me. I recall that he is supposed to be a big brother. I pull my hand back and drop my eyes.
Gun, watching me, shifts. “I think I better take one of those, just in case,” he says. “I don’t want to hurt you on accident. I’m pretty strong.”
I pass him a pill. “Have you tried these before?”
He grimaces. “Once. A few years ago.”
I don’t press him for more information; I learned my lesson yesterday. If I don’t ask about his real-world life, I won’t have to tell him where I go to school, or who my father is. I want him to see Short Stuff, the girl in the Meat Grinder who took out a larger opponent with a rock. I don’t want him to see the math nerd.
I bounce up onto my toes. “Is it working yet?”
He nods. “Yep.”
“So where do we start?”
“Basic drills first. Here, check these out. I made them for you.” He producers two golden bracers and hands them to me.
“What are these for?” I turn them over in my hands.
“I call them Marstons. Named after the man who created Wonder Woman. Know who she is?”
I shake my head.
He grins at me. “She’s a comic book heroine from pre-’Fault days. She wore indestructible golden bracers on her wrists.”
“You sure know a lot about dead writers,” I say, thinking of the old war book he quoted to me yesterday.
He laughs. “I collect pre-’Fault books. Irritates the piss out of my old man.”
“Are these things really indestructible?”
“Metaphorically. I’ve modified them a bit. They won’t deflect bullets, but they will help you train.”
“You’re a programmer?”
He shrugs. “It’s a hobby. Here, put them on.”
I hesitate. There’s a small release button on the outside of each Marston. Even so, it occurs to me that I could be making a very big mistake. Here I am, full of Touch and hanging out with a guy three times my size, about to put on things that resemble handcuffs.
I ignore the paranoia and snap them around my wrists.
Without warning, Gun swings a fist at my face.
I squeal. The Marston yanks my arm up to shield me. Gun’s fist connects with my forearm.
“Ow!” I yelp as pain runs down the length of my arm.
Gun laughs. “See? You’re indestructible. I programmed the Marstons with kickboxing moves. Here, let’s try again.”
This time he swings with his other fist. My opposite hand snaps up, blocking the blow, and again I feel the shudder of impact down my arm.
“Perfect,” he says. “Repeat. Bend your knees. Keep your weight on the balls of your feet.”
He throws punch after punch. He keeps the attacks simple and predictable, aiming between my head and waist.
At first, the Marstons do all the work; they carry my arms into the protective positions. It’s all I can do to tense my muscles against Gun’s blows and to keep from falling flat on my rear end.
Then I start to understand the moves. I understand what Gun and the Marstons are teaching me.
I begin to watch Gun’s body, to watch his muscles and predict where his next attack will fall. The bracers are weighed down by my slack arms. The first time my arm leaps up of its own accord, Gun can tell. He pauses to grin at me.
“That was you,” he says.
“I think I’m getting it,” I say. I’ve never felt so accomplished. I don’t think I’ll ever stop smiling.
“You’re only just beginning,” he replies. “Again.”
• • •
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 spee
ch, 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.”
Part of next year’s curriculum is an internship in one of Global’s departments. Hank applied for a position in Dad’s lab. I applied to the Defense Department. The mercs have never taken an intern from VHS before, but for ten seconds it was fun to pretend I have a choice. In reality, I know Claudine will stick me wherever she wants me to be.
Hank and I head to applied physics, walking side by side. I try to imagine what it will be like tomorrow, when I see her for the first time in the flesh—when I see all my classmates for the first time. We should all look exactly as we do in Vex, but somehow I think seeing everyone in the real-world will be different.
“This move would be less stressful if we didn’t have to go to school this week,” Hank says. “They should have given us some time off.”
I grunt. “We each have one duffel bag to pack. How much time does that really take?”
“You know what I mean,” Hank says. “We’re leaving everything behind. This move would be easier on everyone if we didn’t have to worry about grades for a week.”
“Underachievers don’t belong in the Global Arms family,” I say in Claudine’s syrupy voice.
Hank makes a face at me.
We find Billy waiting for us outside the classroom. At the sight of Hank, he tilts his head to one side and lets his hair fall away from his eyes. His smile is radiant and all for her.
Hank’s slouch disappears in a flash. She slides into place beside Billy, lacing her fingers together with his.
“Hey,” she says, her voice gooey.
“Hey,” he replies, no less gooey.
“Any good conspiracies today?” I ask, because if I don’t say something, the gooeyness will perpetuate into infinity.
“The CEO of NorAm Bank might be descendent of reptilian aliens,” Billy says. “The entire organization could be infiltrated by extraterrestrials.”
“No conspiracy talk right now,” Hank says. “It’s time for class. See you in genetics?” she adds, to Billy.
“See you then.” Billy kisses her cheek. Hank blushes. I try not to gag.
Hank and I head inside and take our seats. The bell rings, and Claudine Winn’s avatar materializes before us. I’m not surprised to see her today, the day before our relocation, though I am surprised she’s managed to rouse herself before ten. I adopt my customary slump into my chair.
“Good morning, students,” Claudine says. “Today is the last day of Virtual High School. Tomorrow I will have the pleasure of welcoming you in person when we all relocate to the Livermore Lab!�
�� She pauses dramatically.
A cylinder of light shoots down the middle of the classroom. At first I think this is part of Claudine’s presentation, but then an Asian man in a navy-blue jumpsuit materializes inside it. He’s got a AT-57 machine gun on his back and an OS-15 automatic handgun on each hip. Emblazoned on the right breast of his uniform is the insignia of the Anti-American League.
Panic surges through me. I leap to my feet, immediately dropping into a defensive crouch.
I try to anticipate their next move. A virus maybe, deployed through our Vex sets? Or is this a hack into personnel files, to find out where all of us live, so the League can target us individually before our move to Livermore—
The Leaguer leaps over the desks and goes straight for Claudine.
“Firewall!” Claudine screams. “Code five!”
The Leaguer grabs her by the arm and points a gun at her head. The moment seems to stretch on forever; everyone is frozen in place, staring at Claudine’s terrified face and the gun barrel resting against her temple. The weapon won’t kill her, but if there’s any sort of black tech inside, there’s no telling what might happen.
The Leaguer leans forward, lips millimeters away from Claudine’s ear, then speaks in a whisper loud enough for all to hear:
“Give me all your math books.”
The knot in my chest unravels. I flop into my chair, a puddle of relief.
A prank. This is nothing but a prank.
Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t have found much humor it. But since Claudine is its victim, I can’t help but smirk. Beside me, Hank tries to hide a grin behind her tablet.
This must be the work of Crystal Lark. Just last Christmas, she set loose a bunch of Santa Clauses that mooned all the teachers. Apparently, Crystal couldn’t resist getting in one more prank before our move to the Lab.
The Leaguer fades away, leaving Claudine to face a tittering student body. Her perfect smile is still in place, but her eyes are cold. Without a word, she disappears from view.
“Guess she didn’t have a perky comeback for that,” I whisper to Hank.
Sulan Box Set (Episodes 1-4) Page 7
