“It’s on,” Dr. Hom says.
Mom pulls out a knife with her free hand. “Time to go, boy,” she says. “Lead us to Sulan.” She slides the blade beneath his harness and slices through it
Fur bristling, Riska yanks free and shoots skyward. He kicks and bucks, sending the leash and harness tumbling toward the roof. He curls his legs up against his body and flies through the sky, following Sulan’s waning scent.
5
After Sulan
The city passes below Riska. He has never flown this high before. Everything smells so different, so . . . clean. There’s the usual scent of human waste and urine, but it’s so faint up here he can almost pretend it doesn’t exist. Fresh air fills his nose.
Occasionally, a loud noise cuts through the wind streaming in his ears, but he’s so high that little sound reaches him. He likes the way his wings ride the currents. It’s almost like floating. He steers wide of the tall buildings, always staying close to Sulan’s trail.
He follows it all the way to the place where the land ends. Beyond the land is the ocean. A real ocean. He’s seen it from a distance, and Dr. Hom showed him pictures of it, but this is the first time he’s seen it up close. With the exception of the sky, it’s the biggest thing he’s ever seen. He wishes he were here with Sulan, riding on her shoulder.
Her trail leads out over the water. Beating his wings in long, powerful strokes, he follows the scent.
The reek of humanity fades altogether. The salty air mingles with the faint trail of the tracking fluid. Sulan is still a long way from him. Riska wishes he could fly as fast as the helicopter.
He flies and flies and flies. The land disappears behind him. The tall buildings fade into the horizon. The sun moves across the sky. The blue-gray ocean surrounds him on all sides.
His wings ache, but he keeps flying. He holds an image of Sulan in his mind. She needs him. He must save her.
It’s what he was made for.
Part 2
Origin
6
Dr. Nguyen
Ten months ago at the Global Arms research facility . . .
Someone taps his cage bars. He blinks awake and raises his head. Wings fan open as he stretches them. They push against the cold metal on either side of him, unable to unfurl fully. It’s been a long time since he’s been allowed out of the cage to fly.
Will he ever get to fly again? Just thinking about it makes his wings press harder against the walls. If only he was strong enough to push all the way through. If only he was strong enough to break free and fly.
Someone taps the cage bars again. The human leans down and smiles. As always, he wears a white coat.
It’s the same human he sees every day. He has dark hair and dark skin. His face and shoulders are relaxed. He makes slow, happy noises with his mouth.
Unhurried, the human lifts one arm and swipes a piece of plastic in front of the cage door. It swings open with a beep.
Cocking his head to one side, he watches the man. Fingertips brush his fur as a hand slides into the cage.
He registers the sudden changes in the man—the tensing of his neck and jaw, the creasing of his brow. It happens so fast he doesn’t have time to react.
The man’s hand shoots forward and seizes the back of his neck. He hisses in surprise and locks his forelegs. The human drags him forward. His claws screech against the metal. He tries to twist away, but the hand grips him firmly.
He’s pulled from the cage, hind legs kicking in the air as he dangles from the man’s hand. He beats his wings and hisses. The man pins the wings with his free hand.
There are new sounds coming from the human’s mouth. They’re not slow, happy sounds anymore. They’re sharp and firm.
The man carries him toward a cart with wheels. On the cart is a narrow metal box, its lid open. The man shoves him inside. Something digs into his throat and makes him choke. A lid is slammed down on top of him, the echo of metal against metal loud in his ears.
Only his head sticks out. His body is inside, his wings squashed and his legs twisted at uncomfortable angles. He can barely move his head. His heart pounds. He squirms and yowls, wriggling so hard his bones creak.
Looking up, he hisses at the human. Bits of liquid fly from his mouth. The man quickly steps back.
The human points to his chest and says a word. Then he points at him and says another word. The man keeps repeating the two words, finger moving back and forth.
Growling and hissing, he keeps his eyes fixed on the man and his finger. The man’s words dig into his ears repeatedly, until at last he is able to distinguish the different sounds.
“Dr. Nguyen.” The human points to himself. “Riska.” He points at him.
The outstretched finger is nearly close enough to bite. He strains against the box, snapping his teeth and snarling.
“Dr. Nguyen,” the man says again. The finger rotates. “Riska. Dr. Nguyen. Riska.” Over and over, he repeats these words. The finger never stops moving.
Through his panic and fear, he understands two things: The human is called Dr. Nguyen, and he is called Riska.
7
Inside the Box
Dr. Nguyen pushes the cart across the room to a narrow door. Riska continues to hiss, yowl, and strain. His wings spasm against the confines of the box, making him yowl even louder.
The doctor swipes his plastic card over a red light beside the narrow door. It slides open. Inside is a small room. It’s usually full of stuff, but yesterday another human came and helped Dr. Nguyen empty it. Now there’s nothing inside but a small screen mounted on the wall.
As Dr. Nguyen pushes the cart inside, a loud beep sounds from the room’s main doors. The doctor makes a frantic sound and hurriedly swipes his card over the red light. He doesn’t notice the cart isn’t all the way inside. The door slides shut, catching on a wheel. Riska keeps hissing, but Dr. Nguyen has already turned away. He doesn’t look back.
Dr. Nguyen strides through the white room, maneuvering around several large silver counters. Machines cover most of them. The room is tidy. Even so, the man pauses to straighten one of the machines, lining it up with the edge of the counter.
Riska, still growling, watches Dr. Nguyen continue forward to a pair of sliding double doors. He tugs on the edges of his white coat, pulling out the wrinkles. Fingers straighten his already-neat strands of hair. Taking a breath, he runs the plastic over the small red light beside the doors.
They slide open. On the other side stands a man Riska has never seen before. His thick black hair sticks out in many directions.
Riska can tell Dr. Nguyen is surprised by the way his shoulders stiffen. He widens his stance and clenches his fists. He makes hard, tense sounds with his mouth.
The wild-haired man responds in an identical tone. Their voices lash the air. Dr. Nguyen steps forward until he is nose-to-nose with the other man. The messy-haired doctor makes sharp gestures with his hands and does not back away. He keeps trying to peer into the room, but Dr. Nguyen moves to block his view.
Finally, Dr. Nguyen jerks back and slams his card against the red light. As the double doors slide closed, he and the other man continue to shout. The doors close completely, separating the two men, but Dr. Nguyen continues to yell. At last, he falls quiet. His breathing is raspy in the brief, sudden silence, punctuated by Riska’s soft growls.
Dr. Nguyen remains where he is for several seconds, drawing deep breaths. When he turns to Riska, his face is tight with determination. He marches to a cabinet, pulling out vials, tubing, and needles.
Riska sees the needles. He screeches, bucking against the box. It skids across the cart. More liquid comes out of his mouth, dripping between his teeth. He has no idea what the liquid is, but it has a tangy taste.
Dr. Nguyen shoves the things into his lab coat, then stomps toward Riska. He grabs the box and pins it down. Riska’s eyes follow the path of a needle. It comes closer, closer . . .
Liquid sprays from his mouth as it bites into
his neck. Some of it lands on the sleeve of the white jacket. Dr. Nguyen snarls as the jacket starts to smoke.
Riska tries to growl, but numbness fills his body. His eyes sag. He fights to keep them open.
The last thing he sees is Dr. Nguyen tearing off his coat.
• • •
“Gun.”
Pause.
“Grenade.”
Pause.
“Drone.”
Pause.
“Bad Man.”
Pause.
“Good Man.”
Riska peels open his eyes. He blinks, clearing his vision.
“Gun.”
The room is small and dark.
“Grenade.”
Before him is a small screen mounted on the wall.
“Drone.”
He is alone, except for the voice.
“Bad Man.”
The voice comes from the screen. On it is a picture of a man in a dark green jumpsuit. The man bares his teeth. His eyes are wide and ferocious. The screen makes a hissing sound with the picture of the bad man.
“Good Man.”
A new image pops up on the screen, this one of a man dressed in black. Riska cocks his head, studying the picture. A purring sound comes from the screen.
“Gun.”
A black, angular object appears on the screen. Riska has seen this item before. Men and women in black wear them.
He shifts, trying to get comfortable in the box. For some reason, he isn’t scared anymore. His limbs are limp and relaxed.
There are several tubes that run across the cart and past his neck. Is that the prick of needles between his shoulder blades? He shifts. Yes, there’s at least one needle there, maybe more. Maybe even one in his stomach. But they aren’t so bad. Neither is the box. He doesn’t know why he was so upset when Dr. Nguyen put him here.
With a soft sigh, he rests his chin on the cart and watches the images play.
8
Bad Men
There in the box, surrounded by darkness, Riska learns many things from the screen.
Helicopter. AT-57 machine gun. OS-15 automatic handgun. 2T-1 rifle. Gav. Soldier. Aircat. Land mines. V40 stun guns. AQ-9 rifles. Bullets. Air mines. Vex.
Dr. Nguyen comes to check on him from time to time. He changes the bags of fluid attached to the tubes. Riska barely notices him.
• • •
He learns black is good and dark green is bad.
He learns he is supposed to do bad things to men in green.
On the screen is a computer-generated moving picture of Riska flying into the face of a man in green. A jet of liquid comes out of his mouth, spraying the bad man in the face. The human’s features twist in pain. Riska, trapped in the box, cringes at what he sees.
Another moving picture of Riska. This time he swipes with sparkling claws, opening a bright-red gash across the stomach of a man in green. The human doubles over, pressing his hands over the gushing red.
Riska, watching himself, stares at the blood on the screen. The man’s eyes bulge. His mouth trembles.
Riska does not like that this image of him is causing injury. How can the man in green be bad, if Riska is the one doing bad things?
He squeezes his eyes shut, wishing the screen would turn off. But it doesn’t turn off.
When he opens his eyes again, men in black jumpsuits charge across a field of brown grass. They shout words. Men in green charge from the opposite direction, also shouting. Guns are fired. Grenades are thrown, booming when they hit the ground.
Riska yowls as he sees bodies torn apart. He jerks, wanting to cover his eyes with his paws, but his legs are trapped in the box. He is trapped. He knows this. Why doesn’t he want to escape?
More and more computer-generated pictures play. He closes his eyes, but he can’t block out the sounds. He hears bodies ripping and tearing as bullets and knives plunge into them. He hears people screaming, falling. He can tell when they stop moving.
More moving pictures. More good men killing bad men. Good men hurting bad men. Good men spilling blood and ruining bodies.
If the men in black are good, why are they doing bad things?
They must all be bad. Guns are bad. Weapons are bad. Men and women who use them are bad.
He’s not sure how long he keeps his eyes closed. The pictures keep playing and he does his best not to watch.
Then the sounds coming from the screen change. The humans make words, words not specifically taught to Riska, but he understands them: Anderson. Arms. Fight. Kill.
At first, all he recognizes are individual words. Shoot. Bomb. Attack. Then the words meld together, forming sentences.
“Kill the Anderson bastards! Slice ‘em up! Blow ‘em to bits!”
Riska shudders and presses his eyelids together. Even though he’s not looking at the screen, he knows what the words mean.
Then he hears new sounds. Familiar sounds: hisses, yowls, and mrows.
His eyes snap open. On the screen are Riskas. Lots of them. They fly above the men in black, dark wings scooping the air. They enter battle with good men who aren’t good.
“V formation!” cries a man in black. “Riskas, attack!”
As a unit, the Riskas dive-bomb the men in green. Skin is ripped away by claws to expose bone. White smoke is ejected from hindquarters, and men fall unconscious to the ground. Clear liquid is sprayed from mouths, and humans drop to their knees and claw at their faces.
Riska wants to close his eyes, but he can’t. He can’t stop staring at the image of himself. He is as bad as the soldiers. Is this what he’s supposed to be? Is he supposed to hurt, kill, and be bad?
Something flickers in the corner of his eye. He turns his head. One tube between his shoulder blades is empty. The liquid is gone, replaced by large, unmoving air bubbles. Dr. Nguyen has not been to see him in a long time. Will he come back and plug in a new bag of liquid? Will someone else come?
A shriek jerks his attention back to the screen. He watches himself sneak through the shadows with a man in black. Together, they pounce on two men in green. Riska attacks one man in the back of the head. The human screams and staggers to his knees. Riska keeps tearing with his claws, shredding flesh. Blood is on his paws, his stomach, his face.
At the same time, his companion attacks with a knife. He slices the neck of the other man, stepping clear as blood sprays everywhere.
Panic courses through Riska. He yowls, thrashing inside the box. He doesn’t know why he’s waited so long to try to break free, why he’s sat here and watched this screen and its horrors.
The box bounces across the cart as he thrashes. He gives another heave, and the box tips off the edge.
The room is small, but there’s just enough room for the box to slide between the cart and the door. It hits the ground and breaks open. The needles are torn out of his skin. He crawls free and flops onto his side, breathing heavily. His wings stretch in the cramped space.
The door to the room slides open. Riska freezes.
Dr. Nguyen stands there, his mouth hanging open. The surprise quickly fades. His nostrils flare with annoyance.
“Dammit,” he says. “Delayed by one stupid meeting and look what happens.” He bends down, reaching out with his hands.
Riska panics. He reacts without thought, one paw lashing out in a strike. Dr. Nguyen recoils with a cry, clutching a hand against his chest. Blood drips across his lab coat.
Riska bolts between his legs. He limps, legs weak from his time in the box. His wings trail on the ground. He twitches them, trying to stir strength back into them.
“You little bastard,” Dr. Nguyen shouts, but he doesn’t move.
Riska ducks around a counter and crawls under a stool, ears swiveling back in the direction of the doctor.
“Code Green in room four-oh-four,” Dr. Nguyen says. “Code Green. Request immediate assistance.”
Crouching, Riska continues to stretch his wings. Feeling returns. They fan halfway open. He keeps his sense
s trained on the doctor, but the man doesn’t come after him.
A moment later, Riska understands why.
Outside the double doors, a voice yells, “Security override, level twelve clearance. I’m coming in, Dr. Nguyen.”
There’s a beeping sound, and the doors slide open. A man enters, gun in hand. He’s dressed all in black. Hanging from his belt are several OS-15s and knives. He looks exactly like the men in the moving picture.
Pressure builds in Riska’s mouth. The tangy liquid leaks across his tongue. He cowers against the floor, unmoving.
“Back up is on its way,” says the soldier, scanning the room.
“What are you doing?” Dr. Nguyen snaps. “This is a Code Green, not a Code Orange. Put that gun away.”
“Miss Winn changed our directive last month,” replies the soldier. “Code Green now requires lethal force.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Dr. Nguyen says. “I was never notified of that.”
“An email was sent out. I’m only following orders.” The soldier moves in Riska’s direction.
Only a counter separates them. Riska slides out from beneath the stool, giving himself more room to maneuver. His legs have regained more of their strength.
“My animal isn’t lethal,” Dr. Nguyen says, not stirring from his position by the closet. “Dr. Hom’s creations are the ones that need lethal force. A tranq will do the trick in this situation—”
“Can’t do it, Doctor. My orders are clear. Code Green requires lethal force.”
The soldier moves through the room, gun raised. He steps around the counter and spots Riska. He approaches, lowering the gun and taking aim.
Fear builds in Riska’s chest. He knows what happens when guns go off. Blood will go everywhere—his blood.
Still unable to fly, he knows he can’t hit the man with the liquid gathering in his mouth. As soon as he thinks this, pressure builds in his hindquarters, just beneath his tail. He knows what to do. He saw it on the screen.
Sulan Box Set (Episodes 1-4) Page 19
