Sulan Box Set (Episodes 1-4)

by Camille Picott

  17

  Evasion

  He reaches the stairwell and swoops inside, noticing a ramp covering the steps. This tickles Riska’s memory, but he’s too focused on the soldiers to think on it. He lands and scrunches down, waiting for the next patrol to pass.

  “Mack,” says a voice. “I think I saw something.”

  Riska’s ears swivel forward. A tinny voice responds, so soft he can’t make out the words. The soldiers are talking to each other with their earpieces.

  “Yeah, I’ll check it out,” says the voice.

  Riska backs down the ramp. His secondary eyelids—a modification Dr. Hom made after his first trip into Vex—slide into place. They hide the reflection of his eyes.

  The soldier eases into view, gun raised. He pauses at the top of the stairs, pointing a rifle into the darkness. His eyes move in the shiny white mask as he scans the stairwell.

  Riska sits perfectly still, tail curled over his front feet and wings compressed against his sides. His vision is foggy through the membrane, but he can see the outline of the man.

  The soldier eases forward, one black boot making a whisper against the ramp. Riska’s fur bristles. The long muzzle of the gun passes through the air over his head.

  Another step. Three more, and the soldier will step on him. If he doesn’t spot him and shoot first. And Riska can’t get shot. If he gets shot, he’ll never find Sulan.

  Another step. Riska spins around and lets loose a spray of sleeping gas. The man thunks onto the ramp, falling silent. His earpiece hums with activity.

  Boots pound on the deck. People shout. There are at least three different voices.

  There is no escape up the ramp. Riska turns. The dark swallows him as he runs down a narrow hall and banks hard to the right, shooting down a corridor. Behind him, boots pound on the ramp. A flashlight shines down the hall. The beam flicks across him.

  The passageway isn’t wide enough for him to fly, but that’s okay. Dr. Hom made sure Riska was ready for this. He cuts to the side. Tiny suction cups on the pads of his feet allow him to run up the wall. Gecko feet, Dr. Hom had called them, though Riska does not know what a gecko is.

  He skims along the wall, swerving to avoid being seen, and sprints along the ceiling. His wings are folded tight against his body.

  “There’s something down here!” a voice shouts. “It looks like an animal.”

  “Shoot it!” says another voice.

  Footsteps thump after him. An intersection looms ahead. Riska takes a left, legs burning. Multiple light beams break the darkness of the passageway, one of them catching him in its path.

  “It’s running on the ceiling!”

  “What is it?”

  “Just shoot it!”

  The bang of a gun rings in his ears. A bullet whizzes past his head. The gun keeps firing. Riska cuts erratically back and forth, trying to avoid the bullets.

  Another intersection. He runs to the left wall and makes a turn. In front of him is a door propped open with a rock. A humming sound pours out. He zips inside, still clinging to the wall.

  The hum deepens. Vibrations fill the air. The room is full of pipes and machinery. Riska drops to the floor and crawls behind a giant machine that blasts him with heat.

  “Which way did it go?” The voice comes from the passageway.

  “You two go that way. We’ll check the engine room.”

  Footsteps draw near. Riska scrunches farther behind the machine. One wing is wedged under his body. The other is skewed up against the wall, and his tail is tangled around one foot.

  “It could be anywhere in here,” says a voice.

  “Maybe it didn’t come this way,” says another.

  “We need to check.”

  He pricks his ears forward, straining to track the soldiers above the hum of the engines. They move around the room. Their flashlight beams bounce off the wall near his hiding place. He freezes, not daring to move.

  A soldier steps into view. He’s next to the machine, aiming his light at a vent in the ceiling. The man stands on his toes, peering up. He is so close that Riska could hit his boot with venom.

  He closes his secondary lids, dropping the filmy eye sheath over his glinting eyes. As his sight dims beneath the membrane, the man pulls on the vent, boot scraping the floor as he yanks.

  “You think it’s up in the duct?”

  “Maybe. You saw the way it ran across the ceiling.”

  “It couldn’t have gotten the grate off. Let’s try the other corridor.”

  “In a minute.” There’s a soft clink as the man places the grate on the floor. He’s even closer now. If he turns and shines his flashlight behind the machine, he’ll see Riska.

  Wedged into the thin crevice, Riska can hardly move. He works his jaw, readying venom. He keeps his secondary lid closed, relying on his ears.

  “Hurry up, will you?”

  “Coming.” The grate clicks as it’s returned.

  Riska raises his lids as the man disappears. He sags, resting his chin on the floor, and listens as the soldiers exit the room.

  He stays hidden for a long time, worried the men will come back. As time passes and the soldiers don’t return, he begins the painful process of extracting himself. He stretches one foot out, major claws extending. They scritch against the floor as he pulls. At the same time, he pushes with his back legs. His body slides forward, moving toward the opening. His claws gouge the metal.

  Inch by inch, he pushes and pulls himself free. At last, he tumbles out, lying on the floor in a heap. One wing is completely numb. The other is cramped. He gets to his feet and shakes them out.

  He raises his nose and sniffs the air. Sulan’s trail is faint, mingled with smells of salt, water, metal, and grease. He must stay below deck and hunt for her, even though it will take longer to find his way. There are too many soldiers on deck and no place to hide.

  He pads to the door. Poking his head around the doorframe, he peers out. His ears swivel forward as his eyes scan the darkness. He inhales, testing the air for any sign of the bad men.

  All is silent. There is no scent of the soldiers. Moving silently, he steps out of the engine room.

  He remains on the ground, moving cautiously and following the trail. He stays close to the wall, ears constantly swiveling. Somewhere in the distance is a drip-drip-drip, punctuated by the hum of the engines. Other than that, all is quiet.

  He walks for a long time, always following the trail. At last, it grows stronger, filling his nose like a balm.

  She is close. He will find her.

  Just as soon as he can figure a way to get past all the soldiers.

  18

  No Matter What

  There are a lot of them. He can’t see them yet, but he can hear the clomp of many boots and the murmur of voices. They are close. By the smells and sounds, he guesses they are with Sulan.

  He runs up the wall and takes to the ceiling. The lights in this part of the ship are dim, many of them burned out, making it easy for him to hide in the shadows. Ahead is a three-way intersection. Riska turns right, following Sulan’s scent.

  He passes a few closed doors, all of them painted beige. He pauses at each, sniffing. When he’s satisfied she isn’t inside, he continues on.

  Sulan’s trail fills the air like a bright ribbon. He moves through halls, staying on the ceiling. When he enters a corridor lit by a flickering lightbulb, he hears a voice—her voice.

  “Don’t call me that!” Sulan says. Riska feels her anger and terror down to his bones. He shivers. It takes all his will power not to hiss.

  “I’ll call you anything I want,” replies a voice with a thick accent.

  Riska tucks himself high into a corner. He fans out his wings and covers himself, doing his best to blend in with the shadows. He fixes his gaze on the door, waiting. People are moving on the other side. There is furniture being moved. Someone is crying. It’s not Sulan.

  Several minutes later, the door opens. A dozen men in dark blue fil
e out. All of them have dark hair and shiny, white plastic masks over their faces. Riska runs silently over their heads and through the open door. It’s dark inside, a single bulb casting feeble light in a large room. He darts to a dark corner above the door and waits there, hanging upside down and hiding beneath his wings.

  The men in blue slam the door behind them. Locks turn, sealing Riska inside. He’s near a staircase that leads into a vast room.

  There below him, fastened to a narrow bed, is Sulan. Her face is pale, her eyes large in the dimness. Even from his high perch, he smells her fear. It slides into his gut like sour fish, making the fur along his spine bristle.

  There are three other humans with her, all of them on identical narrow beds. Taro is there, plus a boy and a girl he’s never seen before. Taro’s eyes are closed, the muscles of his jaw clenched. Riska can smell his pain almost as strongly as he smells Sulan.

  Only one thing prevents him from rushing headlong to her: a single metal drone. It makes lazy circles through the room, red and green lights blinking.

  Drones see everything. He can’t go to Sulan until he disables it.

  He hunkers down, wrapping his dark wings around his body. As the drone circles to the far side of the room, he runs down the walls. He huddles at the base of shadowed stairs, waiting as the drone makes another circuit. This is a big room, wide enough for him to fly. He lifts himself into the air, winging into the darkest part of the room. He faces Sulan, staying close to the ceiling.

  He does not drop his secondary lids. He stares at Sulan over the whizzing drone, hoping she’ll see his eyes and know he’s here.

  But it’s not Sulan who sees him first. It’s the other girl who spots him.

  “Sulan!” she hisses. “What is that thing?” The girl stares straight at him.

  Sulan lifts her head from the cot, gaze drifting across the darkness. When her eyes land on him, Riska feels it like a shockwave. A purr rumbles up from his chest. He zips forward and slams into the drone. It flies across the room and hits a wall with a satisfying crack.

  Then he lands on his beloved Sulan, working his claws in her jumpsuit as he presses his nose into her face. He can’t control his purr. When she kisses his head, the world around him disappears into a haze.

  He’s found her. He has kept his promise to Dr. Hom and Mom. He has found Sulan, and he will protect her. He will keep her safe, no matter what.

  THE END

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks to my amazing beta readers!

  M.G. Alves Jr.

  Lan Chan

  Chris Picott

  Arlene Ang

  Heidi Garrett

  Sulan

  Episode 3: The Dome

  Sulan

  Episode 3: The Dome

  By Camille Picott

  www.camillepicott.com

  Published by Pixiu Press

  Windsor, CA

  Copyright 2017 Camille Picott

  Cover by Deranged Doctor Design

  www.derangeddoctordesign.com

  Copyedit by Dani Crabtree

  www.hedanicreations.net

  1

  Processed

  My skin itches from the chemical scrub. I bunch my fists at my side, resisting the urge to scratch it.

  To my left, a Global merc leans into the retina scanner mounted on the wall. A flash of red scans his eye. A metal door slides open in response, revealing a twelve-by-twelve room made of granite—granite walls, granite ceiling, and granite floor. It’s identical to every other room I’ve seen since arriving in the Dome.

  The merc prods my elbow, indicating I should enter the room. Riska, my genetically engineered pet, hisses from his perch on my shoulder. His leathery black wings extend to either side of my head, black-and-white striped fur bristling along his spine. I give the man a narrow-eyed glare before stepping inside. The door closes and locks behind me.

  Once alone, my shoulders sag. I put one hand against the stone wall to steady myself. My nerves are frayed. I feel like a bundle of live wires shorn in half with a bread knife.

  I’m unable to shake the feeling of being imprisoned. Beside two plush green sofas and a single light hanging from the ceiling, the room is empty. Or at least, I think it’s empty—until I see something move in the corner of my eye.

  I spin around and drop into a defensive crouch. Riska digs his claws into my shoulder, wings tensing against my cheek.

  A tall, lean boy steps out of the corner of the room. He’d tucked himself near the doorway, a good position in case he had to surprise someone and fight his way out.

  “Taro.” His name comes out of me in a soft rush. Riska mews.

  “Sulan.” Dark eyes regard me with concern. A bulletproof black jumpsuit hugs his lean, well-muscled form. His black hair is damp.

  For a split second, I think he’s going to hug me. Instead, he raises a hand and brushes an achy spot below my right ear. There’s a matching swollen red mark below his right ear, evidence of the tracking chips that have been embedded into our skin.

  “We’ve officially been tagged,” he says in a flat voice. “And vaccinated.” He touches the bandage on my right arm that covers four vaccination pinpricks. His arm is encased in the bulletproof fabric, though presumably he has the same pinpricks.

  “According to the nurse who scrubbed me down, all citizens of the Dome are processed upon arrival.” I scratch at a patch of skin that still burns from the chemical rinse. “I don’t know why they tag us. Even if we could get out of this place, we’re in the middle of Alaska. Anyone stupid enough to break out of here would freeze to death.”

  “I know.” Taro lowers his hand. There’s a bandage around the hand, covering the stump of his missing pinkie finger. He lost his finger because I wasn’t fast enough in obeying Imugi.

  “Don’t worry about my hand,” he says, following my gaze.

  Thinking about Imugi yanks me back to our time on the League freighter ship. I see Mom’s silhouette within the ship. She’s tall, strong, and implacable—until an explosion swallowed her.

  I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not.

  Riska mews, rubbing his head against my chin.

  “Sulan?”

  “I’m okay.” I slide down to the floor, leaning against one of the sofas as I wrestle with my emotions. I blink away tears that fill my eyes, not wanting Taro to see me weak.

  He slides down next to me. He doesn’t talk, just sits beside me. His silence is the best gift he could have given me.

  I lean my head back against the side of the sofa, eyes closed, fighting back the memories of Mom’s death. My heart pounds in my chest as grief constricts my throat.

  “Don’t think of her right now,” Taro says. “The pain, the loss—lock it away for another time.”

  I swallow and turn to look at him, not surprised he so easily guessed where my head was. Taro lost his mother less than a year ago. If anyone understands what I’m going through, it’s him.

  “Dad always told me emotions are a luxury,” Taro continues. “It used to make me mad. He’d always say it during training whenever I was angry or frustrated about something. But …” He shakes his head. “I don’t know what the Winns have in store for us. Whatever it is, your head needs to be clear. You need to be strong.” He squeezes my hand. “Be strong for her. She’d want you to be strong.”

  Miraculously, his words ease the sadness gripping my chest and throat. My breath steadies, and for the first time since arriving in the Dome, I begin to feel like myself.

  I squeeze back, grateful for his friendship. I take several long, deep breaths, then take all my anguish and agony over the loss of Mom and shove it into a dark corner of my mind. I press it down, suppressing the part of me that is brittle with grief.

  Later, I tell myself. Grieve for Mom later.

  I abruptly notice Taro’s close proximity. The muskiness of his skin mingles with the chemical wash. It’s strange to smell another person. After spending most of my life in Vex—Virtual Exper
ience—and socializing with avatars, I’m not used to being around real people.

  Riska cranes his neck in Taro’s direction, nose twitching as he sniffs the air.

  “I’m okay,” I say. My voice is steady, strong.

  “I know you are,” Taro replies. “You’re strong. Like her.”

  We lapse into a comfortable silence. Taro and I may have only known each other for a few days, but I already consider him a close friend. Everything we went through as League captives has bonded us.

  That’s when I notice the texture of his hand, which is still clasped around mine. His skin is warm and calloused. The bandage around his missing pinkie rubs against my palm.

  When he catches me looking down at the bandage, he pulls his hand away and tucks it into his lap. I open my mouth to apologize again, but he cuts me off.

  “Do you know where we are?” he asks, steering the subject away from his missing finger.

  “Other than inside the Dome?” I shake my head. “After the mercs tranqed us on the landing pad, I woke up in a granite processing room with Hank and two nurses.”

  “I heard the mercs calling this place the Fortress. Have you seen any of the others?”

  “No. Hank and I were stripped and scrubbed down at the same time, but after that, we were separated.”

  “Me, Billy, your dad, my dad, Uncle Zed—we were all separated after the showers, too.” Taro gestures to Riska. “Did he get a chemical scrub?”

  “They sprayed him down, but that’s it. I guess since he’s a Global creation he didn’t need all the other stuff.” I scratch his chin. Riska fans his black wings open and leans into my hand. “What do you think of my outfit?” I gesture to my Global-issued khaki pants and blue polo shirt. The polo is embroidered with the company logo, an old-fashioned fuse bomb that looks like planet Earth, with the sun as the lit fuse.