Sulan Box Set (Episodes 1-4)

by Camille Picott

  Among the fields and orchards are people in green polo shirts. These are people like Hank’s parents—people that are neither scientists nor mercenaries. Where will Hank’s little brother end up? In the lab like his big sister, or in the field like his parents?

  We at last reach the far end of the Dome. Below us is a scene straight out of a pre-’Fault suburbia movie.

  There are rows of tidy houses, each of them painted in a muted color scheme. Rosebushes and green grass grow in the front yards. Long green belts roll out behind the houses, all of them dotted with picnic tables, arbors, and play structures for younger kids. Fronting the houses are streets of gravel. In the center of the town is a big grassy field with a baseball diamond, a football field, and an outdoor amphitheater.

  “This is the Village,” the merc woman calls to me over the beat of the Aircat’s wings. “It’s where all residents of the Dome live.”

  I glance across the squadron of Aircats and catch sight of Hank’s face. She glows with pride as she gazes down at the Village. Her hard work has landed her family in this place. The Village is more than a dream come true. It’s a memory of better days that are long gone for the rest of the world. Even I can see that.

  For some reason, Hank’s joy leaves me feeling empty. It’s undeniable that Global has created a utopia for us. Why can’t I look at the Village and feel happy? When I look down at the cute houses and pristine lawns, why do I feel trapped?

  9

  The Duffel

  Our house smells new.

  Having spent my entire life in the same apartment, I never imagined new had a smell. It’s a combination of the fresh cream paint covering the walls mingled with the cloying aromatics that waft up from the light brown carpet.

  The scents make Riska’s nose twitch. They make me wish I had a surgical mask.

  I stand with Dad in the living room of our new two-bedroom bungalow. On one wall is a giant picture frame displaying the Global Arms logo.

  There’s no kitchen—all food is served in a centralized cafeteria—but there is a glass slider that opens onto the green belt in the back. Dad’s room flanks the left side of our living area; my room flanks the right. There’s a tiny bathroom for us to share near the entryway. If you don’t mind the complete lack of color and the giant Global logo in your face, it’s a pretty nice place.

  “Sulan?” Dad puts an arm around me.

  I close my eyes and lean into him, grateful at last to have some privacy. Riska purrs, rubbing his head against my cheek.

  “How are you holding up?” Dad asks.

  “I miss Mom. I miss her so much.” My voice cracks. Tears leak down my cheeks. I don’t bother to wipe them away.

  “Me too, sweetie.” He squeezes me tight. We stand like that for long moments. Dad taps a single finger rapidly on my shoulder, the odd pattern a sign of how distraught he is.

  I sniffle, wiping my tears on his shirt. I feel so empty and lost.

  That’s when I spot the black duffel bags sitting in the entryway. Three of them.

  One for me, one for Dad, and one for Mom. Tears well in my eyes again.

  Dad follows my gaze and gives me another squeeze. “Do you want to look inside it?” he asks. “See what she packed?”

  “No.” I stare at the bag. I’m afraid if I open it, my carefully erected emotional dam will burst and result in uncontrollable sobbing. I’m not ready to confront my feelings. They’re as big and scary as Imugi.

  “Can Riska really run upside down on ceilings?” I ask, desperate to quell the ball of emotion threatening to explode.

  Dad blinks at me in surprise. “What makes you think Riska can run upside down on the ceiling?”

  “Claudine showed footage of him at the press conference. Was it real?”

  “Most likely,” he says, speaking slowly, as though choosing his words with care.

  “Supposedly the footage was from our rescue. She said our extraction team retrieved it from the ship.”

  Surprise is evident in his eyes. The look disappears almost immediately, replaced with a guarded one. “That wasn’t footage that I caught on any of my cameras,” he says at last.

  “If you didn’t get it, where did the footage come from?”

  He shrugs and shakes his head, his expression turning inward.

  There’s something—or a lot of things—he’s not telling me. The certainty of this makes me snappish.

  “What else can Riska do that you haven’t told me about?”

  Dad looks at me in silence. He sighs, shoulders slumping. “Riska was designed to keep you safe. That’s all I can tell you, Sulan. I’m sorry.”

  My anger shrivels up, replaced with exhaustion. I’m too tired and wrung out to be angry with Dad.

  He must see this in my face, because he reaches out and pats my shoulder. “Why don’t you get some sleep?”

  I nod, giving him a long hug before trudging off to my new bedroom.

  • • •

  I dream of Imugi.

  In my dream, I run down a black tunnel. Tears streak my face. My lungs burn and my legs ache. Imugi, in his serpent form, pursues me.

  “You are mine, Sulan,” he hisses. “All mine.”

  His voice turns into long coils of blue rope that settle around me. I sob as the ropes cinch tight around my legs. I hit the ground with a scream.

  Imugi bears down on me, blue serpentine face twisted into a dark grin. He looms high in the tunnel, fangs barred.

  Just as he lunges for my throat, I wake up. My real-world scream echoes in my ears.

  Riska sits next to me on my pillow, fur fluffed and ears flat on his head.

  Pushing away the disturbing scraps of the dream, I throw off my khaki-colored bedspread—complete with an embroidered Global Arms logo in the bottom left corner—and stalk into the living room.

  I flop onto a dark gray sofa and rub my eyes. I’m exhausted. Back in San Francisco, I’d go into Vex when I couldn’t sleep. Not an option here. We aren’t permitted Vex equipment of any kind, except in the Fortress.

  On the coffee table is a stack of pre-’Fault paperback books. Mom and Dad had a small collection of real books in San Francisco, but they were old and I wasn’t allowed to touch them. I stare at the ones stacked on the coffee table, then reach over and flip through them.

  William Shakespeare. Emily Dickenson. Jane Austen. Mark Twain.

  Twain. Tears fill my eyes. Gun loves old books and old writers. He even created a Vex Axcent that he named after Mark Twain, which he used to save my life when I was captured by the League.

  Something in me wilts. I wish I could see him again. He’d cheer me up. Those few seconds in the press conference today weren’t enough.

  I shove the books back onto the coffee table, angrily swiping at the tears in my eyes. I don’t need to feel sorry for myself.

  Riska flaps into the living room, gliding in a large, lazy circle. He lets out a small mew and swoops down. I expect him to land on my shoulder, but instead he lands on the black canvas duffel Dad left sitting on the floor next to the sofa.

  Mom’s duffel bag. The one she packed for the Dome. Everyone was given a single black duffel for our move here. We could bring whatever we wanted—minus Vex devices—so long as everything fit in the bag.

  My heart pounds as I stare at the nondescript black bag. I flash back to one of the last times I saw Mom. She sat in the middle of our San Francisco apartment, surrounded by mounds of stuff. She picked through it, trying to figure out what to bring to the Dome. I remember the way sunlight painted one side of her face with yellow light and the way stray wisps of black hair escaped from her bun.

  Finally alone with a chance to process my feelings in privacy, I’m overcome with a desire to see what Mom packed. I grab the bag handles, grunting at the unexpected weight and dropping it. I don’t bother trying to lift it a second time. I grab one handle and drag it across the floor into my bedroom. Riska maintains his perch on the bag, swiveling his ears at me as he rides along.

/>   I flick on the switch to my bedroom. It’s a small ten-by-ten room with the same cream walls and light brown carpet as the living room. There’s a narrow twin bed, a bedside table, a desk, and a closet filled with Global-issued clothing.

  I shut the door. Riska hops to the floor and sits beside me as I open the bag.

  The first thing I pull out is one of Mom’s black tank tops. I bury my face in it and inhale. It still smells like her. I pull it on over my Global pajamas and hug myself.

  I continue to rummage through the bag. There are more clothes. I pull out a puffy white jacket and matching pants. They look like cold weather clothing. Maybe Mom was worried about the Dome’s structural integrity?

  Underneath the cold weather gear is a smooth wooden box. I haul it out, nestle it in my lap, and flip back the lid.

  Inside are pictures. Stacks and stacks of pictures. My mouth sags open as I see a picture of Mom holding me as a baby.

  It’s a professional picture, the sort taken with good lighting and a fancy backdrop. Pink, squinty, and wrinkled, I couldn’t have been more than a few days old. Mom is heavier than I’ve ever seen her, but as she cradles me, her face is … radiant.

  I flip through the pictures. More of me as an infant. There are several taken in the hospital delivery room with Mom and Dad. Some of Mom and Dad loading me into a Global van for the ride home. Others of me getting a bath. Pictures of Mom cuddling me on the couch, in a rocking chair, and on the bed. She looks so happy.

  My throat constricts. Riska leans against my hip, purring.

  I pull out another stack. I’m older in these pictures, maybe two or three. There are at least a dozen photos of me in the kitchen, playing with empty plastic cartons and wooden spoons. On the back of one are the words First Steps written in Mom’s familiar handwriting. This is followed by pictures of me tottering around the apartment, grinning with foolish, toddler pride. There are even a handful of photos of me sitting on the toilet. The back of one of these says, Sulan is potty trained!

  Tears dribble out of my eyes and I pull out more pictures. Lots of me and Mom: the two of us cuddled on the bed, reading books on her tablet; dumping cans of food onto plates as we prepare dinner; and blowing dish soap bubbles at each other in the kitchen.

  Tears flow freely now. Hands quivering with emotion, I reverently pull out picture after picture. I spread them around me in a giant arc, soaking in the images:

  Mom pushing me in an infant swing that hangs in the bathroom doorway. Me taking a bath in—of all places—the sink. Me and Mom in matching hats made of construction paper. Me, hiding under the kitchen table with tomato sauce all over my chin.

  And then me, about eight years old, dressed in Mom’s old Global merc uniform. I stand in the kitchen, grinning, brandishing Dad’s shaver like it’s a gun.

  I remember that day clearly. I discovered the uniform in a trunk in my parents’ closet. I had been so proud when I put it on, even though the arms dangled to the floor and the legs had to be rolled up. I rushed into the kitchen to show Mom, certain she would be proud to see me in her uniform.

  I remember the look on her face, and my confusion at her silence. I’d had to prompt her to take the picture. Even back then, she’d wanted to keep me from a mercenary’s life.

  A sob catches in my throat.

  Riska’s ears prick forward. He flaps over to the window and mews. I glance up at the black square of the glass. Taro’s face emerges from the gloom, framed in the window.

  “Taro?” I swallow my tears and get to my feet. I fiddle with the latch, trying to figure out how to open it; I’ve never lived in a place with windows designed to open. It takes a minute, but finally the latch comes free and the window swings inward.

  “Are you okay?” Taro asks, seeing my face.

  I blink away tears, trying not to sniffle. “What time is it?”

  “A little after midnight.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Dad had a directory in his desk showing where everyone lives. I came to check on you.”

  “Check on me? Ever heard of a front door?” I do my best to wipe my face dry with the back of my hand.

  “I didn’t want to wake your dad,” Taro replies. “Can I come in?”

  10

  Ink

  Taro boosts himself over the windowsill and lands lightly on his feet. When he looks up at me, there’s concern on his face.

  I should be embarrassed, but I’m not. I’m too caught up in the stream of my raging emotions. Besides, Taro came to my room. I’m allowed to cry in my own room.

  “What … what are all these?” Taro asks.

  “My mom …” I glance toward the mess and see a picture of me and Mom with Vex headsets on. “I was just looking at these pictures. Mom packed them.”

  I sit down inside the arc of photos, my eyes roving across them. Taro crouches down across from me. He doesn’t say anything. His eyes drink in the smiling pictures of me and Mom together.

  “I can’t even remember the last time we smiled together,” I whisper. “All we did over the past few years was fight.”

  “Sulan …” His dark eyes are soft with empathy.

  “How—how do you do it?” I whisper. “How do you get through your days without her?”

  “At first,” he whispers, “you just go through the motions. It’s hard. I won’t sugarcoat it for you. I … ran a lot in those first few weeks after her murder. I ran until my legs collapsed. Sometimes I ran until I vomited. Or I’d work out with a punching bag. I’d hit it until I couldn’t lift my arms. Then I’d kick it until my shins and knees bled.”

  He reaches out with one hand, extending it over the photos. He touches my face with the tips of his fingers. His hand unfolds, fingers spreading out to cradle my cheek. I close my eyes and lean into his strong fingers. Touching is such a strange real-world thing to do, but I find it comforting.

  Taro steps over the photos, kneeling beside me. He’s so close I feel his body heat.

  He pulls an ink pen out of his pocket and takes my left hand, cradling my wrist. The bandage around his missing finger brushes my skin. He leans forward. For a panicked moment, I think he’s going to try and kiss me. But his eyes are focused on my arm, not my face.

  He places the pen between his teeth and pulls off the cap. His writing hand rests on my palm, pen poised over my forearm. The tip of the pen comes down, and he starts to draw.

  His hand moves with the surety of an artist. He draws on my skin, sketching lines that come together and form the face of my mother. Mom’s expression is one of focus and determination. It’s how she looked back on the League freighter before she was killed. Her black hair is tied back into a bun. Her eyes are fierce, her jaw set.

  Taro leans back, recapping the pen. “So you won’t forget what she looked like that day she came to save you.” He doesn’t let go of my hand.

  Something inside me snaps. I start to shake. Tears overflow down my cheeks.

  Taro’s arms come around me. I stiffen in surprise for an instant, then fall against him and sob into his shoulder. He holds me close as I weep. He strokes my damp hair with strong, gentle hands. I can’t remember ever feeling so wretched and so safe at the same time.

  “She made me mad all the time,” I say into his shoulder, forcing the words out between sobs. “The last time I saw her, back on the ship, we had a fight. I’m still angry at her.”

  “Do you love her?” Taro’s warm breath feathers my ear.

  “Yes,” I wail, without hesitation. “I loved her. I love her, Taro. I love her!”

  “That’s all that matters. All the other stuff doesn’t mean anything in the end. Hold on to the love.”

  If possible, I cry even harder. Images of my last few months with Mom flash through my head. The two of us arguing as I begged her to teach me self-defense; her catching me watching Merc reruns in my bedroom, our discussion disintegrating into another yelling match as I accused her of leaving me defenseless; our last epic fight over a gun;
and the wounded anger that hung between us on the League freighter.

  And despite all that, I ache for her. I ache, and ache, and ache.

  Mom.

  I don’t know how long I cry. It seems like years. Somehow I end up in Taro’s lap, my face buried in his neck. I cling to him like he’s the only thing in the world that exists. He rocks me back and forth, arms tight around me.

  At last my tears slow. My breath evens. I raise swollen eyes to look at him. He smiles at me, brushing away my tears with his thumb. His fingers cradle the back of my head.

  Some vague part of my mind registers his close proximity. Under normal circumstances, being this close to someone would make me uncomfortable. Especially when that someone is a teenage boy. But in this moment, his presence is all I want.

  I rest my cheek against his shoulder. To my horror, I see snot on his neck. I sit up and wipe it away with my hand. I rub the gunk onto my pajama leg.

  “Sorry,” I mutter, running my hands over his skin one last time to make sure I got everything. “I didn’t mean to—”

  He catches my hand in both of his and squeezes. “It’s okay, Sulan.”

  Our eyes meet.

  I hiccup and look away. I slide off his lap, laughing weakly at myself. “Sorry to fall apart like that.”

  “You had to let yourself fall apart with someone. I’m glad it was me. I’m glad it was here, where you have some privacy.”

  Warmth courses through me. I let my hand relax in his grip. It’s the only part of him I still touch.

  Then I see Riska. He’s sitting, of all places, on Taro’s shoulder. With his tail curled around Taro’s neck.

  Riska never, ever, sits on anyone except me and Dad.

  “Do you feel better?” Taro asks, his free hand petting Riska’s tail.

  “Yes,” I say, surprised to find that I really do.

  I eye Riska, waiting for him to move onto my shoulder. He doesn’t. He just gazes at me and purrs.

  “Do you want to go to the gym tomorrow? Hit the punching bag for a while with me?” Taro asks.