Sulan Box Set (Episodes 1-4)

by Camille Picott

  “Yes, Mr. Winn,” I say, even though I’d rather not know whatever it is that has Mr. Winn worked up. I have a sinking feeling he’s going to use me to leverage himself out of whatever this situation is.

  “Those rat bastards are launching a new defense weapon,” he snarls. “They’re gunning for my weapons contract! My contract!” he shouts. Red suffuses his face. He clenches his hands, knuckles white.

  I shift in uncomfortable silence as he fumes. I’m relieved he hasn’t uncovered any of my scheming with Daruuk, Uncle Zed, Billy, or Taro, but having him glare at the room at large—with me front and center—is unnerving.

  “My informants at Anderson Arms tell me that William Anderson plans to unveil a new product in two days. That bastard is trying to undermine Global’s advancements with smoke and mirrors.”

  I nod, staying mute. Right now, my job is to stand here, let Mr. Winn vent, and agree with everything he says.

  “My informants haven’t been able to glean any details. But I’ll be damned if I let that man steal my limelight. You’re going on stage tomorrow. You will unveil two new Green Combat prototypes.”

  Me? My mouth goes dry. I nod curtly. My legs feel weak. I lock my knees to keep myself upright.

  “Not her.” Claudine wheels in. The green eyes of her avatar are fierce.

  Behind her strides Maxwell. The sight of him makes my stomach clench.

  Traitor! I scream silently, resolutely pushing away memories of my kidnapping.

  Maxwell sweeps his gaze across the room, taking everything in—including me. His eyes narrow when he sees me.

  My instinct is to jerk my gaze away, but I force myself to give him a small, furtive smile. Hopefully, he’ll think I’m trying to stay on friendly terms with him after Riska’s attacks. At the same time, I put a hand on Riska to keep him calm. He rumbles, but doesn’t hiss or dive-bomb the merc.

  “Uncle, use the Simmons girl.” Claudine rolls to a stop beside Mr. Winn. Her bald head reflects the bright LED lights. “She’s better with the public.”

  “No,” Mr. Winn says. “It must be Miss Hom. Her father’s reputation carries more weight. We need every advantage. I have confidence in Miss Hom.” His eyes flick to me. “My confidence is not misplaced, is it, Miss Hom?”

  “No, Mr. Winn.”

  “Go.” He gestures at the door with his chin. “Miss Sturgess is waiting for you.” He narrows his eyes at me. “You will deliver tomorrow night. You will make the crowd love you, and you will make them embrace our bioweapon technology.”

  “Yes, Mr. Winn.” I turn and exit the room, all too happy to leave Maxwell and the Winns behind. The Highjacker sits untouched in my pocket. It will have to wait for another time.

  • • •

  Kerry Sturgess is as worked up as everyone else. She paces up and down our prep room.

  “So he chose you, did he?” she says by way of greeting when I enter.

  “Me.” I give her a cool stare.

  Kerry stops pacing. “You,” she says, jabbing a finger at me, “have to sell it. You have to embrace everything Green Combat represents. This isn’t about vomiting up a script with a fake smile. We’re going up against Anderson Arms. If there’s anyone who could steal the defense contract out from under us, it’s them.”

  “Mr. Winn wants me to do this,” I say. “You have to help me get ready.” Riska mews, pushing his head against my cheek.

  Kerry studies me, lips pursed. At last she nods. “With that attitude, you have a chance to pull this off. Let’s get to work. Have a seat.”

  I sit on the edge of the sofa. Riska settles into my lap.

  Kerry stands in front of me. She produces a tablet and passes it to me. It displays an image of a bird.

  “This picture was taken in our lab,” she says. “Make note of the size.”

  I study the picture. The bird has a scaled head, leathery wings, and a feathered body. It’s standing next to … I blink in surprise.

  “That’s a Gav.”

  Kerry smiles, pleased. “Yes. The bird is standing next to a Gav. We call the bird a Porter. Short for Green Transporter. They’re being grown right next to the Gavs. This Porter is only one week old.”

  I take the tablet in both hands, studying the animal. “If it’s only a week old, it’s going to be huge when it’s full grown.”

  “Precisely. This, Sulan, is the future of human transport. No more hulking metal and plastic gas guzzlers in our American skies. The Porter is an organic, green choice for transport.”

  “It’s like an airplane?” It’s hard not to be impressed.

  “When it’s full grown, yes. Mr. Winn wasn’t planning to release information on these for another six months, but with the new threat of Anderson Arms we have no choice but to tip our hand. The Porters will revolutionize the transportation industry. These aren’t just for military defense. They will open transcontinental travel to everyone. Just like it used to be in pre-’Fault days. Now take a look at this.”

  Kerry brings up a new picture and passes the tablet back to me. Crouched in the picture is a creature that looks like a cross between a lizard and a sea turtle. Its armored exterior shell gleams blue-black. Large spikes march down its spine. The legs look more like a frog’s than a turtle’s. The spiked head is tucked into the shell.

  “The Phib—short for Amphibious Green Attack Vehicle—is a relative of the Gav. Its development is further along than the Porters. The Phibs will help us improve defense of our country’s oceans, lakes, and rivers. They’re roughly the same size as the Gavs.”

  I scroll through the pictures on the tablet. The Phibs are hollow like the Gavs, the insides accessible through a part of the exterior shell that folds back.

  “Do they smell as bad as the Gavs?” I ask, recalling the horrid stench of the Gav my dad stole to rescue us from the League.

  Kerry actually laughs. “That’s been quite a point of debate over the past few months. To answer your question, yes, they do smell better.”

  I raise my eyebrows and decide not to ask how much better. If the Phib has any stench, better for me if I don’t know about it.

  Kerry and I work deep into the night as she educates me on the details of the Phib and the Porter. By the time we’re finished, my brain buzzes with the new information. The company lines play in my head like a song.

  Global has always been a pioneer in Green technology.

  We at Global Arms embrace the safety of our nation and the preservation of our natural resources.

  Green Combat provides sustainable security.

  “You’re as ready as you’ll ever be.” Kerry’s so wired she can’t stop drumming her fingers. Her left leg twitches periodically. “Go home. Get some sleep. Be ready to go in the morning.”

  36

  Skeletex

  Kerry is waiting for me on the ledge outside the Fortress when I arrive the next morning. She plucks at my polo shirt, straightening it and trying to smooth out the wrinkles.

  “The creases won’t show in Vex,” I tell her.

  “Everything shows in Vex.” Kerry purses her lips at me in disapproval.

  “I can do this,” I say, trying to sooth her.

  She nods curtly. “Come on. Mr. Winn is waiting.”

  Today, Mr. Winn is wearing a navy blue tracksuit with orange racing stripes down the side. The overall look is accented by his fluorescent-green tennis shoes.

  I give Mr. Winn my best smile to show him I’m ready. To my shock, he bursts out laughing.

  “Ms. Sturgess,” he says between chuckles, “I do believe your hard work is finally paying off. This is the first time Miss Hom has ever smiled at me.” He levels me with a steady gaze. “If you can deliver that”—he points at me—“in Vex today, we’re golden.”

  “Yes, Mr. Winn.”

  “This will be an intimate event,” Mr. Winn continues. “Only five hundred avatars. Reporters and other people of influence.”

  “We expect the very best from you.” Claudine rolls into the r
oom, her screen rotating to give me a skeptical look. She’s alone this time, Maxwell nowhere in sight. “Global is counting on you.”

  I nod. At Mr. Winn’s gesture, I take a seat on one of the green leather chairs. Here goes nothing, I think, slipping on my Vex set.

  • • •

  When I materialize on a modest stage before an amphitheater full of reporters and other “people of influence,” I throw all my nervous energy into my job. I smile at the people, waving congenially. My avatar wears a cream pantsuit and wedge shoes. My hair is swept back into a bun.

  The avatars before me are on the conservative side. Most look like normal—albeit highly attractive—people in business clothes. I do spot one man with forks in a neat row down the center of his head like a mohawk, and a woman with snakes coming out of her eye sockets, but they are the few oddities among a sea of normalcy.

  Claudine materializes next to me, looking pretty in a crisp navy blue dress. She delivers a short introductory speech. When she ushers me to center stage, the smile she gives me is creepily sincere. I briefly wonder if she has a programmer who specializes in fake smiles.

  I face the crowd, feeling exposed and out of my element. As I look out at them—all five hundred staring back at me—I begin to speak.

  The days and days of constant hammering from Kerry kick in. Flawless Global propaganda flows from my lips. My words roll out with the smoothness of a well-greased engine.

  “… we at Global Arms embrace the safety of our nation and the preservation of our natural resources,” I say, wrapping up my introduction. Then I recap previously introduced Green Combat weapons before segueing into the new products.

  “Now I’m going to show you two new astounding products coming soon from Global Arms. Believe me when I say these products will revolutionize our world.” If that’s not perfect company rhetoric, I don’t know what is.

  In my hand is a small remote. I press a button, summoning a huge holographic image of a Phib. It floats in the air, rotating above the audience.

  “This is an Amphibious Green Attack Vehicle. We at Global Arms call them Phibs for short. The Phibs will help us improve the defense of our country’s oceans, lakes, and rivers—”

  Above me, the image of the Phib flickers, momentarily replaced with a dreadlocked man in a brown-and-yellow pinstriped suit. The crowd gasps in surprise. A flutter of anticipation runs through them.

  No, I think. Please don’t let William Anderson crash this event.

  “The Phib is a relative of Global’s Green Attack Vehicle,” I say, plastering on a big smile and trying to draw the audience back to me. “It—”

  The image of the Phib shorts out. William Anderson replaces it. He holds both arms out, rotating in midair like he’s a god. Favoring me with a smile, he descends toward the stage.

  “You’re not welcome here.” I make my voice cold, terrified of what Mr. Winn will do if I can’t regain control of this disaster. Every eye in the room is locked on the interloper.

  Where are the Global cybermercs? They can come to my rescue anytime. Right now would be great.

  Anderson lands, towering over me by at least a foot and a half. He’s a massive man with shoulders like a bookcase. Raising a hand, he rests it on my shoulder. I step back, putting several paces between us. He gives me a smooth smile and turns toward the crowd, as if he’s introducing me.

  This is not good.

  “My fellow Americans!” Anderson’s voice is a deep, booming bass. “I’m sure everyone in this room echoes my feelings when I thank Sulan Hom for a job well done.”

  His teeth flash white beneath the bright lights. I see cunning in his black eyes as he turns toward me. There’s a brief second when I see something familiar in him—in the broadness of his shoulders, the shape of his nose and the set of his eyes. The sensation dissipates as Anderson pins his gaze on me.

  “You and your friends have done this country a great service. You are a hero of the highest caliber. Let’s show Miss Hom our deepest gratitude,” he says, clapping his hands together. The stadium crowd erupts into cheers. People whistle and shout my name.

  Anytime now, Mr. Winn. Your tech team can step in anytime now.

  Anderson extends a hand in my direction, grinning to encourage the crowd’s enthusiasm.

  I purse my lips and narrow my eyes. I will not let this jerk seize control of my press conference. I am sick of people controlling me, and for once there is no one stopping me from fighting back.

  “Mr. Anderson,” I snap, “I think you might be lost. This is a Global Arms event. Or do you work for Global now? I haven’t heard our company acquired yours.”

  Anderson laughs, a big, booming sound. “Your loyalty is commendable, Miss Hom.”

  There’s a moment when our eyes meet, and that sense of familiarity washes through me again. The moment is gone almost immediately as I steel myself to square off against one of the most powerful men in America.

  “It’s more than loyalty, Mr. Anderson.” I’m proud my voice doesn’t quaver. “Global Arms is the future of America. Mr. Winn’s Green Combat technology will protect this country—”

  “Oh, please, Miss Hom. Save your canned speeches. No one is interested in them.” He turns his back on me and faces the crowd. “What the good people here tonight want to know is how Anderson Arms hacked a Global Arms press event.” He smiles. “How can the good people of our country trust a company that can’t even create a decent Vex firewall? How are people supposed to trust the technology from such a company?”

  Where the hell is Global? How am I supposed to steer this train wreck?

  I march forward, planting myself in front of Anderson. “Hacking a firewall is nothing like the genetic marvels my father’s team has created,” I snap. Wow, that sounded like it came from Kerry’s handbook. “Green Combat is the future of America’s security. It—”

  “Global couldn’t even protect you from the League,” Anderson says, dreadlocks swinging. “And yet you stand here as their champion. Why?”

  My mouth opens, closes, then opens again. My brain latches onto a single sentence drilled into my brain by Kerry. “I am part of the Global family.”

  Anderson gives me a look. The look tells me he knows how phony I’m being. If we’d been in the real-world, I’d be blushing. He doesn’t dress me down or call me out, but he does ignore me and turn back to the audience.

  “My time here is short, ladies and gentlemen, but in the few moments we have left, I want to introduce you to Anderson Arms’ latest creation: Skeletex.”

  He opens his large hands, palms up. Beams of light shoot out of his palms, gathering in a giant glowing ball over his head. The ball of light grows, expanding into the amphitheater.

  An image coalesces out of the light. It’s a man in the dark green mercenary jumpsuit of Anderson Arms. The company logo—a giant A formed from Wild West rifles—is embroidered in black on the left breast of the uniform.

  Covering the man is what looks like an exoskeleton. The top of his head and the back of his neck is covered in a bone-white sheath. More of the material covers his chest and torso like a giant, external rib cage. The image rotates, and I see what looks like a spinal column down the man’s back. The suit continues, covering the man’s arms and legs with more of the bony substance. The bones run down the front and back of his arms and legs, connected by more bones that circle his biceps, forearms, thighs, calves, and ankles.

  I stare up at the spectra of the mercenary, partially in awe, partially in horror. Awe because, in all honesty, the suit looks pretty slick. Horror because I know it’s my job to keep the audience focused on Global. I don’t have the slightest idea of what to say or how to steer this media catastrophe into clear waters.

  “Is this Halloween?” I do my best to insert scorn into my voice. “The American public is looking for protection and security, not a costume contest.” I put my hands on my hips and glare up at the giant figure of William Anderson. I have to tilt my head all the way back to do it. I
t’s hard not to be aware of how tiny I look next to him. I’m like a mouse squeaking at a lion.

  William Anderson quirks an eyebrow at me and chuckles. It’s not a cruel chuckle, but a sound of genuine amusement. When the big man looks down at me, I see someone who sees straight through my PR pedicure.

  “This,” says William Anderson, turning his gaze up at the imposing merc projected above him, “is Skeletex. It’s the future of American homeland security. The Skeletex—”

  Anderson is cut off mid-sentence, his avatar shattering into a swirl of pixels.

  Finally. Global cybermercs doing their job.

  I hold my ground and put on my best mutinous expression, hoping I look repelled by Anderson’s insinuation.

  The stadium collapses. I’m dumped into the swirling blue of Vex.

  37

  Highjacker

  I rip off my Vex set and emerge in real-world chaos. Mr. Winn is on his feet, yelling at the top of his lungs. His face is almost the same shade as the orange racing stripes on his tracksuit. His voice cuts above the frantic cacophony of the tech team. The gray-shirted men and women are in disarray, shouting at one another over electronic devices, wires, and cables.

  “You fix this right now or I’ll have every last one of you out in snow within the hour! Do you hear me? The Alaskan wilderness is a brutal place, people! It’s one of the few places in America where wild animals still live. You want to end up as wolf meat?”

  Spittle flies from his mouth as he rages at the men and women frantically tapping away on their tablets.

  To avoid drawing his attention, I slink down in my chair. I might end up running through the snow from wolves if he’s not pleased by my performance tonight. Riska stands on my lap, spine arched as he hisses at everything and everyone.

  “Quiet, boy.” I push on his back. He continues to hiss, but his fur smooths and he settles himself in my lap.

  “Do you know what it’s like to die of frostbite?” Mr. Winn thunders, stalking across the room toward the tech workers. “It starts in your hands, feet, and nose. It will burn and itch.”