Sulan Box Set (Episodes 1-4)

by Camille Picott

  A red light flashes in his vision, warning Gun he has only a few protective layers remaining. Soon, Sulan will know the truth of who he is.

  Even if he could log out of Vex—which he can’t, not with the Dream Dust—he wouldn’t. He’s tired of lying to Sulan. He wants honesty to exist between them. It’s the only way he’ll ever win her heart, even if it means taking a giant step backward now.

  Bracing himself, he lets the last protective avatar slough off. He forces himself to face Sulan and look her in the eye, to let her know she’s at last meeting the real Gun.

  “You,” Claudine hisses.

  “You’re his son,” Sulan whispers. The devastation on her face is almost enough to level him. “William Anderson’s son.”

  The look in her eyes fills him with regret. He senses her withdrawing from him. Why hadn’t he told her the truth way back when? Why had he let things get so far out of hand? And why, why hadn’t he ever told her how he feels?

  He wishes things were different. He wishes they had privacy to talk. Time to talk.

  Neither are in the cards.

  “I’m sorry I lied to you, Short Stuff.” He’d say the words a thousand times if he could. They don’t even begin to convey how mashed up he feels inside.

  Claudine lets out an inarticulate shriek and raises her arm. A Constrictor shoots out of the sleeve of her pink jacket, a green snake with a gaping jaw hinged open to macerate his avatar and fry all his connected hardware.

  Gun is ready for this. In fact, he’d been banking on this particular offense. Certain facets of Claudine are predictable.

  He’s not looking forward to what comes next. Still, it has to be done. It’s the only way to protect Sulan from Claudine. Sulan knows too much.

  His father is going to flay him.

  REFRACTOR flashes across his vision. A mirror materializes in his hand. He raises his hand, cupping the mirror. The Constrictor hits it. The Refractor shatters the code, reforms it, and then reverses its trajectory. All in a millisecond.

  The Constrictor flies back toward Claudine, wrapping around her like a vise. She writhes and screams, her wings crumpling in the grip of the serpent. The creature twists tighter and tighter, crumpling her body like an aluminum can. Bits of code flake away in swirls of glowing white.

  Within seconds, she’s reduced to nothing more than brittle bits of code.

  In the real-world, Gun feels his stomach cramp. Bile works its way up his throat. He takes a deep breath, holding on to his last few moments with Sulan.

  “Short Stuff.” He steps toward her.

  “Stop. Don’t come any closer.”

  He will never let on how much those words hurt. Instead, he extends one hand as if meeting her for the first time.

  “My name is William Gunther Anderson, Junior. My close friends call me Gun.” No reaction from Sulan. He pushes on, desperate to fill the silence between them. “I may look different, but you know me. What we have is real. I wouldn’t have come for you at the League auction if what I felt wasn’t real.”

  She stares at him, the hurt shining in her eyes, but all she says is, “What-what did you do to Claudine?”

  She needs to know the truth. No more lying.

  “Claudine is—was—computer code,” he says. “After her accident, her consciousness existed in Vex only. The code that was Claudine has been destroyed by the Constrictor. She’s gone.”

  He leaves out the part about the Constrictor also frying Claudine’s life support. Sulan has enough on her mind; she doesn’t need to be bogged down with the gory details.

  Her jaw drops. “You—”

  “She released the Constrictor,” Gun says. “I merely turned the Black Tech back on her.” He steels himself, knowing their time is almost up. He’ll work more on his apology the next time they meet. For now, he needs her to understand the danger she’s in.

  “Listen to me, Sulan. Claudine knew you and your friends were planning to sneak into Vex with homemade tech. She and Reginald Winn have probably been monitoring your every move. The only reason they didn’t put an end to it is because Claudine wanted to get to me.”

  He watches her face, seeing when everything clicks into place. The hurt in her eyes is replaced by a new emotion: horror.

  “Mr. Winn might kill me.” Sulan swallows. “Gun, I . . .”

  His stomach knots. He only has a few more seconds before his body rebels from the Dream Dust and Nate pulls him out of Vex.

  He takes her by the shoulders. “Listen carefully to me. You’re in way over your head. I didn’t realize you knew so much about Project Renascentia. You must assume Reginald is aware of the information you have. He likely would have intervened sooner if Claudine hadn’t been hell bent on using you as bait to catch me.”

  “Mr. Winn is part of the League, too?” she asks, eyes widening.

  “No, Short Stuff.” Gun’s mouth tightens. “Claudine and Reginald aren’t with the League. They are the League. You have to get out of the Dome. Now.”

  He barely manages to get the words out before his dinner comes up. One second, Sulan stands before him in her ridiculous loaner avatar, the next, his headset is yanked off.

  He doesn’t even get to say goodbye.

  Nate, his best friend and personal assistant, rolls him sideways as Gun spews all over his bed. Expensive pieces of steak come up.

  “Damn, bro,” Nate says, propping a pillow behind Gun to keep him on his side. “Maybe you should have fasted before going after Claudine.”

  2

  Father

  Three empty flumazenil syringes lay in his wastebasket, each of them administered by Nate to combat the Dream Dust attack. Gun is glad they stockpiled the stuff when they first learned about Dream Dust tech.

  “Good thing you dumped her when you did.” Nate is tall and wiry like his father, with light brown hair and eyes. He’s almost as good a fighter as he is a hacker and programmer. “I can’t imagine how much more psycho she’d be if you’d dated for a decent amount of time. Do you want me to get Dr. Fitz?”

  Dr. Fitz is the Anderson family’s doctor. Gun shakes his head and works his mouth. Much of the paralysis has faded and he can at last speak.

  “Sulan.” The words come out slurred but intelligible. “Sulan in danger. Claudine—Claudine—” His throat seizes up, closing around the words he wants to say.

  His fist spasms around the bed sheet. Nate’s eyes flick from his hand to Gun’s eyes.

  “What happened to Sulan?” Nate knows how Gun feels about her.

  “Constrictor,” Gun says. “Claudine. She’s— She’s—” This time, when his mouth fails him, he slams his fist against the bed.

  Gun closes his eyes, fighting for control. He isn’t any good to Sulan if he can’t keep it together.

  Her face swims before him. When she realized who he really was, when she learned their friendship was based on a lie—the memory of the look in her eyes still knocks the breath out of him. He has to make it up to her somehow. He has to save her from Mr. Winn.

  “Dead.” Gun grinds out the word. “She’s dead.”

  Nate freezes, eyes rounding. “Sulan?”

  “Claudine.”

  Nate’s face pales. “Claudine is dead?”

  Gun nods. At least killing Claudine bought Sulan a little time.

  Nate stares at him, mouth hanging open. Then he lets out a string of cuss words.

  “This is bad, Gun. Mr. Winn will be out for blood.”

  Gun nods again. “Sulan . . . danger.”

  Nate gets to his feet, pacing back and forth. “Okay,” he says. “I should get the Dread Twins. We need to find the Global compound.”

  “Yes.”

  Nate points a finger at him. “When you can speak again, I need the whole story. Every detail. You killed Claudine.”

  “I did.”

  Nate curses again. “You know your dad is going to kill you, right? For real this time. I hope you have a good explanation.” He scowls at Gun. “You couldn’t have
picked worse timing. Your dad’s been in a mood ever since the last Skeletex prototype failed.”

  Without waiting for a response, he grabs Gun’s tablet off the nightstand and dials up the Dread Twins.

  “I need you guys to sweep North America again,” Nate says without preamble. “Use whatever means you have. Call in any favors. We need to know where the Global compound is. Whatever it takes, you need to find it.”

  Lox, one of the twins, says, “We’ve already done four sweeps. None of our contacts has seen any sign of them. None of our drones has picked up anything. Global is cloaked and self-sufficient.”

  “Try again.” Nate’s voice is icy. “And then try again.” Without another word, he signs off and tosses the tablet aside. He paces back and forth.

  “Nate—”

  His friend whirls on him. “I have to tell your dad.”

  Gun closes his eyes. “Yes.”

  “I’m giving you another injection. When he comes storming in here, you’d better be able to talk better than you can now.” Nate jams the syringe into Gun’s arm, depresses the plunger, and then stalks out the bedroom door.

  Gun sighs and closes his eyes. He is not looking forward to confronting his father.

  • • •

  Thirty minutes later, William Anderson strides into his son’s bedroom. His face is ruddy with rage, dreadlocks swinging around his shoulders.

  Maia and Margaret—Gun’s sister and mother—follow. Maia is full figured with dark skin that almost matches their father’s. She specializes in intelligence and surveillance. Margaret, nearly six feet tall with reddish hair, specializes in agriculture.

  The two hover in the bedroom doorway, not brave enough to invade the father-son combat zone. Nate hangs back with them.

  “Is it true?” Anderson roars.

  Gun nods, meeting his father’s eyes without flinching.

  “You killed her? Damn it, son, this isn’t good. Reginald will hunt down our entire family.”

  “You’ve wanted Claudine’s blood for weeks,” Maia says. “That was the whole point of keeping our permanent guest.”

  “Reginald and Claudine’s blood,” Anderson snaps. “Both of them. At the same time. Leaving one alive is sloppy and makes for complications.”

  “We’re just going to have to get to Reginald before he gets to us.” Maia braves two steps into the room, squaring her shoulders.

  “Killing him is preferable, if we can find the slippery bastard,” Anderson snarls. “The problem is finding him. He has a lot of hiding places.”

  Gun works his throat, irritated the flumazenil isn’t working faster. “Sulan,” he croaks. “Need . . . to find her.”

  His father, as always, glares at the mention of Sulan’s name. He doesn’t approve of Gun’s softness for the Hom girl, something Gun hadn’t been able to hide.

  “You were supposed to turn the VHS girl into a spy for us, not fall in love with her,” Anderson says. “However, that doesn’t mean we can’t make use of her.”

  “Sulan—not a tool!” The GABA truncates his speech, but he plows on. “Will not—use her!”

  His father’s eyes narrow. He takes a step forward, drawing himself up to his full height. The weight of his father’s disapproval makes Gun feel two inches tall, but he doesn’t look away.

  “She’s a tool if I say she’s a tool,” Anderson replies, voice so cold it raises gooseflesh on Gun’s arms. “Don’t forget who’s in charge of this family.”

  Gun holds his ground and glares back. “You don’t hurt her.”

  Anderson throws back his head and laughs. Instead of dispelling the tension, it makes Gun grind his teeth.

  “Who says I want to hurt her?” Anderson says. “We’ll make her part of the Anderson family. She’ll be given every measure of comfort.”

  This should comfort Gun, but it doesn’t. He knows his father too well. If Sulan doesn’t conform to his father’s wishes, Anderson won’t hesitate to toss her out on the street. Or kill her.

  For now, though, he doesn’t push the subject. His father is willing to help find Sulan and bring her to safety. That’s enough, for now.

  “We haven’t been able to find the compound,” Nate says, taking a few hesitant steps into the room. “Reginald covered his tracks flawlessly. His cloaking technology is top-notch. The Dome is self-contained, meaning there’s little need for anyone to come and go.”

  “What I wouldn’t give to have Winn’s team of shield technologists,” Maia mutters.

  Anderson drums his nails on the footboard of the bed. “The Hom girl has two ways out of the Dome. She’s either going to have to contact you for help”—he jabs a finger at Gun—“or she’s going to have to break out. We need to be ready for both scenarios.” He looks Gun up and down. “How long are you going to be incapacitated?”

  Gun shrugs, mouth tightening. “Don’t know.”

  “Get Dr. Fitz up here,” Anderson orders Nate. “We need Gun up and operational as soon as possible.”

  Nate obeys without a word, darting away to get Dr. Fitz.

  Anderson turns to Maia. “Get every surveillance specialist scanning North America. Have every merc on alert. When the Homs surface, we’ll be ready with the Skeletex suits.”

  Maia follows Nate, disappearing from the room.

  “But they’re not ready yet—” Margaret begins. Anderson may have publicly unveiled Skeletex, but the suits are only in the prototype stage.

  “They’ll be ready enough,” Anderson says. “Enough to put on a good show and swing public opinion so Congress will award the defense contract to Anderson Arms. And charge Reginald with treason.” He gives Gun a tight-lipped nod. “This might be the tipping point, son. Let’s hope so. Next time, try not to get yourself killed.” Without another word, he strides from the room.

  Margaret, his mother, remains behind, disappearing from sight to rummage in Gun’s study. She returns a few minutes later, carrying his waste bin. It has several plastic water bottles inside. She tosses them onto the bed beside Gun. He doesn’t ask what they’re for. From what he knows of Dream Dust—and the amount of it dumped on him—it’ll be at least another twelve hours before he can use his legs.

  Margaret rests her hand on Gun’s shoulder. “We’ll find your girl, sweetheart,” she murmurs. “I’m looking forward to meeting her. She must be something special to have captured your attention.”

  She leaves without another word. Gun closes his eyes, relieved to be left alone.

  Your girl. He wishes he could say that of Sulan. But she’s with the merc boy. She told Gun as much. It makes him angry for botching things with her.

  It doesn’t matter. He’ll go to the end of the earth for Sulan, whether she’s his or not. All that matters is her safety.

  Somehow, he has to find her. He has to get her away from Global before they kill her, or worse.

  How had things gone so bad, so fast?

  If he was honest with himself, things had been on a downward spiral for a while. He’d been trying to hold together a house of cards in a stiff wind. He knew it had to come down sooner or later, but that hadn’t stopped him from trying to keep it upright.

  It could all be traced back to his dimple. His dimple, his father, and Gun’s investigation into Global Arms.

  3

  Family

  Six months ago . . .

  “Your dad wants to see you.”

  Gun looks up from his tablet as Nate enters his study.

  Gun kicks his feet off the desk and stands, tossing the tablet aside. It clatters on the antique teak. He glances at it, wondering if there’s damage, then dismisses it. He can always buy another. He’d been thinking of getting a newer model anyway.

  “Did my dad say what he wants?”

  Nate shakes his head. “No.”

  Gun grunts. Of course not. The great William Anderson never explains himself.

  With Nate beside him, he strides out of his office to the elevator. It glides upward to his father’s personal wing
of the mansion.

  “How are you doing?” Gun asks his friend.

  Nate shrugs. “Fine.”

  He doesn’t look fine. He looks like he’s not sleeping. His face is pale, his eyes ringed by dark hollows. Nate never complains, but Gun knows he’s battled insomnia since his parents divorced six months ago.

  “I can get you some decent sleeping pills.”

  Nate shakes his head. “You know I don’t like medicine.”

  Gun knows. He nods, deciding not to push his friend.

  The elevator opens, depositing them in a hallway that oozes bright colors and eccentric shapes. William Anderson is a fan of post modernism. His collection of Andy Warhol art lines the hallways and fills every room on the floor.

  Gun finds the mash of colors garish and distracting. He prefers the calm, monochromatic colors of early twenty-first century modernism.

  The double doors to his father’s study are wide open. William Anderson stands at the window puffing on a cigar.

  He’s a big man with ropey dreadlocks that hang to his waist. He doesn’t look that different from the avatar he wears in Vex. He’s a little grayer with fine wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. A paunch has grown over what was once a washboard stomach. But these are small, subtle differences; nothing so drastically different as the avatar Reginald Winn fabricated for himself. His father prides himself on the fact that he was born with a good physique.

  “You sent for me,” Gun states, coming to stand beside his father at the window. Nate remains behind, folding himself against the wall beside the door.

  William Anderson doesn’t look at Gun right away, instead puffing on the cigar and enjoying the view from his window. It overlooks a man-made pond seeded with trout. Fat ducks paddle around, unaware one of them might be tonight’s dinner.

  His father gives his dreadlocks a flick. Those are another point of pride for him and the main reason Gun keeps his head clean shaven.