Sulan Box Set (Episodes 1-4)

by Camille Picott

  • • •

  In the normal course of life, intel is Gun’s specialty. Between himself, Nate, and the Dread Twins, he’s used to having the upper hand on information.

  “How did the Winns build an entire compound without leaving some kind of trail?” Gun demands, slamming his hands against his desk. The tablet jumps from the force.

  The Dread Twins wince. Even Nate winces.

  “They had to move people and equipment to build a compound,” Gun continues, trying to level his tone. “You can’t move those kinds of resources without leaving a trail.”

  “It’s not impossible,” Lox ventures. “If he paid for everything in cash and conducted the transport work with his own people, it’s possible to be transparent. There are so few people living in the north that it’s possible to move without witnesses . . .” He trails off at Gun’s glare.

  “I want to know where the compound is,” Gun says.

  “We’ve looked,” Mage says. “We’ve called in favors. We’ve launched drones and hijacked satellite feeds. We haven’t found a trace of the compound. They must be using cloaking technology.”

  “We need feet on the ground,” Gun growls. “Hire scouts to scour the area.”

  “That’s six hundred thousand square acres of frozen land to search,” Lox argues. “Even if we could find enough people with the skills to scout it all, it would take too long.”

  “I don’t care what it takes.” Gun leans forward, knuckles white on the top of his desk. “I want to know where they’re taking her. Find her!”

  No one asks who her is.

  • • •

  “Um, Gun?” Maia stands in the doorway of his suite, a tablet in her hands. “Have you seen the news?”

  Gun, hunched over maps and satellite footage of Alaska, doesn’t look up.

  “What is it?” he asks.

  “You’re going to want to see this.” She sets the tablet in front of him on the desk.

  Nate, hunched over his set of maps and satellite footage beside Gun, leans over for a look. At his sharp intake of breath, Gun peels his eyes away from his work.

  His heart does a somersault when he sees Sulan on the roof of a high-rise building. League agents drop out of a helicopter, converging on her and her family.

  Gun feels like his entire world is being swept out from under him.

  • • •

  The next twelve hours are a waking nightmare. He watches, helpless, as Sulan is taken by the League. When Imugi announces her impending sale on the black market, Gun just about loses it.

  “I’m going to see Balor,” he snarls.

  Maia and Nate exchange looks.

  “Dude, that’s a bad idea.”

  Gun whirls on his best friend. “I’m not in the mood for your opinion.”

  Maia attempts to intercede, voice calm and soothing. “Big bro, I know you care about this girl. I know she’s special. I get that. We—”

  “Don’t try to talk me down.” Gun grinds out the words. “There’s only one way to help Sulan. I need Balor.”

  “We’ll find another way,” Maia says. “Sergio can help, or even the Barron—”

  “No, they can’t. Balor is the only one who can get me into the League auction.”

  Silence. Nate and Maia stare at him, mouths agape. It’s not often he can render both of them speechless.

  “Dad will kill you,” Maia says, at the same time Nate says, “Your dad will flip.”

  With a snarl, Gun stalks into his bedroom. He slams the door and locks it.

  Just because he stupidly bartered away an ornithropter to Balor for intel—good intel, although everyone ignores that point—doesn’t mean he’ll do it again. He’d been fourteen, a newbie in the world of negotiations. His father stripped him of his allowance for a full year after the blunder with Balor.

  Ignoring the pleas from the other room, Gun puts on his Vex set and enters a virtual Irish pub. Occupants are engaged in a dart throwing competition. Every time a dart hits a bull’s-eye, a different character from Celtic mythology steps out of the target to congratulate the player.

  A dragon materializes out of a target and wraps around the woman who threw a bull’s-eye. The dragon breaks into song, singing to the woman in Gaelic.

  Gun cuts through the crowd to the bathroom at the back of the facility. You’d think a bathroom in Vex would draw attention, but no one pays it any attention.

  Gun pushes through the doors and finds himself facing two black horses. They have slimy green manes and fangs that poke past their upper lips. At the sight of him, the horses transform into two voluptuous women. They have thick, rubbery skin, glowing red eyes, and sharp incisors. Their slimy green hair snakes around their breasts.

  Kelpies. Gun grimaces. Balor takes his Celtic obsession to the extreme.

  The kelpies smile at him. They’re not welcoming or seductive smiles; they’re the smiles of predators.

  “I’m here to see Balor,” Gun says.

  “William Anderson, Junior,” purrs the first kelpie, oozing toward him.

  Gun sidesteps, deftly avoiding her hair. He knows better than to let either of the kelpies touch him. Who knows what kind of Black Tech they ooze.

  “Our lord says you are most welcome in Tir Na Nog,” says the second kelpie, flashing her canines as she slinks closer to him.

  “Then let me in,” Gun replies.

  The kelpies purr, their predatory smiles deepening. “We here tell that you bring the best gifts,” they say, voices chiming in eerie unison. “Did you bring gifts for us, William Anderson, Junior?”

  Gun’s mouth tightens. After the ornithropter incident, he guessed they wouldn’t let him in for free. Still, he hates giving anything away.

  He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a slim metal square.

  “Uncle Zed Black Tech.” He holds up the metal square. “Touch. Piranhas. A few other goodies.”

  The first kelpie tries to snatch it, but Gun pulls back his hand.

  “Entrance into Tir Na Nog,” he says.

  The second kelpie hisses in annoyance, then waves her hand. The wall at the back of the room ripples and dissolves, revealing a verdant landscape with an Arthurian castle set atop an honest-to-god knoll.

  Without another look in their direction, Gun tosses the metal square at the kelpies and strides into Tir Na Nog.

  Fifteen minutes later, he stands in the palace throne room. Balor sits atop an ornately carved wooden throne inset with jewels. He’s a handsome avatar with too-smooth skin and mud-red hair. In the center of his forehead is a third eye, the lid closed. Gun has never seen the third eye open, though he’s heard it’s rigged with all sorts of nasty Black Tech.

  The throne room is filled with milling avatars. The men are in kilts and frilly shirts, the women in plaid gowns. They appear to be having a party. According to the rumors, Balor loves parties. He spikes the food and casks of mead with Touch. Since everyone still has their clothes on, Gun assumes the party only just started.

  “Anderson!” Balor booms, a grin splitting his handsome face. “Well met, old friend.”

  He sounds like he stepped out of the Renaissance. It takes every ounce of willpower for Gun not to roll his eyes.

  The crowd hushes and parts, opening an aisle for Gun. He strides to the base of the throne. Feeling like a complete idiot, he bows low before Balor. He can kiss ass when he needs to, even if he finds it galling. He can do anything for Sulan.

  “Rise,” Balor says. The crowd folds in behind Gun. The chatter picks back up, though there is a fair share of gawkers near the throne.

  “It has long been my hope you’d one day cross the veil back into Tir Na Nog,” Balor says. “It’s been too long, old friend.”

  Old friend. Well, Balor did acquire an ornithropter from their one and only meeting. Gun supposes one could buy friendship with that appalling negotiation.

  He puts on his best smile, not even caring that he flashes his dimple. “How’s the ornithropter?”

&nbs
p; Balor booms with laughter. “The beast serves me well. I don’t suppose you have another from your stable for trade on this fine day?”

  “Unfortunately, no.”

  Balor sighs. “Ah, well. One could only hope. So tell me, my friend, what brings you here?”

  Gun opts to skip the small talk. “You’ve heard of the League’s black market auction?”

  “Of course.” Balor sips from a goblet, its contents glowing green with Touch.

  “I want in.”

  Balor chokes on his drink. Surprise is replaced by amusement. “Why would you stoop to flesh trade, my friend? Surely one with your means can acquire someone without crossing paths with the League?”

  So Balor, whoever he is, doesn’t approve of the League. Gun takes mental note of this. It could be important one day.

  “I need to get into that auction,” is all he says in response. “Can you help me or not?”

  “It’s so distasteful.” Balor leans back in his throne, setting his goblet aside with a grimace. “They’re just children.”

  Gun doesn’t have time for discussions on the finer points of terrorism. “I’m sorry I bothered you. If you can’t help me, I’ll find someone who can.” He turns, angling for the door.

  “I didn’t say I couldn’t help,” Balor calls. “I just said it’s distasteful business.”

  Gun turns back. “I don’t disagree. Will you help me or not?”

  Balor’s eyebrows lift in surprise as he studies Gun. “There is very little Balor’s power cannot touch. However, what you ask will be costly. Even did you have an ornithropter for trade, it wouldn’t be enough.”

  Gun knows his next few plays have to be flawless. “What do you want in exchange?” he asks.

  Balor steeples his fingers, eyes slitting with pleasure. “A person in my position could benefit from having access to Anderson Arms mercenaries.”

  I bet you could, Gun thinks.

  “One corps, at the time and place of my choosing,” Balor says. “Any time, any place. When I need them, you send them.”

  Gun furrows his brow, pretending to consider Balor’s proposal. He can imagine his father’s face if he bartered away Anderson Arms’ soldiers. He’d lose a lot more than one year’s allowance.

  “Anderson soldiers aren’t mine to trade away.”

  Balor opens his mouth, but Gun cuts him off. “What I can offer is something more . . . appealing. May I approach?”

  Balor, intrigued, nods. Gun mounts the stairs one at a time, careful to keep his face impassive. When he reaches the throne, he slips a hand into his pocket and pulls out a slender hologram projector.

  “If you help me get into the League, I’ll destroy this.” Gun flips the hologram projector between his fingers.

  “And what is that?”

  “All the information I’ve found on Lucien McCarthy.”

  Balor goes perfectly still, though Gun doesn’t miss the flare of shock, then anger, in his eyes. The two men stare at each other without speaking. Balor’s grip tightens on the arms of his throne.

  “How do you think everyone here would react if they found out Lucien McCarthy, their beloved Balor, is nothing more than a sorry—”

  “Enough,” Balor hisses. “Give me the projector.”

  He reaches for it, but Gun lifts it above the other man’s head. Balor would have to get out of his throne to grab it. It’s a calculated maneuver, but Gun is pretty sure the man would rather die than be seen squabbling like a commoner over a projector.

  “Get me into the League auction,” Gun says, “and it’s yours. I only have one copy. I give you my word that no one else will have access to the information I have in here.”

  “And what is the word of an Anderson worth?” Balor spats.

  Gun shrugs. “I held up my end of our last bargain. I delivered the ornithropter.”

  Balor’s nostrils flare. “Fine. I agree. Now give it to me.”

  “League auction first,” Gun counters.

  “What you ask isn’t easy. I need three hours.”

  “Fine,” Gun replies. “I’ll wait.”

  And with that, he returns the hologram projector to his pocket and makes himself comfortable at the foot of the dais. He’s careful not to let his emotions show, but he’s immensely pleased with himself.

  He’s learned a lot since he was fourteen.

  15

  Code

  When he emerges from his bedroom several hours later, he’s not surprised to find Maia and Nate sharing a bottle of booze.

  “Tequila?” He gives them a disparaging look. “Really?”

  “Desperate times call for desperate measures.” Maia sits up, blinking at him. That’s when he notices the second bottle of tequila, this one empty, lying on the floor next to the sofa.

  “I have good brandy,” Gun reminds her.

  His sister waves a dismissive hand. “Not good enough. Oh, God.” She clutches her stomach. “I think I might be sick.” She blinks up at Gun. “Wait, don’t tell me. Do we still own all our ornithropters?”

  Gun goes to his mini fridge and pulls out a bottle of water. He tosses the first one to Nate, who catches it, and the second one to Maia. She bats it out of the air, then groans as she gets on her hands and knees to fish it out from under the coffee table.

  “Seriously,” she calls from the floor. “What did you give to Balor this time? I want to be prepared when you tell Dad.”

  “I want to make sure I’m sick with pneumonia that day,” Nate adds. He takes two long draughts from the water bottle. “Dude, don’t sugarcoat it. Give it to us straight.”

  Gun shrugs, sitting on the edge of his desk. “Nothing.”

  They both stare at him.

  “What do you mean, nothing?” Maia asks.

  “I mean, Balor got me into the League auction. All I had to do in return was turn over all the dirt I collected on him over the past eight years.”

  “What dirt?” Nate asks. “You didn’t have me collect any dirt.”

  Gun shrugs again. He never asked for Nate’s help. He was too embarrassed to ask after the ornithropter incident. “I did my own digging.” Granted, it took him longer on his own, but time was on his side.

  “What sort of dirt?” Maia downs her entire bottle of water, then lurches to the minibar and grabs a second one.

  “That’s between me and Balor. I gave him my word.”

  “What you’re telling me is that I’m on the verge of puking for no good reason?” Maia tries to glare at him, but ruins the effect by rubbing at her temples.

  “Yep.”

  “You suck.” She turns her back on him. “I’m going to take a nap.” She staggers out, groaning.

  Nate looks at Gun. “I don’t suppose you’re going to let me go take a nap?”

  “Not a chance. We need to prep my avatar. Get the Dread Twins. I’m going up against the League. Here’s a list of everything I need.” He tosses a tablet to Nate. “Most important is finding out where they’re transmitting from. I can do a lot for Sulan in Vex, but I can do more if we can pinpoint where they’re holding her.”

  Nate catches the tablet. “Where are you going?”

  Gun pauses at the door to his suite. “To get the cooks to make pizza. This is going to take us all night.”

  • • •

  As Gun prepares to enter Vex the next evening, he endures a last-minute lecture from Nate and the twins. The faces of Lox and Mage fill the screen on the wall behind the desk.

  “Make sure you use the Bifocals,” Nate says. “We need to see their firewalls.”

  “Make sure no one touches your bow tie,” Lox adds. “That’s your Concealer. It’ll keep your tech concealed.”

  “Stay in the site as long as possible.” Mage dry washes his gloved hands. “The longer you’re in, the better our chances of pinpointing your girl’s location in the real-world.”

  “Got it,” Gun says. Anderson will skin him when he finds out about this, but Gun can’t worry about that now. “See y
ou all soon.”

  As he enters Vex, dressed as a giant frog in a tuxedo, he activates the League invitation Balor acquired for him. It bounces him to twenty-eight different sites before finally depositing him at the auction site, effectively burying the location of the League signal.

  Gun and his team expected this. It’s a challenge, but not a deal breaker. He’s confident Nate and the twins can hack the location.

  He materializes in a room of black. Balanced in the darkness is a giant mask of Imugi. The shiny white mask with the blue sea serpent leers down into the room.

  There are a half dozen other avatars already here, gathered before the mask. One avatar looks like Elvis, another like Rasputin, another like a Chinese emperor. He wonders who they are in the real-world, but doesn’t waste much time trying to figure it out. Everyone here has enough money to have designed an avatar that will have no traceable link.

  As he waits with the others, more and more avatars arrive. Gun takes advantage of the time to engage the Bifocals. They cut through the firewall, gathering snapshots of the raw code for Nate. He can’t send it directly; the League will be prepared for that. Instead, he waits for the arrival of new avatars. Each time someone new arrives, Gun sends the code out their entry port. From there, it will find its way back to Nate without the League being any the wiser.

  When several dozen avatars are amassed in the blackness, Imugi’s mask speaks. The voice booms over the assembled, so loud it makes the buttons on Gun’s suit vibrate.

  “Welcome to the League’s first Vex auction. As you know, we’ve plucked the world’s brightest stars . . .”

  In the real-world, Gun feels someone shake him.

  “Gun!” a voice yells, loud enough that it cuts into Vex. Nate.

  Gun waves his arms, pushing his friend away. “Stop it!” He slips back into the cocoon of Vex, refocusing on the mask.

  “I’m sure you’re all anticipating tonight’s auction as much as we are,” Imugi continues. “First, a few ground rules. An account number will be sent to the winning bidder. Payment is due immediately. Failure to send payment will result . . .”