Gun immediately notices a gleam in his father’s eyes. Something is up. Whatever it is, he’s pleased. Immensely.
“Dr. Fitz—” Nate begins.
“Cleared me for light activity,” Gun interrupts. He’s dying to move around, even if that means taking a walk with his father. And he wants to know what has Anderson so smug. He throws on some loose workout clothes and leaves Nate with the remains of his breakfast.
His legs are still unsteady from the Dream Dust. He had been hit with an ungodly amount of the stuff. Twice his legs threaten to buckle on the way to the R&D lab, but Gun balances himself with a covert hand on a wall or door. If his father notices, he doesn’t remark upon it.
The research and development lab is located in center of the compound, surrounded by much taller civilian apartments. Stationed outside are half a dozen mercs, each with a machine gun in hand. They nod, a chorus of “Hello, Mr. Anderson, hello, William,” rising from them.
This time, Anderson isn’t the only one who greets each man by name. Gun joins him, making eye contact and saying hello to each merc. His time with Nate’s electronic flashcards have paid off. He ignores his father’s raised eyebrows and appraising look, stepping past the mercs to the double-doored entrance. Gun and Anderson submit themselves to the building’s external retinal scanners.
“It’s not security if it’s not for everyone,” his father is fond of saying.
The stainless steel doors slide open, granting them access to an air-conditioned, tiled antechamber. A pretty woman sits behind a large desk. At first glance, she looks like a secretary. Upon closer inspection, the bulge of a gun is evident beneath her dark green blazer. A handful of mercs fan out behind her, all of them guarding the elevators and corridors behind them.
Gun and his father take an elevator to sublevel eleven, passing through two more security checkpoints. Gun knows what he’s going to see before the doors to the lab open. Maia told him what was happening on sublevel eleven, though this is the first time Gun has been invited to the Skeletex lab. Everything he knows about the Skeletex suit has been fed to him by his father via tablet video clips, and there hasn’t been much to see lately.
For the past few weeks, no one has even mentioned Skeletex project. Everyone knows it hasn’t been progressing to plan. Anderson has been stewing over it with displeasure.
Is this what put the gleam in Anderson’s eye today? Was there a breakthrough on the project?
The research lab has twenty-foot ceilings and walls reinforced with stainless steel. Displayed in the center, attached by wires to at least a dozen computers, is Skeletex suit. Gun takes a moment to study it, now that he’s being allowed to see one up close.
It’s a giant human exoskeleton designed to attach to a person at the back of all the major joints, with a pale round cap for a helmet. The suit is designed to give soldiers increased strength, agility, and reflexes. Instead of achieving only a few vertical feet with a jump, a soldier will reach heights up to ten feet. A punch or kick will be stronger and more lethal than one thrown by an opponent. The suit also increases reaction time.
Or at least, these are the theories behind the suit. It’s has yet to be perfected.
“Christakos!” Anderson booms, greeting the lead Skeletex researcher.
The thin, dark-haired man straightens as they enter. His skin is pasty due to long hours spent indoors all day, every day. All the scientists have the same look.
“I received word of your latest breakthrough,” Anderson says. “I’ve brought my son to see it since he was, after all, instrumental in its development.”
Gun frowns. “Are you talking about the flexible nanobots?” That was months ago. He still gets a sick feeling in his stomach every time he thinks about Hardon.
“The construction of the Skeletex suit would not have been possible without the nano compound you acquired,” Christakos says, “but the material did pose one unexpected issue. The polymer is so dense it acts as a natural dampener to the electronic field. We could not establish a consistent connection between the suit and a subject without a hard-wired port.” Christakos flinches a little when he says hard-wired, obviously embarrassed to admit he’s resorted to antiquated tech. “The best we achieved was an eighty-one percent connectivity rate. Not an acceptable rate for combat.”
“That’s where you come in.” Anderson slaps Gun on the shoulder.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Gun snaps, not liking that both men know something he doesn’t.
“It was the Dream Dust attack on you,” Christakos says. “Everyone heard about it. It got me thinking. The programming for Dream Dust connects with the user on a neurological level. Your father retrieved your avatar and had the Black Tech extracted for analysis.”
“The tech team had a field day with the program,” Anderson says. “They used the base connectivity code for Dream Dust and created several variations for the Skeletex suit.”
“And you’ve found something that works,” Gun says.
“Exactly.” Christakos draws himself, as though trying to match his physical height to the height of his accomplishment. It doesn’t work.
Gun at last understands why his father is so smug. He’s found a way to take Global’s Black Tech and turn it back on them. Not so different from the way Gun turned the Constrictor back on Claudine. Anderson would eat irony for breakfast every morning if he could.
“Show us the program in action,” Anderson orders.
Christakos turns to the nearest lab assistant and says, “Jake, please get test subject Four-Five-One.”
Gun folds his hands behind his back, interlocking his fingers together so tightly the knuckles creak. He hates using live test subjects, even if they are all willing volunteers and well-compensated for their sacrifice. They’re given the best suits in the compound, a maid, and two custom meals delivered straight to their rooms every week. Some volunteers are from the Anderson compound, but most are gleaned from refugee camps. It’s amazing what the hungry and desperate will sign up for. Most of them die within a few years, though there are a few who have survived almost a decade.
Test subject Four-Five-One is a stocky man in his mid-thirties. His face is seamed and wrinkled from long years spent living unprotected under the sun. Scars run across his cheeks and hands. There’s an odd angle to his left arm, as though it didn’t heal correctly after a break. Despite these signs of hard living, he smiles affably as he’s escorted into the room.
“Four-Five-One.” Anderson nods in greeting.
This is another thing Gun doesn’t like. All test subjects are required to give up their names and take a number.
“Mr. Anderson.” Four-Five-One nods a return greeting. “I take it you heard about the breakthrough?”
“Of course he has,” Christakos says. “He’s here to see it for himself.” He gestures impatiently to Four-Five-One. “Demonstrate for him, please.”
The man slides beneath the Skeletex suit, settling the bone colored skull cap onto his head. The rest of the suit snaps into place, attaching to the metal grafts on his arms, legs, and spine.
Gun notices several incisions on the back of Four-Five-One’s neck. Two of them are stitched up and already scarring over, a small wire dangling from each. Leftovers from the earlier Skeletex models. A third incision is red around the edges, the wound adhesive dried to a dark yellow.
“A new wireless chip was embedded into Four-Five-One yesterday,” Christakos says, indicating the new incision. “All he has to do to activate it is compress the switch in his earlobe.”
Four-Five-One illustrates this point by reaching up to squeeze his earlobe. As the connection is made, his eyes briefly roll back into his head. The room is silent, all eyes glued to the man.
A second later, his eyes lids snap open. He leaps from his upright position, flying fifteen feet across the room. He moves so fast his body blurs.
Gun lets out a wordless exclamation of surprise. Anderson claps his hands in approval.
Fou
r-Five-One spends the next fifteen minutes showcasing the Skeletex suit. He shadowboxes, jumps, spins, and rolls. Some movements are so fast, his limbs blur. Christakos even goes so far as to put the man in an observation room and chuck fist-sized rocks at him. Four-Five-One bobs and weaves his way around every last one of them.
There isn’t one hiccup, not one glitch. Nothing to get a man killed in combat. Everything Gun sees is flawless. It’s impossible not to be awed by this combination of science and Black Tech programming.
When test subject Five-Four-One at last comes to a halt, breathing hard, Anderson applauds.
“Well done, Christakos,” he says, voice booming with pleasure. “You too, Four-Five-One. Custom meals for a full week for you.”
Four-Five-One smiles in content. Christakos shifts, unease plain on his face.
“Mr. Anderson, you do realize this means we’ll be over budget on the project?” he asks. “We have to scrap all the original chips we purchased and manufacture these new wireless connectors. The timeline will be pushed back. I have to get all the subjects scheduled for the new install. We’ll need to build in time for to trials the new software connectors—”
Anderson waves the man to silence. “Don’t ruin the moment with details, Christakos. I’m giving you a compliment.”
Christakos opens his mouth, closes it, then opens is again. “Yes, Mr. Anderson.” It’s with obvious effort that he chokes back the rest of what he wants to say.
“Come, son.” Anderson claps Gun on the shoulder. “Let’s go back and share the good news with the family. This is a night to celebrate!”
***
The moon sits low in the sky as Gun makes his way through the compound. He’s dressed in his Anderson uniform, a dark green bulletproof jumpsuit with the Anderson logo stitched on the upper left breast. He’s even gone so far as to don an official olive green beret, an article reserved for formal occasions. With his height and build, he’s a formidable sight.
He rides the elevator down to sublevel eleven in the R&D lab. Inside are two mercs, backs straight as they salute him.
“Takahashi, Phelps.” Gun nods to both of them.
“What’s going on?” Standing to one side, slouched against a lab counter, is Christakos. He still wears his sleeping clothes, plain black sweatpants and T-shirt. It’s the first time Gun has ever seen him without his lab coat. His hair has been hastily flattened with water, tendrils sticking to his temples. His eyes are bleary.
“William, why have you had these two louts drag me out of bed in the middle of the night? Not even your father stoops to such base behavior.”
Gun produces a large thermos. “I understand you’re a fan of my family’s Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee.” He removes the lid from the thermos and sets it on the counter in front of the scientist.
Both eyebrows climb up Christakos’s forehead. “Why are you offering me coffee in the middle of the night?”
“Because I want you caffeinated when you implant me with the Skeletex chip and graft the connectors to me. I’m your next test subject, doctor.”
Christakos sputters, taking several steps back. “No way. The technology isn’t validated—”
“I’ve been following your progress. You’ve successfully implanted five test subjects so far. There have been no complications.”
“Yet. No complications yet. Even test subject Four-Five-One has only been working with the chip for two weeks. We don’t have enough data—”
Gun cuts him off. “Here’s how it’s going to work. You can cooperate and do as I ask. I can make sure you get my ration of Jamaican Blue Mountain delivered to your apartment every week for the rest of your life. Or, you can fight me and I can blackmail you into doing what I want. Either way, I’m not leaving here without the chip and suit connectors.”
“Blackmail?” Christakos huffs. “What are you talking about?”
Behind Gun, one of the mercs shifts. Gun doesn’t have to look over his shoulder to know both men are squirming, at least mentally. It hadn’t taken much work for Gun to find out Takahashi is cheating on his wife and Phelps is addicted to pain killers. Both men were more than willing to help on tonight’s mission in exchange for Gun’s silence.
His father taught him well.
But Gun didn’t want to be like his father. He’d already made arrangements for both men to receive a generous supply of bourbon in exchange for their cooperation. There was more than one way to buy loyalty.
“Blackmail?” Christakos demands again. “What do you think you have on me? I spend my life in this lab! I arrive before the sun is up and go home when it’s dark. I’ve dedicate myself to Anderson Arms!”
Gun is almost bored. It had been too easy to dig up dirt on everyone in this room.
“You have two illegitimate children from an extramarital affair. You abandoned them in a refugee camp when my father found you and offered you a job. You could have brought them, but that would have required you to come clean with your family. Instead, you left the other kids behind.”
Christakos pales with every word—which is saying something, considering how pasty he is under normal circumstances. By the time Gun is finished, Christakos has filled a cup of coffee from the thermos. He takes a long drink of the steaming liquid.
“What are we going to tell your father?” he asks after downing the cup.
“I’ll deal with my father.” Gun has no doubt Anderson will be ready to raze the ground when he finds out Gun went behind his back. But when the world sees the Anderson Skeletex suit rescue Sulan, one of the slayers of Imugi, his father will have no choice but to approve of Gun’s decision.
Christakos downs the rest of the coffee. “I do this, and you promise not to tell my wife?” he demands.
“I’ll keep your secret and have coffee delivered to you every week.”
“Fine. Let’s get started. Go into the decontamination room and sterilize yourself. The dressing gowns are in the closet. Meet me in room D.”
Gun nods, then turns to Phelps and Takahashi. “You two are responsible for making sure no one enters the lab until we’re done. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” the reply in unison.
Gun turns his back on them, striding to the decontamination room.
When Sulan and Li Yuan call, he will be ready.
THE END
Acknowledgements
To all my wonderful beta readers–thank you!
M.G. Alves
Lan Chan
Chris Picott
Chrissy Wolfe at EFC Services, LLC
About the Author
Camille Picott is a fifth-generation Chinese American. She's been writing novels since she was twelve years old. Among her books you can find Asian-inspired science fiction and fantasy novels, zombies stories, and how-to manuals for speculative fiction authors.
Camille loves cooking and running absurdly long distances. It's not unusual to find her chopping veggies in the kitchen late at night or hitting the trail in her running shoes long before the sun rises. She considers sleep to be optional and largely overrated.
Visit Camille at
www.camillepicott.com
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Other Works by Camille Picott
Available on Amazon, Kindle Unlimited, and Audible
The League
Sulan, Episode 1
Buy @ Amazon | Buy @ Audible
Sixteen-year-old Sulan Hom can’t remember life before the Default, the day the United States government declared bankruptcy. As a math prodigy, she leads a protected life, kept safe from the hunger and crime plaguing the streets of America. She attends the corporate-sponsored Virtual High School, an academy in Vex (Virtual Experience) for gifted children.
Beyond the security of Sulan’s high-tech world, the Anti-American Le
ague wages a guerrilla war against the United States. Their leader, Imugi, is dedicated to undermining the nation’s reconstruction attempts. He attacks anything considered a national resource, including corporations, food storage facilities, and schools. When Sulan witnesses the public execution of a teenage student and the bombing of a college dorm, she panics.
Her mother, a retired mercenary, refuses to teach her self-defense. Sulan takes matters into her own hands. With the help of her hacker best friend, Sulan acquires Touch, an illegal Vex technology that allows her to share the physical experience of her avatar. With Touch, Sulan defies her mother and trains herself to fight.
When Imugi unleashes a new attack on the United States, Sulan finds herself caught in his net. Will her Vex training be enough to help her survive and escape?
Risk Alleviator
Sulan, Episode 2
Buy @ Amazon | Buy @ Audible
Riska, a miniature winged tiger, is the first Risk Alleviator prototype. A purposeful collision of biology and weaponry, he is product of the Global Arms research facility. He was crafted to be a bodyguard for the wealthy and privileged. Before his kind can be mass produced and released to the market, an extensive testing and training phase is required.
When a training session goes horribly wrong, Riska is slated for destruction. Dr. Hom intercedes to save Riska’s life, presenting a new proposal to Global Arms. Riska is released into his care. The eccentric doctor is the first human to show him kindness, and a bond is quickly forged between the two.
But even as Dr. Hom alters Riska in the desired direction of Global Arms, it becomes clear he has his own agenda. First and foremost among those is to create a personal bodyguard for his daughter, Sulan.
Touch Page 17
