Free Deadlock by Robert Liparulo Page B

than Ben. A little high-strung, but he called Julian his “brother from another mother,” and sometimes acted like it. He’d bring Julian leftovers when the team went to the steak place in nearby Gold Bar, and insist on letting him have a vote if Julian was there when the team picked out a DVD to watch.
    But Emile treated him more like a brother than Anton did. He said he had a younger brother Julian’s age. He shared his comic books-G.I. Joe, Avengers, Wolverine-and wrestled with him in the grass. Emile was moody, though, and got into funks for long stretches at a time, during which he’d push Julian away and generally act the way Michael was acting now.
    Michael was the youngest on the team, only four years older than Julian. They didn’t have a lot in common, since Michael’s sole reason for living, it seemed, was to play video games and be a soldier. Sometimes the drills were as hard for Michael to finish as they were for Julian, and that made Julian feel better. But while Julian didn’t care that much, Michael was hard on himself about it.
    Julian also saw a softer side to Michael than he did in the others. When they’d first been assembled as a team, Michael would debate with Ben about the need for violence in certain situations. Ben always beat him down, so now Michael only listened without getting involved.
    Yeah, Julian noticed such things. He’d picked up his philosophical streak from Declan, and he hoped it was the only thing of his older brother’s that had rubbed off on him. For as long as he could remember, both his father and Declan had pushed him to think and act older than he was. He’d been taught to field clean a machine gun when he was seven, taken a course on business management at the University of Washington at eleven, and received a subscription to Playboy from his father when he turned thirteen. Now this, hanging out with mostly guys in their twenties, learning how to fight in war zones. He’d had just about enough, but what could he do?
    The volume of the voices in front of the game grew louder.
    â€œGet in the half-track! Get in the half-track!” Ben ordered.
    â€œHold on!” Emile said. His fingers blurred over the controls.
    â€œOh!” Anton said. “They got behind us!”
    â€œI’m on ’em,” Ben said.
    A rap came from the open door. Colonel Bryson stepped in.
    â€œTen-hut!” Ben said, springing to his feet.
    The other men hopped up. Michael took longer, but in the end managed to straighten himself as stiffly as his teammates.
    â€œAt ease,” Colonel Bryson said. He squinted into the gloom. “That you, Julian?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    Colonel Bryson nodded, obviously displeased.
    Not for the first time, Julian thought the longish hair of the faculty and administrative staff somehow conveyed their superior positions over the recruits. If that were true, Colonel Bryson’s curly locks, as much as his rank and position as executive vice president of Outis, put him at the top of the heap.
    Colonel Bryson stepped into the den. His eyes flicked up to Michael. “You hanging in there, son?”
    Michael cleared his throat. “Yes, sir.”
    Colonel Bryson scanned him up and down, as though doubting Michael’s response. “Whadda you got, Ben?” he said.
    â€œThis one kid,” Ben said. He gestured at Emile, who snatched up his controller and began flipping through menus on the screen. Emile found a video file and started the playback. On the screen, a digitized soldier ran, jumped, cycled through weapons and fired, every move fluid, intentional. The left portion of the screen was dedicated to statistics: number of games played, hours online, frags-or kills-number of wins, both as a solo player and part of a team, overall points accumulated. Under the stats was information about the player: name, address, date of birth, the credit card used to pay for online access to the