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by Camille Picott


  “That’s what my friend Hank says. Her family has it hard. They live in an old high school gymnasium converted into cubicles. When she does get a shower, it’s usually a cold one. She thinks I’m an idiot for fighting the system. She thinks I’m ungrateful. I guess I am.”

  “Maybe we both are.” He wants to reach out and caress her hair, but doesn’t dare. He doesn’t want to do anything to threaten whatever it is that’s building between.

  “Good. We can be ungrateful together, so long as we can fight together.” Sulan sits up, her expression brightening. “How about one more training round before we call it quits?”

  He can’t help the return smile that pulls at the corner of his mouth. “All right. Let’s go.”

  ***

  The next day, Gun sits with his tablet propped on his desk. Nate sits beside him, the two of them watching Hardon fold a pile of children’s clothes. He flattens each piece, then rolls it tight before putting it into a backpack.

  “Rolling the clothes allows him to fit more into the backpack,” Gun observes.

  “That’s his weakness,” Nate says. “Those refugee kids. The clothes are for them.”

  Gun nods. He’s come to the same conclusion. This is the third time they’ve seen Hardon pack clothes into a backpack and take it out late at night.

  “Are you going to go after one of the kids? Threaten them?” Nate asks. His face is neutral. He never comments on the morality of the things Gun does. It’s one of the many reasons Gun appreciates his friendship.

  Gun doesn’t respond right away. Six months ago, that’s exactly what he would have done: threaten the kids—or worse, hurt one of them.

  Who knows why Hardon has a soft spot for the refugee kids? Hardon had never been a refugee, but maybe he is one of those human beings who cares about something more than himself. Perhaps that’s why he spends his only day off teaching in a refugee camp.

  Threaten the kids, and Hardon would be putty in his hands. He’d feed Gun any and all information. Gun sees the scenario play out in his mind’s eye, and it sickens him.

  His father would clap him on the back and congratulate him on a job well done. And Gun would hate himself for hurting and extorting innocents.

  What would Sulan do? His situation isn’t as simple as rebelling against the expectations of good grades and academic mastery. There’s much more at stake. But at the heart of it all is a rebellion against expectations. Is there a way Gun can accomplish what his father wants without hurting anyone? Can he salvage some of his self-respect and do what needs doing?

  He needs to clear his head, to think things through. “Up for sparring?” he says to Nate.

  ***

  It isn’t until Nate lands a solid kick to his gut, sending Gun sprawling onto his back, that the answer comes to him.

  “I’ve got it,” he says, holding up a hand to keep Nate from pouncing on him. He’s sticky with sweat and stinging with bruises. His neck throbs from a choke hold.

  “Got what?” Nate frowns, rubbing at a bruise on his cheek that will be purple and swollen by tomorrow.

  “A way to deal with Hardon without hurting or threatening the refugee kids.”

  Gun spends the next ten minutes laying out the details of an admittedly complex plan. Nate’s eyebrows climb so high they’re practically in his hairline.

  “What do you think?” Gun asks when he’s finished. “I know it requires a bit more effort, but it could work.” And he wouldn’t have to hurt any kids.

  Nate opens and closes his mouth several times before speaking. “You’re different,” he says at last.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You’ve been different since you started seeing Sulan every night.”

  “She’s a nice distraction from everything my father has me doing.” Gun shrugs, not wanting Nate to guess how much he likes her. “Sulan is entertaining.”

  Nate leans over and pokes Gun in the neck, right in the sensitive spot from the choke hold. Gun knocks his hand away with an annoyed grunt.

  “I can’t remember the last time I got you in a choke hold.” Nate pokes Gun once more for good measure. “You’re distracted. She’s distracting you.”

  Gun stands, glowering down at his friend. “I’ve got Andrea clinging all over me and my father hammering at me to turn Hardon. In the meantime, I’m buried in all the minutia the twins are digging up on the Winns. I’ve got a lot on my mind, Nate.”

  “Yeah, but that’s normal stuff.” Nate stands his ground, meeting Gun’s glower. “This stuff with Sulan—that’s not normal. You’ve never shied away from the dirty work your father asks you to do.”

  “I’m not shying away from it,” Gun snaps. “I’m finding a solution to protect innocents.”

  “That’s just what I’m talking about. You’ve never taken innocents into account in any of your planning. You always take the straightest route, even if it’s the most ruthless.”

  That’s what he’s been trained do from a young age. Gun remembers the first time he beat up another kid to steal his wallet. Anderson needed a copy of the boy’s ID badge. Gun thought he’d be in trouble for hurting the other kid, but his father praised him and had the cooks make him a milkshake.

  “I’m going to take a shower.” Gun rises, turning his back on his best friend. He doesn’t know how to communicate the things he feels.

  “How long before your dad notices?” Nate calls after him. “What do you think he’ll do when he sees you losing focus?”

  Gun doesn’t respond. He keeps walking, slamming the training room door behind him.

  The worst part is that Nate is right. Sulan is a distraction. He can’t remember the last time he looked forward to spending time with anyone.

  She keeps him guessing. Superficialness isn’t anywhere in her hemisphere; she couldn’t care less about how she looks or what she wears or who her father is. She’s fun to be around. Above all that, she makes him want to be a different person.

  Sulan is changing him. He can only hope it’s for the better.

  9

  Double Date

  “Have you talked to your sister since she left?” Gun asks Nate. “Or your mom? You might be pissed at them, but they’re still your family.”

  Nate glowers. “They left,” he snaps. “They left me and Dad like we were nothing more than garbage.”

  This is the most anger Nate has displayed since the divorce. Gun takes this as a good sign, so he pushes him further.

  “I know Juliette has called you. She’s asked after you—”

  Nate’s head snaps up. “You talked to her?”

  “Just emailed. She wrote to see how you and your dad are doing. She’s tried calling you.”

  “Juliette doesn’t want to admit she was wrong to leave,” Nate snarls. “She and mom broke up our family.”

  “So—what? You’re just going to sit around and give her the silent treatment until she apologizes?”

  “That was my plan, yeah.” A hint of sheepishness creeps into Nate’s anger.

  “Good luck with that, buddy.” Gun pats him on the shoulder. “Hard for her to apologize if you won’t talk to her.”

  His tablet rings with an incoming call. Gun answers. “What have you found?” he asks.

  Mage and Lox look out at him and Nate from the tablet. “The phishing email worked. Twelve people clicked on the link before IT figured out what was going on.”

  “Any good intel from that?”

  “The links downloaded some self-wiping malware, and we acquired some of their traffic logs. We found an anomaly before it deleted itself.”

  Mage and Lox disappear from the screen. Replacing them is a long stream of data code that scrolls up the screen. Gun studies it.

  The anomaly jumps out at him. He’s looking at a string of media access controls, also known as MACs. Every electronic device connected to Vex has a unique MAC address. If you want to follow the activities of a particular person or device, all you have to do is follow their MAC.


  In the traffic log, every MAC is a sixty-four combination of letters and numbers. Except for one. The anomaly.

  The anomaly has three digits clustered at the front, almost like the initials of a name: BB5. They are separated from the rest of the address by an underscore. Gun has never seen an underscore used in a MAC address.

  Gun searches the log, looking for others MACs of similar construction, but finds none others like it. The anomaly appears only once in the lengthy log the twins managed to acquire.

  “What do you make of it?” Gun asks. “Have any of you ever seen an underscore in a MAC address?

  “Never,” Mage says, coming back onto the screen with his brother. “I’m not even sure how they get the address to function with the underscore. That’s not part of the hexadecimal language programming.”

  “Our first thought was that BBS was someone’s initials,” Lox says. “The 5 could be swapped for an S in programming language.”

  “The MAC looks like a signature. Like someone wants people to know they wrote it.” Egomania is not rare among gifted programmers.

  “We cross-checked those initials against everyone on the Global roster. Which, incidentally, we had to pay a pretty penny to obtain. You’ll see it in our expense report.”

  Gun waves a dismissive hand. “Any other clues about it?”

  Mage shakes his head. “Nothing.”

  Gun sighs. “How about the Lice? Have they turned up anything useful?”

  “Global firewalls are solid,” Mage says. “On top of the spyware on all the students, there’s extra malware prevention baked in. All we got is little snippets of data about Alaska. Apparently, the Winns have taken to flying over the tundra in their spare time. No useful intel.”

  “Damn.” Gun bunches his fist. He’s dropped Lice on Sulan at least half a dozen times. He feels like slime every time he does it, but reminds himself it’s to help her and the country. “Is there any way to adjust the programming of the Lice?”

  “What we need,” Lox says, “is the code to their malware. If we can decompile it, we could reprogram the Lice to go around it.”

  Gun looks at Nate. “What about that Bifocal program you were working on?”

  Nate’s eyes crinkle in amusement. “It needs a bit more work, but I think I can get into a decent shape for use.”

  “Give us a few days,” Gun says. “We can come up with a way to hack their defenses and see the malware code.” He disconnects from the twins, rising and heading toward the door.

  “Where are you going?” Nate calls after him.

  “I have a double date with my sister,” Gun replies. “Get the nanobot receptors ready. We should have intel streaming in soon from Hardon.”

  ***

  An hour later, when he strides across the rooftop landing pad toward his family’s ornithropter, Maia strolls out to meet him.

  His sister is tall and full-figured like their mother. Her dark hair is twisted up in an elaborate coif. She’s dressed in a skin-tight black leather corset that emphasizes her curves.

  “A double date with my big brother.” Maia sighs. “The things I do for my family.” She quirks an eyebrow to show she’s teasing.

  “Like spending the day with you is my idea of a good time?” He means it as a joke, but his words come out clipped. When she raises her other eyebrow at him, he holds up his hands in apology.

  “That didn’t come out right.” He gives her cheek a quick kiss. “Sorry, I have a lot on my mind.”

  She snorts. “Like that’s any excuse. Come on, we’re going to be late. Not that I mind making people wait for me.” She grins and climbs into the ornithropter.

  Gun climbs in after her and fires up the engine of the small four-seater.

  “Tell me again why you need me for this assignment?” Maia asks.

  “Hardon is a good guy,” Gun replies. “He doesn’t have any dirty laundry. No hidden debts or gambling problem. No spouse, no ex-spouse, no children. The only way to strong-arm him is to threaten or hurt some refugee kids. I figured out a better way to get what we need without hurting kids.”

  Maia stares at him in silence. The whomp-whomp of the ornithropter wings fills the space between them.

  “What?” he snaps.

  “Nothing. It’s just . . . I sort of like seeing my big brother’s soft underbelly.” She pokes him in the rib cage. “Just don’t let Dad find out.”

  “He’ll get his data, which is all he cares about.”

  “You’ve cooked up a pretty elaborate plan.”

  “Plan A and Plan B,” Gun reminds her.

  “Who’s this guy I’m being forced to meet?” she asks.

  “Andrea’s cousin.”

  “Does this cousin have a name?”

  “Presumably.” Gun lifts off, guiding the ornithropter into the sky.

  ***

  Andrea’s cousin—Gun still can’t remember the idiot’s name—turns out to be as fond of mimosas as Andrea. On a rooftop garden of the Chicago skyline, the two of them throw back glasses while Hardon cooks crab benedict in an outdoor kitchen.

  Maia flirts shamelessly with the guy, feigning wide-eyed interest in everything he says. She laughs at all the right times and leans at the right angles to flash her generous cleavage.

  If the Anderson siblings can claim anything, it’s that they’ve been educated in the art of genuine ingenuity.

  Gun can’t help thinking of Sulan. If she were here, she’d be trying to figure out the best way to use her fork as a weapon. She’d detest the company of these rich, self-absorbed morons as much as he does.

  “Let’s play, If I Were a Refugee,” Andrea says. This is one of her favorite drinking games. It involves imagining how one would survive if he or she suddenly found himself a refugee.

  “I keep a bug-out bag in my closet,” Andrea confesses. “It has enough food and money to get me to our family’s fallout shelter.”

  “Yes, but what if you didn’t have enough time to grab your bug-out bag?” Maia asks. “Then what?”

  “We keep good walking shoes in all of our family properties,” replies the nameless cousin. “We could walk to our fallout shelter.”

  “I could trade facials for food,” Andrea says. “I mean, have you seen the skin condition of refugees? Any of them would trade food for skin care.” She’s completely serious.

  Gun nods, as if what she’s just said is a viable plan.

  “I’d enter myself in the underground fighting rings for money,” says the cousin. “I’d get money and food that way.”

  Maia coos, running her hands up the man’s biceps. It takes all of Gun’s willpower not to roll his eyes. The man might have a steroid-enhanced physique, but he’d be devoured in twelve seconds if he stepped into an underground fighting ring.

  Andrea snuggles up to Gun. He puts his arm around her because he knows this is what she wants. When she starts kissing him, he has no choice but to play along.

  The only consolation is that he uses this moment to slip a sleeping powder into her champagne flute. When she pulls away to take a swig, he puts a hand on her cheek and guides her mouth back to his. He waits long enough for the powder to dissolve before disengaging.

  By this time, Maia is on the cousin’s lap, making out with him like it’s a Pre-‘Fault high school prom. He can see the sleeping powder fizzing in the man’s glass. He’s so absorbed in his sister’s neck and mouth that he never sees it dissolving.

  By the time Hardon delivers four plates of crab benedicts, Andrea and her cousin are both passed out. Hardon doesn’t look surprised. Gun imagines this happens on a regular basis.

  “You should enjoy the food while it’s hot,” Hardon tells them, barely managing to check a sigh.

  “Join us.” Maia smiles invitingly. “No reason to waste perfectly good food.” As if to illustrate the point, she digs into the meal.

  Gun also waves an inviting hand. “Pull up a chair.”

  Hardon hesitates. It’s clear he’s not used to mingling
with his employers or their associates. Gun and Maia continue eating, pretending not to notice his indecision.

  “Where did you get this crab?” Maia asks. “It tastes amazing.”

  “Mr. Thompson has a private island where he raises them,” Hardon replies. The man returns to his outdoor kitchen and begins cleaning up.

  Gun and Maia exchange looks. So much for drugging him. Time for Plan B.

  Gun presses a button on his watch, signaling the Dread Twins. Two minutes later, just as Gun polishes off the last of the crab benedict, a low buzzing reaches his ears. A small black object flies straight toward them over the Chicago skyline.

  He leaps up, knocking over his chair and feigning shock. “Incoming!” he yells. “Maia, get down!”

  In a display of feminine vulnerability, Maia shrieks and flaps her hands. Hardon’s protective instinct kicks in. He rushes across the rooftop and throws himself over Maia.

  Gun picks up a chair as the attack drone reaches them. Bullets—blanks—spray across the rooftop garden. Maia screams.

  Gun hurls the chair at the drone. As he does, one booted foot “accidentally” lands a well-placed kick to the side of Hardon’s head. The man is knocked out cold.

  The drone clatters to the ground under the chair. Gun picks it up and proceeds to smash the drone to pieces. It’s a waste of good tech, but sometimes sacrifices have to be made.

  With the drone eliminated, Maia extricates herself from beneath the unconscious Hardon. They move him to the nearest sofa. Maia pulls out a syringe. She positions the injection near his temple, right where Gun kicked him.

  “He’ll be so sore and bruised from your kick that he won’t notice any soreness from the injection.” Maia depresses the plunger, filling Hardon with nanobots. The tiny robots will attach to his eye and relay audio and visual back to Anderson Arms.

 

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