Sulan Box Set (Episodes 1-4)

by Camille Picott

  “How are things going with the Amber girl?” Anderson turns to face him, stubbing out the cigar in a tray.

  “You mean Andrea?”

  The big man waves a dismissive hand. “Whatever her name is. The cute one with the red-gold curls. From the Thompson family.”

  “Andrea,” Gun says. “Things are progressing. She invited me for Sunday brunch on her father’s horse ranch.”

  “Good. I want her father’s assistant in my employ. He’s an impossible man to bribe. Find his weakness and exploit it.”

  “Hardon has an obsession with desert plants,” Gun replies. “Nate is building a fictional background for Mom that will intrigue him.”

  Anderson raises both eyebrows. “A fictional background for your mother? To intrigue Hardon?”

  Gun nods. “Mom has spent the past few decades saving cactus and succulents from extinction. She has a propagation lab and seed bank. It’s a pet project, one that you tolerate with affectionate amusement.”

  Anderson guffaws at this. “Your mother is a woman of many talents. Why not add desert plants to the list? It’s not far from the truth.” He claps Gun on the shoulder. “Good work, son.”

  Gun only nods, wishing he wasn’t so good at deception. Hardon, as far as he can tell, is a decent human being. He doesn’t deserve to get screwed by Anderson Arms.

  The only silver lining to this particular mission is the fact that Andrea’s father has a legendary wine cellar. Gun sampled some impressive vintages in the short time he’s known her. At least when he’s drinking, he doesn’t have to dwell on what he’s been sent there to do.

  “You’re having doubts,” Anderson says.

  As usual, his father can read him. Gun knows better than to deny the truth.

  “It’s only that Hardon seems decent,” he says. “Turning him could get him killed.”

  Anderson studies him, dark eyes like a diamond-tipped drill. Gun stares back, refusing to flinch.

  “Let’s go for a walk.” Anderson turns away from the window, striding for the door. Nate gives Gun a sympathetic grimace, but doesn’t budge from the safety of the doorframe. Gun doesn’t blame him.

  He falls into step beside his father, shoulders stiff. He tries not to think about what’s in store for him.

  The last time his father took him on a walk, he dumped Gun on the outskirts of town and ordered him to make his own way back. With no shoes, no money, and no weapons. It had been a punishment for questioning an order.

  At least he’d been allowed to keep his clothes. No telling what’s in store for him this time.

  They ride the elevator to the ground floor, which is reserved for executive offices and conference rooms. Anderson mercenaries are stationed at every entrance. Two additional mercs patrol the floor, keeping their eyes and ears on everything.

  The mercs nod as Anderson approaches. “Good morning, Mr. Anderson,” they say in unison.

  “Morning, Tucker, Chang.” Anderson gives them both wide smiles.

  Gun doesn’t miss the way they almost return the smile, remembering to maintain a professional countenance at the last second.

  Gun and Anderson exit the building, entering the private family garden. At two-point-three acres, it bursts with fruits, vegetables, and herbs. Margaret Anderson has made it her mission to preserve heirloom plants and refine Pre-‘Fault sustainable farming practices. The family garden is a testing ground for new growing techniques.

  The family estate, which sits on a tall hill, is surrounded by a twenty-foot cinderblock wall. There are only three ways in: through the large steel gates on the north and south sides, or by one of the ornithropters parked on the roof.

  Beyond the cinderblock wall is the rest of the Anderson corporate compound. This is where the manufacturing plant is, along with the research and development lab. There are apartments for all the employees, along with schools, cafeterias, recreational areas, and a hospital. Everything needed by Anderson employees is provided to them by the company.

  Gun follows his father out the south gate of the family estate, descending into the narrower, gray streets of the compound below. The buildings here are tall, most of them fifteen to twenty stories tall. At this time of day—afternoon—the streets are quiet. The children are in school or day care, and the adults are at work. There are no idle hands in the compound.

  As Anderson moves through the compound streets, he’s greeted by the few people they do pass. He knows everyone by name and always makes it a point to say hello. Gun likewise smiles and greets everyone, but he’s never had his father’s knack for remembering names.

  Gun is surprised when Anderson leads him to the hospital. Inside, the waiting room is full of people.

  “Miranda.” Anderson smiles at the woman closest to the door, who rubs her hands over a firm, round belly. “How’s the baby?”

  “Thirty-six weeks,” Miranda replies, beaming. “Dr. Wilson says he’s going to be at least ten pounds.”

  “Nothing better than a hearty baby. My son here was twelve pounds, three ounces when he was born.” Anderson kneels beside the woman so they’re eye level. “How is everything else?” Anderson asks.

  “Everything is great. We all love Chef Hernandez.”

  Gun suppresses a flare of anger. Anderson found Chef Hernandez in a South American compound. He was the head chef for a corporate drug mogul. Anderson lured the man away with promises of a better life in America. Gun led the mercenary team that extracted Hernandez and his family under gun fire.

  At the time, Gun felt good about the assignment. The drug mogul was known to be brutal. Getting anyone out of that hot hellhole was work worth doing.

  Except that extracting the chef and his family hadn’t really been the mission. Under the distraction of the battle and unbeknownst to Gun, Anderson sent in two other units. They closed in on the compound and assassinated the drug lord. And his entire family, kids included. William Anderson was now the unofficial owner of a cocaine plant.

  Gun, when he realized how he’d been used, refused to eat any of the food prepared by Chef Hernandez.

  His punishment had been swift and severe. Anderson dropped his son into the heart of a refugee camp in Austin, Texas, and left him there to fend for himself. It had taken Gun nearly two weeks to make his way home to Arizona.

  He still refused to eat Chef Hernandez’s food.

  “The minute I tasted his food, I knew he would be a superb addition to the Anderson fold.” Anderson pats the woman’s hand and rises. “I’m glad others feel the same. I could eat his tacos every day.”

  “Um, Mr. Anderson . . .” Miranda hesitates.

  “Yes?”

  “One of the day care rooms where I work has been out of electricity for a week. I put in the repair requisition, but . . .”

  “I’ll look into it,” Anderson assures her.

  • • •

  For the next several hours, Gun follows his father through the hospital while he talks with patients. Anderson spends time chatting with each person he visits, inquiring about their health, their families, and their jobs.

  During this time, Gun learns about employee discontent in the maintenance department, a water leak in the locker room of the third-floor wing of the research lab, and a shortage of romance books in the library.

  Back in their family mansion, Anderson leans back in his leather office chair, hands clasped behind his head. His desk, a garish chunk of furniture, is painted with interlocking geometric shapes of purple, red, and gold.

  “And this, son, is why you and I do what we do,” Anderson says. “The employees of this company depend on us. If we don’t feed them, house them, and take care of them, they’d all be homeless and starving. Sometimes that means we have to make hard choices and do things we find distasteful for the good of our people. That’s what it means to be an Anderson.”

  Gun is silent. What his father says is true. For most, corporate employment is the pinnacle of living. Beyond the walls of a corporate compound are refugee c
amps, where every day is a desperate struggle for survival.

  He can’t deny his family helps people. It’s the only redeeming quality to the dark side of their business.

  “Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you?” Anderson asks.

  Anger boils in Gun, making his chest tight. He tamps it down, knowing there’s no arguing with his father.

  “Yes, I understand. There’s purpose in all we do. We protect our company and our people.” It’s all the people they kill and hurt in the process that bother him so much.

  “Very good. Now was that so hard to say?” Anderson doesn’t wait for an answer. “I have a new assignment for you. Come.”

  Gun nudges his chair closer to the desk.

  “I want an inside source at Global.”

  Gun eyes his father warily. “We already tried that. It didn’t go well.”

  This is an understatement. His father observed Claudine’s preoccupation with Gun and ordered him to date her. Gun flashed his dimples, and of course they’d done their job—too well, in his opinion. Three weeks into their fling, he caught Claudine hacking his computer in the middle of the night. When he confronted her and broke things off, she went on a prolonged drinking binge. That eventually led to her wrapping her car around a tree after he blew her off at a party more than a year later. If not for her uncle’s resources, she’d be dead.

  “A setback,” Anderson replies. “I shouldn’t have aimed so high.”

  Gun keeps his face impassive. He wouldn’t call full-body paralysis a setback.

  “Here.” Anderson pushes a tablet across the desk to Gun. “These are students in Virtual High. Look through the profiles. Pick one. Make nice. Use them or turn them, I don’t care which. I’ll expect an update in a month.”

  4

  Assignments

  Tablet in hand, Gun returns to his suite. Nate looks up from the plush leather sofa in the study, relief plain on his face.

  “Thank God,” he says. “I was worried he was going to dump you somewhere again and leave you to fend for yourself.”

  “Not this time. I did have to endure an entire day of him showing me how much people love him.” Gun plops onto the sofa and rubs a tired hand over his face. He doesn’t bother elaborating on the details. “I need to learn the name of everyone who lives in the compound. Can you make me electronic flashcards?”

  “Sure. Maia has access to the files on all the residents. Why?”

  “I’m tired of my father showing me how well he knows everyone.” Gun rolls his eyes. “He has a new job for me.” He pulls out his tablet, explaining the Global mission to Nate.

  “It’s not a bad idea,” Nate says when he’s done.

  “Yeah, if you don’t mind exploiting an innocent teenager.”

  Nate sighs, nodding. “I know, bro. Come on. I’ll help you look through the files.”

  Side by side on the sofa, they delve in. Gun reads every word, filing away tidbits of information.

  Several hours later, he sits staring at the photo of an Asian girl. She stands on the roof of an apartment building in San Francisco. She’s pretty—beautiful, even—though that isn’t what catches his attention. It’s the expression on her face that draws him.

  There’s unbridled longing on her face, a look that speaks of caged helplessness. He sees an echo of what he feels in the rare moments when he slows down enough to allow himself to think.

  He doesn’t dwell on what this might mean, instead focusing on the vulnerability he sees on her face. He studies her profile, even though he’s already made up his mind.

  “She’s the one.” Gun tilts the tablet for Nate to see.

  “Sulan Hom.” Nate nods in approval. “The daughter of Dr. Hom. Good choice.”

  Gun ignores the twinge of guilt. Sulan Hom doesn’t know it, but she’s his next mark. Poor girl. He doesn’t know much about her—yet—but he’s sure she doesn’t deserve the attention of the Anderson Arms family.

  He kicks the ottoman as he stands, angry energy filling him. He really wants to hit something.

  Nate, seeing the look on his face, also rises. “Sparring ring?” he asks.

  Gun nods, wordlessly stalking into his room to change.

  • • •

  Gun spends the next week learning everything he can about Sulan Hom. She’s an interesting case, not at all what he expected.

  She’s not the stereotypical overachieving Asian he’s used to, not by a long shot; there are plenty of those in the Anderson R&D department for comparison. Her test scores are off the charts. She spends all her free time studying with her hacker best friend, but her grades are mediocre at best. Does she have testing anxiety? If so, there’s no mention of it in any of her files.

  She doesn’t have any of the traits he’s used to finding in girls, either. She doesn’t care about her appearance or follow social trends. The only things she shows keen interest in are black clothing and Merc reruns. She spends an insane amount of time watching them, along with anything else she can find related to them.

  Gun knows he isn’t seeing the full picture. He puts hackers on her trail, two brothers who call themselves the Dread Twins. They’re identical twins, tall and lean with waist-length dreadlocks more gray than blond. Despite the fact that they’re in their sixties, they keep themselves fit.

  Gun found them in Chicago a few years ago. They’d shown themselves to be useful on numerous occasions. He keeps them on retainer now.

  As usual, the twins work fast. They dig up intel on the assignment in less than twenty-four hours.

  Gun materializes in Vex shortly before his scheduled meeting with them. He has several sites for meetings, all of them fortified against Black Tech. The one he chose for today is a simple room of lustrous, paneled wood. A round wooden table with ladder back chairs sits in the middle.

  Gun conducts a quick review of the site’s security, assuring himself nothing has been tampered with. He’s just taken a chair when the twins materialize in the room.

  “Hello, William,” they say in unison.

  They tried calling him Mr. Anderson in the beginning. Gun eliminated that formality immediately. There is only one Mr. Anderson, and it’s not Gun.

  “Mage, Lox,” he says, nodding in greeting.

  The two men wear identical nondescript avatars, looking like middle-aged men with trimmed beards. They favor unremarkable avatars, although they can’t seem to get away from identical ones.

  “What did you find?” Gun asks.

  “Global spyware,” says Mage, the more fastidious of the twins. He has an obsession with keeping his hands clean. Even in Vex, he wears black gloves to keep them covered. “All the VHS kids are tracked. The spyware blends into the background of whatever site they’re in. Sort of like old-school cookies, but way smarter. They record for a preset amount of time, replicate, and then phone home to Global while the cookie remains and continues to record.”

  “Sounds like Crawler tech,” Gun replies, thinking of the famous Vex personality that makes his living infiltrating the lives of celebrities with his Wall Crawlers.

  “The underlying algorithms aren’t so different,” Lox says. “They degrade if they’re exposed for more than a millisecond, but we got enough snapshots to verify the similarities.”

  “You might find it interesting to note that Claudine Winn appears to be on good terms with Crawler,” says Mage.

  Gun nods. He’s seen them together enough to deduce some mutually beneficial relationship exists between them.

  “You think Crawler may have written the spyware for her?” Gun asks.

  “Seems probable, considering the similarities of the code.” Lox produces a tablet and turns it so Gun can see. “We managed to capture and quarantine one of the Wall Crawlers at a celebrity Vex rave a few weeks ago. We’ve been studying it. Look at it compared to the tracker code Global uses on the kids.”

  Gun takes the tablet. Snippets of the Crawler code is on the top half of the screen, with pieces of the Global code on
the bottom. Gun’s programming skills aren’t on the level of either of these men, but private tutors have made him proficient.

  He sees the similarities of the programming, right down to the structure of the subroutines and naming of the strings. It’s like the coder wasn’t even trying to hide the fact that it was his tech.

  “Dig further into the connection between Claudine and Crawler,” Gun instructs.

  The twins grin at one another, as if they’d been anticipating this. Which they probably had.

  “Anything else on the Hom girl?” Gun asks.

  “There is one interesting tidbit.” Mage quirks his eyebrows. “Her mother is Morning Star.”

  “Morning Star?” Gun reels. “As in, the merc from the old reality show?”

  “The one and the same.” Mage and Lox chuckle, knowing full well they’d scored a good piece of intel. “She keeps her identity a secret. Very few people know about it. We had to pay a steep bribe to get the information. You’ll find it in our expense reimbursement.”

  Gun waves this away. “Does Sulan know?” It would explain her obsession with Merc reruns.

  But Lox surprises him by saying, “Doubtful. Li Yuan Hom keeps the intel pretty deeply hidden. The mercenary world plays no role in her daughter’s life. Sulan only socializes with other VHS kids. No merc kids.”

  “You’ll need to go undercover as a hacker or some other person of high intelligence to catch her interest,” Mage says.

  Gun frowns, shaking his head. This isn’t the answer. Sulan is too paradoxical for such a straight-forward plan. Pretending to be like other VHS kids will not win him points. He’s sure of that.

  “Keep digging. Monitor her at all times when she’s not on a Global site. Report back to me on everything you see.”

  “William?”

  A familiar voice from the real-world penetrates his Vex connection. Gun checks an impatient sigh.

  “Meet back here in two days,” he tells the twins. “I’ll have your access codes updated and sent to you ninety seconds before our contact time.

  “William?” The voice from the real-world again cuts through his Vex set.