“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.
“I was hoping for more of a challenge.” Maia slides the syringe back into her boot.
“Mission accomplished,” Gun replies. “That’s all that matters.” Another week with Andrea for the sake of appearances, then he can finally get rid of her.
Maia and Gun spend the rest of the day at the Thompson penthouse. They call a doctor to look after Hardon’s head wound. When Andrea wakes up, she finds herself cradled in Gun’s lap. He smiles down at her, smoothing hair back from her forehead. He relates the story of an indulgent afternoon soiled by a mysterious drone attack, and of Maia’s rescue by her family’s loyal attendant, Hardon.
Gun will be able to look at himself in the mirror tomorrow. He accomplished his father’s mission without ruining the life of a decent man or hurting kids. Someday, he plans to come clean with Sulan. When that day comes, he wants her to see someone that isn’t total slime.
10
Brunch
“You do know we lost, right?” Gun asks.
Sulan walks beside him, a bounce in her step. Her face is radiant. “Yeah, I know,” she replies with a cheerful smile. “But we gave them a run for their money.”
Tonight had been their first official competition. “That’s not entirely accurate,” he replies. They got their asses handed to them by the Dread Twins. Gun gave them explicit instructions not to hold back. Sulan would never forgive him if she found out he rigged their competitions. Besides, she was serious about training, and he was serious about teaching her.
“We got trounced,” Sulan amends. “But it was fun. I’d rather lose all day here than—than—” She falters. Gun pretends not to notice, although he can surmise what she’s thinking.
She’d rather lose in the Cube than excel at VHS. She’d rather be mediocre at fighting than excellent at math.
“I’d rather lose here than be stuck in my apartment doing homework,” she says. “And I learned something important.”
“What’s that?”
“I need more practice with throwing knives.” She halts, spinning to face him. “Do you have any Vex gadgets to help me train for that? You know, something nifty like the Marstons?”
He loves the fact that Sulan gets a kick out of geeky Vex gadgets. She doesn’t like him because he’s William Gunther Anderson, Junior, heir to Anderson Arms. She sees more of the real him than most people, and she accepts him. Other than Nate and his sister, Gun can’t name anyone else who sees beyond the family name.
Except she doesn’t know who your family is, a small voice in the back of his mind whispers.
Gun ignores the voice. Other than his identity, he hasn’t lied to Sulan. Not really. He hasn’t used her for the benefit of Anderson Arms—looking for a connection between the League and Global doesn’t count—and he hasn’t tried to recruit her.
“I think I can come up with something to help you improve your knife-throwing skills,” Gun says, unable to keep himself from smiling. “I don’t suppose you have a good place to practice in the real-world?”
She grimaces. “I can’t exactly throw kitchen cleavers around. Mom would freak if she caught me with any of her merc knives.”
They reach their locker room. He pauses just inside, watching as Sulan pulls off her various weapons and stashes them in the lockers.
It’s late. He should go back to the real-world and get some sleep. He has to break up with Andrea tomorrow.
But he doesn’t want to leave. He wants more time with Sulan.
“Do you have any more time tonight?” he asks. “I can show you a few tricks.”
“I’d love that.” She beams up at him. “You are the best big brother I could have ever asked for.”
He falls silent. Big brother. He has no one to blame but himself. Why had he ever—ever—thought using a sibling analogy was a good idea? He’d been woefully off-balance that day.
I’m an idiot.
“Here.” Sulan holds out a bright green Touch pill. “Do you need one to help me?”
He doesn’t, but he nods and takes the pill anyway. He’s gotten used to being able to touch her during their training sessions.
“Training room eighty-nine is open,” Sulan says, scrolling through the tablet mounted on the wall near the door.
When they arrive in the training room, Gun starts his lesson from the beginning. “There are three basic types of knives: blade heavy, handle heavy, and balanced. Let’s start with the balanced blade. Once you get the hang of that, we’ll move onto the others . . .”
They spend the next hour working on her grip and stance. Gun finds himself touching her more than he should. Thanks to the Black Tech, sensation sings through him in the real-world every time they make contact.
As he stands there, showing her how to position her wrist for a long-range throw, he realizes he can’t get enough of her. When he’s not with Sulan, he’s thinking about her. When he’s with her, he never wants to leave.
There hasn’t been a girl in his life who hasn’t fallen into one of two categories: conquest or mission. It hadn’t occurred to him there could be more to it.
<
br /> What does this mean?
“Gun?” Sulan frowns at him. “You okay?”
He forces himself to step away from her. “Yeah, I’m okay. Just tired.”
“Let’s call it quits for tonight. Meet you tomorrow?”
“Yeah.” He needs to get away from her and clear his head. To think things through. “See you tomorrow, Short Stuff.”
As he fades out of Vex, the last thing he sees is her smile.
• • •
Every Sunday, the Anderson family has brunch together. Nate joins them, along with Maia’s personal assistant, Tracie.
His father makes it a point to come to brunch in his silk pajamas. As if to prove to this should be a relaxing event, which it isn’t. His mother, at least, gets dressed, even if she only wears jeans and a T-shirt. Margaret Anderson manages to make a relaxed outfit look stylish.
“Maia, what’s the status of your projects?” Anderson asks, dousing his waffles with syrup.
Maia spoons fresh strawberries onto her plate, pausing only to pass the bowl to Tracie. “I got an invite to Claudine Winn’s virtual birthday party.” She raises both eyebrows at Gun, eyes glinting mischievously. “The invite is plus one.”
Gun snorts. “Maybe you should take Dad.”
His father doesn’t find this funny. “You should go, son. Mend fences with Claudine. You know she’s always had a thing for you.”
“She blames me for her accident.”
“No, she doesn’t.”
“Yes, she does.”
“You’re going to the party.”
“Fine.” Gun pushes his plate away, appetite gone.
Maia elbows him in the ribs. “It’ll be fun. I promise.”
He glares at her.
“That’s enough talk of the Winns for today,” Margaret says. “Gun, how is the Thompson project coming along?”
“Hardon has been implanted with nanobots,” Gun says. “Everything he sees and hears is being recorded.”
“You wasted a perfectly good drone in the operation,” his father comments, spearing a waffle piece.
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